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13atoms · 4 years ago

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Grit (Javier Peña x F!Agent!Reader)

This is my first time writing for Narcos, but I really liked Peña as a character, so here we are. I might do a second part of this, let me know what you think!

Friends-to-lovers, set during s2, no smut but canon-typical nsfw. [4.9k]

You sighed, then coughed out a delirious laugh, as the news crackled through Murphy’s radio.

It had been yet another trap, yet another informant you couldn’t trust, yet another victory for Escobar. You, Murphy and Peña were sat in a tense little circle, huddled around Javi’s messy desk. The evening had lasted forever, a whole carton of smokes crumbled into the ash tray, each of you nursing headaches from clenched jaws, palms sweaty, tired of the endless threats from Steve to go and join the agents in the field.

Each stutter of noise on the radio had signalled a new round of tense glances between the three of you, notes scribbled down, short fingernails carving half-moon into palms.

Then, it was over. No fatalities on any side seemed a small miracle, but you knew Javi took no pleasure in hearing that the enemy hadn’t lost anyone either. Shot and bleeding and bruised, every bastard who had walked into that fight managed to scramble away. The transmission from the scene finished curtly, and you felt the three of you deflate.

“Fuck,” Peña muttered.

Murphy slamming his closed fists onto the desk painfully hard.

You exhaled, reeling from the whole evening, stretching back in your chair and wondering what the hell this meant for tomorrow.

“Again,” you sighed, hearing the other agents grunt in shared frustration.

Leaning forward you perched your elbows on the desk, throwing your notes away from you in disgust, letting your head fall into your hands. Your eyes ached, your very bones feeling unimaginably fragile as your muscles untensed and your heart fought to restore calm to your body. It was no good. Adrenaline like this would last hours.

Murphy grabbed his gun from the desk, kicked his chair away as he stood, storming from the room. When you looked up to Javier, worried about what the stupid bastard might do, he just rolled his eyes.

You had a sneaking suspicion that the three of you would be spending your pay checks on whiskey that night.

“Fucking hell,” you declared, more to fill the silence than anything else.

Peña gave a strange little laugh, shaking his head. He copied you, elbows on the table, letting his forehead fall heavily to his palms with the weary exhaustion which had plagued all of you since you first heard the name Escobar.

“What a shit show.”

You nodded in agreement, aching eyes closed. Each blink felt like it would scratch, the darkness of the office only broken by the shitty fluorescent light which created a tiny island of life around Peña’s desk. Everyone else was on the raid, or at home.

Sensible.

“We have to get him. One day. That bastard can’t run forever.”

Peña’s hum of agreement had no conviction, it was as uncertain as you felt, but you liked to imagine he really believed you.

You could feel your body giving up on you, so deprived of everything human for so long in pursuit of a man who always managed to escape back into the shadows. Hunger gnawed at your stomach, the muggy heat parched your lips, your head ached from the smokiness of the room and the sleep which evaded you more and more these days. Your skin felt dirty, no matter how often you washed, stained with guilt and the rivers of blood which ran through Bogotá. It didn’t matter how often Peña told you it wasn’t your fault: you knew your guilt, your sense of inadequacy, would weigh on you for as long as the Cartel was alive and operational.

He felt it too, the hypocrite.

The hunt had drained everything from you. Every ounce of softness and humanity. How long had it been since you were hugged? Since you knew a peaceful night’s sleep or a kind touch? Since you entered a room without imagining the ceiling joists falling under the force of a car bomb? You had slept with a gun nearby since you had joined the DEA here, thinking yourself paranoid. Now, you slept with the damn thing loaded.

“I had such a good feeling about this one,” Peña mused, more to himself than anyone else. You knew he would go home tonight filled with guilt.

Maybe he would take it out on some poor sex worker, fuck away his guilt and fear and frustration.

Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he would call you, pretend the phone lines weren’t monitored as the two of you spoke in vague terms. Unable to discuss work on an unsecured line, desperate to hear something real from another human being, exchanging snippets of your shaking voices until one of you finally managed to find sleep.

With nothing else to discuss, the two of you would talk about yourselves.

You never knew how much was true. How much was omitted. You lied sometimes, out of instinct more than anything, and you knew Javi did too. People like you always did. Beneath it all, though, you got the strange sense that you were really hearing something honest about him.

In the deep grumble of his voice, his landline phone cord stretched to his bed as he took the distraction as a chance to drift off, you would hear something real about him. A story from his youth, some reminder that he was real and mortal, a complaint about an injury that wouldn’t heal, some grievance with a dry cleaner. Even the scratch of his stubble as he ran a hand over it sounded like a confession. A reminder you both had beating hearts.

Every word you exchanged, hitched breaths, waiting for reactions or hums down the phone to tell one another you were smiling.

That felt real.

You blinked, wincing at the horrid overhead lights, which seemed to flicker periodically, only when it would really piss you off. Javi was looking at you with concern, the deep lines of his forehead contorted over a raised eyebrow. His badge was in one hand – he’d been fidgeting with it for hours – but his over hand was extended towards you. Palm up, like he was offering it to you.

When you met his eyes you saw worry, mixed with sheer exhaustion, and tried to offer a weak smile.

Someone was moving in a corridor outside, and he waited for their steps to grow quiet until he spoke.

“Are you okay?”

He didn’t need an answer. The weak smile you offered felt like enough to make you cry, and he closed his open fist, nodded his head in understanding.

“Yeah,” he sighed.

He shared the same burden, the same burnout, pulling him to the ground with ten times the force of gravity, yet refusing to let him take a break in pursuit of these bastards.

“Go home,” he offered sincerely, raising that awkwardly hovering hand to clap onto your shoulder.

You closed your eyes. There was nowhere you wanted to be more than your own bed, but as you devoted a second to thinking about getting home, your body felt impossibly heavy.

“I’m exhausted,” you admitted, hoping Javi didn’t notice the tremble in your voice.

“You look it,” he agreed.

With a raised eyebrow and half-hearted glare you had him scrambling to apologise.

“I- I mean, you look lovely, doll. Always do. Just, shattered. I can barely see it –”

When you laughed, he realised you’d been joking, letting his head fall onto the desk braced by his exposed forearms. You glanced at the clock, realising it was gone midnight. None of you would be in the next day. You’d already gotten the time off, knowing the raid would run late.

They usually did.

Especially lately, everything the DEA did seemed to become an unmitigated disaster.

“Give me a minute, ‘til I can be bothered to walk to my car,” you mumbled, knowing Javi would understand your words.

You admired the mussed up back of his hair, looking worse-for-wear after a day of being tousled and pulled at by his twitchy hands. You wanted to fix the piece which was sticking straight up, but your arms felt too heavy to move.

Adrenaline was a funny thing. It left you jittery, pent-up, and yet completely stationary.

It would be fine once you moved, you knew. You’d forced your body through this gruelling pattern often enough.

You rolled your neck, moaning at the tightness in the muscles, and Javi looked up with that damn cheeky grin. He should be exhausted, but there he was, eyebrows raised, eyes gleaming with mischief. You groaned at him. That man could find an innuendo anywhere.

About to look away, you forced yourself to meet his challenge instead.

“I’m starting to see why you go to those fuckin’ brothels,” you drawled. “You think I could convince them to give me a neck rub?”

“I’m sure they’ll rub anything you want, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing as one hand remained on the back of your neck, the muscle rock solid from hours in this stupid metal chair. He stretched out his closed fists and stood wordlessly, taking his place behind your chair like it was the most natural thing in the world. You were about to say something when he commandingly rolled your head forwards, tugging your collar down. When his warm hands found your neck, you gave him a rumbling, contented moan far better than the one which had piqued his interest.

For just a second you felt the slow movements on your neck halt, before he continued to clumsily kneed at the muscle either side of your spine. It hurt, his strong hands against all those tender spots, but it was the best kind of ache.

His hands grew gentler, rubbing softly for a moment, before he spoke.

“Better?” he grunted, and you found yourself scanning the room for something reflective, disappointed that you couldn’t drink in the image of Javier behind you.

“Better,” you choked out, your voice unnatural as you felt the closeness of his touch affecting you.

It had just been too long, you told yourself.

Fuck, you wanted him to do that to the rest of your back. Your limbs. Those strong hands learning your body. And more, if he wanted it.

He cleared his throat and stepped away, and you rolled your shoulders, starting to collect your notes and belongings to leave. Javi slipped his jacket on, adjusting the collar and shaking the arms into place, and you fought not to watch.

“That’ll save you some money from the ladies of the night,” he teased, his tone just a little flatter than it ought to be.

You knew him well enough to sense awkwardness in that rough voice.

“Who said anything about ladies?” you shot back. “Are there male prostitutes? Must be.”

Javi seemed a little shaken, less steady on his feet as he took a second attempt to kick his chair under his desk. He was squaring up papers and stationary as if that was all it would take to tidy the mess around his typewriter, refusing to meet your eyes.

“I haven’t met any,” he ground out, “so I’m not sure I can help you there.”

“And I thought you were a connoisseur.”

You were a little taken aback when he didn’t laugh, and the playful smile fell from your lips. You hadn’t realised how much you were waiting for his deep chuckle, his silence forming a strange missing link in your conversation. Looking up at him, you found him staring at your shoes.

“I’m just teasing, Javi,” you started to apologise.

“No, no. No worries.”

He cleared his throat, playing with the notebook, badge, and keys in his grasp. Passing them from hand to hand. He walked abruptly to the door, toeing it open with his shoe, one hand on the light switch as he waited for you. As you joined him, he looked down, that handsome face distorted with a slight frown.

Frowning seemed to come a little to easily to his features these days.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” he rumbled, and you nodded gratefully.

He locked up behind you, and you felt a pang of guilt for ruining a perfectly good moment. You could still feel the phantom touch of his hands on your neck, the callouses of his fingers, experienced with women and yet inexperienced in such gentle touches.

The two of you strode down the dark corridors, and you wondered if he’d always walked that far away from you. He was walking a few feet ahead, and it felt like miles.

“I really didn’t mean anything by it,” you apologised, mumbling in the hopes he might not reply.

“No, I… I’m not upset. It’s fine. I’m just tired.”

You hummed, knowing he could sense your dissatisfaction with his answer. You were too dazed to find the right words.

As you stepped out into the muggy evening air, blinking against the flood lights, both of you froze. There was some commotion in the parking lot. Someone in plainclothes detained by a guard and another man dead on the ground, riddled with bullet holes. You weren’t sure why, but even after all the violence you saw every day, the puddle of blood around him made you clench your jaw with disgust.

Peña stepped in front of you defensively. He usually treated you as just another officer, but off-duty his protectiveness always seemed to kick in. Tonight, you felt your heart clench in gratefulness, as he approached the scene carefully, fingers on his holster. You were too exhausted to keep up with the rapid conversation between Javier and the guards, only tearing your gaze from the dead stare of the body on the ground when Peña called your name. A third time. He waved a hand in front of your face, and you blinked rapidly, apologising as you focused back in on the moment.

You expected the off-white flash of his teeth, laughing at your slowness, some snarky comment about seeming slow, doll. His solemn frown, his concern, was more startling than the flash of his palm in front of your face.

“That’s it,” he told you gruffly, one hand wrapped lightly around your bicep, “I’m driving you home.”

You laughed, half in surprise, and he smiled wearily.

“You’re exhausted.”

Ignoring his comment, you frowned, words tumbling from your mouth before you could stop them.

“Can you call me? Tonight?”

You knew it was pathetic. You sounded pathetic. You knew that.

He went to reply, and you found yourself unable to stop speaking to hear the answer.

“I just… I don’t know how I’ll sleep. I think… I want to hear your voice,” you stumbled.

Javier sighed, smiled slightly, gave a surprisingly bashful nod of his head.

“I’ll call.”

The two of you climbed into his car in silence, and you kept your focus on the moving dials of the dashboard as Javi crawled past the crime scene, joining traffic. The radio hummed quietly, indistinguishable from the noise outside, and you rest your head on the edge of the seat. As Javier drove you through the city streets you felt your energy return, as you knew it would. It always happened like this. You would be too exhausted to leave, be tempted to make a camp on the cool concrete floor of the office. Then, as soon as you were almost at your own front door, you would have the energy to run laps of the block.

You watched out the window, catching reflected glimpses of the flex of Javier’s forearms as he shifted gear, the columns of his neck as he shouted to other drivers, and deft way he handled the steering wheel.

Flashes of red and pink lights made you smile slightly as the car crawled through traffic. It wasn’t a part of town you’d visited outside of work, but you recognised the streets. Javi rolled down the window as you passed brothels, the darkness punctuated by flashes of beautiful women who cooed at Javi from their doorways. You refused to let yourself wonder how many he knew by name.

Then you wondered why you cared.

“Don’t want me to drop you off?” he teased, and you rolled your eyes.

You wondered if Javi had really taken this longer route on purpose, just to make a joke. From the smile on his face, you would believe it. He looked pleased with himself as you gave a groan, trying to hide your amusement.

“Any of them your type?” he goaded again, gesturing out the window, chewing his words.

You shifted in your seat, sitting up properly, blinking back a headrush as everything suddenly felt real again.

“None of them look much like John Travolta,” you noted, smiling as yet another gaggle of women gave the car flirty waves.

A few called out male names, fakes names you presumed, and you saw the man beside you wince. You waved back, smiling. Javier groaned, thumping his thumb against the leather of the steering wheel.

“Travolta? Really?”

You laughed, the lightest you’d felt all day, at the grimace on Peña’s face.

“Yes, Travolta! I’d totally pay a Travolta look alike. You got a problem with that?”

“He’s too soft. No grit.”

“He seems nice!”

Truthfully, there wasn’t much time for films out here. Even less American celebrity gossip. But you remembered him being very popular before you left.

“You could pick up a Travolta look-alike at any bar in this damn city, they’d be falling over themselves. You certainly wouldn’t need to pay them.”

You gave a private smile at the hypocrisy in his voice, as he scoffed over the idea of paying someone for sex. As if he was short on women who found him attractive.

“Yes, but unlike any old bloke in a bar, if I paid they couldn’t fall asleep on me after two minutes.”

Even as the traffic picked up speed, Javi rubbed a hand over his face in frustration, groaning yet again.

“That’s fuckin’ depressing.”

You could hear the unsaid pet name on his tongue, a strange stutter to the rhythm of his sentences, and you wondered why he held it back. The drawl of doll or sugar when he spoke to you was as natural as breathing at this point.

“Yeah.”

The red lights of brothels were far behind you now, and yet Javi was still driving the wrong way, taking a longer route to your place. You bit your lip, looking straight ahead and wondering why he was stalling taking you home.

Hoping you knew the reason.

Javier suddenly shouted, clutched the steering wheel as a car full of young guys cut him off, one hand reaching out like a safety harness across your chest as he slammed the brakes on. As soon as his arm was there, inches from your chest, it was gone again. He was changing gear and honking his horn and swearing under his breath, and you were trying to process the tight feeling in the pit of your stomach. He apologised as he swung the steering wheel, taking a side street to avoid the car ahead, wary of the guns and middle fingers waved from the windows by young men still convinced they were invincible under the cover of night.

You exhaled shakily, blinking away sleepiness as you tried to process what had happened, frustrated at yourself for your slowness.

He seemed to remember himself as the car crawled past sleeping houses, the headlights sweeping across cobblestone, finally in the direction of your place.

“Sorry, darling,” he muttered, fingers tapping on the wheel irately.

“No problem. Can’t be careful enough, at the moment.”

He hummed and nodded, gave you a quiet sideways glance before training his eyes on the road again. One hand rested on the gear shift, curved around so his wrist brushed your thigh as you uncrossed and crossed your legs. He glanced towards you again, something so inconspicuous you hardly recognised it, and you wondered if he knew you were trying not to stare.

The brakes complained under Peña’s foot as he finally rolled to a stop outside your building, the night as quiet as Bogotá ever got. There were a few lights on in your block, the faint shouts of an arguing couple muffled as they drifted on the late night air, a baby crying, faint sirens. All reminders that you were yet to settle this torn city.

Javier cleared his throat and reached for the handbrake, cutting the engine but leaving one hand on the ignition. No doubt it was one of those habits which had saved his life once, and then he could never drop it. You felt the slight movement of the car as his foot finally left the brake, and you smiled privately at how overly cautious he was, ready for anything to go wrong.

He shook slightly at the gear shift, checking it was in neutral.

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow, if you want. To get your car. Or the next time you need to be in the office. Whenever you need me, doll. Just be safe.”

He swiped at his moustache nonchalantly as he spoke then reached for a cigarette, leaving it between his lips unlit. He pulled a lighter from his pocket one handed, poised to light it as you spoke.

“Thanks, Javi. I really appreciate it, you’re too good to me.”

He froze up, before slowly moving the lighter to the centre console of the car, dropping it into the tray there with a clatter.

“Don’t say shit like that,” he grumbled around the cigarette, but you smiled anyway.

Seeing his prickly exterior come out only meant he was protecting himself from being vulnerable. He looked up at your building, ducking to survey the height of it. You knew it was rougher than where he and Murphy had ended up, but you liked the community of it.

“We gotta get you moved closer to us,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head for show, and you huffed out a laugh.

“I’m fine, Javi. Thank you for the lift.”

As you reached for the door handle he seemed to startle, the bubble of calm inside the car burst as a rush of hot air and noise swarmed through the open door.

“I’ll walk you in,” he declared, stashing his gun beneath his jacket and pulling the keys from the ignition.

“It’s fine, please, you can call me tonight,” you insisted, your feet finally hitting the ground as you got out of the passenger seat.

When you looked back into the vehicle for a gentle goodbye, you were surprised to see something sad on his face. Something disappointed, lonely, enough to make your heart clench.

“Unless you want to come in?”

He was beside you in an instant, the car needlessly loud in the click as Javi twisted his keys in the door to lock it.

“You’ve had a long day,” he reminded you, one hand hovering insistently behind your lower back, refusing to touch or grow further from you as you approached the entrance to your building.

It felt like forever ago, the failed raid, the violence at your office, the feeling of being fused to that bruising-hard metal chair as your heart raced in time with the static of the radio. The memory of Javi’s hands on you had finally vanished for just a second, until he brought it right back.

“You have too, Javi,” you muttered, looking away as you found your key.

“I’ll sleep like a baby tonight,” he grumbled, feet heavy on the stairwell as you ascended to the second story of the building.

“No other plans?”

Your question was supposed to be light-hearted, both of you breathing more heavily as you reached the threshold to your apartment. Key in the lock, you turned to see Javi leaning against the wall as casually as if he belonged there.

“None,” he whispered, “I’m here as long as you need me.”

Who said I needed you?

His arms were folded, fists clenched, and you wondered if he was stopping himself from reaching out.

He followed you inside quickly, taking the liberty of sliding over every lock on the door before you had the chance to. You could see him mentally sweeping the room, craning his neck to look for anything which might make his instincts rear up. You crossed to the small kitchen counter, dumping everything you were carrying down, as he gently paced the small space. He stuck his head into the bedroom, the bathroom, just checking.

Somewhere deep down, you knew why.

He would never forgive himself if something happened to you.

“Drink?”

Peña nodded, and you stepped back to let him raid the fridge himself, needing no permission. He’d been here enough times, though you couldn’t remember a time without Murphy. It was a different feeling, just the two of you. Calmer. Safer. You couldn’t meet his eyes as you moved around to switch on a couple of side lights. You knew you should eat, but you couldn’t walk back to the kitchen. Not while Peña was there.

The shouting had stopped, the baby had silenced, and yet you knew you wouldn’t sleep if you went to bed now.

Not a chance in hell.

You wondered if that was what Javier was doing too: distracting himself from the thoughts which would find him in sleep. By eating everything in your kitchen, apparently.

“I should cook for you, sometime,” he called, though his voice was quieter than you’d expected. Closer.

“You any good?” you teased, straightening up a stack of papers which would immediately slump into a mess again.

“Not really.”

You laughed a little, hearing his matching chuckle behind you. As you turned you found yourself suddenly between his arms, so close you could see the irritated red threatening the whites of his eyes. You wanted to stroke a thumb across those lines in the furrow of his brow, force him to relax until he turned back into the bright-eyed man you’d once known, who relished wasting government money on the finer things in life, and cheered like he’d won a star player when you were assigned to his team.

It seemed like a lifetime ago, and yet here he was, still in front of you. The same man, beneath the exhaustion and the things he’d seen since starting this damn job. As you were examining the lines of his face, the dark circles which never quite managed to overshadow the beauty of his dark eyes, he was staring at you.

He gave you warning, time to move away or speak or – something. He told you what he wanted with heavy eyelids and a light grip on your jaw, in the slight shuffle of his body closer to yours. Then he kissed you, like it had always made sense. It didn’t feel like the first time, he felt familiar. The slight tickle of facial hair against your face, the tensing of his fingers, seeming to engulf your whole skull and guiding you to lean into him as he groaned into your mouth.

The sound of your lips separating made your eyes open, staring wide at Javier like he was a new man. His grip on your face slipped to hands resting on your shoulders as he watched you, waiting for a reaction, bottom lip between his teeth as he bit down a grin.

You smiled openly, only able to look at his face, and he matched you with a laugh. He pulled you with him as he walked backwards, dragging you on top of him as he sat on your couch, muffling your apologies with a kiss as you fell heavily onto his lap.

The couch creaked beneath him as your mouths met heavily, but if Peña had even felt the weight of you, he didn’t flinch. He was kissing you like the world was ending, like he had seconds before the two of you would be gone forever, and he was determined not to miss a second against your skin.

It had felt like that, you supposed. That you would be ripped from one another too soon. Countless times together you had been seconds from death, an inch from bleeding out, hours from being blown up. It could all end soon, the two of you swallowed in flames or a shower of bullets. Perhaps he was making up for each and every time you had called for one another across a soon-to-be crime scene, desperately glad to see each other unharmed.

Peña’s hand on your waist grounded you, dragged you back into the moment, and you poured everything you had into kissing him so hard his lips would be reddened for days. You wouldn’t apologise for the roughness of it – he was determined to bruise you in response, sharing the kind of desperation which couldn’t be expressed in any other way.

Finally his second hand found your waist, gently prompting you to sit up in your straddle across his lap, staring at this new glassy-eyed, wild expression he wore.

“I’m no Travolta,” he panted, the words ghosting across you face.

You sighed. No living that one down.

“He’s not got enough grit for me anyway,” you promised, pressing a gentle kiss to the aquiline slope of his nose, before strong hands guided your lips straight back to his.

#javier pena #javier pena x reader #13atoms #javier pena x you #no y/n #javier pena fic #javier pena imagine #narcos fic #fic

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whatdoesshedotothem · 2 years ago

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Monday 22 June 1835

11 ¾

no kiss damp rainy morning F59° at 8 am in study - dusting there till 8 ½ - out ¼ hour - a few minutes with my father - breakfast at 8 55 - out at 10 for about ½ hour - a little while with my father and Marian - A- sat downstairs and I sat with [her] from about 11 to 2 reading the 1st 123 pages of ‘Lectures upon the Ecclesiastical history of the 1st 3 centuries from the crucifixion of Jesus Christ to the year 313 by the reverend Edward Burton, D.D. Regius professor of Divinity and canon of Xst church. In 2 volumes vole 1 Oxford printed by S. Collingwood, printer to the university, for the author; sold by J.H. Parker: and by J.G. and F. Rivington, London 1833’ 8vo vol. 1 pp. 391.

out with A- at 2 ¼ - she rode and I walked by her side to yew-trees, she to see George Sykes’s widow and to see the progress of the new barn for Hopkin - Henry Sykes, George Hartley and Midgley employed by Booth and getting on very well - the building will be ready for the roof on Saturday - sauntered about there perhaps ½ hour - Charles and James H- went this afternoon to lay the joists to carry the floor over the cowhouse - rain came on as I returned before getting to German house across the fields - stopt at Hannah Green’s for silver and for shelter near an hour and home at 5 ¼ - out in outbuildings till about 6 when A- returned from Cliff hill - 2 masons and the boy and Robert Schofield and his man this afternoon (not here in the morning afraid of rain) levelling for the stalls in the front stable - Carter set the posts - John Booth heard good character of Joseph Sharp from Mr Edward Emmett - saw the man asked why he did not come today as agreed - seemed uncertain - will let me know on Wednesday or Thursday .:. I will have nothing more to say to him - dinner at 6 ¼ - ½ hour with my father and Marian - coffee - sat downstairs - letter from Mr Harper dated yesterday - has engaged a young man in London as clerk of the works - Mr. H- will be tomorrow morning by the mail and with him Mr Grey, the landscape gardener - Read aloud to A- from page 124 to 148 Lectures on Ecclesiastical history - 20 minutes with my aunt till 10 5 - damp rainy morning till between 10 and 11 - then fair but dull till between 3 and 4 pm and afterwards rainy afternoon and evening tho’ fair about 8 pm - F59° now at 10 20 pm

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ghoste-catte · 3 years ago

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3,4,5 !

You didn't say which meme and I posted a couple last night, so I'm gonna go with this one. Thank you for the ask!

3. If you had to direct a scene from your fic, what would you choose? Why? What would it look like? What techniques would you use to convey certain emotions? What would the set look like?

Over the course of 90 fics, it's hard to pick one in particular, but there's a few where I'm, like, really into the imagery and can envision exactly how I'd want the "shot" to look. One of my faves is this little opening passage from 'i think we're haunted':

Lee stood awash in the golden light of his kitchen window, looking out over the dried grass of his backyard. The half-length curtains, crookedly hand-sewn by Tenten and speckled with cheery sunflowers, fluttered in the soft breeze drifting through the window screen.

It was autumn, and everything smelled of smoke.

Behind the thin spines of the maples that separated his yard from his one-street-over neighbor’s, the sun was starting to set. Gloaming light, stained orange by the leaves’ last dying hurrahs, filtered through the pale yellow cotton of the curtains and painted his fingers gold where they drummed on the steel behind the sink.

The house was old, narrow, taller than it was wide, and it seemed to tilt to and fro when the wind blew, the joists groaning and settling. It needed a lot of repair work, and the pipes spat rust before the water ran clear, the spigot juddering when Lee turned it on to wash the dust of moving day off his hands. But the house was his very own, his name on the deed and a mortgage looming in his bank account. Run-down though it may have been, his own house was the first sign of his true adult life opening up before him, perhaps a bit lately bloomed, but no less promising for it.

Lee grinned, and the shine of his teeth in the sunset flashed back at him from the windowpane.

This is definitely a moment where I can picture the establishing shot: a slow zoom over an autumn forest with a neighborhood tucked inside, focusing in on this crooked, narrow little house, passing over the dried grass of the backyard, zooming in past the fluttering curtains and into a focused shot of a sink full of dishes and lit-up hands turning on the faucet. The crisp, crunchy outdoor fall sounds transitioning into that sound that pipes make when they haven't been used in a long time--that buh-buh-buhbuhbuhbuh-shhhhh. Sort of the implication of something being above and not quite moored to this world, coming floating in to focus on this very quirky but ultimately mundane house. Panning around the kitchen to see the moving boxes and the pizza trash and the cups hung on their little hooks that have yet to be shattered--of course so later on that same pan could be used to show what a complete state of destruction the kitchen was in.

4. What are your main character(s)’ motivations? What do you consider their main drivers?

So, obviously this varies story-to-story, but I think it all boils down to one thing: love. Gaara and Lee both want to be loved so, so badly. They're just very different in what they consider love to be. Gaara equates love with a lack of fear, and with leaving a mark on the world (pre-reformation this is by killing people and asserting his existence, and post-reformation this would be by leading his village and changing the shinobi world for the better). Lee equates love with a sort of romantic ideal of adoration on a surface level, but from a deeper perspective I think he associates love with respect. The respect of a rival that you bested in battle, the respect of someone seeing you as an equal instead of something to look down on. I also think they're both--despite their bonds--terribly lonely people, searching for the other half of their whole. So I think that search for love and human connection drives both most of their canon actions and whatever they're doing in the fanfic I write.

5. What makes your main ship so compatible? Or, what makes them so incompatible? What do they see in each other?

Do people remember ship manifestos? Because I could write a ship manifesto on these guys. But off the top of my head:

Lee was the first person who touched Gaara, after years of not having been touched. I don't think it matters that it was in the course of a battle to the death, I just don't see any way for that not to have impacted Gaara's psyche.

Lee forgave Gaara without even having been apologized to. We can talk about whether that's an unhealthy approach to friendship or not, but I think in that moment of Gaara's life, where he was in the flux between being a monster and an ally, that sort of unconditional acceptance and forgiveness would have been exactly what he needed.

Gaara is someone that Lee sees as a rival and an aspiration, and we all know what the homoerotic underpinnings of the word 'rival' are in the Narutoverse.

And Lee calls him Gaara-kun. Gaara-kun. One of the highest ranking and most deadly shinobi in all 5 Nations, and Lee's like: Gaara-kun~ I mean. Come on.

Fun Meta Asks for Writers

#ask meme #answered #elitesheepi

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possumcollege · 1 month ago

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Apparently I've only drawn all 3 sisters together twice. They should hang out more.

I love these scenes because they've got one of my all-time favorite drawings of Joist:

and a rare cameo by Silo's left eye.

#possumcollege #crittertongue #art by op #comic art #fantasy #urban fantasy #queer comics #webcomics #my characters #my characters: Silo #my characters: Joist #My characters: Trestle #weird sisters #goatsters

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leapyearkisses · 4 years ago

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O Captain, My Captain 2/2 - (m/m) Salem/Faughn

Part two of the soldier setting.

Lil’ bit of mess. Hair brushing. Yearning. Etc.

---

The bar was dim and full of smoke from the spitting of the fire in the grate. Despite the proprietor’s efforts to shield against the storm, it was raining down the chimney, and the logs were hissing like hecklers at a bad variety show. The haze collected in the ceiling joists with the smoke from the soldiers’ cigarettes. It was crowded and loud inside and stank of wet wool and spilled ale. Could definitely have smelled of worse, though; Salem wasn’t complaining. He tapped his lips against his empty mug, gaze lingering in the shadowed corner of the room.

“Another round for you, sir?”

He looked up, saw Maisie Harpe looking down her nose at him, serving tray under her arm. Her expression was condescending. Salem remembered it fondly.

“You don’t have to call me ‘sir,’” he said, but pushed his mug toward her. “I’m still the same as I was.”

Maisie sniffed dismissively, picking it up. “Gone off and joined the war. Too good for a potter’s life. You think you’re going to come out the other end of it?” Her blonde curls shimmered around her round face with a flash of lightning. “Pa says it’s like watching sausages get made.”

“Hold your tongue, girl!” John Hadditch, the blacksmith of Yens Hollow, came up behind her and shooed her off. “Bad luck talking of that over beer. Go and bring us something better than this swill your Pa’s set aside for soldiers.” He sat down across from Salem and lifted his wooden leg around the bench with a grunt. “She still wants you to be pullin’ her pigtails, Sammy.” He chuckled.

Salem cleared his throat, hiding a smile. “She’s got better prospects than me.”

“Aye, maybe an officer? I heard they’re keeping the brass nice and polished at Maven Broadmoor’s place.” John leaned in. “You got a roof over your head, Sam, or are you out with the poor suckers in the mud?”

“Well, I’m not really brass. Maybe copper,” Salem said, accepting a new tankard from Maisie. “Mrs. Broadmoor is letting me sleep in the horse loft with the other lieutenants. Better than the back pasture.” He tapped his fingers on the table. When Maisie had walked away to another group, he leaned in. “I need to know if it’s safe to talk.”

“Not in here,” said John, taking a long draught of beer. “Come to my shop on the morrow, or I’ll come down to the farm if the bloody sky hasn’t fallen.” Thunder shook the double-paned windows. “My leg’s not as it used to be, though, and riding is a trial.”

“We can come to you.” Salem had been given a small company of men solely for this purpose of meeting with the trustworthy locals… or at least those they hoped were trustworthy. “On the morrow, if, as you say, we’re all still here.”

—

It was still raining when he finished the night, snapping the neck of his raincoat closed at the door, as if that would help. Maisie Harpe moved in the fallen darkness of the banked fire, turning out the oil lamps on the walls and drawing blankets over the men who had passed out at their benches from either drunkenness or exhaustion. Salem kept his tongue to himself, just tipped his hat to her on his way out.

His horse was none too keen to be drawn out of the stable, digging her heels in while he tacked her up. “I know,” he murmured, securing the saddle girth. “But you’ll be home soon enough.”

The streets were the same as he remembered them, and he rode confidently toward the edge of town even in the storm. He’d gone to school here as a boy, every morning hitching a ride on a wagon into town from the neighboring village. His father had been a cooper, building barrels for beer, whiskey, fish, pickles… whatever the fur traders needed, and then when that started drying up, whatever anyone else needed. His mother had been a potter. Technically, he still owned the house and the workshops, but he’d given the plot to a cousin to manage. He wondered absently, focused on the echoing of his horse’s hooves on the cobbles, whether he should go by the place while he was stationed here. Surely no one would begrudge him the chance to see family. …Although they weren’t close.

His mare moved faster on the dirt roads despite the muddy furrows, picking up her pace going out to the farmlands. Salem hunched against the rain. Water was running down his neck and his face, and an ill-timed breath sent a drip up his nose, too. He ducked to the side with a loud sneeze. “Hruuscht!” His horse laid her ears back.

“Sorry, girl.” He wiped his face on his wet sleeve and sighed. It was very late, but he thought, maybe, he should try to meet with the Captain before he went to sleep. To update him on the idea of meeting with Hadditch tomorrow, to tell him what Salem had overheard while drinking, …to inspect the state of him. Salem sighed.

—

There was a lamp still burning at the Broadmoor farm. Salem put his horse away and then slogged up to the main house, shivering on the back stoop. Martha, the maid, let him in to the kitchen and took his jacket, scolding him for coming back so late. She probably thought him a souse. He let her chide him as she brought him a towel and a heel of bread. He ate it after she’d returned to her bed, then left his boots on the hearth, hoping that the fire would dry them somewhat, before going upstairs. He trod carefully. Major General Wallace was staying here as well, and he was said to be a rough character when untimely roused.

Light flickered beneath the door of the yellow bedroom. Salem tapped lightly against the paneling and waited for an acknowledgement.

“Yes?” The Captain’s voice was hoarse. “I don’t need another of your bitter infusions, Doctor.” He coughed. “I’ve had more than enough of them.”

“It’s Lieutenant Desidero, sir.”

“Come in.”

Salem stepped into the room. The Captain had a candle burning and was writing at the desk, quill scratching over the parchment at a steady pace that was uninterrupted by Salem’s visit. Captain Faughn was wearing his hair down for once. It spilled down his back like blood, the same shade, tangled and damp with rain or sweat. Hardly regulation, Salem could hear in his mind, the voice of his long-ago trainer barking away in memory. His gaze followed the length of it to the Captain’s trim waist. He was in his shirtsleeves.

“I have a report,” he forced himself to say. “A short one. I went to the village tavern tonight.”

“Tell me about it,” said Faughn, without looking up.

So Salem did, describing the state of the place, the bearing of the owner, Maisie Harpe, the blacksmith. He talked about the bar’s stable, which had a new roof, and the men who had worked on it and dined there that night. The church had burned two years ago and been rebuilt a little bigger, with a new back room, by the same men. Men from trapper families with nothing to trap anymore, back in town since a few months ago.

Faughn listened to the report without commenting, though he did lay his quill down sometime in the middle. By the candlelight, his eyes were heavy-lidded and thoughtful. His cheeks were flushed high with fever.

“Nice job,” he said when Salem had finished, rubbing his hands together. “I knew I was right to trust this to you. If all goes well here, I will be sure to give you a commendation.” He sniffed hard and Salem heard a liquid shift of congestion in his sinuses. “Is there anything else?”

Salem swallowed. “Your hair, sir?”

“My hair?” Faughn frowned.

“I’d like to brush it for you.”

—

The Captain’s comb was made of whale ivory. Salem sat on the bed behind him and drew the fine teeth carefully down through the Captain’s hair, trying to untangle it without pain. The Captain’s hair was soft despite the rigors of the war. Salem supposed he must keep it oiled under his hat, or some other way protected from the elements. “I’m not hurting you, am I?” he asked.

Faughn had made a small noise, but now he lifted a hand to dismiss concerns. “No. No, you’re fine.” His fingers were slender and strong, but he curled them now under his nose. “I’m going to hh-”

Salem slipped the comb free as the Captain bent forward, crushing his nose to his knuckles.

“Nkktsch! Ngktschx!” His breath caught again. “Hah- hahktschiu!” Moisture shone against the smooth curve of Faughn’s nostrils in the candlelight. He sniffed thickly and reached to the bedside table for a handkerchief.

“Bless you,” murmured Salem, gaze lingering. He looked away when the Captain raised an eyebrow. “How are you feeling?”

Faughn cleared his throat, low and irritated. “I do wish people would stop asking me that.” He dabbed at his nose but seemed hesitant to blow. The corners of his dark eyes creased in uncertainty.

Salem traced his fingers over the comb, thumb pressed along the smooth edge from end to end. The bedroom was warm from the farmhouse’s central fireplace. Heat blossomed also in his belly. He looked at his nail, snagged earlier on his horse’s reins, instead of at the Captain. He could hear from the Captain’s breathing that he would sneeze again. “My apologies.”

“Ngktschiu!” Wet again, but this time enveloped by the folds of the handkerchief. Salem could imagine how it might feel instead against his skin. His arousal swelled. Faughn groaned softly, a private sound. Salem rose to his feet.

“I will report to you again tomorrow night,” he said, placing the comb on the clothes chest by the foot of the bed. He could feel himself blushing. Part of him wanted the Captain to turn and see it, too, but most of him knew to keep it close and hidden. “Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Desidero.”

Salem closed the door behind him and then stood for a long moment in the empty hallway, listening to the rain.

#lyk writes #snz #first lieutenant salem desidero #captain gwalchmai faughn #salemai #*stares adoringly at faughn*#I haven't reread this in ages #it's tender isn't it #hmmmmmm should i write a third part

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howtofightwrite · 5 years ago

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Q&A: Broken Bag

This might sound silly but can someone actually generate enough force to break a punching bag or you have to be superhuman? My character is enhanced, thought.

No. It’s about wear and tear, poor construction, or improper use, not raw force. If you have a bag in good condition, which is properly set up, you won’t be breaking that by generating too much force.

So, where can this go wrong?

Wear and tear is the big killer here. Punching bags are designed to take a lot of abuse, but that does stack up over time, and they will wear out. Usually you would want to replace your bag when you start seeing damage before it fails catastrophically.

If you’re getting cheap bags, those will wear out much faster, and could could break under normal use. A major place to cut costs is in the shell materials. So, instead of leather, or ballistic nylon, you get nylon, or vinyl. This will start coming apart fairly quickly.

When you’re setting up a bag, unless it’s free standing, you’ll need to secure it to something. It may have a stand, or you may need to mount it into the ceiling. If it’s the ceiling, it needs to mount into a structural hardpoint, like a joist. For heavy bags, this could require holding over 100lbs. (The guildeline is that a heavy bag should be roughly half the user’s own weight.) Simply bolting that into “whatever,” won’t cut it, and the bag will tear free. If you’re lucky, it’ll come down when it’s first hung, though it’s theoretically possible you’d get the balance just right, and tear it out of the ceiling with your first hit.

One possible point of failure here is if a bag was properly mounted, but then replaced with bag too heavy for the rig. It would put extra strain on the mount, and potentially cause it to break.

There’s one specific kind of misuse that can result in all hell breaking loose: Replacing the bag’s stuffing with something much heavier. Most heavy bags are stuffed with scrap cloth (scrap leather is another popular choice.) If someone gets it into their mind that the they should replace it with sand, the resulting bag will be dramatically heavier and rock hard. This means the shell, stitching, mount, chains, everything will be under significantly more strain, and the chances of something breaking are much higher.

So, can you strike hard enough to break a punching bag? Not when you’re using it as intended. However, eventually, it will break, not because you hit it with superhuman strength but because it’s worn out. Punching bags have a fixed lifespan, and you’ll need to replace them as you use them up.

-Starke

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Q&A: Broken Bag was originally published on How to Fight Write.

#exercise equipment #fightwrite answers #punching bags #Starke answers #writing advice #writing reference #writing tips

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shannygoatgruff · 5 years ago

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My Brother’s Keeper - Chapter VI

Genre: Psychological Thriller

Characters: Modern Ivar X Modern Hvitserk

Rating: MA 18+

Overall Warning: Dark story told from an emotionally distributed person’s POV with graphic and sadistic material including rape, terror, torture, kidnapping, drug use, slash, implied incest, necrophilia, and insecurity. Heavy trigger warnings.

Chapter Warning: Implications of incest

Summary: Mama always said to be their brothers’ keeper. Now there is absolutely nothing these two won’t do for each other. Boys will be boys…

Chapter VI

Today is one of those days where the weather forgot that it's supposed to be Fall. It’s so humid in here it’s making the air feel like there’s a blanket over my nose. I’m sure all the dust and mold in this place isn’t helping, either.

There's a window in the far corner, but I can't really get to it. Not without moving a ton of shit out of the way, first. Lord knows I’m going to work up a sweat just trying to get to it, but it's too damn hot in here not to try.

I need to make sure I step carefully across the room due to the number of weak floorboards. I wonder what's underneath of this place. There’s probably an old crawl space or something. I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough, but right now, I'm not really willing to break my leg to find out. If I don’t watch my step though, I might just end up going right the floor and into whatever is under here without meaning to.

Ivar is standing close to the old mantel bouncing on his toes. "Here's a weak spot," he says turning to face me. Shifting his weight onto different parts of the plank, he discovers yet another flaw with the floor. That’s good. This is something we need to know.

He steps cautiously to the iron grates in front of the fireplace and starts to pull on them. "These are sturdy, though," he gives me a big smile as he continues pulling until his face is red. The grates are bolted into the stone structure and have probably rusted into place. That's awesome.

Placing one foot directly in front of the other, I count the number of steps it takes me to get from the front door to this space near the window. I know when it gets dark I won't be able to see my hand in front of my face and I need to know how to navigate my way around this room. Exactly twenty-five steps. Not bad for a guy that wears a size twelve shoe. If our guest is a woman, it will take her more steps because her feet are going to be smaller. That gives me an advantage. "Twenty-five," I look over at Ivar and he nods, before pulling out his phone to make the note about the distance. We need to know everything about any possible escape routes.

There are a bunch of chairs, if they can even be considered that, piled up on one side of the room. They aren’t in the best of shape, either. Most of these are gonna have to go, or maybe we can repurpose them or something. That is, if they would even hold together long enough to be used again. Each time I pick one up it seems to break apart in my hands and kicks up more dirt and shit when the wood hits the floor.

I think all the dust flying around is upsetting all the maggots that were enjoying that dead raccoon under this pile of shit because they're starting to squirm around the more, now. I don’t know why I’m so fascinated by them. If we didn’t need to really scope this place out, I would be perfectly happy sitting on this floor and watching them completely devour this animal.

I got shit to do, now. I’ll check on their progress later.

Finally, I clear enough of a pathway that I can make it to the window. Of course, it’s just my fucking luck the goddamn window is painted shut. I don’t care how much I strain, this thing ain’t budging. God, it’s so fucking hot in here.

Ivar's hand on my shoulder makes me turn around and before I can fully face him, I see him hurl a chair leg at a pane of glass. He turns around with a boyish smile and shrugs his shoulders, “Better?” Almost immediately I feel the breeze from the trees outside breathe life into the room and carry out some of the moldy smell.

Nodding my head, I can't help but smile at him. He always knows what I need without me having to tell him.

I close my eyes at the feeling of his lips on my forehead, "Where'd you find this place?" We're out in the middle of nowhere. This cabin was built deep in the woods for a reason. Whoever lived here before, did not want to be disturbed.

"Remember the one from a few weeks ago…the personal trainer?” Ivar snaps his finger as he tries to recall the occupation of our former guest. He casually starts to walk into another room to explore, “ I buried that one not far from here. I found this place on my way back.”

“You did good, little brother.” I’m so proud of him. This place is a rare find. I look out the hole in the window and can hear a creek running not far from where we are. Not only have we found our next venue, but it has a wonderful ambiance. "It's gorgeous." I want to spend more time looking out of this broken window, I probably would, but I know that there is much more to discover.

Walking the twenty-five paces back to the front door of the cabin, I decide to count off how many paces it takes to get to the stairs. Counting aloud, I count off 14 paces from the entrance to the first of the broken, stone stairs leading up to the second level. If I'm not careful, these stairs may crumble under my weight. I am going to have to carefully mark my footing if I am going to navigate them successfully.

It's dangerous, I know, but we don't take chances. We need to know everything about our surroundings, just in case our company decides they want to leave early. We need to know where we might possibly find them, and more importantly what kind of condition they might be in when we get to them.

The third step is extremely wobbly and probably won't support me. Instead of chancing it, I skip that one and place my foot on the step above it. From here, I can see the open floor plan of the upper level. There's little to nothing up here; mainly bird shit, a few dead animals, and a big ass hole in the roof. The floor is completely rotted through to the point where I can see the exposed joists that were used to create the downstairs ceiling. Apparently, the termites haven't eaten through to the ceiling yet because I didn't notice this hole while I was downstairs.

There's nothing we can use up here as much as I can tell. I mean, I really can’t do too much exploring up here because I can’t walk around. I can't even step on the floor because just pushing my hand on one spot sends a board straight through to the lower level. I flinch at the crash it makes on the floor below. "Sorry!" I don't think Ivar even hears me because he doesn't answer.

Taking one final look at this room, I notice a small door hidden in a corner just below a huge spider web. Now my curiosity has got the better of me. It’s not like the door is on the other side of the room. I just have to make it over to the corner. I have to check it out, even if it means that I actually go through the ceiling myself.

You get used to crawling around in dark, dirty places after a while. Not the dirt covering my knees nor the blood on my palms, from the where the jagged pieces of bare wood of the ceiling beams cutting into them, bother me. My only concern is getting to that door. Who knows what treasures might await inside.

I make sure to keep my weight steady. Sliding one leg and one hand across the beams in even strokes, I listen intently to the wood creaking under me. On all fours, it takes me less than thirty seconds to make it across to my destination. I make sure to keep a mental note of the amount of time it takes to reach this door. Who knows, that information might come in handy.

The door opens without protest, but I can't see anything inside. I use my cellphone flashlight to illuminate the crawlspace enough for me to see what I want to. The area is barely bigger than a closet and there are all kinds of hooks, chains, and tackle stored within. "Fishermen." It makes sense. There's a creek right down the way. This secluded cabin was probably some fisherman's home away from home at one point in time. Gathering as much of the stuff from as inside as I can, I slide it along the floor back toward the stairs.

Peering down from the landing, I see Ivar standing in the front room tapping his finger against his bottom lip. He's got a vision, that look on his face is a dead giveaway. "Catch."

He looks up with happy eyes and moves toward the stairs to see what it is that I've found. His smile gets wider with each item I throw down to him. "All this shit was upstairs? This place is fucking amazing!"

"Watch the third step..." I hadn't had a chance to tell him about it before he starts climbing up to catch the bait box that lands just short of his grasp. He wobbles on it and manages to jump down before the step completely slides off of the platform it was resting on.

Picking himself up from off the floor, he dusts off his pants and claps his hands together to get the wet leaves off of them. "That it?" When I nod, he gathers the items and carries them over to the fireplace.

Carefully, I make my way down the stairs, jumping from the fourth step to the floor. I see that Ivar's found more shit from the other room that he has now placed in front of the fireplace. A hatchet, sheets, and something that resembles a bed frame. "What's all this?"

"I haven't really figured out what it's all for yet, but give me a few hours. There's a bunch of other shit in there, too." With a shrug, he turns to me and gives a sheepish smile. "There's a mattress in there for you, if you want it."

A mattress? This place is like the fucking North Pole and Ivar is Santa Claus. I don't remember the last time I was able to do it on a mattress, excluding being with Thora. Usually, I get a chair, table, or the floor. Not that I mind, but with the condition of our accommodations being what they are, I usually end up with cuts and scrapes on me because of it. But a mattress? The possibilities are endless.

"So what do you think? You like it?" Ivar looks so hopeful when he turns to face me and takes both of my hands in his.

I'm so impressed with his find, words can't even describe it. "You’ve outdone yourself this time, Ivy. It’s perfect!" I squeeze his hands before turning toward the other room. "What's that room like?"

Running a hand through his dark hair, he shrugs. "A bunch of junk, mostly. But I figure, if we pull out everything we need into this room and pile all of the other shit in front of that door, we can just entertain in here." I follow behind him and take a look at all of the things left behind from the previous owner including the piles of nude magazines scattered around the room.

People and their porn. I'll never understand perverts.

It only takes a minute to drag out the mattress and we toss it in the front room along with everything else. Ivar returns with a few lanterns and oil and they go on top of the mantle. Right now, this place looks like shit, but over the next few days, we'll set it up how we want it. After Ivar gets an idea of where he wants everything placed and what exactly he wants to do, this place will be a palace.

We walk in silence around the back of the cabin and push past the bushes to see the creek. “Hey, Serk?” Ivar picks up a large branch from the ground as we walk, “Doesn’t this place remind you of the cabin we had when we were kids?” There is happiness in his voice when he asks me.

I nod, remembering how we used to fish and stick our bare feet in the water. “I remember me and Ubbe were always sword fighting. And, you used to cry all the time because you never came home with any fish.”

“That was because of Sigurd,” Ivar says laughing. “Fucker. Remember that Fall at the cabin when we found out that we were best brothers and soul mates?” I feel warm all over, as Ivar takes my hand in his and we swing our arms as we continue to walk.

I nod my head and suddenly I’m stunned silent. “It’s so beautiful here.” This creek is gorgeous. "Hey, Ivar? Do you think we would ever be able to have a place like this one day? Like a place just for us?" I feel like a child with my request, but my memories of our childhood cabin are foggy at best. I would love to have a home away from home, just those fishermen had. Sure, Ivar and I have a house together that's beautifully decorated and is warm and inviting, but we don't have a place to play together.

Ivar's always complaining that with the amount of time we spend scoping out locations, we're seriously cutting in on the number of parties we could have. And I have to agree. If we had one place, we could party all the time. "With our own play place, we could entertain whenever we wanted to. And if he had a place like this one, we could do some work on it, like rig the floors or build little hidey holes to keep them in, or something. Maybe you could use the fireplace or a creek if you wanted to get rid of them? We would make sure it’s secluded in the woods, and it would have to be near a body of water somewhere." I probably sound desperate and pathetic, but this is something that I want so badly. "I don't know. It just seems like it'd be pretty cool."

“Do you really like it here?” Ivar asks me with interest? He takes my hand still intertwined in his and brings it to his lips. "If you want this place Serk, it's ours. You know I would give you anything you wanted." The serenity in his voice makes my cheeks flush.

Just standing at the mouth of the creek looking at the murky water flowing happily downstream, and knowing that we now have a place to call ours makes me feel so completely at peace. I know that I wouldn't want to share what I'm feeling with anyone but Ivar. He's the only one that can understand why I'm so happy.

"Happy birthday, big brother.” His soft lips capture mine and I immediately close my eyes and lose myself in the feeling of his hands in my hair. My arms snake around his waist to pull him closer to me as I try to feel more of the hardening in his pants against me. “I love you, Hvitserk.” He traces my lips with this index finger as if to permanently seal in his kiss.

“I love you, too,” I whisper back looking into his intense blue eyes.

Suddenly, Ivar looks at his watch and our private moment is broken, “It’s almost 7 o’clock, you’ve got to get going. I’m going to stay around here and try to get some stuff done.” He turns and starts to walk back toward the cabin and I follow him in silence.

By the time we reach our respective cars, he stops in front of me and gives me a quick peck on my lips, “Have fun tonight.”

As much as I'd love to stay and help him prepare the house, I know he's right. I have to get home and showered before I pick up Thora. She's going home for a week and I want to spend some time with her before she leaves. I don’t know how long Ivar is going to be working here, but he promised to give Thora and I uninterrupted time together.

We found a fully stocked play place, I'm going to spend some time with my girl, and I have the best little brother in the world. What more can a man ask for?

This has been the best birthday I have ever had.

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notnavi · 4 years ago

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Not a good story

CHAPTER 4: THE PROCRASTINATION.

What can I say, how many days has it been since I’ve written? 3? 4? Thing is I’m a useless person at maintaining stuff, however you wanna know what I’m good at? Returning to them, I always return, when it seems to have been forgotten, I, always, return. A few months ago I began watching breaking bad, good stuff, until it got incredibly boring, I was told it was the very best and nothing could top it, well guess what, boring as hell, until just recently I began watching it again, man the fly episode is absolute art, I wish I could write something as meaningfull as that episode, I felt like I was reading a book, a good one, and that’s why I’m here, I remembered I’m a procrastinating connoiseur and that I hate it, so that’s why I’m here, with my cup of fake milk and my phone reproducing music that supposedly makes me feel like the main character. Two things: 1. It doesn’t make me feel like the main character, good music though. 2. Seems kinda fitting for what I’m trying to archieve here.

You might be wondering what happened to the previous story, the one with Me and “LA CREATURA” (Yup, had that joke prepared for it). Well, I ditched it, it’s completely forgotten in the ways of time and all it takes with it. I’m gonna make a new story, an actual good one, the previous one was a copy of another story, and also the reborn of a story I once wrote but never got to finish it, actually, they ended pretty much in the same place, huh, anyways this story will be a bit more realistic, I was just about to explain to you what it was gonna be about but you better check for yourself. (Vince gilligan if you’re watching this please praise me).

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Yeah I have no story, I’m actually chuckling a little at the stupidity I just did, but worry not, I’ll just grab a concept and I will expand on it.

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The sun is just rising, birds chirp, or whatever sound pidgeons make, and some cars can be heard, it’s about 20°c outside. An apartment building can be seen, it’s grey and has some cracks, however it’s not somewhere incredibly dangerous, and there aren’t junkies inside, well, maybe some, they just happened to live up the main character’s apartment in which he’s understandably woken up with the beautiful melodies emanating from his roof, consisting of moans and some high quality music, our main character sits on the side of his bed, seeing his alarm clock it says 6:25 am, well, having some noisy neighbours might not be as bad as they say afterall, waking up early is a priviledge not many have. However this sunshine of a person dislikes the idea of being woken up so early, after all they tend to begin after another noise begins emitting noises, what an ungratefull bastard.

Navi: Why don’t you get an overdose already.

Exclaimed the rising king from his throne. He heads to the bathroom in a wobbly way to take the first leak of the day. Navi tranverses his apartment which consists of the oldest, cheapest, or even free dumpster furniture you can imagine, there’s some pieces of wood missing on some of them, they’re dusty and dirty except for some places where stuff tends to end up frequently, like a plate, a cup of water, keys, navi’s life (see what I did there). The floor is also dirty, with black stuff laying around and maybe one or two deadly viruses. In the bathroom a particular sound can be heard from the toilet, yeah, it’s liquid falling into other liquid, you’re a great guesser aren’t you. Navi looks up while doing the deed, still hearing what he heard for the past few years, non stop. After doing so he heads to the dinning room, where he sits for a few minutes, looking at his hands, and sometimes, glancing through the window. There isn’t anything interesting as always, just some cars, some birds flying by, some pedestrians pedestriying. Navi then says to himself.

Navi in a slow and monotone voice: Why can’t a zombie apocalypse happen already. Why can’t anything interesting happen. Why can’t something great for me happen, maybe a billboard saying some company wants to hire me to do something easy for half a million dollars, maybe my powers could awaken and I could save the world, god even a girl asking me out is fine by me, why is life so difficult, why was I born in this country, why was I born in this time period, why can’t I reset my life and be born in a rich family, I would never run out of money, I would be a famous person, I would become rich by my own means too, I would’nt know what lack of motivation is, I wouldn’t feel bad for my parents, I would’ve had a good life, but no, life had to be unfair, I had to be stuck in my situation with no way of getting out.

Navi saying while tearing up, I’m still fat, I’m still cashless, I’m still unloved, why? It’s nobody’s fault, it’s all mine, I’m the piece of ####, but anything I ever did never worked, I have nothing good going for me, nothing helps, nothing gets better, it only stays the same and slowly gets worse, my parents must be so dissapointed in me, they must knew from an early age that I would end here, that I would never be anybody in life.

Navi begins throwing insults at everyone for a bit, but then all of those insults redirect to himself, he spends a good chunk of time degrading himself while hard bass is heard from the roof, until he becomes entirely silent. With tears still freshly running down his cheek he looks at a blank point for a few minutes, after those few minutes he looks at the door leading to his bedroom, Navi slowly stands up and turtle step by turtle step heads back inside his bedroom, then goes to the wardrobe and grabs a tie. He then makes it into a knot and wraps it around his neck, after that he ties in in the joist on the roof while standing on his bed, ready to take a leap of faith, he begind crying uncontrollably, face turning red and hands to in the mouth the puts one of his feet towards the other where there was no more bed. Suddently, his alarm clock rang, he stumbled a bit and almost fell out of the bed, realizing what he’s done he gets down, turns off the alarm clock and gets dressed up, Navi grabs his keys and heards out the door locking it behind.

#story #beginner #dream #famous #writter #writter problems #please I wanna be famous #depression #loveyou

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