#her cousin has one foot in the grave

[backjustforberena]

EVE BEST as RHAENYS TARGARYEN in 1.08 “Lord of the Tides”  

[letaliabane]

Trip Up - Valet!SimonRiley and Maid!Reader

The abbey was on alert today. A telegram from the Lord Price's sister stating she would be visiting along with members of the Crawley family who had moved into the village.

This included the new heir to Downton Abbey Matthew Crawley, John's third cousin, who was rumored to marry Lady Mary, John's oldest daughter.

'I can't stand the thought of my only purpose being to marry. To be thrown at every heir to Downton so that the money stays in the family,' Mary said in frustration, putting on her earrings as you did her hair, 'All I want is to be chosen for me any only that.'

You nodded, putting the last of the beaded pins in her hair. She had chosen a lavender skirt with a cream blouse for the day, finished with a simple cardigan.

'It just feels so belittling. What do you think Y/N?' She asked, looking thoughtfully at you through the mirror.

You gave her a gentle smile, 'I agree m'lady. If it were my choice, I would indeed marry for love. It's more important than most things.'

'And of course position. I could never forget that! This new heir is apparently quite middle class and I just won't have that!'

You couldn't help but sigh at her words.

Mary was a kind young and beautiful lady, but at times had a cold heart and hard exterior to protect it, which included a cruel nature to those she despised.

'How is that new valet doing? Mr Riley wasn't it?'

'Oh, he's quite settled in m'lady, now that it has been a few months,' You said as you moved around the room, clearing and folding clothes away to where they belonged, 'I think he's still shaken the staff up but much better than it was previously.'

Mary tapped her perfume to her wrists, saying, 'Thank goodness, I felt terrible for Papa. He talks about Mr Riley like a dear old friend, it would be a shame if he doesn't feel welcome here, even as a valet.'

'Agreed, now I should probably head down. Will that be all m'lady?'

'Yes, thank you Y/N.'

You made your way down to the servants hall, putting away anything that needed cleaning from the daughter's rooms. Before too long, the staff were rounded up at the stairs, Mr Garrick doing final inspections of uniforms before we went up to meet our guests.

'We should go out to greet them all, now be on your best behavior. I'll have nothing less!' Mr Garrick said, the younger staff nodding nervously while others remained silent.

'Remember to not go running off William, I'll need your help with the bags,' Graves muttered to the youngest and newest of the footmen.

Mr Riley who was standing at the base of the stairs turned to him. 'I'm happy to assist you if needed.'

'No need! Don't more mistakes do we Mr Riley?' Graves was quick to quip back. You couldn't help but shake your head, following the other maids up the stairs.

The staff were lined up at the front of the incredibly beautiful house as the cars rolled in one by one through the gates, coming to a halt just in front of the tall double doors.

Lord John pushed forward first, her Ladyship Liliana close behind him to also greet Matthew. From the look of him, he looked like a kind man. Young, blond and blue-eyed just like his mother, Isobel, who followed close behind him. Older, a little grey-haired, but back straight with a smile.

The daughters greeted their aunts happily, while awkwardly greeting the newcomers. After brief chatter was shared amongst the family, they began to move into the house slowly.

Suddenly a scuffle erupted, the maids gasping as your eyes turned to see Mr Riley crash hard onto the pebbled ground, stones flying about messily and, to your horror, his mask.

You glanced up and saw Graves, an ugly smirk on his face as he looked down on the valet, his foot strangely kicked out in place before walking towards the back entrance.

'Riley, are you alright?'

You looked to see John coming to his side, grabbing the mask from the ground and handing it to him. The rest of the family watched on in shock.

'I am my lord, my apologies,' You heard Mr Riley grumble, keeping his face down as he placed his mask back on properly.

When his lordship had turned back to usher his family inside, Johnny, who stood tall at the door awaiting their entry, gave you a nod which you returned.

As the staff quickly dispersed, you went to Mr Riley's side, gently pressing a hand to his shoulder.

'Here, let me help you, Mr Riley,' You quietly said, grabbing his arm and slowly assisting him until he was steadily back on his feet.

You shook off the pebbles and dust caught onto his suit jacket and pants. 'There, much better–'

'Don't!' He suddenly snapped, slapping your hand away.

You gasped, taking a step away. Though his face was covered, there was a deep anger in Mr Riley's eyes that you had never seen before. It almost frightened you.

Mr Riley froze, taking in your change of demeanour. With a sigh, he uttered so quietly you almost missed it, 'Please don't pity me Miss ... I don't need it.'

He pushed past you roughly, his loud footsteps quickly becoming distant against the pebbled walkway as he left you behind.

The day continued as usual except, you noticed very quickly, the distinct absence of Mr Riley for the rest of the day. You had overheard Mr Garrick say he had taken poorly and couldn't continue to work.

Like bees that had caught the honey, the staff buzzed excitedly with the sudden gossip of his possible resignation or firing. Though the staff had calmed down since his arrival, it didn't change their stance that he didn't deserve the job.

It made you furious. Why should a man who had been at the house for a few months be let go just because of a small mishap? Something that wasn't even his fault. Nothing even happened!

Soon drinks for the family were complete after their meal, and dinner was being served in the servant's hall, but there was still no sign of Mr Riley.

After nibbling at your meal and failing to work up an appetite yourself, you found a tray and dished up some stew and some hot bread that had been served.

'What are you doing love?' You looked up to see Mrs Patmore enter the kitchens, clearly having finished her dinner.

'Oh, I was just making up a plate for Mr Riley, him not being well enough to join us. You won't mind Ms Laswell?' You addressed the head housekeeper who had appeared behind Mrs Patmore.

She nodded with a smile, 'Of course, just this once. The poor man has been through enough in one day.'

With a nod, you finished piling up the tray before making your way carefully through the corridors of the attics where the servants lived in and at end of the corridor, a light shone from beneath a door.

Making your way over, you peeked into the room. Through the mirror that hung on the cupboard, you could see sitting on the bed there sat the shaking silhouette of Mr Riley, and in the quiet, the soft sobbing emitted from him.

You couldn't help but feel your heart break at the site. Taking a step back, you cleared your throat. 'Mr Riley? Are you there?'

A shuffle was heard from within the room, footsteps approaching before the door opened to reveal Mr Riley. His eyes were swollen and red, his hair dishevelled and his shoulders tense.

You gave him a reassuring smile. 'I brought some dinner up, in case you were hungry.'

Immediately he deflated at the sight of you, eyes softened as he took in the tray of food neatly placed. 'That's very kind Miss. Even after what I did to you earlier ... you are still so generous.'

'It's nothing really,' You placed the tray in his hands which he placed off to the side, looking back to you.

'But it's the very opposite of nothing. I-I really am sorry for this morning, that was very unkind of me Miss.'

'No need for apologies Mr Riley,' You said, trying to keep your voice steady, 'You've been wronged since you arrived here and I hate to see you like this. Please don't let them drag you down. You are so much stronger than they are.'

He sighed heavily, eyes shying away from yours, leaning against the door frame. 'I hate to admit it ... it's very humiliating. Couldn't stomach any more of it.'

You shook your head firmly, stepping closer to him. 'You shouldn't be made to feel that way. Be proud of being here, John–I mean ... Lord Price chose you to be here for a reason. You've earned your place and you shouldn't have to hide or be ashamed.'

Mr Riley looked down at you, his eyes finally meeting yours and scanning your face. He clearly could see the tears in your eyes and heard the tremble in your voice.

'Why do you do this Miss?'

You were stunned, almost at a loss for words. Couldn't help but get lost in the beauty of his eyes, a thousand words and emotions even in silence. So instead, stepping even closer, chest to chest with him, you carefully reached for his hand. You felt him stiffen beneath your gentle touch momentarily before he allowed you to clasp your hands with his.

'You don't deserve to be treated as such. I don't like to see it,' You said, looking up into his eyes.

Not wanting to encroach on him any longer, you slowly pulled away, unable to hold back a small smile when you felt Mr Riley hold tight to your hand just a little longer before letting it drop from his grip. 

The next morning the servant's hall was busy with the staff filing in, breakfast of hot porridge with honey and buttered toast was served by Daisy and Mrs Patmore.

As Mr Garrick sat down, allowing everyone else to follow suit, Mr Riley appeared at the entrance to the hall and you couldn't help but smile, ignoring the scowl of some of the other staff.

'Ah, Mr Riley!' Ms Laswell greeted as she passed on bowls of porridge down the table, 'Good to see you up and about!'

'Indeed Ms Laswell, can't keep me down too long,' He muttered, looking straight at you as he did.

'That's good to hear, come and get yourself some breakfast we have a busy day ahead of ourselves!'

He nodded, making his way around the table and taking a seat beside you. And as a bowl of porridge was placed in front of you, you felt the fleeting caress of his gloved hand across your own beneath the table.

Call of Duty Masterlist a/n: I'm on a roll I tell you! And I love writing for these two.

@lostintransist @teapartydreams

[starry-bi-sky]

I'm in A Mood™ (stressed) so im going back to my roots of melting two character together into one person. So bruce wayne!danny fenton. Danny Fenton who, for eight years, grew up in a beautiful gothic manor with his mom and dad under the name "Bruce Wayne". Playing piano with his mother, running around the manor with his father.

Then when he's eight it's ripped away from him. There's blood on his hands and pearls pooling at his feet, and both his parents are dead in front of him.

And he gets shipped off to distant relatives "the Fentons" shortly after, Alfred close on his heels because someone needs to take care of him, someone that knows him. Bruce goes to the Fentons for the safety of anonymity. Gotham's press wants to sink its teeth into him.

Danny misses his city even if it took everything from him. There are shadows in his eyes and he's pale as a sheet even beside his distant cousins, and they change his name to "Danny Fenton' because nobody should know that their newest child was illustrious orphan Bruce Wayne.

They call him Bruce behind closed doors. Danny prefers it that way, he clings onto the name -- the one his parents gave him -- like a lifeline. He makes friends with Sam and Tucker. Tucker takes one look at the willowy, morbid little boy standing in the corner like a shade, ghosts in his eyes, and drags him out into the sunlight, and takes him over to Sam.

When Danny is twelve, he's still not over it -- and he's a little obsessed with the Fentons' research, with the morbid. He has books upon books on death, murder, detective work. Anything he can get his hands on. And stars. He loves stars.

Alfred owns the apartment next to them and comes over regularly. Danny clings to him.

When Danny is twelve, he's still quiet, meek, a shy little thing prone to being bullied. Freaky little Fenton with the night in his eyes and too-cold skin even before he put one foot in the grave. in a sleepover in his room with Sam and Tucker, he tells them the truth. They're his friends, he trusts them.

"My name is Bruce." he murmurs, voice quiet as the breeze, always quiet. he's staring at his star-covered sheets.

"Like Bruce Wayne?" Tucker asks, a joking tone in his voice.

Danny smiles a little, lamb-like with insecurity. "I am Bruce Wayne." And he takes them down to the lab, disrupting Maddie and Jack, to prove it. Sam tells them of her own wealth then shortly after. They start calling Danny "Bruce" in private too -- its trust. Thats what it is. It's trust.

Sam goes to media functions and comes back with aching feet and complaints on her tongue -- and Danny soaks it up all like a sponge, splayed across a beanbag chair with Tucker in her room. He's not envious of her, he used to go to events with his parents and they kept him safe from the ugly of Gotham's Elite. For the most part. He's had comments made at him, he doesn't miss them.

Alfred returns to the manor semi-regularly, Danny goes with him. he wanders the hallways and helps Alfred clean, the last thing either of them want is for their home to fall into disrepair. He brings Jazz with him next time, then Tucker, then Sam. They all help him clean, and he shows them his room. The one across from his parents', it feels strange.

When Danny dies when he's fourteen, the first adult he tells is Alfred. He and Jazz go over to his house more often than they stay in the Fentonworks building. At least at Alfred's, the food doesn't come to life. Alfred sits at the kitchen table and weeps when Danny tells him, Jazz is upstairs, and its just the two of them.

Danny's ghost form wears pearls around his wrist and the gloves look stained with some kind of black substance. He looks like a child who died in a lab accident, but he also looks like a child who has shadows dripping off his shoulders, curling at his feet, hanging from his eyes.

because amorphous blob batman has my heart always and danny/bruce will not escape it even in death even if that IS the only reason im giving him Mild BatBlob Vibes...so far

when they go to the manor, alfred helps danny make a pile of stones between Martha and Thomas' graves, nobody but the two of them (and sam and tucker) will know what it means. (not even bruce's children later down the line, not for a long, long time)

danny dives into ghost fighting on shaky feet and not half as witty as he once was in one world. he's skittish, skittering between blasts from shadow to shadow and clumsily making his way through each battle. but helping people lights a fire in him. he still has shadows dripping off his feet but there's a purpose in his eyes.

and god help him, he's going to help people.

[r0-boat]

Pokémon Hot Dragon women

Various pokémon women as hybrid dragons

Do you know what's awesome?

Dragons...

Do you know what's even more awesome?

Hot women!

Yeah I definitely missed some hot women Don't worry

Lorelei/Baxcalliber hybrid

For some reason this Baxcalliber hybrid has more feathers covering about half of her body especially around her chest. Humans think it's to keep her warm. Lorelei has sharp claws and even sharper sail on her back. She is known in the icy mountains for her called demeanor toward humans.

However any human able to break through her I see heart will be alarmed at how warm she could be. However that warmth is only for you. She has no intention in sharing it with others.

She sees you as a bumbling little human fool. Never change She thinks you're cute this way. If any harm shall to come to you They will succumb to her I see breath and sharp as steel claws

Claire/Dragonair hybrid

A Dragonair That has yet to evolve. She likes her half serpentine body. She does not want to look like her cousin Lance who is a hybrid Dragonite.

Unlike the docile Dragonair Claire is stubborn and standoffish, She will not accept help from humans even if she is one foot in the grave. You don't know how you got the eye of this dragon. Maybe it was because despite all efforts of her trying to push you away when you found her injured You still stayed with her until she healed.

She still visits often, Even though she has a dragon hybrid her mannerisms remind you more of a cat. She wants you to keep your distance from her but occasionally, her stricken with curiosity and infatuation will come towards you.

Nessa/Kingdra hybrid

Very wary of people so much so that she almost never comes up to the surface. But you were a rare case. You dropped a necklace into the water and you thought you'd never see it again until you thought you saw a hand coming up from the waves throwing it onto the Sandy Beach.

You yelled out thank you giving the mysterious thing whatever it was a shell. Nessa is wary of humans but you seemed nice. The next time you met your eyes met when you stared down in the ocean blue over a bunch of rocks.

You knew her immediately She must have been the same person who grabbed your necklace! It was the first time she'd ever interacted with a human in a long time and she has not regretted it.

Perrin/salamance hybrid

Looks terrifying but is actually a sweetheart. You were outside taking pictures of pokémon and plants when you come face to face with a terrifying Salamance hybrid. Her claws were sharp her teeth even sharper and her gaze fixated on your device. She looked terrifying yet beautiful at the same time You couldn't help But be mesmerized.

You were scared for a moment but that fear instantly fade, You picked a wildflower putting it behind her ear before takingher picture and gave it to her.

She followed you home and now she visits you constantly, wherever you go she seems to know exactly where you are trying to play with you or your camera.

Cynthia/garchomp hybrid

Terrifying but also a sweetheart. But don't mess with her. She only has so much patience. You've heard that it is very hard to earn a garchomp's respect even more so a hybrid. Dragons have good judges of character You've also heard maybe that's why this garchomp hybrid decided to stay in your camping site just sitting there watching you closely as you study old artifacts and old runes.

She was even a good travel companion when you explored the ruins of Alph, perhaps there was something she was trying to find as well?

Cynthia likes you, What she is seeing you are very knowledgeable and caring of pokémon. You are also interested in ancient treasures of the old. You are also kind and sweet despite who she was you were not afraid. Yeah she likes you.

Rika/Flygon hybrid

You lived near the flats of the Mesa in the paldea region You've heard that hybrids were rare more so dragon hybrids. However you're starting to think that was a lie. Everyday you Walk on the same trail and this hybrid you don't know what she's doing has been trying to show off to you.

You try to ignore her at first only for her to frown at you. Now she's trying to get your attention, stealing your things, playing with you, whipping up tiny Sandy gusts to blow stuff off of you.

That toothy smile and that wild look in her eyes you don't trust. You could almost see a glint of mischief. However, that was all you saw until she protected you from a while pokémon.

[sombrashe]

COD Characters & Their Favorite Holidays

Gaz: Easter Holiday

He absolutely adores all the bright colored flowers that his church sets out every Easter Sunday

He may be a grown adult, but you will catch him absolutely demolishing some little kids at an Easter egg hunt

Ghost: Boxing Day

It's one of the only times where he can exchange his unwanted gifts he got from other holidays

He'll spend hours, sometimes days, going to the shops and trading out unwanted shaving creams (he can't even grow a beard ??) for things he actually needs like new socks

Price: The months of August-May

This man does not miss a single game, it doesn't matter if he's on active deployment or not he will not miss a football game

His team is always going to be Manchester United (he actually has a cousin that plays, but no one has to know that)

Soap: First Footing

Not sure if this is a real holiday but come on a holiday dedicated to being the first person in a house where the goal is to be seen as good fortune and he gets to bring a bottle of whiskey? Automatic winner

His dark locks and boisterous attitude always brings good luck for the year to his family, even baby Johnny would be forced to stand outside with his mama holding a much to large bottle of whiskey as he waits for midnight to strike

Alejandro: Benito Juárez Day

A day dedicated to a high ranking man who did so much for his country? Count him in

It's one of the few public holidays he actively participates in (even though he's usually armed and in uniform) and will take the time to honor the former president by participating in tournaments and winning each one

Rudy: Día del Niño

Rudy love's children, has always wanted a few of his own one day and 100% celebrates all the children that bring light and happiness to the country

He showers his nephews and nieces in toys, sweets, and shopping sprees and doesn't stop once they turn 18 he only stops once they're seen as a "high ranking member of society" according to him (they have to have a job and can support themselves without help)

Valeria: El Día de Muertos

It's not so much that it's a favorite holiday more so it's the only holiday she feels is worth celebrating

No matter what she is in the middle of doing, she will always stop and excuse herself for those two days and dedicate them to adding offerings to her ancestors ofrenda

Graves: INDEPENDENCE DAY RAHHHHHH 🦅🇺🇸🦅🇺🇸🦅🇺🇸🦅🇺🇸 (Christmas Eve/Day)

THROWING TEA INTO THE HARBOR RAHHHHHH 🦅🇺🇸🦅🇺🇸🦅🇺🇸🦅🇺🇸🦅

(He's a family man, so a holiday dedicated to seeing family and spending time with them is right up his alley)

(He spends months saving up for this holiday so he can buy exactly what everyone wants so that he can make the holiday that much more special)

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[thealtofvalleyxdoodles]

︻╦̵̵͇̿̿̿̿╤─ †å§k £ðr¢ê 1-4-1 H¢§- - - - - - - -ˎˊ-

Just some dumb thoughts

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈•ﾟ｡ E̳n̳j̳o̳y̳ ｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈•ﾟ｡

-ˏˋ♥̩͙♥̩̩̥͙♥̩̥̩ ⑅ 𝕵𝖔𝖍𝖓𝖆𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖓 "𝕭𝖗𝖆𝖛𝖔 0-6" 𝕻𝖗𝖎𝖈𝖊 ⑅ ♥̩̥̩♥̩̩̥͙♥̩͙ˊˎ

Price likes to swallow chewing gum. I mean-LOOK AT THE FUCKER. HE SWALLOWS GUM-CHANGE MY MIND. Price also likes to drink whiskey out of a tea cup-Kate just stares at him and says "John-how are you Drunk off of Tea???" and he's all "Fuck off, Mum! I ain't three no mo' Woman!"

Price has gone to a pride parade with Kate-she was in the parade bc some homophobic dude at her wife's job was trash talking her. John went as morel support (And ended up in a conga line--)

Price's famous pick-up line with the ladies is "Are ye chocolate milk? Because you make my day batter" (Yes he says Batter.)

My mans will just S T A R E at people when he's deep in thought. Like-he'll zone out and then it's just

and it's lowkey kind like-"Cap? What the fuck?"

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*୨୧ ┈┈┈┈┈ S̶i̶m̶o̶n̶ "G̶h̶o̶s̶t̶" R̶i̶l̶e̶y̶ ┈┈┈┈┈ ୨୧*

Simon wakes up every. single. night. at three am. THREE AM. Poor bby :,(

this man will randomly be reminded of something-wether it be his father or, or walking past the old park he used to play at after school as a kid, somthing else-and he'll get the urge to cry. And he'll get so spaced out John has to shake him roughly-one time he had to slap him--

Simon really really REALLY hates the smell of COOKIES. But he loves eating them???? Wtf bro-

the only thing he can cook is instant noodles. thats it. your dream cook can only cook noodles. i woke u up, your welcome.

Ghost once caught Soap tryna sneak in a few....odd pics...of him...for "Art like things, Lt!" (Like Soap can draw-Ha! He draws so much foikin' battar.)

this man can sing-and he sound like he's native to the US when he does--

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(I love this little gif of him bc he looks like he's just like "Yes ma'am-no maiming. understood" HE'S SO CUTE I CANT WSDNIGIGHNIEQG)

¸.·✩·.¸¸.·¯⍣✩ j̤̈ö̤ḧ̤n̤̈n̤̈ÿ̤ "s̤̈ö̤ä̤p̤̈" Mä̤c̤̈ẗ̤ä̤v̤̈ï̤s̤̈ḧ̤ ✩⍣¯·.¸¸.·✩·.¸

MF LIKES CHEESE BY ITSELF. im sorry-i had to say it. he does.

He-i cant even fathom how i think this-he can bake. and he's GOOD at it. Like, "Why tha fack whould ya go ta tha cheesecake fac'ory?? I can make betta shite!?" (I love him so much dfgsdinfgof8)

He draw better than Simon-Simon just has a big ego with his artwork and won't admit Johnny draws better--

Johnny (Cannonly) speaks better spanish than Graves. (LIKE HOW THE FUCK DOES A US BITCH SPEAK SPANISH SO BADDDD UGH-anyways this is bout babyboy here)

his first word nearly killed his Roman Catholic mother, "War! War! Ha ha! Warrrr!" (The poor woman, RIP)

His second word was no better. "Gay!"

how'd he learn these words?? ...His uncles. (Dad's side)

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☆★☆★→ Kͦyͦlͦeͦ "Gͦaͦzͦ" Gͦaͦrͦrͦiͦcͦkͦ ��☆★☆★

So like-idk why but when i first saw this man i was like: "...yeah-he vapes."

also-WHY THE FUCK DID YOU HOLD THE LIGHTER WITH TWO HANDS????

anyways-he likes to snuggle with a little stuffie from when he was a kid-it's a small pink bunny too. it's missing an ear and he had to re-sew a foot on with a spare sock but other than that, it's still lookin pretty good.

"Hey-John? ...Why the fuck are you staring at me like that, Sir??"

(See Johnathan "Bravo-06" Price)

I headcannon that he has like-three older cousins he talks to whenever he can-like-he sends them a text at least every day

i also think he has a big family.

and that he is the ONLY BRITISH MAN that can cook-like he and Kate?? god-DAYUM. They are a STORM in the kitchen.

Im sorry-but this man will only call you "Love" and "Mamas"-nothing else. Change my mind-I dare you. (If he's tired it'll be a small "Hunnybun")--

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( ノ・・)ノ g̤̈ä̤r̤̈ÿ̤ "r̤̈ö̤ä̤c̤̈ḧ̤" s̤̈ä̤n̤̈d̤̈ë̤r̤̈s̤̈ö̤n̤̈ ( /・・)ノ

Baby boy is ALWAYS FORGOTTEN SO-FUCK ALL OF YOU, IM TAKING MY SON AND LEAVING

My baby boy LOVES to watch 90's cartoons on his phones after missions. Like all anyone will hear from his room is, "Oh ThE tHiNgS i Do FoR lOvE!!" (If you dont know what show this is from, your too young to be on my page)

He used to get called "Gar-bear" by his mom bc he used to watch so much spongebob as a kid.

He ADORESSS the homemade food from his teamates-even if it's just Simon's instant noodles. </3 he is everything to me, omg

He can speak English, Spanish, German, French, and ASL. (American sign language)

When he's really pissed off he'll say the one curse word he knows in Slovak. ("Kurva!" it means fuck-dont ask how i know that...)

He has a small ant farm at home. He has a few other friends (not from work ofc) look after them when hes gone <3

Secretly really good at arts and crafts-he makes his own jewelry for himself and Gaz-bc Gaz is the ONLY ONE who remembers he's alive half the time.

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✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ Kå†ê "W冢hêr-1" Lå§wêll ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

Laswell-ooOOOoOO! Laswell-this woman rivals gordon ramsey in the kitchen.

Best chiken pot pie you've ever tasted-ever.

She makes homemade coffee for the task force. and it's Good.

She favors blackberry crumble-her wife makes it. You can NOT tell me otherwise.

advid user of "Honey", "Darling", and "Dear" for people she likes-minus, minus John. Minus John....minus John....

and by people she likes i mean people she thinks of as HER kids.

anybody tryna mess wit ghost, soap, gaz, or roach??? just a simple "Las-" and mama's coming out to fucking MURDER.

thems is her BOIS, ok?? ok.

Price once called her mama bear-and she was like, "Yes i am, so what? How's that affect your day, Price?"

she's scarily good at throwing her slippers at things-once soap asked her to hit the clock-and she did-dead center. im talking where the teeny tiny little bolt that keeps the hands in place.

i could rant all day long about mommy Kate tbh-

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and thats it. i might make more-depends.

thanks for reading!!

———๑•̀ᴗ•̀) ʋ ǟ ʟ <3 (•̀ᴗ•̀๑———

[thecreelhouse]

if you know love, you best prepare to grieve

Paring: Steve Harrington x Francesca “Frankie” Amato

This is part of the accident prone AU— please be warned there are spoilers in these mini fics if you have yet to read the main series! This post-series fic and more can be found here -> accident prone - the blurb sides

Summary: Steve offers to go with Frankie to visit her mother’s grave.

WC: 4.2k+

Includes: grief. this is a grief fic (want to make that one clear), language, angst, hurt/comfort, discussion of toxic positivity, some Amato family lore, brief alcohol induced angst, unconventional means of mourning, brighter ending.

A/N: wanted to touch more on Frankie’s loss of her mother, and the complex feelings it brings from being so young when it happened. So this fic is more Frankie-centric, but I do have more Steve-centric ones planned and in progress! Tysm to anyone who has read AP, or even gives this little collection of (not) blurbs the time of day— I appreciate you!! <3 [title is from leave it alone - hayley williams]

The first Sunday of every month, Frankie’s family got together for dinner. A few months into her relationship with Steve, her family constantly bugged her to finally meet him— sure enough, she caved.

Right away, the Amato family welcomed Steve the way any stereotypical Italian-American family would: with open arms and love in the form of constantly offering homemade food. He learned quickly that her grandmother— who she affectionately called Nonna— was notorious for making sure no one went hungry, not even for a minute. He’d barely have one foot through the door when she’d  already ask “You kids hungry? Come, sit!”

Some Sundays were louder than others, depending on how many family members could attend, and damn, did Frankie have a huge family. He’s lost count of all her cousins he’s met so far, near and far in ages apart. He discovered her father had several sisters, so growing up she always had a motherly presence around with her doting zias. Above all, her grandmother made the biggest impact in her femininity, unconditionally loving her as if Frankie were her own daughter. 

This time, Frankie’s father brought out some photo albums after dinner, proudly showing Steve memories of his daughter over the years.

“Wait, I gotta show you this one. This kid was a menace.”

Steve turns to Frankie’s father, eyes wide with curiosity as he’s handed another baby photo of his girlfriend. Frankie’s face grows red, flinging her hand over Steve’s shoulder to steal the picture.

“Oh my god, no—“

“Nothing was safe around this little terror,” Her dad chuckles, nodding to his daughter. 

“Are you—“

“Look, I was two—“

“When people talk ‘bout the terrible twos, they certainly never mention your kid tearing the garden apart.”

The photograph shows a tiny, two year old Frankie, with the cutest round, freckled cheeks. Her wild, frizzy waves falling in her face, escaping from a loose ponytail. Best part of all— she’s covered in garden soil, tomatoes in each hand; she’s biting into the tomato like it’s an apple.

Steve has no time to hide the affectionate, hearty laugh before it bursts out of him. 

“If it weren’t the squirrels chewing on ‘em, it was baby Francesca that was the tomato thief,” her grandmother chimes in from her chair, side eyeing Frankie. “She didn’t even bite them half the time, just squished ‘em to make a mess! I never got to can those for sauce that year.”

“I didn’t ruin all of the tomatoes,” Frankie’s still embarrassed, but laughing with everyone. “I put some back!”

“Yeah, after you would pretend to eat them, get baby spit all over them, then put them on the ground in the garden like no one would notice,” her dad clarifies, then turns to Steve, “We noticed.”

“Hey, nonno was the one who always let me run wild in the plants,” Frankie counters, glaring playfully at her grandmother. “Your husband was the real culprit, I was just a pawn in his game.”

“You sure were, cattivella,” her nonna lightly quips, attention turning to Steve. “When I was two, I was sent out into the garden all the time by my nonna to pick what was ripe, and everything was returned safely each time.”

“Yeah, yeah, we get it, you also marched uphill in the snow ten miles every day to get to school.”

Mila, one of the only aunts that could show up today, cracks up from her spot on a couch across the room. Her cheeks are rosy red from having a bit too much wine, but she’s cheerful. 

“Ma, she’s right, you’re just from a different time.”

“You’re spoiled by your zia,” her grandmother shakes her head, poorly hiding her smile. She gets up, shuffling out of the room with an added comment, “Actually, you’re spoiled by all of ‘em.”

Steve has a hard time remembering who is who among her aunts, since Frankie loves to call them all zia, never using their names with the title. Mila, however, seemed to be Frankie’s favorite, the one she’s closest with; she’s kind but bold, something that’s rubbed off on her niece from an early age.

“If the worst of my crimes were spitting on tomatoes, I ain’t that much trouble,” Frankie shrugs. Her smile wavers as a photo catches her eye among the pile on the coffee table; one of her and her mother, from a memory that feels like it never belonged to her to begin with. 

In the photo, baby Frankie’s giggling, pudgy hands clapping together, while sitting on her mother’s lap. Her mother’s reading to her from a children’s book, facial expression animated as she reads aloud to her daughter. She looks far too young to know what’s going on, but in that very moment, Frankie and her mother are happy.

“I wish I could remember this,” she murmurs, more to herself than anyone else in the room. Glancing up at her dad, she asks, “Are you visiting her tomorrow?”

He sighs, “Might not be until super late, unless I can leave early before work tomorrow, and stop by on the way, but I know you said you’ve been having a hard time sleeping—“

“It’s okay, I can go.”

“Kid, your mom would want you to rest. You need it.” He looks over to his sister, “Mila, are you free tomorrow?”

“No, work’s been crazy, otherwise I’d go with ya’, Francesca. I’m sorry.”

“No worries, zia, I’ll figure something out.”

Steve’s worried he’ll overstep by asking, but offers anyway, “I can go with you… i- if you want.”

Frankie stares at him, surprised, “Really? I can’t imagine it’d be very fun for you.”

“I can give you space when we get there, too. But it’s clearly important to you to visit her for—“ Steve pauses, hoping brain fog didn’t cause him to misplace an important detail. “Her…”

She snorts, “Sorry, didn’t mention it.” Glad I’m not that out of it today, he thinks. “My mom’s birthday is tomorrow. I try visiting every year for that, at least.” Her gaze falls to the photo with her mother, still in her hands. “I’d really appreciate that. You could even come with me— if you want, I mean. I don’t wanna pressure you—“

“It’s cute that you’re so respectful of one another, but you gotta stop doubting yourselves,” Mila pipes up, as if she’s cracked the code to overthinking. “All that tip-toeing shit is unnecessary.”

Frankie’s dad warns, “Mila—“

“Am I wrong?” She leaves the couch, shuffling past the remaining trio. “I say that with love, of course.”

“I’m, uh, gonna see if nonna needs help with dishes,” Frankie mumbles, throwing a thumb over her shoulder to the doorway. She spins her wheelchair quickly, rolling into the next room.

“Hey, Steve, I’m sorry about what Mila said, she really does mean well—“

A shrill, repetitive beeping echoes through the room. Frankie’s dad sighs, pulling a beeper out of his pocket. “Ah, shit, I gotta make a call. I’m sorry, I’ll be right back.”

While Steve sits alone in the living room, peeking through pictures, heart melting over every over-expressive version of Frankie growing up, he overhears a quiet conversation in the kitchen. 

“Your zia is a goof when she’s tipsy, you know that. She means well, but she didn’t need to make that comment,” her grandmother’s voice floats out of the kitchen clearly; they’re definitely not washing dishes. “You and Steve are just very sensitive, and that’s not a bad thing. If anything, the world could use more kids like you two.”

“I know… but I don’t want Steve to feel like he has to come with me, just because we’re dating.” Frankie’s voice wavers in the way it usually does when she staves off tears; Steve recognizes those little things about her so well now, especially with how emotional the last few months have been. “Hanging out at your mom’s grave sure isn’t an ideal date night.”

Does she really think I’m offering because I feel obligated? Steve’s a little stung by his partner’s insecurity, but he shakes it off. This can’t be an easy topic to discuss in any relationship; maybe opening up in the past about her loss had been a breaking point for an ex long ago. Maybe not. Steve doesn’t know the reason, but he knows something got into her head to make her believe otherwise.

Whoever made ‘Key feel bad for her loss is a piece of shit. 

“Oh, fiorellina, he’s the one who offered to begin with. You know why? That boy loves you to pieces. Looks at you like you’ve hung the damn moon.” Steve knows it’s wrong to listen to their delicate conversation, but he knows moving out of the living room would give him away, too. He didn’t want to interrupt their moment. “You know, your mammina would be so proud of you for letting love in again, and more importantly, staying true to yourself.” 

Again?

“Not sure there’s much to be proud of,” Frankie murmurs, giving a short laugh. “Not like I’ve done anything spectacular with my life, except be sick.”

“I’d say surviving is pretty spectacular, Francesca. That, while building a life you love, even among the pain, both are no easy feat.” Her grandmother pauses, and Steve can hear faint, muffled crying; he wonders if she’s trying to keep quiet, not to alarm anyone. “You’re a fighter, just like your mamma. And what, running a record store, making new friends, and falling in love ain’t worth being proud of? All while you’re in treatment? You deserve that kindness you give everyone else.”

“I’m just scared everyone will leave— n- not that they’re like that… nonna, they’re all so sweet, and funny, and accepting… but I can’t shake that stupid fear.” 

There’s a pang in Steve’s heart overhearing that; he refrains from rushing into the next room over to hold her close, reassure her no one’s leaving.

“You were hurt badly, so f’course that fear is hard to shake. But it’s sure as hell not stupid. Why don’t you bring ‘em around one of these Sundays? It’d be nice to put faces to their names.”

“Okay...” Frankie hiccups, “I don’t know where I’d be without you guys, and Steve, too.”

“You’d still be here, I wouldn’t doubt that. But I can see how much Steve has influenced your life for the better during this rough patch.” She laughs softly, “He’s a good one, Francesca. Reminds me of your nonno, with a heart that big. Cherish him for as long as life allows.”

Steve’s thoughts float away, heart torn over Frankie’s valid fears and feelings, while in awe to hear her grandmother speak so kindly about him. He still struggles to believe he’s a decent person sometimes; looking back at his past, there’s a wave of regret and shame that washes over him each time an old memory resurfaces. It only all motivates him to continue being the best person he can be, for himself and others.

Especially those he loves.

“Stevie?” Frankie’s fragile voice ushers him out of his deep thoughts, appearing in the doorway. “Are you alright?”

“Huh? Me? I’m fine,” his brows furrow, confused. “Are you okay?”

“Um… yeah,” she murmurs, sliding the sleeves of her sweater over her hands, balling up the knitted garment in her fists. 

Steve sighs, knowing that’s far from the truth. “Try again, honey.”

Rolling up to the couch, she slides out of her wheelchair, settling in next to him. While she curls into his side, he throws an arm around her shoulders, hooking her in closer.

“You heard everything, huh?”

Again, he sighs heavily, nodding. “Wasn’t trying to be sneaky or nosy, but I didn’t want to ruin the moment you had with your nonna.”

“S’okay. I’m sorry you heard any of that.”

“What? Why?” Steve’s fingers gently caress up and down her arm, glancing down at her. “I- I mean, not that I was trying to, really, I mean that… but I know you wouldn’t have told me that fear on your own. You know you can always come to me about anything, right?”

“Yeah, I do. My brain likes to tell me otherwise— there’s a lot I’m unlearning and reshaping the longer we’re together. A few shitty relationships and experiences still cause me to second guess myself.”

“I’m sorry, ‘Key, but whoever made you feel that way about your emotions, and your health, and your appearance— everything— they’re assholes, and they’re wrong about you.” She shivers against him, so he drapes a throw blanket over the two of them, laying back on the pillows. “If you’re comfortable with it, I’d really love to go with you to visit your mom. Like I said, I’ll give you space if you’d like, or visit her with you, but your nonna’s right; I want to go with you ‘cause I love you.”

“She’s right about a lot, y’know.” She gives a soft, short giggle, burying her face into his shoulder as she snuggles up with him. “You’ve got a big heart, Stevie.” Her breaths slow steadily as she finds comfort in his arms. “M’gonna just rest my eyes quick, m’so sleepy…”

Steve holds back a teasing comment about the dad remark of “resting her eyes”, knowing her fatigue is intense from  more treatment than usual the week before. The heightened emotions are draining on their own, so the combination must be dragging her into slumber.

“Take all the time y’need, babe.” He kisses her forehead, since a warm, knitted hat blocks off the top of her bare head. “Might nap with you.”

Keeping his word, Steve’s able to fall asleep quickly. The tuckered out pair weren’t even aware of Frankie’s nonna snapping a Polaroid of the serene scene.

Gingerly, the eldest Amato slides the square photograph into Frankie’s bag, sneaking away to leave the two to their peaceful nap.

—————

“M’gonna learn how to knit, or crochet, or something, just to make you stuff to keep you warm.” It’s meant to be a playful comment, but saying it out loud, Steve finds the idea of picking up a new hobby intriguing for a moment, then pushes it aside. “Are you sure you don’t want my jacket?”

“I said I’m okay, I mean it,” Frankie tries to downplay how chilled to the bone she is, but her chattering teeth give her away, as usual. Steve shrugs his jacket off, draping it over her shoulders despite her grumbled protests; he doesn’t miss her tiny, thankful smile, though.

The walk from the main path to Frankie’s mother’s grave isn’t too far, but it’s certainly not easy navigating with a wheelchair. She’s encountered plenty of inaccessible locations with her chair in the past, but the ground blanketed in a thick layer of fallen leaves makes it frustrating to roll over, at best.

It takes longer than it would have on foot, but once they arrive, Steve glances over at Frankie, wordlessly asking one more time if she’d like him to stay, or give her space. She squeezes his hand with a nod.

She unrolls a picnic blanket, Steve takes the other end, laying it out, nice and neat. Crouching down to pull an end, straightening it out, the grave’s etched details catch his attention.

Giulia Amato

Beloved mother, wife, daughter

A flower plucked from this world far too soon, forever blooming in our hearts.

Nov. 16th 1941 - Dec. 19th 1966

Intricate floral designs are carved into the marble’s edges, with little memorial trinkets placed on the base of the tombstone.

Steve reads the date again, feeling his throat tighten; he never realized exactly how young Frankie was when her mom passed away. Nor did he know it was so close to the holidays.

He turns to find Frankie already out of her chair, situated on the blanket while gingerly unwrapping a small bouquet of lavender and daisies from their paper shelter. She was thrilled the local floral shop still had some left, though out of season by now.

“Hi, mammina, happy birthday,” Frankie sets the bundle of flowers on the stone, voice barely above a whisper. 

Steve sits back, allows her the space she needs; he still worries he’s invading on a personal moment, but curiously watches as she pulls out a small, plain, birthday candle to light. Her hand tremors make the first few tries difficult to light it, but once it’s lit, she sets it next to the flowers. 

“M’sorry I didn’t visit sooner, this year’s been… a lot.” She shivers, hands slipping into the sleeves of Steve’s jacket for warmth. “A lot of bad, but more good than anything. There’s always more good, and papá makes sure to remind me all the damn time that you believed in that.” He can hear the eye roll in her little laugh. “I think I say it every year, but I wish I got to know you the way you knew me. It’s probably silly I miss you as much as I do, ‘cause I don’t remember a damn thing.”

She shakes her head with another laugh, but Steve can hear her sniffling, too.

“Anyway, I want you to meet someone very special to me. This is Steve,” Frankie glances back at Steve with a wobbling smile. Turning back to the gravestone, she adds, “He’s even got nonna’s approval— that’s big.”

Steve’s not one to sit at someone’s grave and speak to the dead, so he awkwardly waves, while pushing down the smile her last comment brings him. He moves closer to hug her from the side, gently kissing her temple. Frankie sighs, relaxing under his touch.

“I’m pissed, you know? Like I’m jealous I never got to know this person that everyone else praises to be amazing and kind. It’s not fair. That’s— it’s my mother, for fucks sake. Why didn’t I get those memories with her?”

Steve isn’t sure what to say, isn’t sure if there’s anything to say that’d help to begin with. When Frankie swipes her tears away with her sweater-covered hands, she sighs loudly, trying to shake it off.

“Sorry. I’m good. It’s all good.”

He grabs her hand, bringing her attention his way. “You’re not good.”

When Steve started to see right through Frankie averting her own needs, physical and emotional, she first hated that she couldn’t hide it from him. She’d be stubborn, argue with him that she was truly fine, until realizing he wouldn’t give up on helping her. Frankie’s stubbornness met its match in the same trait Steve held, and it’s difficult for her to feel like she’s worthy of being seen and heard with her emotional pain.

So when she’s scrunching her eyes shut, tears squeezing between her lids, tumbling down her face, it throws Steve off when she shakes her head, too. 

“M’not. I’m really not good,” she whimpers, clapping a hand over her mouth before a sob slips out. 

“C’mere,” Steve’s winding his embrace around her, holding her tight while she grips onto the front of his sweater, sobbing into him. “It’s okay, y’know? To not be okay.”

“But it’s so fucking…. So annoying, to hear to this day shit like ‘everything happens for a reason’, ‘cause what’s the reason, huh? I’ve gone twenty-five years waiting for a reason to finally appear, and it doesn’t exist.” It’s unclear which will take over, her sorrow or her rage, but both are rightfully valid in her deep rooted grief. “How the fuck do you tell a kid that shit? The reason that you never really got to know and love your own mom is ‘cause of some … some higher force with a plan unknown to anyone yet— it’s all bullshit!”

Frankie startles herself over her own outburst, quiet for a moment, before babbling a tangled string of apologies into Steve’s shoulder.

“God… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked you to come with me,” she hiccups, arms trembling as her hold tightens on him, in need of some kind of grounding. “You shouldn’t have to see this part of me.”

Steve kisses the crown of her head, one hand cradling the back of her beanie-covered head, the other wound securely around her waist; at some point, she must’ve slid onto his lap, because the hug’s not awkward anymore.

“I want to see every part of you, even the ones that are hard to show.” He doesn’t expect his voice to warble, throat tightening while choking back tears. “It’s not fair. None of this is fair, and you’re right, it’s bullshit for anyone to say losing your mom so young was for a reason. Your grief is valid, too, even if you only have secondhand memories of her.”

“I’m grateful my family took so many photos and videos of us when she was still here. At least I have those.”

“And you can tell how much she loved you in those,” Steve adds, causing Frankie to give a curious, tear-stained look up at him. “Your dad showed me other home movies, and it’s just… so obvious she adored you. Maybe you don’t remember your short time with her, but she remembered every second of that time spent with you.” He glances over at the gravestone, and the candle Frankie lit, halfway melted down now. “It doesn’t make it fair, but maybe there’s a little bit of comfort knowing you made her last months so special, even when everything else was falling to shit.”

Jesus, quit word vomiting.

“I’ve never looked at it like that,” she mutters, pout trembling. “I just wish she never had to suffer.”

“I know, ‘Key. M’so sorry.”

Frankie takes a few deep breaths, shuddering in between as she calms herself down. “Thanks for not trying to sugarcoat it like everyone else does. It helps to just be heard, rather than hear shitty advice on how to hurt.”

“Anytime you need to talk about this, you can.” Steve runs his hand over her back gently in a soothing motion. “I want you to talk about this shit, if you want to, and if it helps. There’s no pressure either way, but you deserve the space to grieve when you need to.”

Squeezing him one more time, Frankie shudders out a sigh, burying her face into the crook of his neck. “Thank you. I love you.”

“Thanks for letting me tag along, I know that’s not easy. I love you, too.” Steve’s eyes land on the candle, nearing its end. He softly pushes Frankie off of him, “The candle’s almost out.”

“It’s— oh, shit— I forgot! I gotta make a wish.” She clumsily scrambles off his lap, crossing her fingers in both hands as her eyes flutter shut, silently making her wish. She glances back at Steve, “You should make one too, it’s tradition, I do this every year.”

“Me? Is that— I don’t want to overstep—“

“Steve, just make a wish.” She grabs his hand, pushing past the remnants of her crying with her signature warm smile. “I want you to, and from what I’ve learned about her, I think she’d want you to make one, too.”

Eyes closing, he crosses his fingers, silently making his own wish. He makes it once, twice, three times, hoping the repetition adds to its chances of coming true. “Okay,” his eyes slowly open, “done.”

Frankie leans down to the candle, softly blowing out the flame. Though she murmurs it more to herself, and to the spirit of her mother, wherever she may be, Steve can clearly hear her. “Mamma, if you ever got a say in those wishes coming true, pick Steve’s first. He deserves it.”

When asked to make a wish, he didn’t make it on himself; all these years later, Steve still puts others before himself, so naturally, his wish went to Frankie, instead.

So yeah, maybe this wish he deserves, as long as it means it comes true for Frankie’s sake. He almost feels a little naive, banking on a wish in honor of her late mother’s birthday, but… stranger things have happened.

‘Ti voglio bene, mamma.” Frankie kisses the tips of her pointer, middle, and ring fingers, before gingerly pressing them against the cool, smooth stone. “See you soon.”

With everything packed up, the couple make their way back to the main cemetery road, ready to head home for a cozy, warm remainder of the day inside.

“So, when are you gonna teach me how to speak Italian?” Steve cracks the comfortable silence first, earning a snort from his partner.

“Never. I am terrible aside from the few phrases I remember,” she waves her hands in tandem with her shaking head, while he continues to push her chair over the leaf-covered terrain. “But, if you ask Nonna, she’d be thrilled to teach you some curses. It’d earn you some brownie points with her, too.” 

“Next Sunday, I’m asking her the moment we walk through the door.”

“If you do that, she’ll probably rope you into making dinner with her somehow,” Frankie teasingly warns. Her curious stare wanders up to his as she tilts her head back. “Hey… what’d you wish for?”

Steve scoffs, “Can’t tell you, or it won’t come true. C’mon, ‘Key, that’s like, the first rule of making wishes.”

“Eugh,” she groans. “I wish you weren’t such a stickler for rules sometimes. Be a rebel, Steve.”

“Let’s just say, if it happens, you’ll know,” he leans down to kiss her knit beanie-covered head, murmuring, “And I’m not fucking up any chance of this coming true.”

“Alright, fine,” Frankie gives up, attention elsewhere while rummaging through her bag. She pauses, pulling out a Polaroid photo, studying it for a moment before breaking out into giggles. “Oh my god, Steve, look—“

“Wh— who took that?” He chuckles, leaning down and over her shoulder for a closer look.

It’s the snapshot Frankie’s grandmother took while they were napping.

“Who do you think?” She admires the picture, laughter dying down. “Nonna’s a sneaky lady when she wants to be.”

“Hey, we’re kinda cute all… squished up together like that while napping.” Steve can’t take his eyes away from the photograph— there’s something so simple, yet meaningful, in a tiny domestic moment like this, frozen in time. He wants this love for as long as he can possibly have and live in it.

The words Steve overheard from Frankie’s grandmother repeat in his head: “Cherish him for as long as life allows.”

He’s got no clue if a wish like the one he made could come true, but even if it never came to be, Steve would still cherish Frankie for as long as life allows, too.

[starlightsuffered]

Two is Too Easy

Pairing - Regulus Black/Fem!reader

"Persephone we're going to be late," Regulus tutted. He was trying to tame his daughters mop of black curls. She kept moving.

"Uncle Sirius doesn't make me brush my hair," she proclaimed.

"Yes well, Uncle Sirius is a bad influence. You know that," Regulus muttered gravely.

"But then Uncle Remus always does," she added.

"If you make us late, I'm going to be so mad at you," Lyra snapped at her little sister. We'd kept the theme of star names for her, but Regulus had wanted to break tradition with the second.

Lyra was tapping her foot nervously in her robes. It was her first year at Hogwarts. She'd be going with her cousin Ragnulf Black-Lupin.

"Lyra, sweetie, we won't be late," I said, cupping her pale cheeks. Both children favored their father in looks. Though right now, I saw a bit of me in Lyra's eyes.

"Ragnulf said if I'm a Slytherin, I'll be thrown out of the family," she said, as she worried her lip. I barked out a laugh.

"He sounds like his fathers," I chuckled. "That's not true darling, mummy and daddy were both Slytherins, and Sirius and Remus still talk to us."

"Cousin Harry will look out for you," Regulus called. "He's apparently very popular."

"But he's so much older than me, will he even notice I'm there?"

"Lyra, Harry has always been very lovely to you, of course he will."

"Done," Regulus said finally. Persephone's hair was in two adorable braids.

"Beautiful," I smiled, and she ran to my arms. I picked her up. We apparated with the children to a space near the platform. We all made it to the station in one piece.

James, Lily, Remus, and Sirius were all there and greeted our girls jovially.

"Oi," Reglus said, slapping his brothers arm. "Why are you telling your son, to tell Lyra, she'll be thrown out of the family if she's in Slytherin. It's scared her half to death."

Sirius started laughing. Remus was decent enough to give him a reproachful look, but his eyes were shining with mirth.

"Sorry, I didn't think she'd take it seriously," Sirius said. He went over to a fretting Lyra.

"Hey kid, it doesn't matter what house you're in, we're going to love you no matter what."

Lyra seemed to relax a bit.

"Hear that Ragnulf?" Sirius demanded. "You're going to stick with Lyra, no matter what house she's in, or I'll feed you to your dad on the full moon. Got it?"

Ragnulf crinkled his nose but nodded. Lyra was completely relaxed now.

The train was boarded by everyone. Lyra hugged everyone goodbye. We stood and watched her off, waving all the way.

"Hey Reg," I said, leaning my head on his shoulder.

"Yes love?"

"You know how we said we were stopping at two?"

His head whipped to me, eyes darting all over my face.

"I'm pregnant," I admitted. A smile broke across his face.

"That's wonderful, I've been hoping actually, two is too easy," he chuckled.

"Yeah, I was glad when I found out too," I smiled. He bent down and kissed me.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too, Regulus."

[multifandomfanfiction]

A Dragon in Winterfell

TITLE: A Dragon in Winterfell PAIRING: Robb/Alia (OC) RATING: T CHAPTER: One-shot SUMMARY: Robb takes Alia into the crypts of Winterfell to show her something that has been in the possession of House Stark since the Dance of the Dragons.

[A/N - I am planning a one-shot diving into Cregan and Aelora's relationship, but I wanted to lay the groundwork here.]

“Robb, where are we going?” Alia asked her husband.

He had led her into the crypts below Winterfell. Alia had never set foot in the crypts because they scared her.

Robb said nothing and pulled her deeper, past the graves of dead Stark's.

“Robb, Ned…I need to…”

“He will be fine, my love. My mother will take care of him,” he told her.

Alia was rarely separated from her firstborn son and she experienced extreme anxiety when they were apart.

Robb was sure it stemmed from the death of her mother.

“I want to show you something.” He led her down a dark corridor to a small alcove housing a statue of a young woman.

Alia pulled her fur cloak around herself as Robb leaned down and opened a chest. He picked something up and turned to her.

Alia gasped at what was in his hands. “A dragon egg?”

Robb held it out to her.

Alia took it gently in her hands. She marveled at the purple scales covering it and imagined a baby dragon sleeping within.

What would it look like?

“What do you know of the Dance of the Dragons?” Robb asked.

“Only what my father taught me. That the two sides of the Targaryen family went to war over the Iron Throne.”

“During the Dance of the Dragons, Queen Rhaenyra sent her son Jacaerys Velaryon to meet with my ancestor, Cregan Stark. But he didn’t arrive alone. His mother also sent her daughter, Aelora, as a bride for Cregan Stark after the death of his first wife and mother to his son Rickon. That dragon’s egg supposedly was placed in the cradle of their son Benjen as was the tradition for Targaryen children. It never hatched and when Aelora died giving birth to their daughter, Cregan placed it down here in the crypts. Although Cregan loved his first wife, it was said that Aelora was the love of his life. After her death, Cregan sent their son to be warded over by another house and no one knows what happened to Benjen after that.”

Alia thought it was a tragically beautiful story. Like that of her mother and father.

It seemed tragedy seemed to favor the Houses of Martell and Stark.

“Do you think it could still hatch one day?” Robb chuckled.

“Are you going to try and hatch it, princess?”

Alia glared at her husband. “I have the blood of the dragon running through my veins. My ancestor’s wed Targaryen’s. Maybe I’ll hatch it and send it to my cousin Quentyn. He has always fancied being a dragon rider.”

He also spent his days reading and learning High Valyrian. He was the only one in their family to take pride in their Valyrian heritage.

“Are you sure you are not more Targaryen than Martell, princess?”

Alia stared down at the dragon egg in her hands, wondering if her ancestor had done the same. Wondering if she had yearned for the egg to hatch as well.

Robb noticed his wife’s silence. “You may keep it if you’d like,” Robb told her.

But Alia shook her head. She could feel the pull to the dragon egg and worried about ending up like Aegon V, burning down Winterfell in hopes of hatching a dragon’s egg.

“They say that when a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin,” Alia said.

Robb approached his wife and took the egg from her hands. He set it back in the chest and turned to her. He took her face in his hands and kissed her.

“You are not a Targaryen, my love. You are a Martell and a Stark.”

Alia’s eyes filled with tears and she sniffled. “But what if I go mad? What if I end up like my ancestors?”

“You will not go mad. My ancestors could be your ancestors. Am I mad?”

Alia shook her head and buried her face in Robb’s chest.

“Maybe we should arrange a visit to Sunspear,” Robb told her.

His Pale Sand Snake had grown melancholy of late as she did during the heavy winter months. She missed the sunshine of Dorne and the giggles of her sisters. Ned was old enough to travel to Dorne now and maybe he would be a welcome distraction for Alia.

Robb led her out of the crypts and back to the castle to start planning their trip to Dorne.

And like Cregan before him, they never spoke of Aelora and the dragon egg again.

[A/N - What? You thought I could write about Alia and not make it depressing as hell?]

[itsphoenix0724]

Your Heart on a Platter-Part 1 (Eris x Reader)

Summary: The only way to seek your revenge is to return the heir of Autumn's heart back to a witch in two months time. However, this task proves much more difficult than you presume it to be.

Word Count: 2k

A/N: Hello everyone! Sorry for the wait on the next chapter! I hope everyone enjoyed Flower Power! I just finished with finals week in school, so hopefully I should be able to post on a more consistent basis! I know this chapters short, but I wanted to get something out! Finally some interaction with Eris.

Prologue, Part 1, Part 2

The carriage ride to the Forest House was bumpy and long. 

When you eventually arrived, the carriage men started unloading what were your “cousins” belongings she left you for the trip. You offered them a small thanks as a guard ushered you through the house and in front of the door to the throne room. You silently prepared yourself as the door opened, and you stepped into the throne room. 

There was the High Lord of Autumn, sat atop his throne surrounded by a large oak tree crowned with autumn leaves. He looked as cruel as everyone described him to be. Tall and slender with dark brown hair starting to gray. It was the look in his eyes that genuinely disturbed you. Dark, cold, and sadistic. 

There was the Lady of Autumn on a small ottoman next to Beron’s throne. You knew what hid behind the high neckline and long sleeves. It made you want to rage on her behalf and send the dagger hidden under your skirt into the High Lord’s throat. 

You had seen it one too many times. She looked so much like a statue it made you want to throw up. Perfect posture yet empty eyes, like a marionette dropped from her strings. 

Standing behind the High Lord’s throne, you assumed, was Eris Vanserra. He, indeed, was a beautiful male. With fiery hair, the exact shade of his mother’s, and amber eyes. He was dressed in what you thought was important princely attire. A green waistcoat, white pants, and black riding boots polished perfectly. He looked like painting-beautiful and stern. Beron called you forward, and you moved to the foot of the dais. You dropped into a low curtsy. You needed to make a good impression because if dismissed, this whole plan would be for nothing.  

Even if it made you want to claw your own eyes out. 

“You are not the servant I sent for,” Beron mutters, eyeing you from your spot on the floor. You hold the curtsy, not yet told to rise.

“No, High Lord, my cousin Sophie has fallen gravely ill. I have been sent in her place.” Beron seems to consider you for a moment, looking over your appearance. You looked like a high fae; the only tip to your heritage was your rounded ears. 

“I didn’t realize they would send a half-breed,” Beron spits at you, venom lacing his words, “but I suppose you’ll be acceptable given its too short notice to find another replacement,” he pauses, looking over you again. “Rise, girl.” he barks at you as you raise yourself from your spot on the floor. You stand and stare the High Lord in the eyes as he looks over you again, snaps his fingers, and Eris steps forward. “This is my son Eris,” Beron introduces, “You’ll be accompanying him to his lessons to assist him in case he needs something. You are to prepare his chambers in the morning and the evening and fetch him the things he requests.” 

“Yes, High Lord,” this should be easy enough. All you were was a glorified babysitter for this princeling. Go with him to places, and get him what he needs when he requests it. 

Cutting out his heart would be dreadfully easy, getting him to trust you possibly more difficult, but you had no idea what him having to “know your soul” meant. 

“Eris.” Beron snaps again, “Show her to your chambers and make sure she knows her way around.” Eris seems to snap to attention, nodding at you once before turning and walking out of a side door behind the thrones. Beron raises his eyebrows, and you give another curtsy before dipping out to follow the prince out the door.

You follow Eris in complete silence as you make your way to his chambers. You memorize the route as you go, taking in the guards on patrol and the lush green carpet and dark wood. When we reach his door, he eyes the guards standing watch as they all bow their heads in greeting and open the door. 

Eris’s room is shockingly simple, opulent, but still simple. The bed is big enough to fit at least four people; from what you can see of the bathtub, it looks big enough to hold about ten. There are no personal artifacts besides a chess table in front of the window and a small bookcase beside an armchair near Eris’s private fireplace. Next, you notice the jet-black hound lying on the bed like it belongs to him. Upon our arrival, the hound leaps and runs to greet us-striding straight past Eris to run to me-flopping on its stomach to request belly scratches. I watch the prince’s eyes widen in shock, and at the moment, you don’t care how improper it is as you drop to your knees and oblige the dog's request. Eris clears his throat, and you look up from the floor. 

“That’s Titus-he stays in here with me.” You suppose that could be a problem in the future. You may be a monster, but animal cruelty is a line even you won’t cross. You nod at Eris in acknowledgment and rise; Titus seems to disagree with this arrangement as he paws at your skirt. Eris snaps and points at the small pile of blankets at the end of his bed, and Titus turns and returns to “his” bed. Although you suspect he sleeps with the prince more often than not. 

“What is your name?” Eris asks you, amber eyes raving over your face in the firelight. You’re tempted to give him a fake name, but the witch said he had to trust you, so you give him your real one. He repeats it once before giving you a small tour of his space and directing you to a door in the corner with steps leading down into your room. The fact that you wouldn’t have to traverse the palace halls to make your way to Eris’s room, and you can’t help but be appalled at the sheer arrogance of having a connecting door to the heir’s chambers. Eris leaves you to explore your quarters. They’re not bad- a small desk, dresser, bed, and a tiny bathing chamber off the back end of your room. You could definitely make this work for two months.

: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* 

During the first three weeks with Eris, you do not speak. 

You wake him in the morning, lay out his clothes, say hi to Titus, run him a bath, and then change his sheets while he’s in the tub. Then you wait outside and walk with him to various tasks he has to accomplish throughout the day. After you escort Eris to dinner, leave him to eat with his family and prepare his chambers for bed. You spend the rest of your time mapping the palace and the guard routes. In fact, the first time you really spoke to Eris was when you caught him stumbling drunk through the halls. 

He had requested you not escort him back to his room after dinner. You thought this was weird, but you figured he wanted to spend time with his brothers. You were not interested in listening to some of the other brothers calling you a “pretty little thing” and asking if Eris had taken you to bed. When the early morning hours started to creep up, and Eris still hadn’t returned to his chambers, you decided to look for him. 

As you wander down the twists and turns of the forest house, you wonder why you’re even doing this. At this hour, there aren’t even other servants roaming the halls. You can hear the autumn trees creaking in the wind, making you antsy. You make your way down to the kitchens when you hear a crash from the wine cellar. You pull the dagger from underneath your skirt, arming yourself before opening the door. 

Your prince is lying on the floor nursing a whole bottle of what you’re sure is a costly bottle of wine. 

He looks up and calls out your name with a joyous shout. He struggles to pull himself off the floor but eventually crowds himself into your space. 

“Hello, little fox,” He smiles down at you, and his breath reeks of wine. He seems enraptured by your hair, twisting a strand around his fingers before his gaze eventually drifts down to the knife in your hand. “I didn’t realize I would find the sight of you with a knife in your hand so attractive.” You have no idea why you’re letting him get this close to you, let alone the color that rises to your cheeks. You chalk it up to not having close contact with anyone else for a long time. “It makes me want to lick that blush off your cheeks.” That shocks you out of your stupor, and back away because you’re afraid that he might actually try to do just that. 

“Your Highness, perhaps we should get you to bed.” Eris makes a noise of protest before taking another swig out of his bottle. 

“Never call me your highness again, little fox,” he pauses–swaying back and forth on his feet, “Only Eris to you, please.” You sigh before sheathing the dagger back to your thigh and removing the bottle from his hands. The kitchen staff can deal with his mess in the morning. You swing his arm over your shoulders and start walking him back to his room. 

Babysitter indeed. 

“Eris, you’re going to bed.” He seems to have enough sense not to argue and be quiet on returning to his rooms. You sit him on his bed, Titus coming to check on his master. It’s in the light when you notice the blood leaking through the back of his white shirt. “Eris. What the hell happened to you?” 

“Oh, that,” he tenses, “Nothing. My father was displeased with my performance in sword fighting today.” Your mouth gapes open in shock, and you find yourself at a loss for words. You can tell he doesn’t want to talk about it further. Doesn’t want your pity. 

You know the feeling well. 

You speak to the guards outside and ask them to bring up a salve for the prince’s back. One nods in answer and leaves to retrieve it. “We’ll need to clean it before you sleep–take off your shirt,” Eris smirks at you in response and then begins fumbling with the buttons.

“This is not usually how females ask me to remove my clothing, you know.” His drunk fingers can’t seem to grasp the buttons, so you move to stand in between his legs and undo the buttons for him. He’s trying to fall back on humor, and you indulge him. 

“Oh yeah? How do females normally ask you to take your clothing off?” He smirks up at you again, fingers toying with the ends of your skirt as you undo the last button and help him shrug out of his shirt. 

“Usually, there is a lot more begging involved. Along with extreme pleasure before my clothing even comes off.” He shoots you a drunken wink, and you roll your eyes, retrieving the salve from the guard who had just returned. You dip into the bathroom, returning with a wet cloth, and crawl behind him on the ridiculous expanse of bed. 

“This may sting a little,” you mumble, and Eris nods in confirmation. The lashes on his back are angry and red, but the worst is the one crawling across the expanse of his left shoulder. It’s already scabbing over, but the healing salve should do wonders anyway. You work in relative silence. As you run the cloth over him, Eris seems to be holding his breath before lightly dabbing on the salve. “That should do it.” You leave the bed to help Eris lay down, his drunk adrenaline clearly already dipping. You leave the sleeping prince with a glass of water before disappearing into your own chambers, wondering what the hell you just got yourself into.

[ones-g]

ᗩᑎᎥᗰᗩᒪ 丅ᗴᗴ丅ᕼ

Chapter Three.

>Cap. Two!

𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟔

<ᴼᵐⁿⁱˢᶜⁱᵉⁿᵗᵉ >

The land was once again desecrated, this time the young people dug a couple of graves for the lifeless bodies of their traveling and even living companions. Certain girls wiped away their tears as they looked with pain at each of the graves. Vanessa had mentioned that Rachel was due to see Oasis at the Meadowlands next month. Victoria dryly swallowed the little saliva she had in her mouth. The youngest remembered the talk they had once had together about the band. —She was very excited— She murmured to herself.

“Actually, Wonderwall is my favorite song, yours Vic?”

“I only know Wonderwall!”

Pains in her chest began to bother her too much. Her lip was curled and her head was bowed to the ground. Her left foot began to grind the soft earth she was stepping on. Her funeral was terrible for him. More so when they involved young lives. Like that funeral of her only dark-skinned cousin. They had shot him mistaking him for a “criminal”, he was only 15 years old.

Suddenly Laura Lee's voice began to be heard clearly due to the melancholic silence of the circle of young people. —Rachel, you had just moved from JV, I didn't know you very well— The blonde said, attracting Victoria's attention. –I must admit that in Trigonometry you never confused secants with cosecants, it was obvious how smart you were…- Laura Lee remained silent.

—She liked volleyball, but she was afraid of the players because they were too tall... that's why she joined us— Victoria declared in a low voice. –She was sweet, she liked romance novels and she loved her cat who died last summer... I think they will meet after that long separation- She finally concluded. Laura smiled at her friend in gratitude for participating. Van added just one observation to throw out. –Lord, please accept Rachel Goldman into your arms so she can fill your kingdom with music. I also ask you for Coach Martínez, and for the purser Janet and our pilots Robert and Fred-

Ty had decided to let go of Victoria's hand, she looked at her out of the corner of her eye to confirm that she was okay. Laura Lee was about to finish praying for the deceased when Ty decided to intervene. “I'll go for a walk” she turned around and walked straight through the forest. Victoria stared at her. He wanted to go with her, he couldn't stand the idea of ​​hearing an “our father” coming from her friend. She believed in God, but at this moment the situation was drowning her more and more.

She swallowed again, determined to leave without explanation and follow Ty to wherever she went. –Amen- she released the chestnut ironically. She immediately copied the taller one's movements. She turned around and deigned to follow at a brisk pace.

–Taissa- She called her, she did not turn around, rather she gave him a knowing laugh. –Where are you going? – Asked the shorter one.

–Wherever my feet take me... will you accompany me?-

– Will we have deep talks? –

—Iugh passed- She declared, laughing at the opponent's proposal.

-Then I'll accompany you- Victoria hurried again to be close to the other. –Do you think we will find a treasure? – She joked.

—Do you think you are a pirate? – She asked with grace. The brunette raised her shoulders in response.

–We may find scattered clothes or a broken suitcase– She assured.

–I need to find Natalie's suitcase- –Ouu and why is that?-

–She has bottles of alcohol for sure-

–You're not wrong, she said herself that she had brought a few- They both laughed.

–Speaking of alcohol, wasn't it that you weren't going to drink for anything in the world? –

—In special situations I need some vitamin in my body– Both teenagers walked aimlessly in their minds. At times they remained silent after saying something that they needed to think about in silence but then they continued with other topics of conversation, none of them touched on topics that really needed to put a definitive pause on the talk or the walk. They had respected the code “no deep talks.”

Both of their feet were already starting to hurt and each one's stomach was growling louder and louder. "I think we should go back," Victoria said, stopping short. –My feet will swell if I don't rest for at least 30 minutes–

–You've been very soft lately…–

–Hmm… hello! I have a cut that has been hurting like hell for three days now – Ty rolled his eyes, turning his back on his companion. She looked everywhere, nothing seemed interesting in that space. But the girl had a hunch, there was something that would be fundamental for her and the team, she could feel it. (Maybe her curiosity to continue was driving her crazy). "Stay here, I'll take about ten more steps and come back," she informed Vic. She nodded without any problem while she leaned on a dry log.

Ty continued on his way, turning around steep grades and even some mud puddles. The ten steps had already passed and he had gotten too far from Victoria. She stopped when he regained consciousness. She had left Victoria alone in an unknown forest without any energy to run in case any danger threatened her life. Determined to return, she turned her head slowly. And, there she was. Just a few kilometers away is the treasure, the joy of the thirsty. Aquatic life. An immense lake called, she screamed for attention. A smile of abundant happiness spread across Ty's face.

Her energy and hopes returned to her and with all the euphoria he returned to where he walked to look for Victoria. Recognizing some footprints of his shoes near Victoria, he began to shout her name. "Victoria!!" When she heard her friend shout her name, horrible images came to her mind: “Did they attack her? Did she hurt herself? Did she fall off a cliff? Did an entity appear?” Thousands of unanswered questions invaded the girl's head. With the last of her strength Vic rose from the ground with a wandering movement, she had sprained her ankle.

–Victoria- Taissa appeared, giving Vic a surprise, making him scream in fear. –Victoria there is a lake! –

—Ty are you an idiot!? I thought something bad had happened to you… – she whispered with her hand on her chest to lower her heart rate. Ty's smile did not leave his face and that caused the brunette a slight confusion. -A lake? What with that? –

–If we move towards that place, we have more benefits, be it water, food and we are even out of danger, the forest is immense… anything can come out of the trees, and even the dead can rise…– She said with total sincerity. Victoria raised an eyebrow reproachfully.

–Don't talk like that… it's stupid – The opponent quickly apologized for what she had already said. –Your idea is not bad, in fact I'm already tired of that place and I need a bathroom… – Ty smiled even more when he heard how Vic agreed with her proposal. Now they had to tell the others and start moving. –One more thing…– Vic said. –I need you to carry me–

—No way-

–I won't be able to walk because I just bent my foot, plus these are already burning thanks to this girl scout walk, I need you to carry me– Taissa bit her inner cheek to think about it, she was also tired but not hurt, she was hungry but with renewed energy to run a few kilometers carrying her friend.

–Okay, but the moment my back doesn't give any more, I'll throw you away- Vic nodded without reproach.

<ᴾᵒᵛ 'ⱽⁱᶜᵗᵒʳⁱᵃ>

–She turns left, I can see the wing of the plane– Despite putting a lot of weight on Ty's back, she didn't leave me on the ground at any time. Ty's steps were strong but were already starting to slow; she had run more than four kilometers by herself without resting.

–Let me get off, we are close–

–It's not necessary, I'm fine and even more so, we're close… don't worry. Guide me where to go-

–Continue straight, you will see a somewhat curved tree, on the left we will be with the others– Ty nodded to my words. She held my legs tighter. I noticed that she took a breath and expelled it in a matter of seconds. It was obvious that she was going to start running. I held on to his shoulders out of instinct and security, I wasn't going to fall taking Ty to the ground with me.

Taissa began trotting her where I indicated. I remained silent, closing my eyes as I felt my abdominal wound being pressed every time by Taissa who jumped to avoid stepping on a stone.

Ty's steps calmed down, some voices of our companions could distinguish.

—I'll get off but take care of me— Ty asked me. I nodded firmly. When I touched the ground I allowed myself to release a sigh of defeat. In my face I adorned a terrible grimace from which my companion laughed. —What hurts you?— She asked when my left arm passed through his shoulders.

—the right foot is still weak— I replied to what she laughed again. —Talk they on the lake, I'll go with Misty to see if this is solved

—Okay …— Being in view of all the other Taissa spoke while I separated me from his support. —Girls! Girls I need to listen to me— he exclaimed calling the attention of anyone who listened.

For my part I died in looking for Misty while going through the middle of the others. Shauna was the first to get up and ask me if I was fine when I was breastfeeding from one leg. "It's nothing …" I hits my arm to prevent the chestnut from grabbing me. It was not necessary since Misty was a few meters away with coach Ben.

"You'll do with Misty?" She asked what I nodded when he felt his totally worried gaze focused on me. And I must admit that Shauna's eyes were not the only ones who looked at me.

—They give attention to Ty, he found a lake which can benefit us— I shouted trying well the words like that everyone understands me.

To the latter the murmurs of the others began to hear "a lake?" "Why would we need a lake?" Unconsciously my eyes rolled. Taissa continued, his voice was calm and with a hint of authority as much as hope. —We can walk?— I heard Shauna ask.

Misty smiled at me strangely. He moved away from the coach and put his hands on his hips while analyzing me from head to toe.

—Your ankle again, right?— It seemed my mother's attitude, when she was going to scold me.

—still sensitive …— I replied. She approached enough and then guided to a closed suitcase. It made me sit and extend my leg to support it in yours.

—It was your footwear, it is not very ideal to walk on rocky roads with these— She said when unbuttoning my sandal. —It is not serious, a slight swelling … if we had ice you would be better but … for now… rest— I nodded with a slight smile. She lifted again down my leg gently.

Suddenly the demanding voices of Jackie and Taissa were heard violently. We both turn towards your address. —And if the rescue arrives?— Jackie asked.

—Do you think they are taking effect? If they knew where we would have arrived— Ty replied.

An ironic snort left Jackie's lips. —You don't know that— She said. I turned to see Misty and to my surprise she returned to Martínez. It was like a damn tick.

Laura Lee's voice caused her to look at her, the girl asked the older about "what he thought." He began to doubt. I didn't know what to answer. His hands were still pressed his beheaded and that sincerely gave me shame to see. This was not Ben who knew. His voice trembled by saying that we would have to leave him for his condition. The blonde denied the idea. —We can do a … kind of stretcher— I proposed not listening to anyone contributing anything.

—We have a turn to load it …—Ty accepted my proposal with a smile from ear to ear as well as several girls. —It's a joke? You are also wrong, it limps like the damn janitor and danger to open your stomach when trying to load it— Jackie intervened. —I'm sorry but for me it is much better to stay here—

Sigh. Jackie was right, at this time I was also a burden for the group. Fucking fucking.

—It doesn't need her to load— said Van. —I can take your turn if necessary, it's called empathy in case you didn't know— he said sarcastically.

Vanessa Palmer, who would do without her? We both smiled with complicity. —We will have a vote— Ty proposed.

Capturing all the attention again. —All in favor of waiting here, please raise a hand— Several girls built. But they weren't enough. —And … all in favor of going to the lake?— And as expected, those who supported this idea were the majority, we had won. —It's decided, take your things—

<=>

The walk was extensive, but I had the advantage of knowing where to step on seeing my footprints. If I did not exaggerate so much, we had spent about 20 minutes walking, nothing wrong to be in a misaligned row with a somewhat heavy cargo.

Misty recommended looking for a resistant branch to support me and not put all my weight on my foot. The idea really served me but I continued with the inability to move to my liking. Just by my side was Lottie. During the walk he asked me of everything, if I was hungry or thirst or if it hurt too much, if I wanted to rest or rely on it. I denied her protective friend questions several times. It was sweet but did not need that kind of containment.

A rotten smell was installed in my nostrils. I turned to see if Lottie smelled exactly the same as me and confirmed it to see her press her nose with her fingers.

—Why smells like shit?— I asked. —I don't know … it's horrible— she replied, giving me a way to go on when he noticed that the road became smaller and smaller.

Natalie's back posed in my eyes. —Be careful— Lott told me to see certain deformation on earth.

—Holy Shit—Natalie exclaimed. Out of the corner of my eye I managed to see a dead creature on the ground. That was the rotten smell.

I had an arcade when I saw how a bird put its beak in the dead body of the animal feeding on it. —I'm going to vomit— I whispered.

Lottie touched my back so that I continued walking but faster. I heard Shauna ask about what I could do that. Ben replied that the wolves in herds were those indicated to attack that way.

—Hey… hmm Matthew … I think now if I want water—

<=>

We had walked approximately 7 kilometers, my body unconsciously took stock by not having more strength on my legs and occasionally my shoulder collided with Lottie's. This was trying to walk at my level and that appreciated it.

It was a matter of trusting whoever is to reach our destination. Again the rivalry previously formed between our captain and Ty showed off again in the air. I surrounded my eyes and exhale heavily when we noticed that we should raise an steep floor. I took with my last strength the thick branch of which I held and uploaded to me. The suitcase that carried with me did not bring me any benefit.

—Oh shit— Van exclaimed. —We got it bitches—

Then I hurried. I hurried to rise, to push a little stronger the suitcase that my skillful hand loaded behind me. I hurried my weak steps.

And I saw it. I saw the lake, I felt my cheeks burn when smiling at that place.

—Let's not waste time— Ty said when he arrived at my side. He took my shoulders and squeezed me next to her.

In seconds our rags were all over the place. The laughs flowed as much as the ice water that caressed my píes. The moment was fantastic.

—I want to say, be careful, don't make sudden movements why the points are very easy to get out … Victoria are you listening to me?—

—You have to be careful, okay?— She asked again, his voice was heavy to my ears that sought calm.

"Okay," Babbling . I feel that he moves away when she listens to my answer and knows that she is not happy for this. But I don't have the luxury of thinking. I can't even stand to keep my gaze on Natalie.

The blonde dominated my mind, some time had passed in which she had not seen her half -naked silhouette. And I don't want to sound like a stalker, much less a pervert. But his body was hypnotizing. I kept turning my back like that night I was the one who maintained my distance when I was on his back in front of her.

Natalie turned a microsecond and felt her eyes stick to mine. I had caught seeing her without containment.

I tried to evade his eyes, as I analyzed looking for the mini reaction of shame. I felt my shoulders tense and my jaw aggressively press.

"Too many clothes!" Someone screamed and then blatantly threw water at me. The shirt that covered me had been soaked by the joke of a redhead. —Make yourself to the water tare! Or are you afraid to become a siren?— Brome again. I laughed to listen to her.

—My feet are submerged— I said clearly and with a pinch of hesitation in my voice.

Vanessa denied. —I demand that you enjoy this lake in a decent way. Don't make me drag here— I surrounded my eyes for the third time in the day. But this time I agreed. My hands went to the edge of my shirt. —We have an exhibitionist among us— Again I heard the playful tone of the redhead. And I followed the game. I started to wiggle my hips while listening to applause, whistles and laughs of others. I am apocus my wet shirt came out of my body and my support was exposed to everyone. —cute bra!—Mari shouted. To what I turned to see her. And I realized that both Mari and the others had seen me do the show. Including Natalie.

My eyes went to the lips of the blonde by noticing as the word "sexy" silently spell. But I ignored her.

I ignored how my face was dyed with a violent crimson. I ignored how my heart accelerated. I ignored the sweat that had formed in my hands. And as if it were a siren as they said, I got into the water. Let me carry out the flow of this.

The fire we have with Scatorccio will never end. And we both know.

The group of survivors had fun under the mantle of the lake. The time they had passed under the era indefinable and that did not worry.

—I would kill for an ice cream— Little Victoria was surrounding her best friend. Charlotte doubted to share the chestnut response.

—I would kill for a fucking Sushi— She admitted the highest making the opposite laugh. They both had different tastes but wanted the same. Decent food —If we get out of here I swear I will buy all the ice cream you want— —Why?— Victoria asked. —I need to create promises to feel able to survive in this place— The jet replied with his head and a sad smile on his lips. —I want to fulfill all the promises I do—

Both young people kept silent. Victoria stretched her arms and wrapped Lottie in a hug. —We will continue from here … and when I do it, I will try to eat Chinese food— Charlotte omitted a laugh.

—You hate Asian food— he said and both fangs showed happily.

—If … that's why I said I will try— they both separated from the hug, the lowest of the two began to swim around the other.

The silence seized the talk. But a long distance reflection seized Lottie's interest. —Vic, look that— She said, pointing to his finger the restless reflection inside the forest. —That … it's interesting— Lottie nodded confused by continuing to see it.

Suddenly Lottie was screaming at others about that reflection in the hill. All when confirming what the girl had discovered hurriedly came out of the lake.

The reflection could mean two things. One: a part of the plane or two: a window of some cabin. But Lott had a bad feeling, his steps were doubtful and his shit was lost. I knew that I wanted to say something about this but he was silent, he swallowed his words. Although she had seen that reflection, it seems to be, that he regretted having found it.

[briebarlow]

I NEVER KNEW MY KILLER WOULD BE COMING FROM WITHIN --

stats & bio | pinterest | connections.

name: brie barlow.

age: 30.

occupation: lawyer at rossi & rossi law firm.

face claim: florence pugh.

tldr version of brie's bio.

trigger warning: murder, decapitation

the barlows are old money, they have hotels and resorts around the world -- the most famous being the aubrey in chicago. ever since it's opening in the 20s, the aubrey has been a known meeting ground for the italian mob, especially within the restaurant at the hotel. her father runs the family business, and serves as one of the eight capos for the family. her mom, cynthia, was a pageant queen and miss universe back in the 80s, before moving on to modeling. basically, she comes from a hella wealthy and hella public facing family, with deep ties to the mob. she keeps her image clean -- when in reality, it just means she's really good at covering her tracks.

brie is a former pageant girl. she's been doing them since she was 2 years old, and her most notable being miss teen usa and miss usa. while she isn't a stereotypical pageant girl in personality -- she is in looks. brie's public persona is pristine, rarely ever spotted with a hair out of place. she maintains that through careful calculation, manipulation, and sabotaging anyone standing her way. her ambition and work ethic are two of her best traits, even if they're both mostly fueled by her constant need to be the best and perpetuate the image of perfection. it's what has gotten her a successful career, but what prompts a deep sense of self loathing and struggles with her body.

career wise, brie is a lawyer at rossi & rossi law firm. she's still just getting her career started, and certainly feels the weight of it and the need to prove herself. prior to rossi & rossi, she worked at a law firm that mostly worked with the family -- she established herself there despite still being in the beginnings of her career, known for her sharp tongue and getting her clients out of tight situations. while the only difference how is that she's working with devil's disciples members, they don't have as much sway or protection with them, not like with the family -- there's a certain fear that she'll misstep and end up getting a club member 25 to life, and land herself six feet under.

roughly two years ago, brie was left at the altar. she was in an explosive and toxic relationship with luciano "luke" caruso, a son of another capo in the family. their relationship was a mess from the start, built on lies and manipulation, going from hot to cold in the blink of an eye. despite all of this, brie loved him and the two got engaged. on the day of their wedding, he left her without explanation. she wasn't able to get ahold of him, or get any answers for quite a while. roughly a year later she ended up finding out he'd left her for another woman, one he'd been cheating on her with since their engagement.

a few months after that, the news breaks that he had passed away -- his headless body found in his california home by his mistress. brie, of course, cries upon hearing the news, and mourns the loss with her family and friends. the truth, however -- she'd asked a favor of her cousin nico, who returned to her doorstep with her ex-fiance's head. it's a secret she'll take to her grave. this happened a little over a year ago.

right now, between starting at a new law firm and moving to the west side of town, brie is trying to find her footing again find control in her life after luke turned it upside down -- even though each time she makes one step forward, it feels like she takes two steps back.

[hussyknee]

Got out of hospital on Sunday afternoon. I'm supposed to have gone to my cousin's down South today (Tuesday) to spend the week, except her brother, my other cousin, flaked on me for the seventh time.

First time was on Feb 13th when I told him I was getting myself admitted to the govt hospital by myself telling Mum I was going to stay with friends, but I needed someone in the family to know where I was just in case. He was abroad, asked his wife to call me, and when I told her in confidence I needed to be in hospital for suicidality, they told Mum. Hilariously also warned her not to let me know they told her bc I would lose all trust in them (no shit). Mum's version of subtlety was bursting in my room, demanding whether my ex husband had married someone else (?????), forbidding me to leave the house without her permission (I laughed in her face at that), and accusing me of stressing her out by living like a depressed hobo.

I called cousin and told him off. Made it very clear again that she doesn't want me to go to the hospital, has always hated that I'm getting psychiatric treatment, and every time I've been in psychiatric care she's harrassed me so badly we'd had to ban her from visiting me. Cuz was very contrite and promised to help; his wife is a nurse so they said they would help arrange food and necessities while I was in hospital.

Two days later on 15th, I realized lugging my suitcase alone to a govt hospital (which I had never done before) and figuring out the logistics of checking myself in was giving me too much anxiety, and asked for his help that he has offered earlier. He said "we will see" once he got back to the country on Sat. And then never called.

I said "fuck it" on Tuesday 14th, left my suitcase at home and went to the hospital on my own. Was instantly admitted, given the last remaining bed that was broken in the middle, in a small, dingy room where a teenage girl just would not shut up and the bedside cabinet was so filthy I didn't want to put my bag on it. Called and left increasingly frantic messages to my cousin to please help tell Mum and bring my stuff, calls and messages to my doc that I couldn't stay here, and after receiving dead silence in return I had an anxiety attack and just ran out of hospital.

Hospital called Mum when they found out I was missing. Doc told us both she wouldn't admit me if I didn't want to stay there but we'll figure something out. Asked Mum to come see her with me the following morning. She agreed, and then just...didn't.

Cousin sent a message two days later saying he had been busy with a workshop since he got back.

Doc consulted at the general hospital on Mondays, so I waited and went to see her alone again. Hours of queues and waiting later, they told me she was on leave till next week. I started to cry, so they told me to simply come to the ward on Friday and meet her.

By that time I was out of money, out of hope and out of help. I started gathering materials for my exit bag and composed a quasi-farewell note on Twitter. Someone immediately contacted me and offered to fundraise. My other two friends also got on board, wrestled with a write-up for two days, and set up the GFM. Met the target within two days. I already had like one foot in the grave so the realization I might be able to live was confounding.

On Monday 6th I messaged cousin again.

Cuz: How are you? I heard you got admitted and then came back? Felt guilty as I couldn’t help. Was busy throughout that week.

Me: It's fine. Yes the hospital was not in good condition and it stressed me out. A couple of my friends abroad fundraised for me last week and they now have enough for me to try an private hospital

Me: I'm going to meet my doctor this morning so she can advise to on next steps

Me: Again, I didn't tell Mum, I plan to let her know once I have the go ahead. But it would be great if you could help. It's difficult to co-ordinate things on my own and Mum will freak out obviously

Cuz: I will, sister. I had a chat with your mom a few days back. Let me know what your doc says

Doc asked me to come early March 7th. I got late. Hours of queues later, they told me she had left hours ago. I broke down crying. Alarmed, they sent me to wait outside the psychiatric ward for when she'd be back for ward rounds. I sat out there alone for 2 hours, had 3 consecutive panic attacks, decided to kill myself. Send Mum a vitriolic rant that she and her husband should burn in hell and to know I cursed them to my last breath. Mum called and I ignored. She messaged threatening to go to the police. I disassociated and tearfully messaged my former therapist she can't just dump people like she did to me. Started trying to think of ways to kill myself without going home and panicked because I hadn't planned for any of them. Therapist called in concern and I sobbed that I had been waiting 3 hours and doc wasn't here and I didn't know how to kill myself and couldn't go home. Therapist made me give the phone to a nurse (had to find someone who didn't look at me like I was crazy and refuse to take it) and got her to page my doc.

FINALLY saw doc. She gave me a letter and told me which private hospital to get admitted to. I was still half not entirely there so I called cousin and she explained it to him as well. I was going to go directly to hospital and send for my things, but now I was calmer, cousin persuaded me to let him collect me and drop me home. He then told me to shower and pack and wait for Mum to come home, and then leave. I thought he was supposed to take me to the hospital. But he insisted I talk to Mum. But fine. I could do that and take a cab.

Showered, packed. Woman never turned up. Apparently after threatening to go to the police and having histrionics at half the family, she couldn't be arsed to leave work early. Messaged cousin, no reply. Got dark and started storming. I started having another panic attack. Messaged cousin urgently to take me to hospital because I was too out of it to take a cab. No answer. Called Mum. Said she was on her way. Hour passed. I was now screaming at the top of my lungs and bashing my head against the wall begging anyone and everyone to take me to the hospital. Neighbors heard me over the storm and called the house. Was going full on Exorcism of Emily Rose. Unblocked best friend and went on a tirade against her that sounded like a psychotic break of some kind. Instead of getting mad, she called me and listened to me howl and sob and soothed me. Called Mum again. It had been two hours since last call. Said she was on her way. I fell asleep crying.

10pm. Woke up screaming for Mum to take me to hospital. Mum burst in and said I wasn't going anywhere and to shut up and get on the bed so she could pray and apply holy oil on me. Last time I had a horrible colitis flare and begging to be taken to the hospital for an IV also she refused and forcibly annointed me with holy oil. I grabbed her bottle of holy oil and smashed it. She screamed at me that I was in her house and I would obey her. Yelled "IN THE NAME OF JESUS I CAST YOU OUT SATAN! THE POWER OF CHRIST–" and I shoved her out and locked the door. She banged on the door yelling her phone was inside. I opened the door and threw her phone at her head. She yelled that she was the one who had bought me my phone and she would call the police if I destroyed anything else.

At this point I had had four hours-long panic attacks. Was convinced I was going to die here. Made a long twitter thread enumerating the abuse and neglect and religious abuse my brother and I have been enduring at my mother's hands, ending that we would both die here. Friends immediately mobilized. I sent them all each other's numbers. One friend arranged a vehicle, another took it from the ass end of the city to my place. Two more stayed on the phone with me and walked me through getting ready and staying conscious. Snuck out of the house at half past midnight. Was half dead. Friend admitted me to the hospital and spent all night with me. Then another friend took half his work day over and stayed. Another friend I hasn't met in ten years came to see me from work and stayed late. They finally engaged a nursing service because it was hospital policy not to leave patients unattended. They were lovely too. I was so medicated I could barely help with anything, just cried and was so touch-starved I clung to my friends like a burr.

Cousin called me in the morning to ask where I was. I told him I held him responsible and would not be telling him which hospital I was in.

But more than anything I wanted my best friend. She and my closest friends were my real family and I deliberately ruined my relationships with them and drove them away because of years of undiagnosed OCD and because I wanted to destroy my relationships so I could kill myself. Bestie's kindness extended to keeping me company until I was medicated, but then she had to withdraw to heal from what I had done to her.

Spent five wonderful days in hospital. Was fed on time things I liked to eat, medicated, tucked into sleep. No thoughts. Life of a 5 yo basically. Attendants also very affectionate. Desperate for that kind of care for a longer term.

Also the attendants got very attached to me fsr. I'm a natural oversharer but I was also very doped and lonely, so I chatted a lot with them so they got to know about my medical stuff and home situ. And how passionate I was about social justice and animals and stuff. First one straight up wanted to adopt me or something. First one stayed 2 days then had to leave for family emergency. Second one tucked me in like a 5 yr old and hugged me and stroked my head till I fell asleep. She also checked up on me twice after I got home. They were like "I will call you squishy and you will be my squishy" 😂 'Twas very nice. Apparently, for all I am an intimidating menace online, irl I am babie. They were very poor and struggling ladies who needed someone to talk to as much as I did, I think.

Cousin was then supposed to come help me discharge and drop me home. So to nobody's surprise, I ended up doing all the paperwork, paying the bill, arranging a cab and going home by myself. (My beloved friends were unfortunately very stuck that day and I took my attendant with me to drop off at her stop halfway, so if wasn't quite as pitiful as it sounds.)

Nobody was home when I got there, but it was the unanimous conclusion that I need to gtfo. Cousin sister has been insistent I come stay with her bless her. Cousin again promised to drop me off at hers (lmao). Unfortunately the family cat is sick with half his face scabbed over, and the demons here would let him die if it was up to them. But he also keeps fucking off to roam before I can corral him to the vet.

Nevertheless, I was all packed and ready to gtfo today, except to exactly nobody's suprise, cousin messaged he was busy with a leadership conference and couldn't take me till tomorrow afternoon. So now I'm looking up intercity bus tickets because if he actually turns up tomorrow I will take it as a sign of the end times. He also assured me that Mum has called my aunties and accepted that she fucked up LMAOOOOO. I fucking hate these people. She could literally murder us all in cold blood and they'd find some kind of apologism for it. Jesus wept.

Meanwhile, I am still depressed but I am on so much Valium I don't even care.

[talesfromthegameff14]

Prompt #1: Envoy - Arrosez

It was a rag tag group that persisted in their trek through the shroud, once fine clothing and armor bedraggled and dirt smeared.  Their cheeks are sunken and many walked with their eyes empty, putting one foot in front of the other out of the stubborn habit of living rather than from any desire to keep walking.   Not all are like that, some of the armored figures still look animated, though just as worn down as they rotate out who is walking point and who is staying with the group or trailing behind.  There is tension in the terse whispers between the guards, many of them sporting fresh bandages or broken bits of armor from recent conflicts.

A child starts to wail on it’s father’s back about being hungry, all the adults in the area doing what they could to quiet the child.  The guards all drew their weapons, the ones further out from the group coming back at a jog to stay with the group.  “Shut that kid up before we are all dead.”, yells one of the dead eyed men at the parents trying to do just that.  “She’s hungry Giles!”  “Well we all are!” “Shut up, all of you.”, growled a white haired woman in armor.  “Shut up before the Elementals find us again!”  That hushed the adults as a woman in the tattered robes of Halone brought their hand up to the girls forehead and forced her to sleep.  She staggered afterwards, the man who was carrying the girl reaching out to steady her so she didn’t fall.  The guards all exchanged knowing looks before the white haired one shooed them back to their posts, “Keep walking.  We’ll stop before sunset.”   Tired sighs and grunts of acknowledgement came from the people she is herding along with several looks filled with hopelessness or outright loathing.  “We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you Maddie.”, muttered a man that she walked by, hatred showing in his eyes. “No, instead we’d be dead to the Horde. Is that somehow better Luc?”, exasperation filled her voice as she turned to face him.  She knew the fight was coming, but why did it have to be now?   “Would we? Our soldiers are strong!”  “Dragon strong?  Have you ever fought a full grown dragon, Luc?  Have you even seen a great wyrm?”  “At least we’d be dead in our homes instead of falling off one at a time out here in Halone knows where!”  

“Here we have a chance to live!” “Do we!?  Do we really Maddie?”, the man’s voice was getting louder and strident as he shoved a finger into the armored woman’s chest.  She stepped close and slapped her hand over his mouth, eyes going hard.  “You’re my cousin, I’ll look over a lot.  But if you running your mouth brings the elementals on us I’ll be the first to slice your throat.  Now shut up and keep walking.  Got it?” Luc nodded, though the hate in his eyes didn’t fade as Maddie pushed him away and started to walk again.  “Stop gawking and get moving.”  People looked away guiltily then started plodding forward again, the group as silent as the graves that many of them were sure they were walking to.  Once everyone was walking again, Madaline broke off from the group, pulling a bow from her back.   Footsteps came up fast behind her, a man’s hand gripping her arm. “Maddie you can..” “I know, I’m putting up a signal arrow, that’s all.” 

“Why?”

“Luc has the right of it, we are dying.  If Volsupa doesn’t come back soon...”

“We are dead.” 

“Right.” 

The sound of someone clearing his throat sounded a few fulms away from the two guards.  The man jumped and Madeline aimed the arrow in her bow at the robed Elezen leaning against a tree.  Nut brown hair with silver threads framed his face, green eyes bright with mirth as he lifted his hands up to show he was unarmed before dipping into a formal bow, “My apologies for startling you both. I am Gautier of the Mahlvon.  I’m looking for Captain Madeline Chauveau, are you her?  Volsupa said to look for a white haired, cranky soldier who looked like she’d eat my liver for breakfast.”

Madeline stared at the man for a long moment before chuckling softly.  “Aye, that would be me.  Is the dragon causing trouble again?”

Gautier laughed and shook his head, “No, well at least not when I left.  He was busy in discussions concerning the living arrangements for you and your people. His exact words were, ‘Tell her that you are here to bring her home and if she’s stubborn about believing you give her this.’   He extends a hand at the same time, uncurling his fingers from around a green, gleaming dragon scale. 

Madeline stared at the scale before reaching out to pick it up and bring it close to her face for study. After a long moment of looking between the scale and Gautier she nods once, “Home.  It’s about fucking time.”  

[milla-frenchy]

There is one thing I've always thought, and given this story you probably think the same: angst suits Javi perfectly

(sorry Javi, baby, but yes it does)

So, of course I wanted to read your series, and I knew I'd love it

Because it's angsty, and because hello genius????? 😍😍😍

These time jumps are perfect ❤️

Javier sighs. At eleven, he’s already burdened by the weight of the whole world, and you don’t know why.

jfc. In one sentence, about 11 yo Javi, you summed up what will haunt him all his life, what we know him for. I am amazed

The girl he’s dancing with now is licking his neck.

the way i tensed, reading this 😂

You lie to yourself. To the version of your heart that never got older than eleven, enraptured as you were the moment he walked into that classroom and hijacked your life. A bedtime story blooms in your head: you get him, somehow, over everybody else.

"Hijacked your life" damn, gurl. I think I'm in love with your writing

One week from now, his mother will give you her rosary when you visit her hospital room. Green beads polished to pearls by her prayers.  Two weeks from now, she will die. The chemo has failed, unbeknown to the two of you.  You’ll watch Javier shoulder her casket from church to grave with Chucho, his uncle and cousins, in a suit that’s too snug across the breadth of his shoulders and the tie she bought him for prom. You’ll watch Lorraine hold his hand the whole ceremony, the whole wake, and afterwards he’ll spend a week in your bed, unable to sleep without your arms, ignoring Lorraine’s calls and chain-smoking like a man who wants to die. If he cries, he won’t let you see it. But he’ll lie with you in the burrow of your duvet, his face planted in the bowl of your neck, sometimes kissing there. Tiny, needy grazes you’ll wordlessly allow. Kissing in return the top of his head, his forehead, his cheeks and knuckles. Never his lips. 

Damn. Fuck yeah, I'm in love with your writing, the angst is amazingly written

At least you won’t have to watch the waitress fall in love with Javier the second he sits down.

Love it, love it, love it

“Second worst?” Then a long whistle. You turn. Javier, not Chucho, stands at the foot of the stairs. Four years older than last you saw him, sober and smiling, brown eyes glinting shyly. Beautiful, same as always, but what did you expect.

holy fn damn. I'm speechless (are you in love with him as much as I am? seems so 😂)

When you try to draw away Javier’s grip locks them in a vice, pulling them from his face to look down at your fingers where, on your left hand, sits a gold band. Two tiny diamonds bracketing a sapphire—not an heirloom, but it’s pretty. Beautiful, even. You’ve come to love it. “Shit,” Javier mumbles, his brows high and chin hung down as he ghosts his fingers over the gem in disbelief. “Look at you.” You hardly hear it. What you really hear is a reverie, a ghost. A ship that passed too far from your harbor, scared off by the beacon of you. Warned of your lethal shores. Pensé que me casaría contigo. Rambled when he was drunk and hollow and out of his mind. A whispered confession spoken in those tiny hours he spent in your bed in which nothing beyond the mattress existed but the two of you, intertwined. I thought I’d marry you.

Freya, you stole my heart. I love Javi so much, and I'm so picky with Javi's fics, but the way you write him... well 👏👏👏

I'LL CARRY YOU: part II

YOU CARRY IT

RATING: Explicit (18+) PAIRING: Javier Peña x f!Reader WORD COUNT: 7.7k CW: Smut (piv, characters are drunk but sound of mind and consenting), drinking, and a lethal amount of yearning.

SUMMARY: Four years after he disappeared from your bed in the early morning, Javier returns to Laredo once more—exhuming a lifetime of memories.

part I | series masterlist | series on ao3 | almostfoxglove masterlist

dividers by @saradika-graphics & insp for one moment from this post (wink)

ELEVEN

You don’t know you love him, but you do. Grass-stained and grubby, dirt beneath your fingernails, digging for jewels in the front yard that yields nothing but squirming things. Earthworms, pillbugs, a slug. Beside you, Javier is on all fours, scanning the lawn through squinted eyes, his head haloed by the sun as he blocks the light. “Don’t see nothin’,” he groans, elbows bent as he dips his face close to the ground. So earnest in his hunt for something that’ll delight you—buried treasure.

You grin, watching him, knowing in your heart there isn’t anything good buried in the square of grass outside your house, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is this: the afternoon spent in the company of the lanky kid whose arrival has punched your whole life out of orbit, rewriting all that is possible for you. Reimagining. 

With a huff, Javier sits back on his heels, his t-shirt stained with soil. His mom’s gonna whack the back of his head when he gets home—lightly, lovingly—for ruining another set of clothes, but he’ll never learn his lesson. “Sorry,” he mumbles, meeting your gaze with round, warm apologies swimming in the earth of his eyes. “Can’t see anything good.”

It’s obvious he means it, obvious he’s disappointed in himself for not accomplishing the impossible. Fulfilling some childhood fantasy you’re well aware will never be real. For Javier, it’s not enough to see you dreaming; he wants to make it come true.

Small smile on your lips, you reach out to nudge his skinny arm. “I forgive you,” you tease, and he blinks once before he catches the joke in your tone and a grin grabs hold of his face, briefly creasing his cheek.

Just then the wind chime sings from your porch and both of you turn to see the sea glass shiver prettily in the breeze. In a moment that feels beyond time, you and Javier sit transfixed by its gentle magic—the sparkling tune of blue-green glass chiming in the wind. The moment ends only when Javier slumps down to lie in the grass, dropping his head into your lap. School’s only been in session for three weeks—which means you’ve known him a grand total of twenty-one days—but somehow, though he’s never done this before, his touch feels to you as natural as breathing.

Javier sighs. At eleven, he’s already burdened by the weight of the whole world, and you don’t know why.

Shy, your hand hovers over his head, stilled by hesitation. Then he wiggles a little, adjusting himself to lie with one cheek pressed to your thighs and the other turned up to you, and your hand falls softly against his temple, brushing an unruly lock away from his eyes. He makes a soft sound sort of like a hum as if you’ve done what he wanted, and pride surges in your chest—a sudden tide. Dark lashes fluttering, his eyes close. His cheek pink and gold beneath the carpet of sun.

“Sad?” you ask him softly, carding your fingers through his hair, unfazed by the sweat that wets the curls at the nape of his neck. You don’t find him gross, not for a second, but you don’t know yet what that means.

His shoulder bobs with a tired shrug. “Wanted to find you somethin’ good,” Javier mumbles.

“That’s okay. The fun part is looking.”

“Still wanted to,” he sighs.

And you know, sudden as a lightning strike, that this boy’s your best friend in the world. Doesn’t matter that you don’t know his middle name yet, or all his secrets, the feeling thrown down at you from above hits you without any warning, rearranging your cells—you love him all at once. That’s all it takes. You’d do anything for him.

EIGHTEEN

You love him, but so does everyone here—Javier Peña is an incredible drunk. Three red solo cups deep and barely eighteen, he doesn’t dance through the packed dormitory lounge, he swims. Graceful and lithe, though the occasional splash of shitty beer gulps golden from his cup, splattering on the floor. But Javier dances with his whole body, especially when he’s drunk, outweighing any mess with his charm: head thrown back and eyes closed as he sings along to whatever record someone’s put on, hips balletic, boneless, fluid. He focuses on someone for a song or two like they’re the only person in the room, then moves right along to find someone new. 

The girl he’s dancing with now is licking his neck.

You think you’re ready to go home.

When the next song ends, he comes down panting from his lyric high and his head sways in your direction: perched on the back of the couch with your feet on the cushions in the corner of the room, worrying the slit that’s cracked in the plastic rim of your cup with your thumbnail. You’re not sure how many drinks you’ve had, only that two of them were jello shots that went down like slugs and made your mouth taste like a rancid ice pop. Still does, unfortunately. No quantity of beer seems capable of rinsing it out.

Javier bends down to whisper something in the girl’s ear and she removes her lips from the column of his throat, slinking off to be swallowed by the dance floor with a smirk on her face. And that’s it: the magic of his attention—hardly anyone seems mad when he moves on. There are, from what you can see in the dark, no jealous glares or bitter remarks spat from anyone. 

Perhaps Javier gives his lust freely, fleetingly, but it is always earnest. 

Now he’s headed straight for you.

The minute he reaches you with that lazy grin, you’re cured. Happy again, drunk on the dazzle of the black lights someone tacked up on the walls with duct tape. The writhing mass of limbs and hips made neon in the dark—shocks of ultraviolet and blue raspberry and the brightest white ricocheting from painted bodies. Biceps and back pockets and necks branded with electric green acrylic. Beaming in his white button up, the top three buttons undone and collar open loose around his throat, Javier is a dream. Luminous and stained by a slender handprint low on his shirt like whoever left it had grabbed his hip.

“Why aren’t you dancing?” he asks, frowning. He blinks up at you, his gaze narrowed and face shadowed in the dark, and drops onto the couch to settle between your legs. 

You’d be surprised if you were sober, but you’re not, so you think nothing of it—though he’s never touched you like this before, in front of so many eyes.

“Too clumsy,” you reply.

Sitting above him, you’ve got the perfect view of the crown of his head. Dark curls dislodged by dancing and beer and the way he keeps running his hand through it, fingers carding between sweaty locks. When he bumps his head against the inside of your knee, you know what he wants. He never asks because he doesn’t have to. You know him. He knows you.

“Should dance with me,” he says as your hand slips mindlessly into his hair, scratching in the way that takes him apart. “I’ll let you step on my feet.”

“I’d have to get in line,” you tease, scratching harder for a second so his gaze lifts to the center of the dorm-turned-dance-floor where three girls are watching Javier as they roll their hips—three, and you don’t even have a full view of the crowd from where you’re sitting—and though his head points in exactly their direction, what you can glimpse of the expression on Javier’s face is what you’d expect to see if he were looking at a wall. Not callous, just vacant. Like there isn’t anything to see or form an opinion about.

You feel pleasure fill you in great, crashing waves—grateful for these moments when all he cares about is you.

He shrugs, tilts his head up again, and shakes his head to tell you he’s noticed you’ve stopped scratching. When your fingers move again, he hmphs, settles back against your knee. All senior year you’d wondered if he’d bore of you in college. You waited for it, figured he’d get on with new friends and stop needing you. Course Javier’s made friends, and while crossing campus together between lectures you’ve more than once witnessed girls approach him alone or in packs, and he always knows them by name. It’s not a secret that he’s fucked two girls since the semester started. Nothing is a secret between you.

And yet, here he is: tucked between your legs on this nasty couch like there ain’t a soul for miles but the two of you. Not a single thought about outgrowing you in his gaze at all.

Glaringly upset that you aren’t enjoying yourself like he thinks you ought to, too.

“Dance with me, cariño,” Javier insists—and your stomach yelps, sudden and breathless. He’s never called you this before, but he grins the moment it falls out of his mouth, so you must be smiling.

You shake your head, summoning his pout. Bottom lip jutted, licked, and glossy under elemental light. The girls who want him haven’t broken their gaze, despite your hand in his hair and his ignoring them. 

“Don’t have to be embarrassed,” he says. “Ever’one’s drunk.”

“You’re drunk,” you tease.

Javier cuts his eyes. “You’re drunk,” he grumbles, and as if on cue you hiccup once, yanking up the corner of his mouth. You stop scratching to sweep a curl off his damp forehead, charmed by the way he leans willingly into your hand. 

“Let’s go home,” he mumbles. 

You don’t question it; you take his hand without knowing whose dorm he means.

Turns out he means yours—bronze in penny-dark light at the edge of residence, a whole four blocks further from the party than his, but you’re not complaining. He has terrible pillows, a roommate. You’ve got a cozy shoebox with memory foam all to yourself.

At the front door, you drop your keys trying to fish them out of your bra, and Javier kneels to snatch them from the pavement. A single coin of light shines down outside the entrance in which he is now brightened, eyes glassy, head loosely attached. He sways, crouched still at your feet as he gazes up at you, not quite kneeling, not quite praying—but close, you think. This feels close.

“Smooth,” he chides softly, and offers you your keys. 

“Not m’fault,” you grumble as you take them. “Dress doesn’t have pockets.”

A grin. The magic of his face when he smiles properly, if only for a moment. With the light how it is, harsh and clear, all it touches is pristine. The flat of his jaw, the freckles between his collar bones, on the tanned triangle of his chest. You wonder about them, suddenly. How it might feel to make a constellation of him with your fingertips. 

“Pretty though,” Javier says.

How it would feel to make a constellation of him with your tongue.

You take the keys, face shied from illumination as if he might read the thought from your face—he probably could. A blessing and a curse, to be known by someone this well. Then the moment slips gone, gone, gone, and you and Javier walk hand in hand inside. Up three flights of stairs, down the echo chamber of your silent dorm, your hallway. He never once lets go. Long past quiet hours, now. No one awake, it sounds like, to make a peep but the two of you.

You only get one short, tremored jab of the key—it misses, then Javier whirls you around. Your spine meets your door and his eyes have never quite been this color, you think. Never quite this vibrant, this wanting, this terrified. Never quite this close to yours.

Warmth holds your face. His hands. 

“Javi?” you whisper, as he draws closer and your fool of heart skids rampant in your chest, smashing into your ribs.

He exhales sharply, fogging your face with the heat of his lungs, and you can smell the beer on him, his sweat and aftershave. You’re certain, too, that every time you’ve ever seen him nervous before now doesn’t hold a candle to the tremors you feel in him as he presses his chest gently against yours, pressing you cautiously against your door. 

Javier shakes his head, scoffs mirthfully, and licks his bottom lip. You watch his mouth—transfixed by the muscle of his tongue—and he watches yours. 

He’s going to kiss you, you realize. It looks like he’s going to—

“Porfa,” he whispers. “Una vez.”

One time.

Then you’re nodding before you can fear what nodding means, and Javier casts his shadow over all the world, disappearing everything that isn’t him, the careful press of his lips, and the way his shaking doesn’t stop until your arms have slid around his neck. He makes a small, needy sound passed from his tongue to yours as he sinks against you, whole and heavy. The sort of weight you’d carry as far as he needed, as far as you could take. 

His hands make a map of you, skimming places they’ve never ventured: high on your ribs, low on your stomach, the back of your neck, just under your chest, just over your ass. 

It’s a little clumsy—often your teeth bump in your enthusiasm and you part briefly to laugh—but it doesn’t feel wrong in the slightest. Every time Javier dips back in to kiss you again, you want more. When you slip one hand to his chest, the gold vee bared between open buttons, the slick of his skin rips a soft moan from you and Javier’s chest stutters beneath your touch. 

“Is this—” he whispers, pausing to catch your bottom lip between his again. “Is this okay?”

Giggling, though you don’t mean to—Javier draws back to look you in the eye and his are black: a body possessed. Helplessly searching for a sign you want him to stop or go on. You shake and shake your head, lay your fingertips over his soft lips, and Javier’s eyebrows dent low over his eyes, utterly lost and confused. His hands stop their trail to rest on your hips. 

To you, it’s hilarious that he could possibly wonder when it’s so obvious that this is what you should’ve been doing all this time. Now you can’t imagine how you ever avoided it before. Smiling, you feel him breathe on your hand as he scans your face for a clue before you finally get out, “Mhm,” and then, quieter, “Don’t stop.”

“Thank fuck,” Javier mutters, before crashing back into you—with meaning this time, lips needy, hands heavy in their roam, not pinching but squeezing, pulling, holding you hot against the lean of his body, those fluid hips. 

His lips, emboldened. Trailing now to your jaw, finding a spot beneath its hinge that makes you mewl and tonguing it sweetly until you wiggle him off you to kiss him properly again. 

You manage to stumble inside, eventually, Javier’s shirt shedding before the door has closed. He scoops you into his arms the moment it’s off—your feet leave the floor, lose one shoe, and he trips over it and you yelp, accidentally biting his tongue as he catches himself against your shitty dresser. It creaks beneath his hand. 

“Gonna hurt ourselves,” he grumbles into your mouth, a little frustrated, his broad hand palming your ass to grind your hips against his.

“Worth it,” you grin.

You’re young, in love with him without rank or title or practice. Still mostly a child, all wonder and cravings that haven’t yet solidified into their final form—so it’s impossible to get this right the first time. You’ve had sex just once before for a grand total of eight minutes, and though Javier’s had a few more tries he hasn’t cracked it. Doesn’t help that you’ve got just the twin bed, and he’s all limbs. Has only his concentration to give you, his gravity, his ardent hunger. 

The way you feel all night that he wants you in his new, thrilling way. Always mumbling hotly into the curl of your ear.

Fuck, you feel—feel so good.

Pretty like this, so pretty like this.

And worst, maybe, which is to say best—want you, baby—wanted you so fuckin’ bad.

Despite the champagne grape color of his blush when he loses it halfway through, you think this is the closest you’ve ever come to transcendence. Every star aligned in perfect syzygy—at last, one piece of fate has clicked into its rightful place.

“Shit,” Javier mutters as he pulls out, soft and ashamed, but you just shake your head, tugging him back to you by the nape of his neck.

“Don’t care,” you insist. “Just wanna touch you.”

You mean it; you don’t care, but Javier still looks down at you with those round eyes guileless in his shame, open as any book. Fine, you’ll prove it. Tongue wet and doting, you lick between his freckles, kiss over his collarbone, across his chest, up his neck—an act of sincerity in which you make him the sky, a chain of constellations joined by your mouth. 

Then he’s hard again, hips canting against yours, and you resume.

It’s a kind of fullness that belongs not just to the body, not purely physical—but you dismiss this as nothing more than some nonsense, drunken thought.

In his fervor, your skull bumps against the wall and he gasps a sudden apology, one hand moving to cradle the crown of your head as he rocks into the cradle of your hips. Then your sudden laughter makes Javier’s whole body freeze suddenly, ceasing all rhythm. His hands pinch warningly at your waist.

“Gotta stop—shit, nena—quit laughin’,” he rasps, breathless, desperate. 

His sudden seriousness has you lost to besotted amusement, unable to keep your laughter from bubbling out.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Javier pants, with his eyes squeezed shut as he fails to concentrate. “Gonna make me—fuck.” 

Then he’s undone, his sweaty forehead dropped to your chest as he comes down, disappointed, from his high.

“S’okay,” you whisper, hands slinking through his hair which now is beyond salvation. A hopeless, shaggy cause so sweet between your fingers. In an instant he’s melted, body leaden on top of yours, squishing you to the mattress, safe, secure.

For a while you stay like this, both catching your breath. His forehead pressed to the skin between your breasts. Then Javier fetches a t-shirt from your dresser and helps you clean the mess of your stomach, both of you snickering, in awe of how strange and ridiculous this all is. Shirt tossed from his hand, it jellyfishes in the air, falls deflated to the floor like a gunned down hot air balloon and Javier crawls over you, stripes your cheek with his tongue just to get you to gasp, clumsy hands shoving him off you with a gross, Javi, while he sits back on his heels. He shrugs, dark eyes drifting to your lips. 

He doesn’t have to say what he’s thinking; you just roll your eyes.

“Shut up,” you tell him, blushing as you tug on clean underwear. “S’not the same.” 

When a sleep shirt comes next he grunts in disapproval, earning a soft shove to his arm.

He drags his pants back on but the paint-stained shirt stays off, his body all cricket at the foot of your bed: leaning back on one hand, legs bent at the knee. Lean muscle and sudden joints. His smooth, tanned chest. Beautiful, same as he’s always been, and somehow entirely new. He cracks your sorry excuse for a window, asks if you mind if he smokes.

Your eyebrows rise. “That’s a disgusting habit,” you scold, all smirk as you extend your arm expectantly. “You absolutely cannot smoke in my room, alone.”

With a smirk, he lifts his hips to pull a carton from the back pocket of his jeans—one of many pairs that make a meal of his thighs. Filter pinched between his teeth, brings the cup of one hand to the end as he flicks his lighter, birthing no flame.

“Drunker than I thought,” he mumbles to himself, defeated as you sigh.

Your hand, still open and waiting, folds twice. Give it to me, you mean, and he does; you thumb it a few times before tossing it back. “Just empty,” you say. 

The hem of your shirt slips up over your ass as you stretch for your desk drawer, and Javier—not yet broken from the spell of your entanglement—makes a low sound not unlike a growl that has you grinning. You produce a matchstick like a promise, bite it between your teeth, and hold his gaze as you draw it quickly from your mouth.

The red tip sparkles, flames.

“The hell d’you learn to do that?” he asks, crawling over once more to hold his cigarette to the small fire in your hand before it dies. Lit, he sucks once before handing the cigarette to you.

You shrug coolly. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” you smirk, drinking tobacco like it’s water until your lungs too protest and hack. As you cough, Javier lights a second from the match in the last moment before it snuffs, and leans back against the windowsill to take a drag that hollows his cheeks.

He knocks his foot against your bare knee with a pointed stare. “Teach me,” he says. So you do.

TWENTY-ONE

You love him. All night, he buys everything you drink. Twenty-one at last, you’re crowded against the sticky bar of The Last Man Standing amidst the Saturday high, bodies hot and impatient in every direction. So many adults who seem so much older than you. You think you spot your old algebra teacher smoking in a corner booth with a woman who is not his wife. Javier sweeps you against his barstool with a scowl when a man twice your size elbows you out of the way to order. 

“Here,” he grunts, and smacks his thigh twice with meaning, so you climb onto his lap, pleased that his arm hooks around the small of your back to steady you against his chest. 

Tipsy, that’s what he is. What you are. 

You lie to yourself. To the version of your heart that never got older than eleven, enraptured as you were the moment he walked into that classroom and hijacked your life. A bedtime story blooms in your head: you get him, somehow, over everybody else.

Call it a birthday wish.

“Such a gentleman,” you tease. 

“Just take your shot,” Javier grumps, dark eyes rolling in that way that means he’s fighting off a grin. Stashing his cigarette between his teeth, he nudges the shot glass toward you and you watch a lick of tequila spill onto the bar before you grasp it.

Together, you swipe your tongues across the back of your hands: you his, and he yours, before Javier showers salt from little paper packets he stole from a stranger’s basket of fries. He winks as the salt clings to your skin, folding the packets neatly to stash in his back pocket. Then you clink your glasses, hook arms, lap the salt, and swallow.

Tequila stripes hot down your throat, hits the churn of your stomach, and you grin as you set down your empty glass next to his on the bartop. Tipsy in the dreamy way that can put you to sleep if you don’t drink on, your head tips onto his shoulder to rest a while and Javier, without you having to ask, tightens his hold around your waist like he knows you want him to. 

“Don’t fall asleep,” he says, before his eyes flicker to the ceiling. “Got traditions to uphold.”

Above you, bras in every color known to man hang from the rafters and ceiling fans. Lacy things, plain things, hideous things—all polluted with a sheet of charcoal dust. You stab your elbow into his ribs, but Javier only holds you tighter, keeping your body in the cage of his.

“C’mon, baby,” he says. Eyes round and dark and twinkling with mischief. He clicks his tongue—daring you though he doesn’t have to. The heat of his proximity alone would do you in. That clumsy meeting of your bodies freshman year has not returned and you don’t think it ever will. He’s got Lorraine now, but the nicknames have stuck around. It’s normal, mundane, the way you call each other baby, cariño. Endearments felt with the whole heart but not the whole body.

Nena, however, was uttered by his plush lips just that once. Out of his mind on the precipice of release, probably doesn’t remember he said it. Probably didn’t realize even at the time. 

You try not to wonder if he calls Lorraine nena now, but he probably does. Definitely does. He loves her.

“Rules are rules,” Javier presses, eyebrows flicking up.

Rolling your eyes, you wrestle your arms behind your back to unclasp your bra through your shirt. His eyes hold yours as you drag the straps down your arms—left, then right—and you’d swear desire flares briefly in his eyes as you drag your bra from the sleeve of your shirt without having to undress. Must be the alcohol. Must just be him teasing you. 

Still, your cheeks burn. 

It’s not a nice bra, not one you’d show anyone, but Javier looks down as you hold it and moves below you, repositioning how you’re sitting on his lap. 

“C’mon then,” he urges you, patting the small of your back with his broad hand. 

You toss, someone across the bar lets out a masterful whistle, and your bra catches on the blade of the ceiling fan overhead perfectly. First try. Straps swinging, scalloped from the band. You beam—delighted by the applause that roars from the patrons nearest you—and the bartender slides down the line to offer another round on the house. 

Smug, Javier leans forward to take one while you grab the other. Righteous in his posture: chest broad and upright, pressed against you. Shirt unbuttoned at the top like some swash-buckling pirate you’d swoon over in a movie. Seems it doesn’t matter how much you try to forget what it felt like to be wanted by him, you just can’t. In some other version of your lives, he might not have met Lorraine. Or he met her but didn’t want her, because he already had you.

But he has you now, anyway. Javier gets it both ways. A girlfriend—blonde, pretty, wry—and a best friend who love him in the same way, while he only has to return that affection to one.

One week from now, his mother will give you her rosary when you visit her hospital room. Green beads polished to pearls by her prayers. 

Two weeks from now, she will die. The chemo has failed, unbeknown to the two of you. 

You’ll watch Javier shoulder her casket from church to grave with Chucho, his uncle and cousins, in a suit that’s too snug across the breadth of his shoulders and the tie she bought him for prom. You’ll watch Lorraine hold his hand the whole ceremony, the whole wake, and afterwards he’ll spend a week in your bed, unable to sleep without your arms, ignoring Lorraine’s calls and chain-smoking like a man who wants to die. If he cries, he won’t let you see it. But he’ll lie with you in the burrow of your duvet, his face planted in the bowl of your neck, sometimes kissing there. Tiny, needy grazes you’ll wordlessly allow. Kissing in return the top of his head, his forehead, his cheeks and knuckles. Never his lips. 

The ashtray you set on the nightstand for him will never move. It’ll stay there, unused, for years. When you move, it will move with you, set out on new nightstand, waiting for his return.

But you know nothing of that now. Today is all tequila and the glory of his attention, and everyone you love is alive.

“I hate you,” you grump as your glasses clink again.  

Javier hmphs, feigns impatience as he squeezes your hip. He does love you. You know that—you tell yourself so all the time. He loves you, just not in the right way.

“Drink, cariño,” he says. “Before we’re twenty-two.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

You love him, so you’d wait all night. Twenty minutes ain’t that late. Try telling that to your sputtering heart, but it’s fine. It’s just twenty minutes, and the look of this place. Just the glooms of shadow between each red-clothed table and cosmos of chandeliers that willow whenever someone opens the door and lets in a draft. 

It’s just that, now that you’re here, you have no idea why he picked this place. You’ve never been, and sat at a small table by the windows, it’s obvious why. This place, with its jazz band testing sound levels on the sunken stage, with its waitresses who are all, somehow, the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen—the kind of gorgeous so grand you can’t even hate them, can’t envy them, you can only sit in awe—this place is romantic. Unbelonging to you. 

This is the sort of restaurant you take someone when you ask them to marry you.

Which—given the last two weeks—is sort of hilarious. You’re inclined to believe Javier chose this place for dinner as a joke. Planned for the two of you to sit here, stuff yourselves stupid and tipsy and quip under your breath all night at the expense of the other patrons who all appear to be having a lovely night.

Except the joke’s not so funny when no one’s here to make it. 

Your watch spins its hands, laughing at you, making you the joke.

Thirty minutes late. 

You already have a feeling he isn’t gonna show—which is to say, you know for sure. Heavy and anchoring. Disappointment can center you, plant you where you sit. Sure, it’s not the first time Javier has flaked; his own head can often get the best of him when he’s restless or spent. But it’s different, knowing the depth of his heartache. Sensing it even when he isn’t in the room and isn’t anywhere nearby, like somehow your bodies can speak to each other at any distance. 

It’s not just your hurt you carry, but his shattering. The death of all his life was about to be that he ran like hell from.

When the waitress swings by, you accept a top-up on your wine. Might as well.

Soon the jazz band is playing, piano swooping acrobatic through the air, trumpet singing, sax crooning. As the sun drops low in the sky, flirting with rooftops, the chandeliers inside the restaurant dim. Then it’s alchemy, the aura of the room. Straight out of some movie that’d break your heart half as much as you fear it breaking any second now. 

You wish you knew why he asked you to meet him here.

You wish you knew why he told you to dress up—just a little, Christ, cool it, baby.

You wish you knew why he hasn’t come.

Not that this day on your calendar hasn’t been circling around in your head like water in a tub that won’t fully drain. There isn’t anything good to tell someone who just left their fiancée at the altar, even if he is your best friend—Javier knows this. 

Maybe that’s why he still hasn’t shown. 

Seems cruel to ask you here, gussied up for nothing in the dress he ten years ago peeled off you—reverent in his gaze and fixation, alight with obvious pleasure—when he must have known he wasn’t going to come.

Might have jinxed it when you hauled it out from the grave of your closet this afternoon. Feels pathetic, now, that you put this thing back on. Desperate.

You drain your wine, let it fill you, bitter and bloody and absent of any enjoyment. 

He isn’t coming.

Still, you wait, praying you’re wrong.

As the band’s first set comes to a roaring end, the whole place alive with praise, air filled by cheers and clapping hands. Even the waitresses halt where they stand to clap, poised in their practiced intermission, perfect as marble deities each kissed with red lips. The bartender, too, in his stupid bowtie and perfectly gelled hair. Everyone here is having the time of their lives but you, who can’t shake the feeling that you’ve never wanted to be anywhere less than you want to be here right now, alone.

One glance at the menu and all you see are the dollar signs that’d gut your bank account, send you back into the overdraft you’ve just paid off. 

You sigh, try to make a game of silver linings. 

At least you won’t have to pay for some stuffy meal.

At least you won’t have to watch the waitress fall in love with Javier the second he sits down.

At least you won’t have to call a cab because you’re too buzzed to drive.

At least you won’t be up late enough to be fucked tomorrow at work.

At least you don’t have to wear these stupid, pointy shoes until the little hours.

Needless to say, you lose the game. No amount of silver brightens the rift widening to a chasm through your chest. Hollowing you out. Splitting you in two.

One more glass, then the next time the waitress swings by, you wave the white flag and she hastily brings your receipt. Obscene, for three glasses of wine and an hour and a half spent watching pleasure flame in strangers’ eyes, but you pay for it. You take the loss and its drowning weight. You carry it.

“Do you have a—” you start to ask, as the waitress takes your bills, but she cuts you off, already nodding.

“Course, sugar,” she says, and points one lacquered nail in the direction of the bar. As if rehearsed, the bartender swipes his crisp white towel along the right wing of the polished bartop, revealing a phone on the wall behind him. You nod, thank her, and are so grateful that the bartender ducks into the back as if he just now has remembered something urgent in the other room that you consider crying. 

Chucho always picks up on the third ring. Reliable, steady. Like you.

“It’s me,” you say, when he’s on the line.

“Oh honey,” he replies.

Behind you: clapping again, except this time the band’s taking five. When you turn, the plastic phone pressed clammy to your cheek, someone’s down on one knee beside their table with a ring.

You close your eyes.

“Just—tell me he’s not in a ditch somewhere,” you say to Chucho. “Just need to know he’s, I don’t know, accounted for.”

Not dead, is what you mean. Not passed out, drunk, in a ditch, is what you mean. Not blackout somewhere without you to catch him when he leaps. Without you to carry him home.

There stretches—beneath the drone of jubilation marking the best day of someone else’s life—the long, brooding quiet in which Chucho remains silent on the other line. When he speaks next, it’s in the middle of a sudden piano solo. Celebration, or their next set, doesn’t matter. You don’t hear shit. Have to plug your open ear with your hand.

“Sorry, once more?”

Crackling static. A slow, apologetic breath.

“Told him to tell you, sweetheart,” he repeats. “Would’a called if I knew he hadn’t and saved you the trip.”

Not dead. The first real silver lining. You don’t so much breathe as you deflate.

“Kid took that job,” Chucho sighs. “He flew down this morning.”

THIRTY-SIX

You love him, and when you wake in the warm arms of morning he’s long, long gone. Already a thousand miles skyward, Colombia-bound, returning once more to the jaws of something that wants him buried and dead.

There’s no note, but you knew there wouldn’t be. Javier never writes anything down, never leaves you any proof. Last photo of you together must be from college, early on. Any presence he’s had in your life since then is smoke—it dissipates with the wave of his smooth, freckled hand. Gone, like he was never here at all.

Gone, like he never kissed you.

Gone, like he never picked you.

Gone, like he’ll never come back again.

FORTY

You love him, but it’s been four years. Nothing’s the same; it can’t be.

Except for you. Not just in your love, but in your being. A lighthouse for better and worse: beacon in any storm, buried on land. Immovable. Still living thirty minutes from the house of your girlhood, ever accessible, predictable, and lodged in the filth of all that has birthed and broken you. Entirely, utterly, incapable of leaving. Trapped in the case of your unshed skin.

Today is the equinox for the red and dying. Autumn at last unfurling its cool tendrils, usurping the summer’s reign. Air sweet and temperate, tinged with the promise of showers. You—running late, neck sore, caffeine-deficient—hustle the gravel tongue of Chucho’s drive, arms heavy with a batch of groceries. An old habit you never kicked—his hip’s been fine eight months now but you still come around every other Sunday with groceries to save him the trouble, craving his company. His calloused hand soothing your back in small circles, telling you everything’s gonna be fine without uttering a word. 

You dig out the key you’ve had since sixth grade from the void of your pocket. Not graceful, but you don’t drop it. The key wasn’t Javier’s idea, but his mother’s—a woman who took one look at you and felt exactly what you did. Eternal. Took the key off her own ring and handed it over, said she’d make herself another copy. 

“Anytime.” That’s what she’d said to you, eleven and heart scared as a rabbit’s by how much more the Peña house felt like home than your own. Her key, passed to your palm, was warm from her hand. 

Now in your own it’s warm again. Like a piece of her still lives in there, same as the rosary in your car. 

“Chucho,” you call into the house, when you’ve let yourself in. Late morning light bars the old wood floors. A gem, this house. Worn as it is welcoming. All broken in leather that’s butter to the touch and floorboards that croak like frogs. As you toe out of your shoes, you huff, your shoulders already easing into their right positions just by walking in the door. 

No sign of him yet, but that isn’t strange. Could be outside already, sleeves rolled to his elbows and hat low over his eyes. Still, as you haul the groceries down the hall, you call out again. 

“I’ve had the second worst morning of my life. Come take your food, viejo.”

While you wait, you set the bags in the kitchen, plastic crinkling, the burnt roast of coffee still rich in the air. The smell of cut grass weaves through the vented window. Rosy, this room, at this time of day. Blushed by the old lace curtains that have colored with age. There’s a kind of charm to a house like this—lived in, loved in—that you’ve never felt anywhere you’ve lived. 

You’re tucking eggs into the fridge when the floor ribbits upstairs, dragging a grin across your face. Coming home. That’s what this place feels like, when you come to visit Chucho and he insists on making you tea even though by the time he gets to you, you’re usually pouring him a mug of his own. 

There he comes now, you think, as you smile into the fridge. A man who ought to get some of the credit for raising you. You listen to him descend the creaking stairs one slow foot at a time as you toss old food from the forgotten corners of his refrigerator, replacing it with what’s vibrant, green, and new.

But you aren’t really listening. Not all the way. 

If you were, you’d know the second those feet hit the ground floor that they aren’t the footsteps of Chucho at all. Wrong Peña.

“Second worst?”

Then a long whistle. You turn.

Javier, not Chucho, stands at the foot of the stairs. Four years older than last you saw him, sober and smiling, brown eyes glinting shyly. Beautiful, same as always, but what did you expect. Wearing a white button up with long sleeves rolled just like his dad, though decidedly more unbuttoned—if he were closer, you’d see the freckles on his chest, his neck. The spots you once connected like knowing him was a game. 

Are those the same jeans he was wearing, that night in your bed? Better not to linger, wonder. Wondering is a terrible thing.

Whatever’s on your face melts Javier’s smile clean off. 

He’s put it together, then. He knows what the worst morning was.

You’ve gone eight years apart, but these last four feel like decades. There’s a wisp of silver at his temples that wasn’t there before.

“You’re home,” you hear yourself say.

He clenches one hand, fidgeting fingers. Guilty, then. Sad, then. Nervous, then.

You wonder if he’s reading you the same. If you still live side by side, on the same page.

“Yeah,” Javier says, hardly louder than a breath.

And you are running, rushing. Already against him, arms thrown, anger slinking back to the bottom of its well. For the first time in your lives, Javier doesn’t immediately return your touch. He stands for two long seconds like a statue in your arms as his heart smacks against his chest and into yours. 

You hold him tighter. Four years collapse like a stack of playing cards. He feels exactly the same, like he belongs in your arms. 

When he comes to himself, your feet lift until only your toes brush against the floor—that’s how tightly he grabs you, how wholly. You hang, held in his arms as he presses his face into your neck. 

“Smell good,” he mumbles after a while, lips brushing your neck in a way that could be accidental or entirely on purpose—either way, you don’t care.

You wind one hand into his hair. It’s shorter now, just a little off the back. The next breath that leaves you is sharp, almost a laugh. 

“You smell different,” you say, and pull your head off his shoulder to get a look at him properly. 

Javier keeps you where you are, not quite on the floor, held tight to his chest. Grinning in that boyish way. You press your thumb to his dimple and gasp—having figured it out.

“You quit,” you say, eyes wide. 

His are so close. Deep, rich, inevitable—flickering between yours. He rolls them, caught by you so easily, and rocks his jaw, smacking his gum as he sets you down to shrug. Rearranging his face to appear indifferent, but you see right through it anyway.

“Tryin’ it out,” he admits.

Neither of you let go, not yet. His thumbs stroking your waist where his hands have settled; yours moving to his temples to rake through the soft of his curls, introducing yourself to the newfound grays you don’t recognize.

“Gettin’ old, Javi,” you tease.

Then his hands rise to cover yours and a moment before they do—mere atoms away from touch—you think he looks how he did in your hallway freshman year, right before he kissed you. But his hands envelop yours and you watch his mouth twitch. Not up, not to the side. Down. His brows dipping for a millisecond as he puts it together.

You’ve forgotten. You forget all the time—hardly feel it anymore after six months of wearing the ring. Used to drive you crazy, always spinning the wrong way around, but it’s become just a part of your hand.

When you try to draw away Javier’s grip locks them in a vice, pulling them from his face to look down at your fingers where, on your left hand, sits a gold band. Two tiny diamonds bracketing a sapphire—not an heirloom, but it’s pretty. Beautiful, even. You’ve come to love it.

“Shit,” Javier mumbles, his brows high and chin hung down as he ghosts his fingers over the gem in disbelief. “Look at you.”

You hardly hear it. What you really hear is a reverie, a ghost. A ship that passed too far from your harbor, scared off by the beacon of you. Warned of your lethal shores. Pensé que me casaría contigo. Rambled when he was drunk and hollow and out of his mind. A whispered confession spoken in those tiny hours he spent in your bed in which nothing beyond the mattress existed but the two of you, intertwined.

I thought I’d marry you.

But he didn’t. Javier left without the grace of a goodbye. Now he stands with your hands in his, thumbing the sapphire of a ring someone else put on your hand while he was gone. Four years in which you had no idea if he’d come back, or when, or for how long. No idea if he’d ever want to see or speak to you again. 

Your mouth, dry, deserted. Your hands shaking in his—you have to ask. Break this moment in which he seems unable to take his eyes off the stony, cobalt blue.

“How long are you back?” you ask softly.

Javier lets go of your hands to rub the back of his neck and takes a tiny step away from you. 

You know the answer the moment he moves, but you let him say it anyway. You let him cut that tiny hole in your chest that’ll bleed dry your heart.

His smile is mirthless, doomed. Like he’s putting it all together in his head.

“For good,” Javier says, staring at the floor, then the window beyond your shoulder, into the yard. Anywhere but at you. “For good, this time.”

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[home-of-monsters]

Today I attended a funeral where

-the preacher/pastor/whatever* continuously compared my grandmother to yeast. I think he was going for a bread metaphor, but he never actually got there, so he just kept saying “mothers were like yeast”.

-literally only like 3 people cried. Only one of those 3 people were biologically related to my grandmother

-the preacher/pastor/whatever made a comment about “11 grandkids.” My grandmother had 13 grandkids.

-the preacher/pastor/whatever made a comment about “5 great grandchildren.” My mother leaned over and asked where they got THAT number from, because my sisters don’t have 5 kids, and I had to point out that I have cousins, and some of them also have children.

-the cemetery has a “staging” area where the preacher/pastor/whatever blessed the urns. The staging area was a) not where the ashes where going to be placed and b) took place over other people’s grave/grave markers

-my aunt was angry that I wasn’t praying**, and decided to show that anger by holding eye contact with me while aggressively over enunciating the prayer they were saying. This caused my brother in law to start snickering, which, in turn made me start laughing, which made her get louder.

*my grandmother hasn’t set foot in a church since my grandfather’s funeral in 2002, so I legit have no idea what denomination of Christian this service was, I just know it wasn’t Catholic

**in my defense, I haven’t been to church in almost twenty years. I couldn’t have recited that prayer, even if I had wanted to.