#if you decide to leave the church you don't just like get to keep living there and inherit the building

[hedge-rambles]

Oh this is fun because I was just reading about Sedevacantism and the Palmerian Church just the other week, and now I see this on my dash?

And I love how this started with "the church is cruelly trying to stifle these poor nuns so they can capitalism them :(" and then does a handbreak turn into "wait, no, actually the nuns have been infiltrated by a heretic cult who reject Vatican II and all subsequent Popes, and are currently committing several types of crime". Gotta respect the absolute balls of 1: accusing the Church of basically doing the entire thing they were trying to do and 2: trying to sue the Church for €1.3M damages, because...the nuns couldn't pay the Church €1.2M?? Like what even is the logic there?

And having an unordained bartender playing priest dressup as their public spokesman? And in PR shots? Absolutely wild. Like, I don't know if that's technically heresy but it can't be far off if it isn't.

(Why was I reading about Sedevacantism you ask? Why, for a stupid idea for a Lovecraftian short story I sent a friend on whatsapp, obviously...look, I just needed an example of a Catholic schismatic group that still used the Latin Mass, ok?)

Wait, some nuns of the order of St. Claire in Orduña have been asking the bishop for a licence to sell their pastries at the Derio monastery for 10 years, to no avail.

And they're so fed up they have officially rejected the Pope, archbishops, and bishops, and are now creating a schism inside their order because they're gonna sell those fucking pastries whether they like it or not.

WTF is this fantasy!!!!!

[sunni-stuff]

Price who fumbles at first sight of his new assistant; falls head over heals immediately. There's no way you needed this job; surely you had a boyfriend or someone to take care of your pretty little head.

Price who barely giving you any work, at most, you'd have a single sheet on your desk needing to be signed and then sending you off early, giving you his card to spend to your hearts content. Don't worry about the stack of papers on his desk. No need for someone like you to lift a finger.

Price who sets up to have you stay late on some days when he finds out you're single. He insists on taking you out to dinner. It's the least he can do for taking up your time, dovie. Brings you to a real fancy place and doesn't hide the satisfied smirk on his face when you comment how you've never been somewhere so nice before.

Tries to be respectful as you talk about your day, but his eyes keep straying down to the tight bodice you're wearing, breast pushing up real nice, giving him a good view while he drinks from his wine glass. Though he damn near breaks it when the waiter lingers too long, badgering you about a refill when really he wanted another glance at what he can't have.

The night ends with Price taking a really tispy you home and fucking you face down into the mattress. His hands roam your back, trailing from your spine down to your ass, squeezing every bit of flesh he can get his paws on. He commits everything about you to memory.

The way you moan when he kisses your neck, the way he can make you tighten around him by playing with the curves of your body, and how your orgasm sounds like church bells ringing. He decides right then and there he wants to keep you forever, he cums twice that night, pumping you nice and full.

The next day, Price shows up to work excitedly, thinking you'd finally throw him a bone, tell him that you see more than just one night. He's completely disappointed when you treat him the same. Oh, okay, that's fine. If everything that occurred was just for the moment, he could live with that. Price lives through the memory. It keeps him up at night, leaving him painfully yearning for you.

For a while, this continues until you walk into his office a couple of weeks later, all nervous, stuttering over your own words, claiming you missed your period.

P2

[melminli]

Ddakji Man

summery - you were always struggling to make ends meet, despite having three separate jobs and you doubted that that would ever change. it felt like you were working out of your own casket and it would probably be more sustainable to invest in one at this point.

pairing: (gong yoo/ji-cheol) the salesman x fem. reader

word count: 1.5k

contains: slight arguing, cursing but nothing too graphic tbh

"Are you sure that you don't want to come?" One of your friends asked you a little sadly since you were about to leave the group. They rarely got to see you anyway, did you have to leave so early? "You never come with us when we go out for a drink, we miss you there, you know?"

You smiled a little tiredly as you strolled casually through the streets. "I'm sorry guys, I just have to work tonight." you tried to explain. Besides, I'm fucking tired and just want to get some sleep before then. I miss my bed.

Your best friend pouted as she hugged you from the side and you welcomed it, even if it made walking a little more difficult. "It's always work this work that. Live a little for once, all this stress is not good for you. You need a break." she spoke up before a thought came into her mind that made her a little furious. "Don't tell me that you're using work as an excuse to cancel on us. We can do something else if you want to. I'll even invite you, come on!"

You took a tired breath. I don't have any energy for this. "Trust me, I'd love nothing more than to get drunk with you and I'm not being sarcastic or anything." you clarified. Besides, I wouldn't work this much if I didn't have to.

"All right." she gave in unhappy. "We'll catch you one of these days, I can feel it..."

You laughed softly. "Please do," you replied and stopped in front of the stairs that led to the subway. This was the place where you had to part ways with the others and you did with a few more hugs. You enjoyed spending time with them and loved your friends with all your heart, but you were still happy to be a bit on your own now.

So you plugged in your cable headphones and played your current favorite song at the loudest volume before checking when the next train was going to arrive. Another twenty minutes? The last one must have just left. You decided to just sit down on a bench and wait while staring blankly around and quietly mumbling the lyrics to yourself.

A few minutes later, a person sat down next to you and you could see out of the corner of your eye that it was probably some kind of businessman or something. You didn't look closely out of politeness and turned your gaze somewhere else after checking the time on your phone.

"Excuse me." the unknown man tried to get your attention, but as expected, you could barely hear him over the booming music. He placed his briefcase in the space between you before leaning closer to your figure and looking towards you with a smile and finally, you seemed to notice his stare and turned in his direction. You took out one of your earbuds as you met his gaze. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

The man leaned back again. "I haven't said anything yet. I wanted to ask if I could talk to you, do you have a moment?"

You looked around a little uncomfortably as he maintained uninterrupted eye contact with you. "Ehm, well..." you stumbled slightly over your words. "I'm not religious or anything, sorry," you replied, having no patience for another discourse about Jesus and the church. This is the fourth time this week, lucky me. You thought to yourself as you were about to put your earplug back in.

The salesman held a hand in the air to stop you from doing that to keep your attention. You just looked at him uninterestedly and waited, it was going to be a while before your train arrived anyway. A smile graced his face after you were willing to listen to him again. "That's not what I wanted to talk about, I just want to offer you a chance."

Your face tightened a little in disgust and you were quite irritated by now. He seemed to be waiting for some kind of answer and didn't say anything else, so you had no choice but to interpret his words. He doesn't look like that kind of guy, but I guess it's always the ones who look the most decent. "Listen to me asshole," you said openly this time, all politeness gone as you pointed at his chest with your index finger. "I don't know you, maybe you're one of those men who try to talk in riddles to seem mysterious or something, but right now it just sounds like you're looking for someone cheap to fuck." you replied as you tapped his tie with each syllable and leaned a little closer to him as you whispered. "And I'm not cheap, so you might want to look elsewhere."

This time it was you who grinned as he looked at you in surprise and he let out a small grunt after you finished your sentence. The salesman straightened his tie while watching your figure before reaching for his briefcase and revealing its contents, "That's too bad, but also not what I was talking about," he replied as you looked at the money and colored paper in confusion. "Have you ever played Ddakji?" He asked you as he took out the red and blue paper. You just shook your head. "That's no problem at all, we can still play it if you're up for it." 

Your gaze alternated from his hand to his face. Oh, so he's crazy. You finally concluded. I guess he is too handsome to be just a normal guy, huh. You turned your head away from him, something about the whole thing just seemed perverse to you. "No thanks, I'll pass."

"You sure?" He asked again, knowing he'd convinced you as soon as he brought the money into it. These people are all the same, she'll snatch the paper right out of my hands after I start talking a language she understands. "Every time you win, you get 100,000 won from me." He began, watching the look on your face. "But if I win, you owe me 100,000 won and -"

You sighed and interrupted him. "Yes, I'm sure. I still don't want to play with you, okay?"

This time the man looked at you with a cold, icy stare. A few minutes passed like this and you just tried to ignore his gaze, but then he started talking again. "All right. 200,000 won." he finally said, but couldn't seem to get your attention back. He tried again. "Is it because you've never played the game before? We can have a practice round if that would make you feel more comfortable." he tried again and got irritated when you continued to ignore him. He looked around the area as he considered his next move. Is she waiting for me to increase the prize money further? These people usually jump up happily at the first amount since they're so desperate. He tried to collect himself again. "500,000 won." he finally said. "I've got the money right here, you just have to go for it."

When is this stupid train coming. "Look, I don't want your fucking money, understand? I'm not a gambling addict or -"

"You may not want it, but you need it," he said, annoyed. This has never happened before, is she stupid? He then spoke out your name and described your miserable living situation as if you didn't already know about it yourself. "You also have quite a lot of debt for someone who is still relatively young, are you seriously going to turn down the money I'm offering you? For what, to prove a point or something?"

You didn't know what this man's fucking problem was, he should be glad that you didn't want to take his money, and how did he even know all this? You got up from your seat next to him when the train finally arrived and turned to face him one last time. "Fuck you," you told him and then went to the doors. You even looked out of the window at him as soon as they closed before you, to show him your the middle finger.

The man in the suit watched your figure irritated until it was gone and then, took the little card out of the inside pocket of his suit, that was meant for you. He turned it over a few times in his hand before closing the open briefcase with his other one. He had already played and lost a few Ddakji games in his life, which was the point of the whole thing - to recruit players for the actual game. However, the thought of what awaited them there meant that he was still in control of the situation. He was always in control of the situation. "I didn't loose, we haven't even played." he tried to reassure himself.

And yet the whole conversation with you left him feeling like he was utterly defeated.

[miniaturesuitgladiator]

Hi 👋 I'm knew to posting stories so please don't be rude , I understand that this isn't what some people like ,but there's no need to be rude. I appreciate everyone who read my first post and I am very grateful for them. Please leave tips on how I can improve. Thank you for your time and enjoy!!

Note: this is the first chapter of that little drabble I did. This chapter doesn't include damian or the batfamily. Next chapter it will. I just wanted yall to see readers family dynamics ,and I didn't want to make the chapter so long. Oh ,and N/N= nickname.

WARNINGS: None really no one is yandere ,yet.

-💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗-

It was snowing. Which should be no surprise to you ,atleast not at this time of year. It always snowed in October ,always. As always the snow was beautiful and quite peaceful as well. Watching the perfectly white snow fall onto the dead leaves on your yard was quite peaceful.

Comfortably sat on your living room couch waiting for your dad to get ready for church. You quietly watched TV. You had already been ready for about half an hour. Decided in it was best to get ready earlier than later. Just like your mother had always told you. Your mother always rather be early to an event rather than on time ,and usually she was on early. But then came your father. Now Your father was the complete opposite of your mother. I suppose that's what evens them out.. See your father always seemed to have a problem with keeping up with the time. So more often than not you'd be late because of your father.

You didn't mind though, atleast not as much as your mother did. You found it funny how your tall and fierce father. Sherrif of the small town you live in. Looked like a kicked puppy as your mother scolded him.

you silently watched as your father practically ran through the house looking for his church clothes. You smile as you see your mother walk towards you. She smiles back at you and kisses you on the top of your head. "You ready for church , baby " she says walking to kitchen. "Yes ma'am " you say turning your attention back on the TV. "Good" your mother says packing the food she plans to bring to church. You sigh in frustration. There's never anything to watch on Sunday. So you resort to the only channel that might be interesting. The news.

Your eyes open in excitement when you see the headline for today. BATMAN SAVES GOTHAM FROM A NUCLEAR BOMB! You always liked batman. You thought he did good. Sure he made some mistakes ,but he was only human. After all he had saved Gotham , like a thousand times. So he had to be good.

"Baby turn that off. I don't want you seeing that kind of stuff." Your mom says from behind the kitchen counter. "C'mon mom it's batman. He's a hero." You say trying to persuad her. Nothing big like that ever happened in your small town. Sure you were gratefull that your town wasn't always being attacked ,but nothing even slightly exciting happens in your town. So you live off the gossip of gotham.

"The only hero you need is Jesus. So turn. It. Off. I'm not telling you agian, baby." Your mother says gently smiling at you ,but you know better than to push her buttons. So with a dramatic sigh you turn off the TV.

"Thank you. Now go check on your brother for me." She says pointing towards your brothers room. " whatever" you say quietly ,scared of what she would say if she heard. Because in her eyes that's 'disrespectful'.

"Riley are you ready?" you say knocking on your brothers bedroom door. No reply . So you knock agian. No reply. "I'm coming in."You say and your shocked about what you see when you open the door. Riley your 7 year old little brother is sleeping peaceful in his bed. quickly you rush over to his bed. "Riley wake up ,mamas gonna kill you." You say as you shake him. Slowly he opens his eyes. "What's wrong N/N." He says and you almost feel bad for how concerned he looks ,but then you remember.. He's the one that decided to play Mario Cart all night.

" It's Sunday riley" you say. You watch as realization hits him straight in the face. Quicker than you can imagine he's up and running around in his room. "Oh no , does mama know I slept in." He says grabbing him a towel to take a shower. "No , she thinks your ready." You say but surely he didn't hear you by how quickly he rushed to take a shower.

Being the kind sister you are you grab him some cloths and leave them on the bed.

Deciding that it's definitely best not to go back to the living room. Since your mother would probably ask about riley. So instead you go to your room.

walking in your room you stand in front of the mirror your grandpa had made for you. Looking in the mirror you definitely thought this was one of the best outfits you had worn to church. Not the most expensive though ,since most of your clothing was thrifted. Nevertheless you did love your outfit today.

"I'm ready." You hear you father yell. "Well it's about time." You hear your mother reply. You smile to yourself as you walk towards the front door. You know your mother and father love eachother, but to someone that doesn't know them would probably think their about to sign divorce papers any minute. "You look beautiful ,princess."your father says with a light kiss to the top of you head.

"Riley!" Your mother yells ,since she didn't see your brother by the door. "Coming." He shouts back. Hurriedly your brother practically runs down the stairs. " how do I look." Riley questions and you don't even have to say what's on your mind. Because your father beats you to it.

"Like a mess." Your father says. Which earns him a punch on the arm by your mother. "Nonsense , you look handsome baby." You mother says as she gives him a kiss on the head ,and pats his hair so it doesn't look like a literal mess. "Thanks mama." Your brother says with a smile. "Well we better get going or we're going to be late." Your mother says. As she practically pushes everyone out the door. "Darling, it's only 7:10 by the time we get there we're going to be 40 minutes early." You father says with a sigh. Unlocking his truck.

"Which is practically late." Your mother says hopping into your father's Ford. To which your father just shakes his head with a smile.

The drive to the church wasn't long ,but you wish it was. So maybe you could get to watch it snow for a little longer. Snow was beautiful. Snow seemed to cleanse everything and turn it white agian. Which if you said that to your mother she'd probably say Jesus does the same thing...

Looking over to where your brothers sitting. You can see he's passed out. His head is resting on the window and he's drooling a bit. He looks kinda cute ,but that's only cause he's asleep and not cuase trouble. An you know it.

'Today is gonna be a good day.' You say to yourself ,and Who wouldn't think that it's Sunday. Every Sundays a good day because we get to go to church ,and see family. Maybe it was a bit naive to think that just because it was Sunday it was going to be a good day ,but that's how you were raised.

Ten years from now you'll look back and wish that for once. Just once in your 16 years of having lived your family would have missed church this sunday...

-💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗-

THANKS FOR READING!!!!

[l00kingatthem00n]

can i ask for some medkit :3? something like tending to his wounds or listening to him complain after a long day, can be platonic

━━ IT WAS A GOOD DAY.

WARNINGS: self-deprecation [mainly from medkit] - let me know if there is anything else.

Working with the Church of the True Eye is exhaustive, even isolating. After days with little to no contact from him, Medkit finds himself a block away from the little diner you've said to meet him at. He could easily go in and see you, get this over with. But he finds himself hesitating, wondering if he really should go over.

MEDKIT PRIDES HIMSELF ON HIS PUNCTUALITY. Whatever time is asked of him, whatever is needed, he comes and does what is expected of him. Carefully, meticulously, he’s maintained this perception of workplace professionalism. However, with the dark rings beneath his eyes, the disgruntled expression across his features, and the disinterested lilt of his words, it’s evident that he doesn’t enjoy his duties. He used to help people, or he thinks he used to help people, but now he can’t even begin with what he does. Medkit knows he'd be buried for spilling anything about his work. It’s simply just exhausting, enervating. But, he knows if he wants to keep living within Crossroads’ streets even somewhat comfortably— Safely, too —He’ll have to continue with such efforts. 

That’s why the Church of the True Eye is a frequent employer of his at the very least, but that’s putting it lightly. His timeliness, abilities and efficiency are what promise him paycheck after paycheck. Nevertheless, Medkit never wastes his time. Each hour, each minute, and each second is spent doing his work according to his rigid schedule. Again, it’s not out of a fondness for the work he does nowadays but more of a necessity to ensure that he still gets the money that he needs. He’s paid for his time; He might as well do what he does with a slight sliver of hope that they’ll cough up spare change. Ultimately, he rarely ever makes any last-minute rearrangements, nor is he ever late. 

And so, it is beyond his comprehension that he decides to be late now on all occasions. It isn’t that he’s lost in downtown, the winding streets and stores are familiar. He knows that antique store with its ridiculously expensive prices. He knows that the laundromat with their barely functioning machines. He also knows that the boutique the more than pleasant cashiers. It also isn’t even because he’s behind on time from pressing work, all that has been attended to throughout the morning. Truthfully, he’s far from lost, and he’s far from busy. Medkit is across the street from the diner you’ve agreed to meet at, far enough out of sight from the window on the street. It's to ensure that he doesn't risk you seeing him there, standing and stalling. Despite everything, his punctuality, he can’t bring himself to walk over when it's a walk that's a few measly minutes of his time. Maybe, even a measly seconds.

It’s only a stroll along the crosswalk, weaving through masses of strangers. Then, what gives?  Maybe he can blame his bodily paralyzation on the particularly exhaustive day he had at the Church of the True Eye. That's not to say that they already treat him well. Swords, they don't even try to generally treat him well, if anything, his contracts with them only have him recognized as a “valuable asset” rather than a “valuable member.” Medkit is above the crude and unprofessional language, something he leaves with Sword and his friend, Rocket. But, if he were to use any of their crass sayings, the one that would accurately describe his day would be that:

The Church have been up his ass. 

Whatever reason for their miserable ministrations towards him is beyond him. From the Broker’s consistent monitoring of his personal matters, Scythe’s insistence that he update her on gear modifications, to even Father Overseer’s impromptu call necessitating that he remembers his service to them, Medkit doesn’t know why they've been so inconvenient to him. To say the least. He thinks himself a decent employee under their dubious standards. He hasn’t exactly gone out of his way to interfere with their plans. And he certainly hasn’t been a prominent and lingering concern for dissension and betrayal. He does what’s asked of him, and does what needs to be done. 

It could be that his already thin patience has gone thinner, scarcely tolerating their wants and demands. That’s unlikely, though. He thinks he woke up fine. A warm mug of tea by the window side as the sunlight cascades through. Maybe, it could be that he’d done something a while ago offensive to the Church’s practice. Except, if that were the case, they’d have made a demonstration out of him and not press him so passive-aggressively. He’s more than familiar with what happens to those who’ve wronged them. While he thinks he’s important enough that they’d be less severe with their punishments, he would know for sure if he’s done something. 

It also couldn’t be that he’s secretly scared of you. In all his years, within the winter confines of Blackrock, the towering labyrinths of Lost Temple, and the neon inferno of Crossroads, he’s met many inphernals. Some were unkind, some were cruel, some beyond that. From their poisoned tongues to their stained hands, to their unspeakable actions. He remembers someone like that so well, someone he knew so closely that they’re now engraved in the recesses of his mind. 

But, some were kind, some were caring, some were too generous for their own good– Like you are. Once more, he’s not scared of you. It’s quite the opposite. For their society built upon conflict, you’re probably the most charmingly compassionate individual he’s ever met. Truthfully, someone like you should stay leagues away from someone like him. Medkit feels selfish for gravitating towards you. A guilt that settles in his chest for letting him be your friend. 

You’re good for him, too good for him. 

Now that he thinks about it, that’s most likely the reason why he’s stalling; So close yet so far from you. It’s been days, maybe weeks since he’s last seen you. Too preoccupied in the maddening world of work from the Church of the True Eye. He’d been kept beneath their watchful gaze for a long time. You’re kind, you’re patient, yet everybody has certain thresholds. As much as he wanted to call you, learn how you’ve been and what you’ve been up to, he knows the Church would be breathing down his neck for as long as he wasn’t attending to their pressing matters. Even then, when he returned to his apartment in Crossroads, he couldn’t bring himself to pick up the phone and call you. It felt unpleasant. No, it felt wrong to contact you when he hadn’t spoken to you in so long. 

That was when you decided to call him. His phone had rung three times as he contemplated picking it up. The first time it had rung, he had clicked his tongue and aggravatedly wondered who it was. The second time, his eyes widened with realization and he considered letting the noise go on and on until you would call it an end. And the last time, guilt came over him again at the thought of losing you even more with his lack of communication, so he picked up the phone. On your end, it’s quiet. For a moment, he worries that you never even meant to call him until—

“Medkit!” You gasp, “Oh my Swords, sorry, I didn’t think you would pick up. Hey, how are you–?”

You talk to him like no time has passed. That he hadn’t left you in utter silence for days, letting you wonder and worry regarding his well-being. Medkit is not deserving of anything from you who is so tender-hearted, not your sympathies nor your condolences. He’s your friend, supposedly, but he feels he isn’t deserving of such an intimate title too. Now, because here he is, meant to see you in this little diner. But, he’s here; On the sidewalk, standing from afar. A sinking guilt settles within his chest. He should just move, just move his feet and walk over. Medkit is not scared of you, so what is he scared of? 

He hisses through the gaps of his teeth; Nothing, he has nothing to be scared of. There are lingering worries about the worst possibilities that could occur if he were to see you. Would you be disappointed with him? Would you see him and spit venom at him? Would you wish him the worst and finally put an end to this friendship? Medkit doesn’t know. Even if his scattered and stressed thoughts lead him to believe that the absolute worst will happen, finally he feels himself moving forward. 

Weaving between the passing inphernals; Frantic office workers, lazing cashiers, and chatting friends –he makes his way over. From the street window, he can faintly see you at the back of the diner through the smudge and grime across the glass. Your horn colour and its distinct shape make it noticeable among the others. Before he knows it, his hand grasps the steel knob and he opens the door. A faint ringing of a bell to signal his arrival. Some young server briefly welcomes him as they pass him to give orders. The quaint atmosphere of the diner allows him a moment of clarity before he hears your voice ring boldly. He snaps his head to the back, seeing you smiling widely. 

You wave excitedly at him, “Medkit! Hi”

Medkit swallows thickly. The worst hasn’t happened, it seems far from it. But, he’s still worried. Still thinking something bad could happen to him. He slips into the leather chair, scooting closer to the table as he quietly greets you. Still, you smile at him as you place your chin in your palm. 

“It’s good to see you!” You tell him.

“I hope this was an alright place. I know you have more—" You gesture vaguely "—Eloquent tastes.”

“No worries, it’s fine.” He glances around another time. “It’s quite nice.”

You seem excited at his agreement, nodding along. “Right? I love the colours, there’s a bunch of decorations too!”

Your enthusiastic presence is overwhelming. Yet, it's also pleasant. He doesn’t know why, but he soaks in your sunlight. You're smiling t him as you babble on and on. The words are blurred from your frantic tongue. But, at some point, Medkit can’t help but follow along too, and he finds the faintest of smiles gracing his usually rigid features. Every time he meets your gaze, he practically admires that brightness he is so absent of. You babble on about something he doesn’t exactly catch. It’s not particularly a grievance of his, but you tend to speak quickly whenever you are so elated. Regardless, something clear comes through your chatter. 

“Oh, by the way,” you click your tongue, snapping your fingers as you meet his gaze. “If you don’t mind me asking...” 

“What took you so long? Knowing you, I was expecting to be late.”

Medkit pauses. His lips pursing together as he mulls over what to tell you. To tell you about his trouble, that he had been a stroll away, letting the time pass by because he was scared to confront you, only to finally come in a moment of blind courage; That would not be worth the effort. One day, maybe he won’t feel much a drowning in his stomach when he tells you about what strife lingers in his thoughts. For now, he’ll tell you little white lies— It’s not like you’d know anyway, right?

“I was occupied. My apologies.” 

You raise your brow. “Occupied by?”

“Them.”

“Oh.” 

There’s a silence that hangs between the two of you. He wonders if he’s already slipped up, saying so much with so little. Though you dispel any doubts promptly, waving your hand at him. 

“Psh- Don’t worry about those guys, let’s focus on getting a bite! I’m sure you’re hungry, it’s lunch after all.”

Then, you move your hand high up, waving it absurdly to catch the attention of any available staff. Reflexively, he lowers his gaze, letting his visage be obscured by it resting on his palm. The server clicks their pen, patiently waiting for your orders. With a quick skim of the menu, he lets you order for the two of you. While he isn’t particularly a fan of burgers, obscenely gross with oil and grease dripping down his hands. Gods, the thought alone disgusts him. He supposes he’ll let you take a reign meal plans for today, as a treat for his distance behaviour. As the server bids their farewell, promising your orders hastily, you turn to him. 

“So, Medkit, tell me about your day.”

Medkit scratches the nape of his neck, deciding to keep up with his little white lies. “Uneventful, just uneventful."

"I have got bothersome and relentless work from them as usual."

"Geez, really? That's rough."

"Of course, but it's nothing that I can't handle."

You chuckle, "Just don't exhaust yourself like you usually do, Medkit."

Medkit blinks slowly; Once, then twice. He chuckles too, soft and almost uncertain. He dismissively waves his hand at you.

"Oh, please, it's fine. I’d much rather hear what went on with you, truly.”

You seem surprised. He’s unsure why. It could be that he’s a little more straightforward than usual. He hopes he isn’t coming off as curt and snappy, that’s the last thing he wants you to think of him. 

“Oh,” you blink; Once, then twice. “Really?”

“Really.” He drums his fingers against the laminated table, “If I remember right, you said you got a teaching internship recently. Could you tell me about it?”

“Ah! You remember!” You somewhat squeal, sitting upright, “Yeah, I got a student teacher job in downtown Crossroads. Uh, where to start?” 

You contemplate for a moment, then you smile, “Okay, so–”

This time, he tries his best to discern your tongue. Somehow, you’re even brighter than before. Your hands are wildly gesturing all over for emphasis. Your smile is wider than it typically is, letting the wrinkles of your face glow. Your eyes have a distinct twinkle that he feels nobody in this diner would miss. It feels like nothing has passed, that nothing has changed. It was the same as it always was and it always will be. He hopes, at least. 

Maybe, it was a good day. With you, that is.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: dude. I COMPLETELY MISREAD YOUR REQUEST. I TOOK IT AS LETTING MEDKIT LISTEN TO YOUR DAY. TS PMO. 🥀 I STILL nailed down some of the original request, but omg whoever you are, please feel free to request again because i feel SO bad 😭😭😭unless you actually enjoy this but OH MY GOD IM SO SORRY

ultimately, this was such a cute thing to write... i ave to admit that medkit isn't my favourite, but writing him is so fun!!! i decided to leave this relationship as ambiguous if you cant tell...So feel free to interpret it as platonic, romantic or something In between heh

[s0fter-sin]

god the way ghost’s voice drops when he tells soap, “you’ll need to improvise to survive”

before that, everything he says is steady but when he acknowledges that soap’ll have to do something outside his skill set, something he intimately knows to be difficult, his voice wavers. he does the same when he says, “welcome to guerrilla warfare”; it’s sombre and serious in a way he doesn’t act for the rest of the mission. if you read into it enough, he almost sounds apologetic; like he knows exactly what soap’s about to go through and wishes he didn’t have to

he keeps soap going; poking at him and making jokes, giving him tips and asking about his progress. he never lets him stop and take a second to think bc he knows the moment he does is the moment it'll all hit him; the betrayal, the pain, the fear, the deaths, all of it will drown him and if that happens, soap won't make it

he needs him to be a soldier through and through and he knows this is one of the worst kinds of battlefields you could end up on

and the only times he slips is when he acknowledges that fact

it happens again when he says, "tryin' to get you here alive and in one piece". his jovial dark humour facade drops for just a moment when he has to face the potential reality of losing soap. then he tries to pick it back up again with, "one of us has to survive to tell the tale"; completely discounting himself as a survivor to try and rally soap and make him think it’s all down to him

and soap does the same thing

when he's calling out for ghost on the radio, he's tentative, testing the frequency, then when he doesn’t get a response, he grows desperate; "ghost, this is 7-1, do you copy?"

then when ghost answers, he smooths out his voice; he hides the pain, the fear, and no matter what response you give to ghost asking if he’s injured, soap brushes it off (“i’m good”, “what’s the difference?”, “i’m not a medic”). soap decides it’s in ghost’s best interest to hide the extent of his injuries

he doesn’t know where ghost is, if he’s secure, if he has any weapons; he doesn’t even know if he’s in las almas until he says, “there’s a church, i’m headed to it”. for all he knows, he could’ve run in the complete opposite direction. if ghost knows he’s hurt, then his attention would be split between his own survival and soap’s

and soap, who lets himself be poked and prodded towards the church, needs to hide his own doubts. maybe he needs ghost to believe he'll make it so he himself can believe it ("what are my odds?" "don't make me bet against you", "think i'll live that long?" "probably not")

he all but begs ghost to tell him he'll get through it and if he knows just how bad off he is, maybe he'll change his mind. maybe he'll think he won't make it to the church

maybe he'll leave him alone for good

"you injured?"

"i’m good"

"let's find out how good you are"

[niceboyeds]

but daddy i love him (e.m)

pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader

summary: sometimes you have to put the gossipers in their place, and sometimes you have to give them something to talk about. inspired by none other than the masterpiece that is The Tortured Poets Department!

contains: bullying, fluff, language, sexual innuendos if you squint, i think that's it but please reach out if i missed anything!

word count: 1.2K

a/n: hi babies I'm baaaack! with that said I'm rusty so please don't hurt my feelings lmao. i have an idea for a smutty pt. 2 if enough of you want it! okay here we go...

(tagging some mutuals so i don’t get lost in the blackhole: @luvmunson @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @munsonology @lightvixxen @ali-r3n @espressomunson 🫶)

masterlist

-----------------------------------

there was always something exciting about being with a bad boy. but then again, there was nothing “bad” about Edward Munson. he may get a bad rap but, aside from his lunchbox goodies, he is a gentleman before anything else. and a damn good lover. 

you sit in the diner with your friends, snickers and snide remarks could be heard all throughout the room and dozens of eyes burn into the back of your head for what felt like the millionth time. unfortunately that’s one of the prices to pay living in a small town like Hawkins.

Eddie is better than you, though, and doesn’t let it get the best of him. and while you know you could never physically fight someone, you still aren’t shy enough to threaten it. you are, to put it gently, less “reserved” with your words, and make sure to put the lonely housewives and their preppy children in their place about their assumptions of him. 

things have gotten worse as your dating life has expanded out beyond the four walls of Eddie’s quaint trailer or the few friendly drunks at the hideout once a week. you and Eddie both craved being together in public and decided long ago that you don’t care who has something to say about it. 

besides, you know who the real Edward Munson is, you don’t believe what the judgmental church-goers or ex-cheerleaders think of you. the only time it gets you is when you can see it hurting him. 

throughout lunch you keep one hand in his, feeling him tense up every so often when he hears his name come out of their mouths. 

“i wouldn’t be caught dead with that freak!” you hear from a group of your old classmates’ table followed by an eruption of laughter. 

Eddie squeezes your hand three times before letting go, scooting his chair out from the table and excusing himself to the restroom. the friends at your table all look to you for the next move, enough looks of defeat for you to end this once and for all. with a soft smile, you throw a $20 bill on the table and rise from your seat. 

“sorry guys.” you sigh, motioning for them to gather their things to leave as you push in your chair and make your way to the table across the room. Dustin trots his way to the restroom to grab Eddie as you hear Robin say your name softly, urging you to leave it be but everyone knows you can’t.

“hey guys! how are you?” you beam at your old friends, doing your best to smile at them. “Stacy, Lauren, Molly…” you exaggerate her name, informing her you heard her comment loud and clear. 

mumbles of good’s and small nods emit from them and their eyes bounce to one another nervously. “aw that’s so good to hear!” you beam, “i’m doing great too, in case you were curious. ya know, i couldn’t help but overhear you guys chatting over here and i just felt like i needed to come say hi.” their smiles drop immediately as you talk, and you let them sit in their fear of what you’ll say next. 

“yeah, you know what they say… once a bitch always a bitch, right?” silence fills the diner and you hear Max cough to cover her giggle at the door. 

“i’m sorry?” Lauren scoffs, genuinely unable to comprehend the fact that you might be putting them in their place. 

“aw, you should be. because let’s face it, it’s pretty embarrassing that we graduated years ago and you still act like this.” you look at them with pure disgust, knowing they haven’t changed in the slightest. you speak with confidence, your tone still friendly, “and to think you used to truly care for me.”

“w-we do still care for you. we just want what’s best for you.” Stacy chirps as the other two nod along with her.

“what’s best for me? pretending like you’re all some fucking saints walking around and saying you’re praying for me to ‘come to my senses’ as if i have no control over my own life? who i love is my choice, so save your prayers for yourself because you’re the most judgmental creeps i’ve ever met.”

you turn to leave, your sweet group of friends still standing by the door waiting for you, Eddie having joined them just in the heat of your argument. reaching for his hand, you crack open the door and turn one last time to their table. 

“and by the way? i’m having his baby!” their eyes widen with horror and their mouths fall agape as you follow Eddie through the door and giggle, skipping to be directly next to him.  

“woah, woah, woah?! you’re pregnant??” Steve asks, genuinely unsure as you laugh at his question. 

“no, i’m not. but oh my god did you see their faces??” 

Eddie chuckles alongside you, and you feel relieved he’s made light of the situation along with you. “yeah, not yet.”

~~~~~~~~

you sit on the couch with Eddie seated directly in front of you on the shaggy carpet. one by one you twirl his messy curls into ringlets with an unfathomable amount of hair products. you feel his once tense body relax against your knees as he twiddles with the frayed pieces of your blue jeans. 

“it’s true, y’know…” he says softly, barely above a whisper. 

“what’s that?” you ponder, curious more-so as to why his tone has saddened during your comfortable silence.

“what they all say. that you’d be better off with someone else- someone other than me..?”

“no, i don’t think they know what the hell they’re talking about.” your hands continue to work on his hair, with only a few sections left you couldn’t allow yourself to leave it be. But you continue to reassure him. 

“Eds, i don’t care that they think i shouldn’t be with you. i want to be with you. I love you. isn’t that what matters? not what all these bored-ass people think, but what we want?” 

“you… you love me?” he turns his head to face you once you drop the final curl back against his head. an ear to ear grin plastered on his face and his eyebrows wiggle. 

“of course i love you, silly. i love you more than i have the words to express.” you tell him truthfully, knowing in your heart that he is the man for you. 

“i love you too. i love you so fucking much.” 

he stands up from his crouching position, pulling you up from the couch with him. your lips instinctively crash into his. 

you interlock your fingers around his neck, trying to bring him closer to you as if you weren’t already impossibly close to him. you sloppily kiss each other before you pull away from him, a small string of saliva still connecting you to him as your lips separate. 

“eww!” you laugh, before pulling him by the hand and dragging him down the hallway to his bedroom. “come on, slow poke!”

“hey! i thought you said you weren’t having my baby.” he teased, bringing up the silly comment you had said earlier at the diner. 

“yeah, not yet.”

[captain-mj]

Wrote this at a laundromat so I hope you guys like it

Ghost had just moved to Scotland to get away from everything. His family's murders stayed a constant thought in his mind, but more than that, he didn't want anyone still loyal to Roba to find him. After wiping them off the map, he decided to do something he never thought possible.

Chose himself.

So he made his way to Scotland where no one would know Simon Riley and he bought a house and lived next to a small town so he could go over and get whatever supplies he needed before coming to hide again.

That's where he met him.

A local man who apparently was involved in the church and was in general a great person.. Most people referred to him as Soap, which Ghost thought was a very strange name, but he had also heard MacTavish which seemed more realistic.

The man saw Ghost, probably decided he was emotionally vulnerable, and decided to skulk around him. He asked, begged, pleading for Ghost to join his congregation.

Ghost turned him down each time, though he did love to see a pretty man beg. Once, he lifted lifted his mask, let him see the Glasgow smile cut into his cheeks. He hoped that Soap would assume gang member or miscreant and leave him alone, but it seemed to spur him on.

Soap MacTavish, savior of big buff men. Patron saint of being annoying.

Ghost started... watching him. The way he moved. His smile, just a little too wide with teeth a little too sharp.

He was... handsome. Seemingly kind. But Ghost was like a stray. He didn't trust affection and he wanted to keep it that way. No matter how honeyed Soap made his words or how kind the scraps he offered. Something about the man was unsettling.

Soap simply knocked on his door one day at dusk. Ghost only answered when he had his mask on. He had some kind of food in containers. "Hey! Several people I know made me these and gifted them to me, but I don't think I'll be able to eat all they gave me. Thought you might appreciate them. I know I'd be homesick, in such a new area."

Ghost stared at him, hands itching. "How did you know where I lived?"

"i knew the people who lived here before. Laid them to rest myself. Saw their last rites and all that. No other empty house around for miles."

"Other people know...?"

"Doubt it. Most don't think of you too much." Soap sniffed, looking around. "I assumed that's what you'd prefer."

"It is. Thanks."

Soap smiled. "I'll keep it between us." He kept standing there. Just waiting.

"I'm not going to invite you inside."

Immediately, those soft lips turned into a pouty frown. "At least take the desserts. I really do have no use for them."

Ghost didn't want to disappoint him for some reason, so he awkwardly took the food. "Okay. Address between us right?"

"Of course. With God as my witness." Soap grinned and left.

If Ghost would've thought about it, he'd made him promise to never come back as well. But he did not do that.

He went into his kitchen and opened the container.

Cranachan. Ghost had heard of it. The King of Scottish Desserts.

He grabbed a spoon and brought a bite to his mouth slowly. There was a thick cream with oats and raspberries. When he put a bite in his mouth, he could taste the honey and whiskey.

It was so good.

Ghost dug in on his couch. He was pretty sure this was supposed to be something he'd eat off for a few days, but he devoured all of it in one sitting. There was more of the raspberries sauce and Ghost found himself licking it from his fingers. A warmth settled in his chest from it.

Maybe Soap wasn't terrible.

Ghost got ready to start his routine of checking all of the windows and doors, but his couch suddenly felt so comfy. He felt his eyes start to close, the warmth spreading more.

For the first time since being a kid, Ghost slept all the way through the night with no nightmares.

Ghost cleaned up from the night before, feeling comfy. He noticed one of his windows was unlocked and chided himself for being so forgetful. After two sweeps of the house, he was sure no one was in his house and nothing was missing.

The dishes sat on the counter, suddenly suspicious. The idea of there being something in it was preposterous.

Ghost cleaned the dishes. "He's a fucking poster boy for good. You're being paranoid."

As time went on, he noticed things. Always on his porch or right outside. Tapping or animal noises or sometimes visions of someone right outside. The wonderful night of sleep was the last time he slept for a while.

Soap showed up again. A cross necklace Ghost couldn't remember seeing was around his neck. He looked apologetic as he had more of the delicious treat. "Sorry. It's raspberry season so everyone is making it and... well... I don't really have much of a sweet tooth."

Ghost looked at him coldly. "And you're bringing it to me? No orphans to give it to? Children to target?"

It was the first time Soap had looked upset at him. Ghost was a military man. He dealt with that constantly back in his troop. But for some reason, Soap's unhappiness got under his skin.

"No, Ghost. I just... thought you might be feeling lonely. Ya probably think I'm naive. Small town guy, always trying to talk to you..." He looked embarrassed. "Never met someone from Manchester. And before you ask, I figured it out by your accent."

Ghost looked at him for a few minutes before looking away to pretend he wasn't affected by him. "I don't."

"Gotcha... I can just... take the food."

"No. I'll still take that." Ghost quickly grabbed the home made food, noticing Soap's flash of a smile. He bit his lip as he cradled the food. "Look, I'm not a good guy. Definitely not someone you need around you."

Soap looked at him sadly. "Even outside of my faith, I still think all people deserve someone. I just... want to try to make you feel less lonely."

Ghost sighed. "Alright. Come in."

Soap got so excited. He carefully walked inside and glanced around, moving his weight back and forth between each foot.

Ghost sat on the chair he had. "Haven't exactly bought much furniture. But you're allowed to get comfy."

Soap grabbed the couch and smiled brightly. There was something about him. He looked at him and his eyes... had a shimmer to it.

Ghost paused, holding the bowl.

"Are you going to put it away? Or eat it right now?" Soap asked conversationally. He batted his eyelashes.

Ghost gnawed on the inside of his cheek. "Gonna put it away for now."

"I see. Have you been sleeping well? This place seems... so isolated. I don't think I could ever quite get a good sleep."

Ghost couldn't think of a good answer besides the truth. "Sleep has never came easy to me."

Soap frowned, batting his eyelashes at him. "I'm sorry. I hope it gets easier for you." He seemed so genuine. So sweet.

Ghost shrugged. "Thank you..."

They started to slip into rather easy banter, but he found his eyes getting heavier.

Soap got up and picked his way over. For a moment, Ghost was afraid. He almost lashed out, afraid. But he didn't touch him. He leaned in, eyes glowing against the backdrop of everything around them. "Sleep well, Ghost."

Ghost fell asleep on his chair. Soap locked the door on the way out but he didn't lock the windows.

Ghost found Tommy's photo album and went through them. He looked at the various photos of him and his family and he found himself missing them again. They looked so cute. So perfect. He left them on his coffee table, messy and covering every inch.

Joseph looked up at him, bright smiling face.

Simon was holding him. Blond curls that he spent too much time keeping bleached. No scarring.

He felt like he was going crazy as things... moved around his house. Things moved right out of the corner of his eyes. So he started preparing.

Guns were tucked into every hiding place he could. Knives even more so. He started to work out again for the first time in a few weeks. Luckily he hadn't lost too much of his physique.

Ghost eventually found himself eating the cranachan. He slept well. It was unsettling.

Right before dawn, Soap arrived at his house. The clouds were churning together but there was still some sunlight streaming through. "I brought coffee. Are you a coffee person?"

Ghost wasn't usually, but rather than deal with Soap's sad look again, he took the drink. He sipped it and found himself pleasantly surprised at how good it was.

Soap smiled. "Have any plans?"

"Gonna make breakfast... wanna join?" Why did he say that??

Soap smiled and quickly walked in. "I'd love to."

Ghost started to cook. He had been trying to learn more cooking lately so hopefully it wasn't too bad.

Soap looked thankful when he set it down and started to eat. They did so in basically silence. The cross necklace kept catching the light so he kept staring at it. When he lifted his gaze to look at his eyes, they made direct eye contact.

Soap's eyes. They were so dark. Like a shark.

Ghost felt for the gun under his side table. He tried to keep up conversation.

"Don't grab that gun, Simon."

Ghost paused what he was doing, watching the cross necklace sway where it sat. "What?"

Soap sighed. "Don't be like that. The gun your hand is on. Don't grab it." His nails clicked against the table. Too long. Too alarming. "Be a good boy, Simon."

Ghost stared at him, debating what could be done here.

"I'm not going to hurt you."

"What are you?"

"Not a danger to you." Soap answers a little pedantically. "I promise." His canines. They were long and curved.

Ghost glanced at the coffee. "You were drugging me."

Soap hummed. "No. More of a... side effect of my presence. You feeling anything right now?"

Ghost could feel something tugging at the edge of his consciousness but nothing too severe. "What do you want?"

Soap swallowed. "I'm hungry. Starving."

"You saw me up here. Being vulnerable. And decided you could fuc-"

"No. Not quite. I... I know you could keep a secret."

Ghost blinked, realizing the situation. "You're... asking."

Soap looked pained. "I am. A... deal. I keep everyone away. Tell them whatever I need so they leave you alone and I get to..." His eyes trailed to Ghost's throat.

"How bad is the feeding?"

"Not bad! I take about as much blood as a blood donation. Easy peasy. I'll even bring you food for recovery just please..."

Ghost undid the top button of his shirt and Soap looked ready to wiggle out of his seat. The poor man was salivating.

Why was he doing this?

it was stupid.

Idiotic.

Self-sacrificing.

The mask hit the table.

"Go for it."

Soap leapt over the table and sat in his lap. Teeth sank into his throat as he held him, holding him tight. They pressed together and Ghost could feel the unsettling chill that came from Soap.

He grabbed the table, almost white knuckling it.

Pain radiated from where he was being stabbed into and he felt himself go lightheaded. Soap's ass was pressed firmly to his lap though and it felt...

pleasurable.

Slowly he sank into it, feeling Soap take his fill.

His pretty boy thanked him, lips bright red from blood. "Thank you. Thank you. You're perfect. My angel from heaven."

Their lips touched and Ghost groaned softly.

Soap panted in his ear. "I'll be good. Promise. Take care of you." His claws sank into Ghost who was wondering how bad the situation he landed himself was.

[star-suh]

🎃 The Posessed 🎃

jung wooyoung x male reader

cw: top priest wooyoung, profanity or sacrilege(?), hierophilia, exorcism porn, slapping, voyeurism, a sprinkle of yunho at the end.

an: i don't know much about how fathers talk yk like when they use those words like 'shall' so i won't use them.

—

y/n was walking to his home when a paper sheet hit his face, it was in an ancient language, he just folded it, saved it in his pocket and went home. while walking he felt his leg burning, the paper sheet was burning and some type of seal was imprinted on his leg. he decided to walk to his home and rest hoping the feeling would dissipate soon. it was night and y/n was sweating a lot and feeling immense heat and his dick was rock hard he started to hump his bed but nothing calmed his needs. hearing growls and moans y/n's friend went to his room and there he was, y/n was crawling in the walls and ceiling "the fuck are you looking at?" a demonic voice coming out of y/n's mouth, scared of what was happening to his friend the dude decided to go to the nearest church and ask the father to practice an exorcism on him. "hello, i'm father wooyoung in what can i help you?" he asked, a tired guy trying yo catch his breath responded "my… my friend i think… he's possesed. he was crawling the … fucking walls", "don't say bad words in the temple of god, son" the father responded "where does he lives?"....

y/n was now with his hands and feet tied up with ropes to each corner of the bed, "i suggest you to leave the house, i don't want another person to get possesed" suggested the father to the other guy who ran immediately from there. "so… where are you going to start?" asked the possessed y/n, "what do you mean? start what?" asked the father, "start to break this hungry ass" laughed y/n putting his thighs together trying to get some friction for his hard dick "it feels so hot inside just put inside please, it's already wet down there no need for lub" he says while sticking out his tongue and licking his lips. father wooyoung started to sweat those nasty words going straight to his dick who it's starting to get hard "what's your name demon?" he asked in a demanding tone "fuck yeah daddy, i like the dom ones" mocked y/n moaning and biting his lower lip. father wooyoung was starting to feel frustrated and horny too, something in the air was making him dizzy "what's your name demon?, leave this innocent person alone and go back to where you belong" he started to read the bible and point a crucifix towards y/n.

"wait" said y/n in his normal voice "what is happening?" father wooyoung looked at him surprised "i'm trying to save you son" he says but y/n's face turned into a mocking smirk. he laughed hysterically "c'mon i know you want it too" says the possessed guy breaking the ropes "honestly i don't know why people keep using ropes to tied possessed ones" he says rubbing his hands "aren't they supposed to have super strength?... anyways" y/n sat in a doggy position and rubbed his ass on father wooyoung's bulge "fuck it is so big, give it to me please" says y/n being a blushing mess and sticking out his tongue "you're a slut, get the fuck away from me" father wooyoung slapped y/n's hands very hard making him moan "fuckk~ i love that" y/n then grabbed his pants and ripped them apart showing his inviting hole craving for cock "fucking bitch" says father wooyoung with his notorious bulge forming a tent in his clothes "go back to hell and leave this person alone. the power of christ compels you" he repeated that last phrase three times and everytime he says it y/n moaned as if he was enjoying it. feeling defeated father wooyoung fell to the floor not knowing what to do, he stared at y/n's hole clenching while he was fingering himself "come and replace this fingers with your thick veiny cock father. exorcize me with that holy meat" he moaned while humping the bed again, as if he was possessed too father wooyoung just stood up, discarded his clothes and slapped his cock between y/n's ass cheeks "look what you're making me do" said the father worriedly, "don't fight the feeling, let yourself go and enjoy the feeling" moaned y/n with the father's tip inside of his ass already "fucking slut!!!" yelled the father slamming all his meat inside y/n at once making him see stars "hngh…. shit, i love this" says a cockdrunk y/n.

father wooyoung kept banging y/n's corrupted hole "i'm gonna expulse that slut demon out of you with my holy cock" he says with a mix of disgustment and pleasure on his face. y/n started to jerk off feeling that sensation in his lower tummy "you know for being a father you surely fuck good", father wooyoung slapped his face "shut the fuck up" he says with hatred, then grabbed y/n's dick and stroke it as hard as he could making him cum at the spot, it looked like a fountain of white sticky cum painting everything around it in white ropes. he doesn't realize it but y/n's eyes turned back to his normal color and the seal of his leg dissapeared "take this sacred seed and repent from your sins, manwhore" he says feeling his cock throbbing inside y/n filling him up with thick cum. feeling exhausted he positioned his hands on the side of y/n's head, both making eye contact, father wooyoung's sweat falling onto y/n's skin "father what is happening?" asked y/n feeling confused bit the sight in front of him was majestic, father wooyoung is hiding a smoking hot body under all those clothes, y/n just locked his arms on father wooyoung's neck and kiss him, the older corresponding to the kiss and started to thrust again going for a second round…

demon yunho was sitting on a tree, all this time he was watching the pornographic event while jerking off. with a movement of his hands he made the seal disappear and therefore recovered the part of his soul "that father fucks so good, damn" he says as he prepares to return to his lusty kingdom…

people were surprised seeing how y/n, someone who almost never went to church on his own, is now the first to go when it opens. what they don't know is that he is going to kneel but not exactly to pray "forgive me father for i have sinned" says the boy, father wooyoung just caresses his cheek and then slap it gently with his thick veiny cock "i forgive you my son" y/n just open his mouth and he starts to mouthfuck the boy. they spent the rest of their lives committing profanities giving in to their sexual desires and fantasies.

[thatbitchery]

Please teach us how to build a reputation!!! More Tips to build it outside of school also pretty please 🥺

To build a reputation is to carefully weave together an opinion of yourself through other people's eyes. While there is a lot of freedom and wisdom in I don't care what people think about me, it's important to understand that there is more power in controlling what people think about you. We live among people with people through people, it would be stupid to overlook the damage or joy a reputation would bring us. And the thing is- whether you like it or not, you already have a reputation. People already have an opinion of you, and will treat you according to it. Isn't it more productive then, to take control of it?

The first step of building love is, of course, deciding what you want that reputation to be. There are a few key questions to and mid points to consider and ask when it comes to this

Who am I

What do I want

Where do I want to be

Given who I am, what is the smoothest way to get there?

What is my current reputation? What is right with it? What is wrong with it?

If I was to craft my reputation from scratch, my first point would be who i am perceived as vs who I want to be perceived as. Example- I am loud and erratic and impulsive and I want to be quiet and cool and mysterious. Now, is that achievable? Perhaps- but given it's symptoms of a personality disorder that I can do nothing about, well. It will be unnecessarily hard as I will be fighting myself every second and it's a fight I can not win. At some point the mask is bound to fall. Well then how can I achieve that quiet cool mysterious girl vibe when I am a professional yapper full of energy? I could

a) Find two or three people to fulfil the need to yap so I am not oversharing with strangers. Diversifying my friend groups so I am not dumping all my mental load on one person. Having accountability partners so the settings necessitate yapping. Me and my AI bot against the world.

b) Work out in the mornings to use up some of that energy. Heavyweight dance (because I love dance), aerobics, walks. More coffee and stimulants less sugars and carbs.

c) Learning to mind my business and keeping busy so I don't even have time or interest to be doing all that.

That way I can achieve my goals without constantly fighting myself. People that meet me will think of me in the way I want them to so that's a reputation point.

My second point would be to curate my vibe with my wardrobe. What would the cool, mysterious girl I want to be dress like- realistically? Vs how I dress currently. First step would be to organize my clothes into - what I wear the most - what i should wear but don't - what I never wear. From the first two it's easy to see what my current 'aesthetic' is without lying to myself. Then I'll compare that to my mood board and find an intersection. If I am currently drawn to sweatpants and t-shirts and want to morph into more elegance I could replace sweatpants with loose tailored pants, not jeans. Both allow comfort and one is more classy. If I lean into flamboyance but want a muted mysterious girl vibe I could go for smaller prints and more solid dark colors and pleats over free falling or just fitting clothes. If I'm drawn to mini skirts and bra tops it's easier to morph into high waisted A line skirts and long sleeve cropped tops and vests than it is to try for pants and long skirts. Finding to become what I want through what I am so it's easier. If you try to superimpose someone lese, it will not work. You will buy new clothes and leave them in a corner of your room. It's about controlling opinions, not self abandonment.

Third , I would find 'statements' to make. What do I go to the most? Red lip? Okay now I'm the red lip girl. Lavender scents? Okay now I'm the lavender girl. It's very easy to establish reputation in organized society eg office, school, church, etc. Sitting at the same spot every day, having the same cup / bottle everyday, sticking to a color scheme, etc. For me I am a braids red lip (got it tatted) dark eyeliner (got it tatted) citrus scents (From body wash to lotion to hair spray to home scents to laundry powders and soap to the air freshener in my car to candles to everything I am a citrus girl) and my black watch and silver stud earrings (Three left ear one right) they do NOT change and my black nails since I was sixteen. So when people see these things they immediately think of me. Having statement pieces / things that you use everyday.

Fourth, I would write what I want to be known as and just- get rid of everything else, at least in public, and hit the milestones of what i want. For example, I want to be known as a nice Christian soft society lady that's non threatening but approachable. The milestones - going to society Christian events, being non judgmental, dressing appropriately, almost consistent church attendance, being nice and non-political (and when I am , I lean into the side closest to Christianity). DO I believe in any of this? No, so I only hit the milestones and stay off the rest.

It's not about who I am, it's about what I want to be known as. Keeping it close enough to who I am so I don't have to fight myself to keep at it since it's so close to natural but knowing it's a part I am playing.

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Worship

Hello!!! I thought I'd throw an idea out there :3 So I absolutely love god aus, but obviously you don't have to do that, just a thought, I'm just thinking of Janus or Virgil suffering in some way and Roman doing something to protect them, since they're always the ones comforting him? Might be fun to switch it up If you do decide to do this have fun! If not no worries :3 :3 – anon

Read on Ao3

Warnings: none

Pairings: prinxiety

Word Count: 2232

In a world of many gods and goddesses, one of the lesser-known deities goes without a name, simply known as the Storyteller. Virgil is one of their few followers, living on the outskirts of a densely populated city. His is not an extravagant faith, but it is a potent one.

 

It's the same as it always is. Candles knocked over and his books scattered on the floor. At least they didn't rip any pages out this time.

Virgil sighs, crouching down. He sets his basket on the ground and focuses on making sure none of the pages have creased beyond repair. A few of the books landed on their splayed pages and he winces at the marring of the fading ink, but for the most part, everything looks to be intact. He gathers them to his chest and begins to rearrange them on the small plinth, careful to keep the covers turned toward the flames to reduce the risk of fire. When the books have been arranged just so, he picks up the candles too and reaches into his pocket for his flint and steel.

Out of the many shrines in the city, it's always the ones down at this end that constantly get ruined. Possibly because it's closest to the busy end of the alley, more likely because these gods do not carry the worship of the state. These are the ones that have smaller sects, no grand churches or temples or holy sites, and so they are the ones that require more constant upkeep. Virgil doesn't mind. He has an agreement with some of the people that worship the gods at neighboring shrines. He lets them know when the altar's been ruined, they let him know when his has been. Granted, he's not the only worshiper around here, but he is the most predictable.

At some point, he'll sit back and wonder why it is that this one is the one that seems to be destroyed most often, but that's something he can wonder when his fresh food from the market is not in danger of being swiped by cunning little mouths.

2.

He gets word that the statue on the cliffside had been defaced, and he packs a small bag to take with him. The path is lined with old rocks laden with moss and cracks. Small flowers take root and grow along the edge of the stone steps. At the top of the cliff overlooking the water, there is a circle of stones around the statue. Virgil winces at the crude glyphs painted over the statue's face, hands, and the book it holds aloft.

He sets down his bag and fetches the rag and water. The types of soap he would typically use to clean this are too harsh for the old limestone, and even the water he tries to use sparingly so he won't damage the statue's features. Wind and rain have worn away the details, leaving only the vague outline of a mouth, open in speech, a nose, and kind eyes watching the story weave itself together. As he works, he can help glancing behind himself every so often.

Was this a place where stories were told often? Was it only for special occasions?

Is there a more special occasion than being alive?

The words drift back to him and he smiles, turning his attention back to the statue. As he works, he tells the little stories of being alive. About the cats that run through the alley, begging for scraps. About the new merchants that have come to sell their jewelry and all the other stalls had seen fewer customers that day. About the new recipe his friend had tried and how good it had tasted. Small stories. Short stories. Stories that make up the patchwork of a life.

He wonders if that was the sort of story that would make it into any book, no matter how insignificant. He cleans the statue's hands and wonders if it would be willing to hold such a book.

3.

These were originally sung.

Virgil turns the page in the old book and squints at the faded words. It had been a chance find by an old friend, a book from ages long past that only Virgil had wanted in the end, for he was the only one who could recognize the god's name. He'd taken the fragile thing home wrapped in a cloth and thin string of twine, unwrapping it carefully by his own tiny shrine and reading by the light of the candle. There were words he didn't recognize, words he had no idea how to pronounce, and stories woven in tongues he could never hope to understand.

You could say, then, he was shocked when the thought that they were to be sung occurred to him.

What for? They didn't match any meter or pattern of any song he recognized, nor did he have any inclination as to what the tune was supposed to be. And even if he did, that was no guarantee he'd be able to sing it. No one had ever had the courage to say he was very musically inclined, let alone be able to sing songs of a god that had not been breathed since the book was last opened.

Still, now that the thought's occurred to him, it's almost impossible to get out of his head. So, he starts humming. No melody, not really a rhythm either, just reading the book and letting it decide when he should change notes. He just reads and hums and does his best to let them wash over him. Even if he can't understand it, maybe he can feel what it might have been like to hear them sung.

The candles flicker a little as the sun sets. The book doesn't look as though it's any different, but slowly it occurs to Virgil that he shouldn't be able to see as well in this level of light as he had when the sun was still out. He glances at the candles, then back at the book, and turns the page. Sure enough, the words stand out as easily as they ever have…in fact, they might be a little bit clearer.

He continues humming with a smile on his face.

4.

'Your god should be your focus, your life, your purpose. You should devote your life to theirs, as they have spent their existence to ensure you have yours.'

A lot of people like to talk about their gods like that. There is one house of worship that Virgil journeys past every moon devoted to a dark god—he's not exactly sure what the god's powers are, nor what domain he represents, all he knows are the black tentacle-like tattoos the acolytes wear and the fact that the god, apparently, prefers blondes. Every time he passes, he sees one of the priestesses surveying the courtyard—as if she were its ruler, not the god the temple was devoted to, but her—and the way she looks at him makes him hold his cloak a little tighter around his body. As though he were doing something wrong by not wearing his worship of his god on his skin as brazenly as they did.

Others talk about their gods. All the time. Every sentence, every little thing that happens, is because of their god. The rain, the sun, the harvest, the storm, the way their neighbor smiled at them this morning, the way a bird came and landed on their roof last night. Everything was attributed to some divine message, leaving no room for the quietness of life to breathe. Virgil feels exhausted just imagining that—what would be the point of being so controlling if you didn't have the time to breathe and enjoy the security of it?

And then there were those that thought he didn't worship. Not that they frowned upon him for it, but sometimes the way they talked…as though he couldn't understand what it was like to believe in a higher power. As though he didn't have the discipline to worship, as though he didn't have the faith. As though the shrine in his house didn't exist, as if the hours he spent writing his own story in a leather-bound notebook he'd saved every coin for wasn't worth it, as though he didn't believe.

But his worship isn't for them. It's for him, and his god, and that was enough. And if he arrived home to find a small pot of ink when he'd thought he'd run out yesterday, well, that was between him and his desk drawer.

5.

The thing about stories is that they're meant to be shared. Virgil is many things, but a man with a large group of friends, he is not.

In some ways, he is content not to share his worship. There's something unique, he's found, in storytelling. You can tell a lot about a person by the type of stories they read, or the types of stories they tell. Even if you don't believe so at first, over time, if you hear enough of them, you get to know that person quite well. Virgil is not keen on being so known, not by the sorts of people that he would share this worship with. Because they wouldn't understand, he tells himself, or it wouldn't be fair. He would have to show them how it feels by lying himself bare, with no hope of whether they would understand and do the same.

But sometimes, sometimes he gets…lonely.

His home is small. Humble. His bed has just enough room for his clothes in a trunk underneath. His kitchen is barely more than a stove and a small set of cabinets. He has a tiny desk, crammed into the space under his shrine. He has a few things on the walls, one old bundle of cloth wrapped around his traveling gear in the corner by the firewood. On cold nights, he sleeps right by the fire, and even then, he doesn't feel warm enough.

In the pages of the books, he reads about the importance of companionship. That nights are cold and colder alone, that we were made to warm each other and there is no other warmth quite like it. Sometimes he curls up with one of them, just to read about it and imagine it. He thinks that might be his most poignant worship: a strange yearning, a longing that worries itself into his bones and makes him ache tenderly. His is not a god that values pain and suffering, but he thinks his god might have a soft spot for wanting.

He does not doubt, but he would like to see for himself. Just once.

+1.

There is a man outside his door.

He opens it, a little stunned. Partly because there is no reason for someone to show up as his door unannounced, and partly because this stranger is sublime.

He invites the stranger in, belatedly, and sheepishly offers to cook. It's around that time of day anyways, and he has a little extra of the nice meat from the butcher because he did them a favor last week. The stranger smiles, thanks him, asks if Virgil needs help. Virgil shakes his head and offers the good chair, the one that doesn't creak when you sit on it, and carefully pours a cup of mead too. The stranger takes it and thanks him again.

Virgil tries to keep himself focused on the cooking, but he can't help glancing over his shoulder every once in a while to see what the stranger does. He spends a fair amount of time looking around, at the fireplace, at Virgil's desk, at the shrine, but mostly, he's watching Virgil. To the point where Virgil just starts talking, just so that it makes a little more sense as to why he's being looked at so by someone so…so.

The stranger listens perfectly. Laughs in the right places, hums in the right places, asks questions and offers comments when Virgil pauses for breath. Virgil asks questions of his own, and receives vaguer answers, more cryptic answers, though all delivered with some secret smile like there's a joke the two of them share. When the food has been eaten, Virgil expects the stranger to tell him who he is, or what he's doing here, but nothing comes. Instead, the stranger helps him clean up, and when Virgil says that it's alright, he's capable of doing it, please, make yourself comfortable, wanders toward the shrine. No small lump appears in Virgil's throat as the stranger reaches out to take one of the books.

Do you know, I think you're the only one who tried to sing them.

And Virgil…stares. Because no one should know that. No one does know that. The only way this stranger could know that is if…if…

His eyes widen. The stranger looks at him with a soft smile, and then the book is set down and Virgil's suddenly backed against the wall with that soft smile so, so close.

Oh, God.

The stranger laughs. It sounds like music.

For you, Virgil, you can call me Roman.

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[yunieful]

continuous symphony (ver 1.1)

synopsis: referring to the actual tender moment for sylus. it's just written differently to fit with this specific AU/original character he is around. it wouldn't leave my mind. it demanded to be written.

tags: some violence in the start, wanderer shit u kno, angst, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, named main character, autistic character, alternate universe - canon divergence, idk how much divergence there is (a bit, a lot, a bit), implied/referenced self-harm, reincarnation, aware of past lives, aware of different universes, "if the men find out we can shapeshift, they are going to tell the church", we're in mc's head A LOT sorry, sylus may be ooc ehhh pairing: sylus/original character, sylus/main character (?) (genuinely the age old question for this au) word count: 4.8k

posted on ao3 too.

a/n: you don't need to understand all of it (there's more detailed explanations on the ao3 one). i just wanna cross-post or w/e it's called

Sometimes, Nova swears, Captain Jenna doesn’t want to give her the high-risk missions. Not that she doubts her captain, but it’s almost like it’s expected of her to do something reckless and dangerous. Maybe there is a possibility if it’s a mission to do with Aether cores. But she’d hope with high-risk missions—that have nothing to do with those—it is just some worry that has nothing to do with her being reckless because, well, they’re high-risk missions.

Maybe in another life I was this reckless, but I didn’t have a kid in those other lives, I’m sure.

This isn’t the best time to think of recording what lines up and what doesn’t, however. Besides, if Xavier is practically MIA, there is always Saph who can come with her. The others have…things they’re doing, that she’s aware they can’t pull themselves away from right now.

With a sharp zing, the Wanderer crumbles to nothing with her sword clutched tightly.

She glances up to see a familiar white raven fly, before glancing down and using her hearing and smell to determine if there are any more Wanderers.

With another quick glance back and forth, left and right, she shuts her eyes and looks deep within. Her core isn’t needed for this, but something else behind the curtain. A gentle bark is heard next to her, and she’s not surprised. She heard the padded steps run after her once he likely cleared his own enemies.

She crouches down. “Good boy.” Fidelis pants and wags his tail as she pats his head. Her eyes keep note some of him is becoming misty. So she mutters something, and from her view he looks completely solid. (Or as normal as a dog can get, probably.)

Her stamina is different from regular humans, but she still has to rest and take a moment before continuing on. Judging by the continuing flight of the white raven, she doesn’t have to be mobile for the time being.

Though, even if Fidelis is going to keep watch as well, none of her body can relax. There is always the potential of a Wanderer having, well, literally wandered away. That they were just licking their wounds before making another attack.

Or something else could manifest that she’s very familiar with that not many people are. She hopes nothing dark will form around here, but she can’t deny it’d be easier to handle here with no civilians around.

Still, if they did manifest, it’d just tell her that this place is dangerous for a different reason.

Fidelis barks gently again, and she grumbles.

“I should answer it.” The phone that’s been vibrating in her pocket for a few seconds now. “But also? I don’t want to.”

Yet she pulls it out of her pocket and stares at the caller ID. With her free hand, she checks the results of a Protofield scan. After doing that, she finally decides to answer the phone.

“What took you so long?”

She glances up, fixated on something, and then she turns herself around as she slowly stands on her feet. “Oh, I don’t know.” The smallest of smiles fight to leave her face but stays where it is. “Maybe I have this thing called a job.”

She likes to think he’s smirking on the other end. “I see this job leaves you vulnerable.”

Right. Something’s up his sleeve. “Does it now?”

She turns back around, fixating where she looked before, quietly noting the red dot near her leg.

Immediately, the red dot forms circles around her. Yet her eyes don’t follow it, knowing it's just to make her dizzy and irritated. That he’s messing with her.

Instead, she clutches her phone tightly, feeling something slowly prickling her spine and making something deep within vibrate and hiss.

“Very funny,” she says softly, at least, to try and be a good sport.

But then, the next few moments happen slowly. At least, it feels like it. She conjures a throwing knife hidden on her person, quick to turn around. Fidelis barks sharply and runs behind her.

A red laser beam barely breezes past her cheek at something that growls. There’s a shrill scream only a raven could make, certainly not a crow.

When everything sets back into motion, she makes a noise in discomfort.

“Sorry, Fidelis,” her leg stings, which has her slowly crumpling to the ground, “but I think Sylus wins this one.”

Her reflexes, to her shame, were just a few seconds too slow. Fidelis hadn’t fared much better.

And the white raven releases a few croaks that one would think sound like laughing, but she knows well enough they’re the grumbles of self-chastising.

“Are you done gawking? Stand up.”

Not that she enjoys following anyone’s commands, but even if she could, her leg gives resistance. Her lips form a thin line and she can’t help but growl slightly, hoping it doesn’t sound too animalistic. She tries her hardest not to get hurt or injured in any way, for Nyx’s sake, if not because of a certain doctor.

But with high risk missions—

“Your leg is bleeding,” his words stop her before she can fully reprimand herself.

He can’t prevent her nails from digging into her palms, though. At least for a second.

“I should have moved away instead of attacking.” Already she can hear the lesson about the importance of dodging run through her head. “And reacted faster.” Strive to be better, stronger.

His footsteps continue until he’s in front of her. Some part of her wonders if he wanted to help her up or just pick her up, since she has difficulty standing—who knows how it’ll be once she tries walking?

Yet he does nothing except crouch to her level. No black and red mist taking over her to force her into his arms. No rough tugs and pulls that, at one point, made her snap and bite deep into his arm—

“You’re a good hunter.” He extends out a hand, silently asking for her permission, her consent. “Not a perfect one, and that’s fine.”

With the way he says all that, she can’t help but narrow her eyes. They narrow further when inspecting his hand. Funny how I almost bit that once.

“Maybe to someone like you,” her words don’t hold much bite, with how soft she says them. “But it makes all the difference to someone else.”

Someone who’s had to be merciless, as the Viis teach with combat, especially against anyone not of their kind. Someone who’s lost a dear friend, and caused another to lose an eye. Someone who’s had heart problems since she was young, fighting to live as long as possible, so that her child could have both parents instead of one, unlike herself.

There’s a high-pitched whine, and she blinks before glancing at Fidelis.

She doesn’t even need to guess what he’s thinking.

With a small grumble, she grabs Sylus’s hand, and he smiles.

Strange.

Only because it feels, maybe, that he’s thanking her for taking his hand. So he can now hoist her into his arms while she does everything in her power to not explode from the calamity of emotions she experiences just from being this close to him again.

Leather and blood fill her nostrils, along with…it’s not exactly something burnt, but it reminds her of ashes and fire both. A part of her hates how it’s not repulsive—it’s comforting. It bothers something else behind a curtain of hers she always forces closed whenever possible. Why must his being threaten that curtain? Why must anyone threaten that one? Any more that are added as potential threats just make this all the worse, particularly for them. 

Sure, it hurts her, but she’s used to it by now. She has to be. Then maybe what rattles her ribcage so violently will stop, and she won’t ever have to remember again.

Instead of struggling to get out of his arms, she clings to him. She dares to be selfish, when she knows she shouldn’t be, and that it’ll only make it worse. But he’s warm, and she even feels…safe.

The fact he’s made no remarks about how he’s clinging to her or anything else to tease her with is strange. Sylus is not the type to miss an opportunity to tease anyone. What? Does he just know she sometimes has absolutely nothing to say? That there are always chances she can become nonverbal? Is he expecting her to say something?

Social situations continue to confuse me.

“I have a question,” she mutters, eyes fixed on the moon in the distance.

The response is quick, casual. Inviting. “Ask.”

“We’re in the middle of nowhere. Did you come all the way here to help me?”

His steady footsteps are listened to for a beat, while her jaw tightens.

“Are you really that important?”

God, I hope not.

She can’t be. Shouldn’t be.

Her sharp ears pick up the flap of wings. Already she knows based on the speed and what she senses, that it’s still the white raven keeping up with them. Mephisto’s wings make a different sound to her. (Not to mention he’s also a crow, not a raven.)

“Today, I attended a jewelry auction.”

A breath of relief escapes her, and her jaw relaxes just a bit.

“I didn’t know jewelry auctions were your thing,” she says.

At times, she thinks no auction is “his thing” unless he gets to blow it up in the end, like the time she and Saph were with him in the N109 Zone.

“They aren’t. I returned empty-handed.” Before she can even attempt to quip with something about any explosions, he continues. “And then I stumbled upon you. I would think that’s more surprising.”

It would have been surprising, up to the point she could sense him from afar. From the exact mark his red dot from his laser beam came from. And it’s highly likely he knew that she could see him or knew where he was. Being able to sense others' auras and the like has never been difficult. His gaze burns, but it’s an exact spot, and it doesn’t hurt. Not like other looks that truly burn her in some way. His gaze is always at her, but sometimes she thinks it’s past her. Again, towards that damned curtain she truly has to keep shut, unlike others.

He shouldn’t be looking there, just as much as she’s trying not to look at his own curtain.

Hard to do when she swears he wants her to peek.

“I guess it’s destiny.” Her words are dry and flat for the most part. There’s maybe a hint of humor, but it’s bitter for her. Destiny. Fate. Such laughable words. They mean everything and nothing. Even the white raven croaks, this time in genuine laughter. Any bitterness sensed is either slightly or just imagined by her.

Sylus catches on immediately. “Do you think it’s easy to make me feel touched?”

Of course not.

If it had ever been that easy…a crow and a dove would not fly together.

“No.”

That’s all she says out loud.

The longer they walk, the more time passes. Exhaustion starts seeping into her bones. Her leg isn’t really bothering her, however. Not totally surprising, as Viis have learned to be resilient and have higher pain tolerance than humans do. They’re made to survive, from what little is known about their history (and she is very aware humans know little about Viis).

Just because she can’t feel it, though, doesn’t mean it’s alright. In fact, it makes her wary. If she had trouble standing, there is no way her leg is in great shape. She’ll probably have to do desk work again, and she feels like she’s barely had any time out on the field since her last injury.

Her nails dig into her palms again, and she doesn’t care if they bleed at all.

(They already have, many times before, even not by her doing.)

“Your dog hasn’t been trailing after us for a long time now,” Sylus notes, making her stop digging her nails into her palms. “Just the raven.”

It’s hard not to roll her eyes, because he knows very well who that raven is. And he dares pretend to just notice them too. Tch.

She doesn’t even bother to be completely irritated. Just releases a sigh that’s irritated.

“Can I ask you another question?” Because she’s not going to answer about Fidelis. The raven is enough.

Without even having to look, she can imagine he’s smirking at her annoyance. “Go ahead.”

“I’m tired. Do you mind if I close my eyes for a bit?”

“If I say I do, will you stay awake?”

Her eyes are alright shut while leaning against him. “No.” Her question had been asked out of politeness.

Suddenly his voice is extremely soft, bordering on vulnerability. “A wounded person might never wake up again if they fall asleep.”

That has her eyes snap open, chest contracting tightly and sharply.

“Why are you so worried? I just want to rest for a bit. I won’t die.”

“In your current state, you might not wake up at all!”

It’s only for a few seconds, but it’s enough to make her feel like she’s forgotten to breathe. To have cold, icy needles spread throughout her fingers and up her arms. To flash back to that open field, to those different times.

To peek through that curtain, just for a few seconds—

Put it back.

“Nova.”

She straightens in his arms. If he tries to talk about the way she trembles or is unevenly breathing, she will ignore it. This is a line she refuses to cross or let be crossed. Not with him. Not with them. Only others that know are allowed. Not. Him.

“I’m going to get some rest,” it’s forced out, so it comes out sharp. But she doesn’t care. She doesn’t even want to imagine how he’s looking at her right now. What he’s feeling. “Stop messing with me.”

As she shuts her eyes, she can’t decide if she’s pleading or commanding him to stop.

His chuckles lighten her heart, perhaps even soften it. Soften it from the world that is hardening her and making her feel cold and containing no light.

“That song you played…. It’d be nice if you could play it again.”

She can’t remember too well if she had been silent, or if she quipped something in return. Something like, “You always have impeccable timing.”

Either way, she takes those solemn steps towards the pipe organ. The halls echo, and she slowly, delicately moves her hands to rest on top of those keys.

And she plays.

She plays the beginning of a song, born from her mind and soul, as many things are. And she lets it flow, feeling at ease, finding it much easier to always demonstrate and show and play—so much easier than speaking, talking. Words can be much harder to say than letting her fingers touch the organ keys and play. Play what she feels.

It is easy to recite what she’s been taught. What’s been ingrained since the beginning of this her life. Yet she wanted to play what was hers.

Deep inside her chest, it makes her darkened, hardened heart soar.

Nova’s ears ring, and her eyes shut tighter behind her eyelids till she sees stars.

She swears it just makes her ears ring more, and she’s forced to open her eyes with a grumble while covering her ears. (She’s thankful to realize that she’s still a human and the disguise didn’t fall apart.)

Based on the intricate decorations accompanied with specs of dust, they’re either old or haven’t been given much cleaning.

There are also murals along the walls and prayer candles around too.

The damned bell ringing finally stops, and she lets out a small breath of relief, struggling to sit up.

“Did you sleep well?”

She sharply turns her gaze to him, which is better than acting spooked by him perceiving her being awake immediately.

Sylus smirks, like he knew she was really spooked more than anything else. “Then again, I probably know the answer.”

There is a strong temptation to throw something at him. But all she clutches is a blazer draped over her. Past that, she can see her wounded leg has been bandaged too. Making sure she wasn’t cold in the night, taking the time to bandage her when she was out. Her jaw tenses as she swallows thickly, hoping she doesn’t look as flushed as she feels.

“You—” You didn’t have to do any of this. You could have just dropped me off somewhere to get help and been on your way. I’m not….

He raises a brow at her, waiting patiently, and that just makes her stiffen further. It’s hard to be around people who don’t push her to say what she wants to say. With others, that just makes her want to clam up instead of saying anything at all. Meanwhile, he just waits.

How long do you keep waiting?

She swallows thickly.

Waiting for me?

“Thank you,” she finally gets out. It feels too loud in this church, especially with the bells no longer ringing.

“Formalities?” His tone is slightly amused, and it takes so much—once more, with feeling—to not roll her eyes. “I’m not exactly used to them coming from you.”

With a retort planned, the words die before she can even speak them.

In the distance, she sees a pipe organ, in the center of the church.

The good news is it seems he didn’t expect her to say anything back at all. So his focus turned back to the pipe organ. It gave her time to close her mouth and try to hide any bit of shock or dread shown on her face.

Is this where fate laughs at her? Is it perhaps punishing her for her failure in not becoming injured? Sure, it could be argued all the Wanderers were killed in the end anyway. They won’t hurt anyone else, but it just doesn’t stop her critiquing herself.

When she stands, thankfully she’s able to put weight on her leg now. The blazer slides off, and she’s quick to grab it and make sure it doesn’t touch the floor. Instead, it rests carefully on the pew where she’d been sleeping.

It’s like the dream all over again. Almost.

Her steps are slow when she makes her way down the aisle. The faint morning rays peek through the window to outline Sylus’s figure. Something flashes through her mind, bringing back that obsidian, the red, the scales—

She blinks, and clears her throat quietly as she continues on, quietly noting how the golden glow makes Sylus look like divinity. Which is very ironic, considering.

It’s just the two of them within this church, so either the white raven is hiding here somewhere, or she’s outside. Nova knows she doesn’t always keep an eye on her 24/7. That’d probably drive them both insane.

She runs a hand through her hair, keeping her gaze on the pipe organ. “Were you playing a song?” Sometimes it’s not hard to put on some type of act. This reminds her she has to keep her distance, to not peer in or let them do the same in turn. So she pretends there was no dream, that it wasn’t her, and that she heard him playing here. “I like it. Makes me feel,” she bites the inside of her cheek, “nostalgic, for some reason.”

And yet, a singular part of her dares to hint. Trying to ask without asking…does he know?

“...Was I?”

He certainly sounds confused, like he didn’t expect this at all, when she’s known him to practically expect everything.

Yet, in the same breath, it almost sounds like he’s testing her.

She refuses to turn around to look at him, though, because what if she accidentally gives herself away? He seems to look through her to the depths of her soul, and she doesn’t like how bare that leaves her before him. Even if he won’t do anything to harm her, it’s terrifying. There’s too much with her, and it’ll just overwhelm him.

“I wasn’t playing anything.”

Oh, no.

Maybe she shouldn’t have said anything at all.

He walks over to the pipe organ, and she merely stands there while wringing her hands nervously. What if it’s not the same song? Then you shouldn’t be worried, her mind tells her. That it’d be a relief, actually. Maybe it was someone else, or something else.

But how would it be better to bestow that fate onto another?

The question isn’t considered anymore, however, once he starts playing.

The exact same song. From a dream that was never just a dream.

She walks quietly over, hands stilled and now just clasped together in front of her.

“Was it this song?”

Such a simple question to anyone else, but to her—

“This might be hard to believe,” her voice is hoarse and she has to clear her throat to continue, “but you appeared in my dream again.”

Might as well say it, since there’s no going back now. It doesn’t mean she’ll ask the questions she’s been selfishly wanting to ask. There is no point. They shouldn’t know. It’ll just make it worse—knowing for sure will just hurt everyone.

Won’t it?

She hates having any semblance of doubt about this creep up uninvited.

“What was it about?”

Her fingers lightly touch the keys. She steadies herself with a deep breath and shuts her eyes.

Then, she plays.

He plays a few notes that she easily finishes, while her mind wanders to another place she wishes was a dream. Just a dream.

Someone placed flowers in her hair, gently singing the words to accompany the notes of the song. She listened and hummed only a little, since she knew the song enough herself. After all, they made it together.

Giggles follow after, and Nova sees a smile that could brighten the sun, if needed.

“I love when we sing together!”

She loved it when they did too.

“Hmph, you actually remembered it.”

Then she feels something trickle down her cheek, and quickly she turns away to wipe it away, ignoring the heaviness in her chest.

“I’m not sure how the song goes after this,” she mutters.

Did we ever write an after?

“There is no ‘after.’”

Such finality, with melancholy following, that has her look over her shoulder at Sylus.

“No ‘after’?” Her mind flashes with screams, cries of mercy. Fire burning every piece of happiness and freedom she held at the stake. They burned the light. “Why?”

Despite those hands being made to kill or intimidate most of the time, his touch is delicate and gentle against the pipe organ’s keys. “You didn’t want to keep playing.” Missing details fill only a little of the gaps. Tear drops falling from her eyes, hitting the keys. Heart threatening to burst from her throat with anguished cries, back then. “The song would just,” his voice catches, “end.”

And if it ended…she’d be gone for good.

They were meant to write the ending together.

Why is it that people like them must suffer this fate? So that others may live their lives in peace? Why are they doomed to remember? And, if not all memories, it’s piece after piece after piece. It all eventually sticks together with blood and tears—kept preserved by pain, heartache, and loss.

Why do they even exist?

These are specific questions she laments to a particular entity that she and others revere, but it isn’t the time or place now. Still, it’s hard not to ruminate, to have her mind wander to close companions that also must suffer the same thing. If nothing else, she’d do everything in her power to not let them suffer ever again. Even if it meant she’d be the only one suffering, or the one taking the brunt of it—her companions deserve happiness.

“Dare I ask,” her voice is quiet, but it still feels loud within these church walls, “what happened between us, Sylus?”

Slow, sure footsteps are heard, and she doesn’t even have to look to know he’s dared to get a little closer. His warmth radiates next to her, encompasses her, and a part of her relaxes just the slightest bit. Having his mere presence be a comfort at all—it’s not surprising, shouldn’t be surprising—after everything that’s transpired….

She sighs quietly, knowing she has to look up at him, when it wouldn’t be much of an issue if she wasn’t wearing her disguise.

His red eyes almost look as if they’re glowing. Her eyes rest at his nose, because otherwise the direct eye contact will devour her senses—Aether core in his eye or not.

He smiles at her knowingly. “I think you know already.”

She narrows her eyes. “What makes you say that?”

A breathy laugh escapes him. He shakes his head.

“Well, if you don’t know anything then,” her breath hitches when realizing just how little space left there is between them, “I’d rather keep you in the dark.” His voice lowers, making the hairs on her neck stand up straight and her skin tingle.

Then, he swiftly leans back and turns on his heel to walk down the aisle of pews.

These are the moments where she can’t help but stand there and not know what to do. Does he know that she knows? And he’s pretending? Or did he believe that she truly doesn’t know a thing? Believes that she is clueless to their history?

And yet, if he knows she knows…

Why taunt me like this?

“And what if I told you it’s important to me?” Her steps are swift in following after him. She curses mentally, though, because his legs are still much longer than hers when she’s like this. Catching up is difficult. “That I’d feel more at ease if you just...answered that?” There is no response, and this next growl of hers she fears is animalistic, because he just continues to be so…so—

“Sylus!” He doesn’t even stop, and she stomps her foot with teeth bared. Then she scoffs at herself. Stop slipping with your Viis habits!

“You vex me.” She seethes those three words, teeth clenched together.

That gets Sylus to look up, his blazer picked up in one of his hands. “Oh?” He smirks widely. “Your words are music to my ears.”

Nova scoffs again loudly. “Let me guess, the only words that sing to you are those three?” Three fingers are held up for emphasis.

At least the air is less stifling around them. Maybe that’s what he was going for. But did he do it for himself or for her? It brings it all back to wondering about if he knows that she knows or not.

“Many of your words sing to me,” he says, throwing the blazer over his shoulder, gripping it with one hand. “It’s just fun when they sing with a certain,” his eyes glint with mischief, “passion.” Then his gaze softens, and she can’t help but tilt her head slightly at the mood change. “Sincere feelings are hard to forget, Nova.”

There are few times Sylus says her name, it feels like. It’s usually “Miss Hunter,” “Miss Sempers,” “sweetie,” but definitely not “kitten” anymore after a certain series of events happened. (She needs to be careful on what friends she brings to the N109 Zone.) Though, when he does, she knows they’re not playing any games. Not following a song and dance that sets up a wall between them (though she thinks that’s more her doing, not his). And he says it with a weight that feels gentle and—something else she can’t quite name.

Or, maybe she can…she’s just afraid to.

He turns to look out the window, eyes narrowed. “The sun’s up, which means it’s the start of a brand new day.”

Some of her ire has dissipated, especially when catching a view of the rising sun.

If you exist again in this life…could we watch the sun again together? All of us?

A fleeting thought, but she knows it’s one of many things she dares to wish (when she shouldn’t).

“Come on. I’ll take you home.”

How he’s able to carry on like there’s nothing weighing him down, not even from this conversation—it’s something she envies. That seems to make him glow even brighter within the morning light.

She follows after, trying to soothe herself by reminding herself this is how things must be. That she doesn’t know what the truth would cause if revealed to those involved. All she can assume is the worst. Enough people carry this burden already.

It weighs as it should.

[fangweaver2099]

𝐅 𝐀 𝐖 𝐍 𝐓 𝐄 𝐄 𝐓 𝐇 - CH 2 - LONELY OLD MAN

MINORS DNI 18+ FIC

You’ve always liked the idea of having a dominant partner - BDSM was something you’ve read about, watched videos about.

Something you made Pinterest boards and aesthetic tumblr posts about when you were 18 and curious, the idea always sounded nice, but you’ve never done it in practice, not really. Sure you bought fuzzy handcuffs at a gag gift store once, but that didn’t really count.

You’re still a virgin.

You’ve always had that chronically awkward, workaholic type of vibe that made typical dating near impossible at worst and frustrating at best. Normal dating apps have proven fruitless and agitating. So poor curious little you talked yourself into making a fetlife account. You weren’t looking for true love, but at least you could get laid.

DM Request from: 10:13 PM - WebRigger2099 - “Hello, Fawn.”

College was for new experiences after all.

CW: BDSM heavy/centric fic. Safe, Sane & Consensual. Miguel is your professor, but you both don't know that. Age Gap (Y/N is 23, Miguel is mid 30's)

TAG: @slut4oscarissac23 @iamtheprincess227 @haveclayeveryday @sphynxfoxslut69 @junehasnotbeenfound @thedevaxer @bunnibitez @kodzuminx

PART 1 - PART 2 - PART 3 - CHAPTER 1 - CHAPTER 3

Miguel didn’t realize he was lonely until it all hit at once.

He'd only had Gabriella for a week before Gabriel had swooped in, claiming 'uncle rights', to steal Gabriella away for the weekend. Things had been quiet since the divorce - Tempest had Gabi for the school year, and already, he was feeling distinctly alone, all too aware of the daughter sized hole his brother had forced him cruelly and unusually into. 

He was lonely. After the divorce, things had been quiet. Most of his friends had grown distant, with some vanishing and flocking to Tempest's side following their separation. Once a cheater, always a cheater, they'd proclaimed. 

He hadn't even cheated on her… at least, not that time. 

He was doing everything right- he had grown as a man and as a father too. He was ready to settle down, but Tempest had other plans. It was a mutual decision, best for everyone. There were no hard feelings on his end, but the pain of an empty house was new and raw. He had always lived with someone - his mother, stepfather and brother, then a roommate, then his brother as a roommate, then a string of girlfriends. 

He always got the feeling Tempest never really wanted a marriage, but health insurance was too good a deal to give up. It made logical sense, even if she was hesitant at first. 

She’d been involved in the kink scene since before he’d ever met her. She was polyamorous, and that had never been a problem either - he even tried it himself but decided it wasn’t for him. It was a boon, even, when he worked late into the night and Tempest needed somebody to keep her entertained. 

When Gabi was born, it became more of an issue. He knew from the second he saw her that she was his , not just a daughter but his entire world, and suddenly, the idea of Tempest running around, leaving Gabriella in the hands of total strangers was… suddenly unacceptable. Eventually, he acquiesced to family babysitting, but even then, it itched. 

So Webrigger2099 disappeared, logging out one day and never logging in again. He just didn’t have the time, or the interest, or, with Gabi, the desire. Besides, he was married. The archetypal family man he’d never thought he’d want to be.  

But still, neither of them were happy. Tempest didn’t like being tied down, and he didn’t like the fact the mother of his child roamed late into the night dallying while he worked. It led to arguments, to stress, and, inevitably -

To divorce. Tempest was a free spirit - Miguel was not. She took Gabriella during the school year, he got her during the summer, and that was enough. 

None of the phone calls or report cards she’d sent would make it easier to cope with the loneliness.

Years later, and the big house began to feel cavernous, more a church to the worship of solitary confinement than a home. No daughter, no wife, no family, just himself, online papers to grade, and the week old takeout container of Chinese he’d been steadily avoiding eating. 

On a whim, he’d logged back into the account, and there, he’d found… Fawn. Local to the area - and wearing a black facemask in every photo you took. You were beautiful. 

Things had gone great. He was having fun. He wasn’t ready for romance, sure, but a man had needs.

He didn’t need to see any more than your eyes to be hooked, but the rest was icing on the cake. Now that he had seen your lips he was even more charmed, despite the circumstances.

You were genuine, a little bit awkward but sweet and eager. Like a virgin, unsure of yourself and needing guidance by a firm but caring hand. And god, you trusted him off the bat. 

That power could have been abused easily, and he even warned you as much. Strange men online were not the most trustworthy souls, him least of all. You were his pet, after all, and it was his responsibility to make sure you knew how to tell good from bad.

You were clearly not that experienced, not in sex or in dynamics. You needed guidance on how to touch yourself properly, even. He knew your body better than yourself and that wasn’t exactly something he wanted to pass on to your next dom. Better you learned with his teaching what you wanted and needed.

Maybe he had gotten more attached than he liked to admit, protective of you. It wasn’t like he could keep you to himself forever, as fun as that might have been, but still, he found himself looking forward to your messages. 

You were the only one he had ever really felt that way about, to be perfectly honest with himself. Getting married to Tempest was a necessity because of the baby, and sure he loved her, but the cracks began showing quickly into the pregnancy. 

Not you, you seemed to want what he wanted. Nothing too serious, long-term not permanent, but still intimate. 

It wasn’t fair. 

(Nothing in his life was ever fair.)

Miguel’s hands steepled in front of him, a single bead of sweat running down his brow. He was hard as diamonds, but his stomach churned with sickness. This was not a development he was expecting.

The ticking clock on the wall was the only noise in Miguel’s office, and he was thankful he couldn’t hear his own heartbeat in his ears. 

He prayed he was wrong - there were well over eight million people in NYC and over fifteen different colleges, maybe you just had a similar tattoo.. And.. build… and hair color… Yeah, that seemed likely.

You stupid fuck , he cursed himself. 

It seemed like he just couldn’t stop losing. 

Divorced at 32, a mother that hated him, a tense relationship with his brother, a tenser relationship with his biological father.

And a little girl he only had custody of during the summer.

This job was supposed to get him away from the stress that came with working at corporate HQ. 

This job was supposed to make everything easier. His two escapes - this job and Fawn - were about to implode all at once.

His phone sat in front of him, mocking him for his paralyzed fear. It should have been simple to check, to compare the tattoos and bikini and write it off as a mistake. Or… maybe he didn’t want to even consider the possibility that he had been sexting with one of his new students for three months, much less what he would do if that was the case.

Fawn would have noticed by now, right? Anonymity sending pictures had its limits and he knew he had an imposing physique. If you were Fawn - you’d surely notice. You’d bring it up, right?

(Then again, college girls weren’t exactly the most perceptive people.)

You - Fawn didn’t seem like the STEM type, had to be something artsy . Right?

Miguel was a lapsed Catholic and yet he found himself praying that he was wrong. 

A much worse possibility crept into his mind. You knew, and you liked this turn of events. You didn’t seem like the malicious sort, not interested in blackmailing him for a good grade, but maybe it was some fucked up kink thing. The power dynamic was there, the secretiveness it necessitated, the wrongness of it all. Intentional or not, if word got out your position here was gone.

Besides, Fawn was twenty-three .

She couldn’t be a freshman in her second year. The 4.0 GPA and high marks in your last semester didn’t hint at someone who had to repeat introductory classes. 

Or Fawn lied about her age. 

That would be even worse.

This was all some terrible mistake. Maybe her tattoo was a tik tok trend of some kind, he would even settle for it being a mark of membership for a cult. Anything was better than the alternative.

Still, Miguel stared at the dark phone screen in his hands. He had ten minutes at most before class started and he had to get to the bottom of this before then. 

He snatched the phone with urgency, scrolling quickly through his messages in a frantic search.

He found himself enlarging the image Fawn sent the last evening, just in her bikini. His eyes focused on her arm and that teary-eyed fawn laid down in a bed of grayscale roses. 

Miguel was a scientist, he worked through logical conclusions. It was simple inductive reasoning. The placement was the same, even the framed roses. 

You and Fawn had similar eyes, similar eye color, similar skin tone - but Fawn’s pictures were always a bit dark or cloudy, her phone was far from new, so the darker skin tone would make sense, right? But you were wearing glasses today, he swore that he’d never seen Fawn wearing glasses.

He placed down the phone for a moment, running his hands over his face with a panicked sigh, trying to keep himself calm. He was so deeply fucked. Contact lenses were used by all sorts of people, and glasses could fog up with a mask on or ruin photos from the flash.

How the fuck had he not noticed? It’d been almost three weeks .

Here, Miguel thought everything was looking good. In truth he adored Fawn. Her companionship, friendship? …Pethood? He didn’t need to really figure that out right now - it was something he enjoyed. 

Despite his reservations that she - young and inexperienced - would instantly take his feelings to her as romantic she seemed no problem drawing the line in the sand. 

She was perfect , it’s why he wanted to meet her.

Now she might be you . 

His student. 

One who he was pretty sure despised him. 

You never even bothered to ask questions, you sat by Taylor while she stared daggers into him every lesson. Your work was middling at best and you liked to cut corners.

Fawn wouldn’t do that, right ?

He had to get to the bottom of this, right now. Miguel was a good man, he took care of his daughter, he watched over his kinda-niece. He contributed to the community - he took care of people.

 Miguel was not the kind of man to sext with one of his students. 

Not on purpose, anyway , he thought grimly, slinking into his chair as he fought the urge to hurl.

No. This was fixable, confirmable. He’d just ask you to talk after class. Quick, easy. Confirm you had a twin who he just happened to find online. 

(The whole point of Miguel’s anonymity was to protect himself, not fuck himself over.)

And if it was you? Well he couldn’t reveal it was him, surely. He would have to make an excuse as Web, some reason that he had to stop talking to her. 

Maybe Web died getting hit by a bus.

He opened the phone again with a click, scrolling through the media tab. He considered for a moment sending fawn a message. He didn’t know what college she went to, or her class schedule. 

He saw that the last time she was on Telegram was an hour ago, she hadn’t checked in since then. 

He glanced up at the time on his phone. 8:58.

He took a deep breath, counting to 10 and then tossing his phone back in his bag. It took him a moment to stand and fix the collar of his shirt before he walked back down the hall to his classroom.

The hall was full, students looking exhausted or unamused was something Miguel was used to.

It was very hard to not stare at you - sitting in the back of the class, half your body hidden by your laptop wearing a dour expression. You were far enough back your features were mostly nondescript. 

Miguel didn’t particularly like teaching, it was technically his ‘hobby’. It wasn’t hard outside of the students. He didn’t do well talking to large rooms but hey - that was fine. He was technically a headhunter for Alchemax after all. 

Right now teaching was awful . Miguel wanted to be anywhere but here and found himself randomly pausing during the lecture. Luckily everyone was too tired to notice.

How on earth was he supposed to even proceed? He had invested himself in you, two almost three months of talking and flirting, finally finding someone that had similar interests and intentions. 

If he had known before, seen you the first day of class after already meeting, he could simply help you sign up for another class and they’d never see each other again.

It would all end there, too awkward to continue.

Now, it was more complicated. 

He couldn’t meet in the summers because he had Gabriella, and she was far more important than a fun fling. He had a responsibility for his daughter, and he made the most out of his time with her as fleeting as it was. 

The summer, and a few weekends here and there during the school semester. It was the perfect set up, one that allowed him to dip his toes back into the scene and find a little companionship and fun. 

Nothing too serious, of course. Not yet.

He couldn’t just continue things as they were. She had been in his class too long, and if she transferred now there would be questions before it was allowed. How would he explain it to the department lead? 

Jess wasn’t exactly pleased with what students thought of him as it was. 

The news of him fucking one of his students would be the nail in the coffin before sending him back to Alchemax with his head held down in shame.

He did have the advantage that he - technically - wasn’t fucking Fawn. 

He needed to talk to you.

The rest of class went… as normal as it could. As normal as him occasionally seeing your bored face as you typed away notes of what he was explaining. He forgot to ask if anyone had questions again before he clicked off the powerpoint. 

He’d pull you aside the moment you walked past him, call you over. Easy. Quick. Just a conversation and then hopefully it was all one big mistake and you’d be off to whatever you did at 11AM on a Monday. 

Problem. When you stood, both of the students you always sat with rose with you. The black-haired woman even interlocked her arm with yours. You were smiling and chatting away with the rude, redheaded one who was easily a head shorter than you.

When you finally turned to leave, Miguel cleared his throat. You and your two friends stopped. The redhead frowned. Your eyes widened for a moment. 

He said your name, which only made your surprised expression worse. Miguel was grimacing. “I  need to-” 

Suddenly, a sugar-sweet voice called your name, Taylor, and Babette. Everyone glanced over at the door to - Aurora.

Miguel’s brows raised. 

“We gotta go, I left Kore with the car running!” She practically skipped into the room to you and Babette in the squealing, touchy way college girls always seemed to enact upon seeing their friends. Babette practically screeched and pulled Aurora into a hug.  

“Oh- Uncle Miggy!” Aurora exclaimed after releasing Babette. Babette and you gasped and looked over at Miguel.

There was no way. He didn’t say anything, stunned into silence. Aurora - his ex wife’s niece… cousin… thing. He wasn’t entirely sure. He had known the girl since she was 13. She was Gabriella's babysitter most of the time… and… somehow... your friend. 

You grinned at Aurora as she took the other place at your side, hooking her arm around yours and waving  goodbye. She was practically pulling you and Babette out of the room, Taylor trailing behind with their hands in their pockets. 

So. Miguel was left standing there - alone, dumbfounded. It was only getting worse. Much worse. He walked back to his office in silence, an unblinking, thousand-yard stare ignoring Professor Parker as he tried to flag Miguel on the way inside, the door shutting hard behind him. 

He sat, sinking into his chair, and flipped his phone open. Clicking open the browser, he opened up Aurora’s instagram. That’s what the kids used for all their social media nowadays, right? He had been told about it by his ex-wife and… ex sister-in-law, part of his ‘job’ is keeping an eye on Aurora. While they expected him to monitor her, the truth was he checked in once or twice a semester to see if she was still alive. She had his number for emergencies, and he kept his hands off. It was a good system, one he didn’t have to think about. 

Kids could take care of themselves… Kids. Fawn was practically a kid, a young twenty something that had her whole life ahead of her.

God. Was he a pervert?

Miguel pinched the bridge of his nose as he scrolled through Aurora’s page. Just as he expected, the screen was littered with photos of you. 

On campus, at restaurants, at an apartment with you, both of you in your pajamas. Miguel swore you saw a picture that peeked into your bedroom, a familiar sight from your photos. 

You weren’t just one of her friends - you were her roommate .

Miguel took a deep breath, fussing with his dark hair as he checked the time on his phone. He had to be at Alchemax by now. So despite the anxiety curdling his gut, Miguel made his way out of the college building.

Driving had always been a comfort for Miguel, his mind half shutting off and relying on pure instinct as he saw the world flash quickly to his sides. Usually he didn’t think of much anything at all while he drove, taking it as a quiet moment amid the chaos of his responsibilities. 

There was too much going on to relax like that. He felt sick as he drove, chest tight and stomach churning. Every relationship he had ever had with a woman seemed to crash and burn, romantic or otherwise. His long list of exes, his mother, now you. Would Gabriella be next, another casualty of his inevitable fuck-ups?

Miguel had really liked - still liked - you. The thing you two had was good, was fun and casual. There were no big expectations. No hard feelings about him having other priorities.

This was easier until it wasn’t.

Was it even possible for something like this to work out? He didn’t want to lose you, but it seemed like the only option as the complications stacked up.

He sat with this feeling through the whole ride, and well into his shift at the lab. He tried to pour over the plans in front of him, the techs trying to explain their work while he was gone… But he was obviously distracted.

“Is this a bad time, Dr. O’Hara?” His assistant chimed, a concerned look on her face as she tipped her head curiously. She had been talking to him for a minute at least, but only when he heard his name did he snap into momentary focus. 

The woman in front of him had worked closely with Miguel for years, a reliable if quirky sort some years his junior. Her heart-shaped glasses were hardly fitting in with uniform regulations, but it's not like she was handling chemicals. Not now, anyway. 

She was probably the closest thing to what he would call a friend, and he really didn’t want to call Parker a friend even if he was a man of honor at Peter’s wedding. She was better at respecting boundaries.

“Sorry, no. Just a… Headache today. Can you repeat that, Lyla?” He shifted his attention to her as best he could, rubbing his eyes and rolling his shoulders. The doctors told him he needed to stop staying so tense all the time, to release the pressure in his shoulders. It was almost painful when he let them slump, but the shock was probably the only thing keeping him alert.

“I’ll type it up in an email, it’s not that important. You look like shit.” The brunette sighed, shaking her head disapprovingly. She was never one to talk fluff. It was part of why he liked her so much.

An email. A text. No, this was too important to type to her. He would have to wait til the next class.

Besides, What if he was wrong? How would he explain that to Fawn? She was already a bit nervous and new to all this.

Just as the door clicked behind her Miguel heard a ping at his phone, a familiar username popping into view.

“Off to the shore now. I’ll make sure to take pics :3” - Fawnteeth - 12:05 PM

[bigfan-fanfic]

Back Into Trouble (Winchester!Reader x Winchester Bros PLATONIC)

A sequel to Brother Mine

This fic takes place somewhere near the end of season 1, after episode 19 but before episode 20. In addition, there's a song called Brother Mine that is really sweet and cute especially if put into this context of being Sam and Dean's, but especially Dean's, older brother. "I know that I sit and I worry too much/Especially when you come home such a sight/But I guess what you've got to do, boy, you go ahead and do it/And I sure hope things will be all right"

You may not have enjoyed returning to hunting, but you're damn good at it.

Although it's made even more frustrating when your father actually calls in.

You're not so thrilled about continuing on this... gallivanting cross-country, especially when John is chasing down the demon that killed your mother.

But Sam seems to have come to terms with it, though you honestly feel like that might have more to do with his desire to avenge Jess.

The real problem you see with your little brothers is their inability to let go.

You had all been raised by John in the hunting lifestyle, the family business.

But it's been decades since your mother's death. A horrible thing, that you have had to come to terms with having no real answers for.

And you can understand the desire for vengeance, for a clear-cut answer that will "solve everything."

It won't.

Something you've tried to get your brothers to think about is the future. About what they want out of their lives.

Because you remember how it was, living completely in the moment, day to day, hunt to hunt. And it was Bobby who pointed out that you had potential, that you deserved a life, if not now, then at least the promise of one.

So you convince them to take a rest in Massachusetts after leaving a hunt. Just to take a couple of days for hanging out.

Dean wants to see the Cheers bar and Sam wants to visit the Old North Church, so you get an actual hotel suite in Boston.

You check in with your colleagues and employees, apologizing for being incommunicado for so long. Thankfully the hotel has a business center with a fax machine you can sign invoices and contracts with.

Dean looks at you curiously. "So... you really did just... start a business?"

"Technically I bought it out from the owner who wanted to retire. So more... maintaining."

"You really are just... out of the life."

"I was, til you two called me."

"...sorry." Dean mumbles, and you grab his shoulder.

"Don't be. I was never doing this for Dad. I'm here for you and for Sammy."

Dean nods thoughtfully.

"You saw him. With that girl at the art gallery. He liked her. She liked him."

"Yeah."

"And you... with Cassie."

"Your point being?"

"Life keeps building off-ramps for you but you keep on truckin down this road."

Dean scowls. "Look, I'm not stupid. I know this life is dangerous. I know my days are probably numbered. But I'm making a difference. I'm saving people."

"What about you?"

He blinks. "What about me?"

"I'm done trying to force you out of the life, Dean. It's your choice. When we finally deal with all this shit - when the bastard that killed Mom is dead and you and Sam are finally free... I'm not gonna stop you if you go back to hunting."

"You're not?"

You nod. "But I'll be damned if I'm gonna lose contact with you again. I'll be there when you need a place to crash or a voice to call. Maybe you'll even visit me.

"Just... I need you to promise me you're not gonna run yourself into the ground. None of this has been your fault. It's not your fault about Mom, and it wasn't your fault I left, and it's not your fault that Dad couldn't really be a dad to us."

Dean wants to protest but you shush him. "You're gonna do what you do. And I'm gonna stop hunting again. For good this time. But when you decide it's time to come home... I hope you come to me, little brother."

You stand up then, leaving Dean to his thoughts. He's quiet for the rest of the day, but you feel an almost companionable nature to the silence.

And just maybe, after this all... maybe your brothers will follow you away from the things that go bump in the night.

[marshmarrows]

the jay marshmarrows divorcesteal lore summary

(SEASON OVER divorcestealers can now look)

okay. this is going to be LONG. so. So.

origins - ang & jay vip day:

back in... october/november? my friend ang (starspeckler) and i were invited on as vips by harv harvsbian bIuejay27. we got married at the church, spent a ridiculous amount of time looking for a plains biome for sheep and flowers, got a piece each of cmyk (cyan magenta yellow black) wool, and built a house.

well. ang and harv built the house, mostly. i got bored. now. for this next part, it's very important to note that i come from a speedrunner background. more specifically, i speedrun an unofficial category called "half death" that involves dying in 15 unique ways. i won't explain it all right now but send me an ask or something if you want to know more i guess?

anyways. at this point, i was. pretty bored, yeah. and i decided. hey, what better way to go out than to run half death on divorcesteal! now obviously i didn't have enough hearts to completely run it, but i did the closest thing i could and died 9 times.

and then i stood in front of my dear wife ang starspeckler and asked her to ban me. so that was the end of me on divorcesteal... right?

well. first. it's important to note that half an hour or so after ang banned me, she withdrew all of her hearts and hid them in the area before telling harv to ban her. this will be important later.

revival - joining for good:

one particular divorcesteal rule is that if you get banned, you can get /revived after two weeks on seven hearts if no one uses a beacon during that time. so when i came back, i was revived on seven hearts. yay!

when i came back, i respawned in the house ang and harv had built and was hit with the realization that i was. alone. harv wasn't banned (still isn't), sure, but they don't... play. and ang was gone for good.

but leoonine... teammate of my husband... leoo offered me a team. very quickly, i might add. no one else offered to help me or anything, as i recall.

i wanted to stay on my own for a bit, but i. got scared. i had nothing and no one. and so i accepted leoo's offer and hid in my grave. so yeah, leoo quite literally came and dug me out of my grave, gave me gear, a home, and a team.

i was infatuated. there's no other word for it.

leoo, harv, and the hunt:

the three things from my early divorcesteal days that i had secrets related to. that's them! keeping this short, i had a crush on leoo and owed it my life, and i resented harv for leaving me alone. i trusted leoo to be able to save my life far more than harv.

i made a secret room about this in the old atlahua base. shame it's chunkbanned!

anyways. yeah. leoo. and harv. new years eve, i asked harv to log on to show him ang's grave. leoo was also on and wanted to show us signs at the guardian farm. arch spotted us leaving the base which. led to it being found!

the signs at the guardian farm were. interesting. i didn't have much of an opinion on them at the time tbh because, again, i was infatuated. but leoo talked about how, while he was worried about atlahua as a team and our alliance with legion, he was more worried about his own place in their lives. (context for this is the blue arrow cannon that killed harv.) again. didn't think much of it at the time. funny to look back on now!

and... the hunt. so this is funny. because i've talked about being on the hunt a lot, and i tend to use it as just. an excuse to be ominous or whatever now.

it wasn't that originally. remember those hearts ang hid? yeah, i spent a long time looking for them. spoiler: i found them eventually, but they were NOT in the place ang had told me to look!

anyways. i collected the hearts and hid them in the grave i dug for ang underneath my own grave. (it took me an embarrassingly long time to realize that i could echest them but i like the symbolism of hiding them in ang's grave still. and hey, it's not like anyone found them!)

why didn't i equip them? it felt a bit wrong, honestly. plus, i liked being at seven. i liked being able to craft up hearts if i died! it felt like death had very few consequences for me. and. well. i liked dying a little bit, honestly.

trial chambers and pantheon/pathogen:

ah, the days before pathogen was officially a mega team... this is where um. a lot of things started to change for me?

first of all. i decided to run trial chambers because it gave me something to do and i'd never been in one before. and. um. yeah i got a bit addicted to doing them, admittedly. buttttt that's not the important part here! the important part is that doing trial chambers let me trade with nara. the start of a very important relationship in my divorcesteal life!

the really big thing here, however, is the big group trial chamber that. literally changed everything for me?

i don't remember the whole group of people involved but. i know at least some of pathogen where there, ham hams were there, nara was there, aster died immediately, and van was there.

that trial chamber... pissed me off. pathogen were hoarding all the keys and van and i were constantly getting left behind and having to beg and it SUCKED. so, on a whim, i messaged van asking him to run away with me. and he agreed and we ran away to the area i had chosen to build my graveyard.

we talked for a bit, complained about pathogen's behaviour, and then dug around for another trial chamber because there was one in the area. it took forever, but we did find it! eventually! and discovered that there was a way more accessible entrance! (funny note here: this was apparently the trial chamber sin and betty got engaged in months later!)

anyways. yes. this was the start of vanjay. and the start of... well.

betty and deaths:

now, important note here. betty had previously messaged me asking if i'd died since i got revived. i was a little evasive about it but all betty wanted to do was... say she hoped i stayed alive for longer? she'd talked about being the person to last the longest about dying and. yeah. she hoped i'd last longer. funny!

she'd also previously messaged me asking about pantheon. and i was curious and also very annoyed after the trial chamber. so i asked betty to talk.

i chose an ancient city nara had given me coords to as the meeting place and we had. an hour long conversation or so. the important part about this is i offered help to betty - if she needed anything, she could ask for help.

that's not all that happened that day though. and while a lot of people would know about some of this, i have not told many people the full story. harv is the only person on the server that knows it, and even then it took months for him to find out.

i died in the void that night. for context, there's an obsidian farm in the end. and if you fly a little east from the end island, you load in wither skulls that have drifted over there and lag the hell out of the server.

i was unaware of this. and the shulker farm is east.

i wanted to go to the shulker farm to get shells in order to store supplies to give to betty and i didn't want to use materials from my own team for something that went against their interests. and i didn't want to give away my location. so instead of going through an end gateway, i flew east.

funnily enough, i survived the first time. i managed to make it to the shulker farm and everything! and then i very stupidly thought that if i could make it out there, surely i could make it back.

i was at about y -7000 when i died.

this was terrifying. and painfully ironic. before this moment, i hadn't feared death. not even a little bit. it was familiar to me. comforting, even.

the void was cold and frightening.

i died again a few days later in a trial chamber. betty offered to help me get my stuff back and i gave her very convoluted instructions on how to find it. and then i ran in and died again because i was worried about everything despawning.

the atlahua base is very difficult to get out of by yourself if you don't have a backup set. so i messaged leoo - who was online at the time - asking for help. twice, even. he never responded.

remember when i said i trusted it to be able to help me over harv? i messaged harv on discord and harv logged on. ironic, huh?

a few days later, i jumped into the void on purpose. i needed to stop being afraid of it.

the villager plan and betrayal:

not much happened until close to the end of february, really. i continued to work with betty and nara, never told my team about any of this, and grew. frustrated.

i'll admit that betty and nara's views on leoo did affect my own, to some extent, but really... it was always doomed to be this way from the beginning. i had a view of leoo in my mind from day one. and when he inevitably failed to live up to my expectations, i was resentful. and that festered.

it was poor timing, i guess, that i had grown so close to betty and nara during that time. maybe it would've been different otherwise.

whatever the case, i... started leaking information to betty and nara during this time. specifically things that impacted them (leoo asking all of atlahua to use our friendships with other people to spy) and then, eventually, the villager plan.

now, the villager plan was something i had been onboard with initially, back when i first joined atlahua. (the plan, for context, being to kill every non-base villager on the server to scare everyone else into realizing they can't hide.)

i only leaked the details of the plan when pathogen got involved with it. and when i realized it had changed from killing every villager on the server. including the ones in bases.

i got leoo killed that day. and myself, but that was a staged death. and according to leoo, this is when atlahua knew for sure i was betraying.

but i stayed on the team. not for too much longer, though. because pathogen wanted to control when i left and i didn't want to change my life to fit their every whim.

and i was sick of lying. especially to people i cared about.

so i left via discord message and took a break from the server for a week.

the end plan and atlanta:

the thousand suns alliance was officially formed while i was taking a break, but i came back and was immediately invited to join. as well as run away with them to the end to get away from pathogen.

i accepted, but on one condition - i wanted to tell van. i didn't want to be away from him, but i also knew... he wouldn't want to leave jest. and i couldn't blame him, really.

so i resigned myself to leaving without him.

but the longer i thought about it, the more i... wasn't sure if i really wanted to go to the end. what would i even do there, after all?

not that it mattered. i woke up the day of atlanta and the end escape and all of the end portals were broken. and atlanta, the torment nexus designed for my (former) team was area banned.

we still ended up doing atlanta on another server, sure, and. the books written were. very interesting. to say the least. i don't agree with their characterization of me but i don't care that much.

no, what really bothered me was... atlanta was built over my old base. i called that place home, once, and now i could never go back. the book i shared with vio was stuck there. and the end was gone too. no more safe haven, no more new place to call home.

i considered banning myself. i considered destroying my graveyard. i considered putting withers at spawn. in the end, i didn't do any of those things. only because i didn't want to hurt van.

so. yeah. summary of events in my life so far!

the only thing that has happened since atlanta is that van and i got jumped in my graveyard. and then van got jumped again later. but. yeah. that's about it. idk man. i feel aimless now. there's no winning so all i can do is go through the motions. build my graveyard, i guess. try to live?

yeah. mcrp does sick shit to the human mind.

[freshlyrage]

Running Like Water

Chapter 28

pairing: Javier Peña x OFC (written as xReader)

fic warnings: NSFW Explicit Smut (18+ MDNI) language, strained family relationships, mentions of drug abuse, discussions of insecurities and body image issues, daddy and mommy issues

fic tags: Best friends younger sister, Life-long crush, Friends to lovers, Unrequited love, slow burn, Push and Pull, Small Town Dynamics, Secret Relationships, latina MC, Fluff and Angst, OFC!Jessica Alba face claim, sorry Lorraine I'm bringing you into this, Time jumps, 2 year age gap, pre-canon

word count: 5.1k

IMPORTANT a/n: Hello! This chapter is all flashbacks!

Next chapter things start to pick up. I will still be loosely following the plot of Narcos but not the exact timeline for times sake. Would just feel cruel keeping the babies apart for five more chapters! I hope this doesn't hinder anyones reading experience.

Send asks! Enjoy

Summer 1986

There is a heat wave and you find it as a personal punishment.

You stand in the middle of your empty room and feel nothing. You see the wallpaper lifting, small drawings you made when you were a child and you see dust untouched and you feel not much.

You’re in a dress.

One you hate, but you let your mother have some control for one last time. Baby blue with off white stripes, ruffling at your neckline. Blue little heels leaving an indent in your vacuumed rug. You bought that van you passed on your way to work with the black and red for sale sign.

Packed all your belongings and held a tag sale on all your furniture. 

It wasn’t common in your culture what you planned on doing. You family is meant to be by your side forever. You don't leave.

Up and leaving like spoiled Americans, that's the way your mother saw it. She kept her thoughts to herself but you heard her on the phone with her friend.

Ranting in Spanish about your ungrateful ass. That you were given the world, you had a roof, you had a bed, and look what you give in return.

The truth is, if the endless cycle of familial guilt didn’t exist in immigrant households everyone would grow some balls and leave behind those who mistreated you– even if they were family. 

You see your mother and you see someone who wanted to leave parents that never seemed to care for her either. You see her as a young woman determined to build her own life. If they hadn’t died she’d still be in Florida in their basement hoping one day they’ll care to show love to their daughter. The cycle continues. You suppose you’re breaking it, or maybe creating a new one–who’s to say.

You’ll ask your kids when they're in their twenties.

Your mother lived for approval. It’s why she spent hours on the phone with random “friends” who acted as yes men while she described all her flaws and missteps without shame. They will tell her how she is so strong and doesn’t deserve a spoiled brat like you.

An overgrown popular girl. Your mother was.

She scurries to the feet of the Smithfield's to help with their wedding. In an attempt of kindness, she’s never been very good at this, she promises not to be so involved in the wedding considering it– "makes you all depressed.”

You looked at her with a squint but decided to nod, reminding yourself that soon you’ll be gone. You planned on sleeping in the morning of the wedding. To which that idea died when your mother frantically barged into your nearly empty room. 

“The air conditioning in their church is out! We have to move services outside. I have to get it set up.” And then she slams the door and bolts. You shut your eyes tighter and let out a scream that was actually quite liberating for 30 seconds until you were reminded that your step father was still in bed with the baby.

You pretended to be asleep when he banged on your door as a warning. You eventually do doze off and find yourself waking up numb in more ways than one at 1:30 pm. 

You told yourself that you will only attend the ceremony. You knew if you stayed for the reception you might throw down one too many mimosas and end up vomiting on Lorraine and crying for Javier.

So… yeah no.

You dress up, paint your face like a fraud and you can’t cry so there's that scary truth. You were floating, finding yourself nowhere in the middle of your empty room. So that’s when you find yourself giving your room one last look for a little while. In the dress your mom bought. Rugged floor with a mattress splayed in the middle and nothing else but cobwebs and wall drawings. You don’t dwell, you don’t think but your nails are picking at each other and you’re so scared to be alone again. 

You leave and load your new truck stuffed with your entire life and drive to church. 

You think of making the wrong turn at every light, because you could just leave for good now. Save yourself from reality.

Javier and his father spent a few nights the past week having hard conversations. They smashed down cases of beer and Javier attempted to absorb all of the golden stories his father had to offer. 

Ultimately Javier wanted to know what he felt when his mother was pregnant. 

He said to him that he felt this pull towards her, Flaca.

Despite their rocky relationship it was like her hormones and his existed as one and all they could ever think about is how they were going to be having their own little family.

Chucho says that it’s common amongst new fathers to feel guilt when they take any small glance at their partner. Because what a task it is to grow a person inside of you. He says it isn’t the typical feeling you get when someone you know is pregnant. It isn’t just a, let me be nice to her she’s with child. No, Chucho had the urge to worship the ground she walked on, thank her—he said if she was craving pickles at 2 am he’d go out and buy some. He said this pull was biological, there was no explanation for it. 

Javier wonders when he’ll begin to feel that. At all.  

“Can I be honest with you?” Frankie flattens the lapels of his tux in Javier’s poorly decorated room. Javier flicks ash in his tray, he was beyond grateful that the heat wave hadn’t fucked with the power at his dad’s ranch. If it had, the heat might have triggered him at the wrong moment and he’d be running on foot away from the altar.

That’s just the sort of mood he was in.

He was almost looking for an excuse to not get married today, to give him some time so he can find a way out while also still obtaining the right to see his child grow. 

Lorraine slept in his bed all week, Javier slept in the living room most nights. It was two nights ago when he slept in the same bed as her. He had snuck into the room for his new pack of reds he left in his jacket late at night when he heard her crying. They talked about their fears, or he explained his anxieties and guilt and she stayed silent. He dozed off with a small bump below his hand and a promise of being a good father.

He thought it was you next to him and woke up in a cold sweat. 

Today he woke up numb. Chucho had been silent and to himself ever since Lorraine made her place in the home. Chucho was going through his own grief in ways, he was losing his son all over again. He was losing you too and soon he would be completely alone like he was when Javi was in Houston and you were in college. Javier supposes he’s also angry at his irresponsibility. Just a month ago they were knee deep in dirt and Chucho begged him not to hurt you again. 

Javier’s father left the house early to help with setting up the small wedding. Lorraine was at her parents place getting ready with her mother and Javier was here, at home with Frankie.

Javier was stalling a bit, he got the call that Lorraine was already on the road and Javier hadn’t even perfected his tie yet. He shoots a glance at Frankie. “I feel like you’re always honest, even if you’re being a fucking dick.” Javier mutters, pulling his tie over his shoulders. Multitasking, taking a drag with one hand and assembling his tie with the other. Frankie chuckles. 

“When you asked me to be your best man a few days ago I thought about punching you.” He shrugs, swiping his curls out his face and sipping the beer at Javier’s nightstand. Javier frowns because he knows this isn’t just a little joke amongst friends. “And listen, you were dealt some shitty cards, this whole situation is fucked up. Luckily the impending doom of fatherhood has made me soft and I know you probably need me to be your friend right now– and I will but just know it’s really hard.”

Javi looks at the ground, he can't look your brother in the eye. He felt like he did last Thursday when he saw you in 7-11, when you looked at him and pretended he didn’t exist.

He knew it was really over, and he felt like nothing.

“I wanted to marry your sister.”

“I know.” 

Javi looks up at Frankie and find him looking away. They were best friends but their vulnerability never stretched beyond reflecting on their childhood. This was new and they couldn’t look each other in the eye. “Before… all of this. Me and Andrea planned on telling you about us.”

“Hmph.” He clenches his jaw.

“Would you have… been okay with it?”

It's silent again, just the distant white noise of his clunky AC.

“Yeah. I was angry when you first came home and honestly still upset until recently about how you left her. But my priorities shifted so I guess I would have been grossed out but ultimately happy that you know… finally.”

Javi chuckles, “Yeah… finally.” It all could've been so simple. "She would be better off without me. I'm glad she's making this move." Javi mutters.

Frankie doesn't agree but his silence is enough answer. “I don’t like Lorraine very much. But I’m about to be a dad, you're about to be a dad. I feel like this was an opportunity to be a better friend to you. I hope that our kids become best friends so I feel like you know… I gotta be here now to make that happen.”

There was the silver lining in all of this.

 The promise of a family. Even if the family was just Javier and his child. That could be enough, it was enough for his father. Javier grins at Frankie and he grins back. 

“She’s probably waiting at the altar. Let's go.” Javi jokes and adjusts his tie. Frankie gets to his feet and points to the ceiling and looks up with it.  

“Padre ruega por nosotros.”

“Thank god you’re here. They’re running so late. Lorraine is cursing up a storm inside.” 

Genie grabs your arm and pulls you into the makeshift ceremony set up. You’ll give it to your mom, she did a decent job making this look alright. The guests weren’t seated, instead they were gossiping in small groups. It was far too hot to have a wedding outdoors. You scan and realize this wasn’t the modest little wedding that was on the invitation. 

Surprise! We’re getting married at Laredo Baptist on June 21st . 

It was handwritten and left on your counter by your mother last week. You would be surprised that so many people showed up in such short notice but it’s Laredo, and it’s the preacher's daughter getting married to Laredos DEA prodigy. There were so many people from your high school you swear you could faint. 

“Isn’t the ceremony scheduled to start in 3 minutes.” You rushed out of your truck when you saw the time on your stereo. The last thing you wanted to do was walk in late when Javier’s saying his vows or what not. 

Vows.

Why am I here? 

Genie nodded in annoyance, “Sit down on the third row next to my purse. Your mom was in shambles arguing with Chucho inside about Javier’s tardiness. I’m going back to that.”

“Do you want me to come with-“ You don’t know why you asked, it would be mental warfare for you. Your mother rowdy and Lorraine cranky. It’s like your least favorite people in one room, dumb idea. Genie knew it too and just squeezed your shoulder and walked back towards the church. You watch her go with a sigh and make your way to your seat. 

The hair on the nape of your neck sticking to you like glue. You missed the seventies, you missed when the dresses your mother bought you were flowy— not stiff and hot and ruffly. It was a sensory nightmare on top of the fact this whole thing was a nightmare-nightmare.

If anyone knew your situation besides your lovely sister in law, they’d smack you upside the head and force you leave because good. Lord, was this stupid. You wondered every six minutes of today why in the world you were doing this to yourself. It wasn’t as if the situation alone made you forget what it felt like to be happy. 

But there comes that sliver, the tiny line of delusion that has you believing that this is all real.

 That it’s a hoax, that the cameras are rolling and they’ll be revealed soon. So maybe you’re at the wedding in hopes of the camera crew to come out with a surprise before the I do’s. It’s healthier to say that you’re here because watching it happen will officially end a chapter about the thing you once thought was meant to be the premise of the whole book. 

Two rows behind you, you could hear the chatter. 

“I don’t get it. He’s been home for two months without her. Now all of sudden he’s getting married. It’s fishy.”

“Exactly! It seems like a shotgun wedding. Lorraine Smithfield would never get married in a such a disorganized manner if this wasn’t obviously some front.”

“Not to start anything but I swear I saw Javier kiss Andrea outside that party Xavi threw for memorial day.”

“Andrea? Like Frankie Diaz’s little sister?”

“Yes! I heard that they hooked up in high school. I always thought they would bang.”

“Javier hooked up with everyone in high school.”

“Nah. This was different. I think he was dating Lorraine when they did. Super sneaky because Lorri and Andrea were buddies.”

“I don’t think so. I know Andrea, she's shy, she doesn’t peg me as a homewrecker.”

“Eh I guess. I don’t know, regardless it’s too bad for her. I remember she had the craziest crush on him, now she’s watching him get married.”

“Tragic.”

“Speaking of, why is he so late?”

Lorraine didn’t feel like Chuchos beat up truck was an appropriate ride to roll in for their wedding so she left him her car. Frankie loaded into the passenger's seat all fidgety and nervous. Javier still had been on a rare mental high of picturing holding his child for the first time. Frankie really brought it out of him and despite dreading getting married—he saw the slightest glimpse of hope. 

But ultimately he knows at the end of the his short ride will be an altar, and you in the stands. It was his worst nightmare. He knows married life with Lorraine will be unpleasant. Just dating life with her left him a bit scarred. Tantrums and shattered plates. Holding her wrists so she couldn’t claw at him in a fit of anger. He tried to understand her, he really did.

She told him about her parents cheating on each other constantly. The yelling and constant fighting. Mrs. Smithfield was an explosive partner, Lorraine took after her he supposes. 

They were the classic case of town socialites. Pristine and prim and perfect to everyone else. Behind closed doors, toxic and unhealthy. She told him all of it after one of her blow ups over him working later than usual. In hopes to excuse her actions. He listened, still he grew more and more resentful of their relationship with every argument that ended in him consoling him. He found it difficult to empathize with her. You can only be so awful so many times, only a few times could be excused by trauma. 

Javier rolled his tongue on the side of his mouth, clenched his jaw and held the steering wheel tightly as he inched out of the driveway. Driving as slow as he could, he needed more time. Frankie was fidgety, the same way he was two weeks ago when he was getting married. He was rambling the same, Javier tried his best to keep it together. The air on Lorraines car was shit. The suit was thick, and itchy and a bit too big. He didn’t have time to be tailored. 

Didn't have time to be tailored. How fucked was that. 

His eyes had bags and he wasn’t smiling. His chest was tight every second, it loosened at the thought of being a father. He still almost had that. He was close to telling Frankie to shut the fuck up. He was so deep in his own ramblings he hadn’t noticed that Javier purposefully drove in a loop, finding the courage to make the left on main street. 

“You know maybe it isn’t all that bad. You two aren't doing vows, service should be quick.” Frankie drummed his fingers along the dash. Wiping sweat from his brow and settling back into the car seat. 

Javi mumbled in blind agreement. 

“It’ll be nice, me and you with baby carriers. Women love that shit, not that I’m interested but you know for you.”

“I’m literally about to get married.” Javi deadpanned. 

“Well, you know it’s not like traditional. Or maybe it's very traditional, most marriages around here are arranged in a way you know? Like preordained. Half of the married people here are with the only person their parents let them around growing up. Always a family friend, or a high school sweetheart. Not me, I found my wife. She rejected me a few times but you know I found her.” He gleams and Javier can’t imagine feeling the same way he does. Maybe he was familiar, but he isn’t anymore.

Javi shoots him a side glance. “Genevieve was your high school sweetheart though.”           

“I guess. We broke up like ten times though so we both had our fun. We lived before we settled. I’m happy she took me back that last time. I wouldn’t want a family with anyone else.”

How lucky, Javier is tempted to verbalize but he keeps it to himself. “Hm.” Javi circles the street one more time. 

“If you’re going to keep stalling we might as well…” Frankie reaches into his jacket pulling out a zip lock baggie with a perfectly rolled joint. He noticed then, Javier wasn’t sure if he should feel embarrassed or not for being so shameless in his anxiety. Javi chuckles and nods in approval. “Lighter?” 

He shrugged, “Never been in this car, check here.” He leans over, tapping the glove compartment and straightening up. “You think they're going to kill us for being fifteen minutes late.”

Frankie shrugged, tucking his hand on the handle and opening the thing. A yellow lighter and three papers fall out. Two white with black type on it, and one little black square. A sonogram. Javier smiles at the sight, it seems a bit different from the picture Lorraine let him have. The baby seemed smaller, it must have been an earlier appointment. Far before she came back to Laredo. Frankie seems to not care, he was zeroed in on that lighter. “Clean that shit up man.” Frankie chuckles, grabbing the papers. 

He smiles at the sonogram. “Little guy. This shit is crazy. Lorraine Smithfield, June 6th 1986 12 weeks pregnant. Who would have thought?” Frankie chuckles, losing the doctor's note back in the compartment. Oblivious to Javier's silence, he flicks the lighter on. His brows furrow at the stoplight and make the left to take him right back to the house. His chest tight, and jaw tight. Frankie turns his head. “You alright.”

Javier blinks, once, twice. He holds the third time, the tips of his ears hot. Knuckles white. Frankie catches on, and in a panic grabs the paper again. Flipping to the second page, another note, from another appointment. And from Frankies, quiet, You’ve got to be fucking with me, the time was confirmed.

 Javier closes his eyes again, sees your face, feels the blistering heat. 

He turns his car around.

The chatter is unbearable. The people are getting antsy and the sun is getting hotter, somehow. Your dress is itchier, you’ve scratched your thigh about twenty six times. A nervous tick, you dig your heels in the grass. Dirt surfacing at your fidget.

He’s nearly half an hour late now. You’ve listened to your ex classmates gossip for far too long, you’ve been tempted to turn around and make your presence known for minutes now. Mr. Smithfield came out ten minutes ago blaming the wait on a wardrobe malfunction which earned laughs from everyone but you.

You read straight through the lie. 

You were about to reach for your twenty seventh scratch when a cold hand grips your shoulder. You turn your head and flinch at your mothers closeness. “We need you inside. Now.” She doesn’t give you a moment to think. She's taking your hand and making heads turn while she drags you to the front of the church. Your eyes struggle to adjust to the dark surroundings of the powerless cathedral. It's loud inside, Spanish and English overlapping. Arguing, yelling, crying. 

You drop your mothers hand and stride toward the noise. Afraid, and confused. Your heels tap against the polished floor. And your mother scurries behind you as you turn the corner and find the scene. Chucho cursing in his mother tongue. Lorraine crying, holding her stomach and Genie yelling at Mrs. Smithfield.

You blink, once, twice and wave your hands. “Woah– What's going on?!” You shake your head. Placing your purse on the ground. Lorraine looks up at you and breaks into more tears. Her mascara ran down her blushed cheeks. Her dress poofing beside her on the pew. Her father held her shoulder, with his nose pinched. Your mother is holding your arm. You shake her off. You silence the room with your presence. 

Genie turns to you fully, her cheeks red from anger. “He’s not the father.”

You don't register what she means. You stare blankly at her for a moment. You look at each of the people in the room, and it hits you.

It hits you and you take a step back like it was a physical threat. Your eyes flick to Lorraine and she's looking at you with eyes like an apology.

“I thought– I thought it would fix us– I”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” It has your head spinning, it echoes off the walls, felt like it could rattle the stained glass windows. For a moment you're unsure who it came from. You have never heard Chucho raise his voice and it strikes you. It blurs for you. 

“Do not cuss at my daughter. It was what we felt was best for her situation.” Mrs. Smithfield strokes Lorriane's hair and she leans her forehead to her mothers stomach. Chucho shakes his head and removes his hat. He holds it over his chest, with a face of absolute devastation. He takes one look at you and walks away from the scene. 

You swear you hear him rip a sob as he walks away. Torn from head to toe at the pain his son must be feeling. You want to forget the sound of the strongest person in your life crumbling.

But you– you- you're angry. You close your eyes and breathe slowly, shake your mothers grip away. You hear Genie take some steps towards you and you accept her hold. You feel anger burning so bright, the reflection in your sockets burn orange. 

Calmly, you ask, “Could someone please tell me what's going on.” 

Genevieve is angry too, she jumps to it. “She’s been lying– she knew it wasn’t Javi’s he–” She takes a deep breath. “I can't believe I called you a friend.” Genie cuts straight through Lorraine and she racks another chest heaving sob. Genie rolls her eyes and moves to stand in front of you. Blocking a view of Lorraine.

She walks you around the corner and away from the family entirely. It’s just the two of you at the entrance of the church.  “Frankie called me. He found notes from her most recent appointment. The timeline doesn’t add up– Javi– he– He’s so hurt. He’s not coming. Frankie’s on his way, he doesn’t want to be around anyone.”

Your chin quivers and you're embarrassed by it. You do not want to cry in front of her. 

“He shouldn't be alone.” You frown, lip trembling. “He shouldn’t, I have to go– I can't believe this.” You nearly take a step but she grabs you again. 

“No– No. Chucho will go see him. Her parents knew– they were trying to save their image because she doesn’t know the father. And she–she believed this could fix them. She planned on getting back with him before she even knew she was pregnant. She’s only three months along, Andrea… I– I’m sick to my stomach.” Tears form at the corners of her eyes and she holds her own stomach. You hold her this time, rubbing her arms. You weren't sure if you were trying to soothe yourself or her. Maybe the latter.  

“Hey, hey, take it easy for her.” You join her hand on her stomach and she breathes steadier at that. You stay like this for a moment, grounding her while you float. While your heart is filled with pure rage. While you think of how upset he must be, how many irreversible changes you’ve made to your life because of this situation– this hoax– I have to see him. I have to tell him I love him, that I’ll break my lease. I’ll lose all the money I threw away to run away from him. I will be there, tell him it was never his fault. That I will never be angry with him.

“Please…” You whisper, “Please I–” You’re cut off by Lorraines audible sobs and fuck it, you’ve had enough. You let Genie go and she watches your face contort in genuine discontent. You shake your head and you begin to walk away.

“Andrea!” Genie calls for you but strut right back into the nave. Lorraine looks up at you and all you see is self pity. 

You reach down to grab your purse and you tuck it under your arm. You hold your chin up high and there are no tears.

 “You are an evil person. I spent years feeling guilty about my crush on Javier- feeling guilty because you were so kind to me to my face. But really Lorraine, you're just a mean girl. I would never wish anything bad upon you. Living the rest of your life as yourself is enough karma.” Her nostrils flare and she deserves all of this. Being left in tears at the altar. You hope to god that Javier never speaks to her again. That she repeats this day in her head forever. Without closure. You look to her parents who seem to be praying. Eyes closed, holding her shoulders. You take a step forward and slam your hand against the pew. It echoes loudly and they snap from their performance and look at you. “Pray harder, all three of you are going to hell.” 

You turn at their gasps and walk back into the atrium where your mother is sat at the stairs to the basement with a frown. Genie is still in the same spot, rubbing her stomach. You dig in your purse for your car keys. You almost forget that your entire life is packed in that thing right now.

“I’ll call you later. I have to go make sure he’s alright.” You wave to your mother and begin to walk when you hear Genie call your name. 

“He asked not to see you.” It rings around the halls of the church. Echoing, a satisfying sound to no ones ears but Lorraines. Your heart dips low.

“What?” But you aren’t sure you heard correctly. 

Genie looks at her shoes and begins to cry. “I don't know Andrea– he- he said to not let you in the house. He can't– he doesn't want to see you.” Your breathing hitches and your eyes gloss over.

“What do you mean I–”

The church doors open and your body whips around to face your brother.

He had been crying too, he looks at the car keys in your hands and back up at your tear stained face. And he knows.

“You can’t go. He– he doesn’t want to get in the way– not again.”

And fuck it, you're bawling in the middle of your childhood church. “Get in the way of what?”

“He knows you're leaving, he knows you signed the lease. He knows you got a job in New Orleans.”

Shaking your head again you try to walk past your brother but he steps in front of you again. “Frankie–please just move. I– I’m not changing my whole plan– I just need to see him.” You move your way around him and near the door when he calls out once more.

“He knows that isn’t true. He told me. He knows nena. He knows if you see him again you will never leave. He knows you’ll give up all your plans for him. He does not want to see you.”

He's speaking to the back of your head and for a moment you pause. Each word hit like slices. You, an open wound in front of everyone.

Soaking it all in. Feeling everything and nothing all at once. 

You open the church door and step back into the sunlight. Looking at the grass full of people still waiting on a wedding that was never going to happen.

Every step you take, you nearly trip, you quicken your pace once you see your packed car. Your eyes so full of hot tears you can barely stick you key properly. Cussing at yourself between tears until you can figure it out. You're not sure how long you cry in your car but you cry long enough for people to start leaving the wedding.

You lay your head on the wheel for most of it, afraid to be caught by onlookers. Your chest rips in stomach churning sobs. You know he’s right, you know you'll leave it all for him. You were ready to be nothing and no one together. Hold him until he’s had enough, until Colombia. Revert to your original plan of just… you and him and the summer. Just us. And if you did, it would hurt all just the same.

Your head hurts less.

Your eyes dry.

Your dress discarded in the passenger's seat, changed into a t-shirt and shorts.

Milk shake in your cup holder, eyes still puffy.

Chest tight but the sun sets and you think you’ll just cry more when you get there. 

You drive to New Orleans and don't look back.