#please know this was word vomit at 3 am so I could actually just get the words flowing

[nico-di-genova]

Just a Little Rain

Prompt: Palex where Alex comes to Pato for a sleepover in his bus because he can't fall asleep alone  A/N: Don't ask me the timeline of anything, idk. Anyway, found out Alex apparently has a fear of lightning and I ran with it.

The rumble of thunder through the bus lot is what pulls Pato from his sleep, a sound that roils through, bringing Pato’s consciousness with it. The lightning that flashes, casts shadows of his blinds across the ceiling and illuminates the messy state of his room for a blink, is quick to follow.

Pato groans, muffles the sound into his pillow when he turns on his side and curses the weather.

The storm had been forecasted, discussed in their meeting the night before because it is meant to be slow-moving, still sitting above them come morning and impacting the practice session he sorely needs. The rain that beats against his window would normally be appreciated, soothing in nature, if not for the fact that it is what will be keeping him out of the car come tomorrow. Ovals and their temperament, their unreliability, and the fact that they can kill, have killed, aren’t safe to drive on in wet conditions. Pato wouldn’t want to take the risk, not for a practice session, but he is itching to get in the car.

May is already weighing heavy on him, despite the fact that the month is still in its infancy, still ripe with potential and promise. Pato cannot help but think twenty steps ahead, can’t help that his brain seems to be working in overdrive these days, especially where the 500 is concerned. It’s exhausting, which is another reason he curses the storm. He needs sleep.

Thunder rumbles again, louder this time, enough to shake the bus. Enough that Pato misses the knocking until it comes again, frantic. He could pass it off as storm noise, if not for how it echoes and sound far closer than what is brewing in the sky above.

Grumbling, he pulls himself from the bed and pads down the length of the bus, wiping at the sleep crusted in the corners of his eyes. He opens the door mid-yawn, not expecting anyone, but least of all the man who stands on the first step shivering in his soaked through pajamas.

“Alex?”

Alexander Rossi looks up at him through the rain beading on his lashes, squints when it drips and joins the rest of the cascading trails down his face.

“Hi.”

“Hi?”

“Can I come in?” He shivers again as if for emphasis, curls his arms tighter where he’s wrapped them around his torso. His shirt is plastered to his soaked through frame, sleeves tight against the swell of muscle. Pato stares, wondering for a moment if he’s maybe dreaming, before Alex tacks on a feeble, “Please?” and his voice, trembling just as much as he is, pulls Pato back to his senses.

He moves out of the doorway, motions for Alex to enter, and then Alexander Rossi is standing in the entryway of his bus and dripping water in a puddle on the linoleum. His shoes leave muddy tracks, before he looks down and notices the mess.

“Sorry,” He mutters to Pato before kicking the sneakers off, standing in the puddle of water in his socks once he does.

“It’s okay,” Pato promises. His bus isn’t the sanctity of cleanliness that Alex’s is, there’s enough half empty water bottles and piles of clothes scattered around to attest to that. But Alex probably can’t see the mess in the dark of the bus. He isn’t looking at anything anyway, just the floor beneath him, his socks changing color where the water is soaking into them.

Pato isn’t sure what to say, what to do, shuffles around Alex from where he’d been standing with his hand still on the door and then makes for the kitchen so he can flip the switch to illuminate the small space. The light has them both flinching, blinking against it, even though it’s dim because Pato has it on a slider and always keeps it on the lowest setting. It casts Alex in a new light, makes his soaked through state even more apparent. Their buses are on opposite sides of the lot, which means Alex has run through the grass and the mud, braved the torrential downpour that now beats against the windows, to stand in one spot on Alex’s bus and shiver.

“Are- do you- do you want a change of clothes?” Pato asks. They’re not the same size, but Pato thinks he maybe has a hoodie or two that are oversized on him.

Alex swallows, nods, “Yeah, if you don’t mind.”

Pato wouldn’t have offered if he did.

He doesn’t look at Pato, still keeps staring at that same spot on the floor. Alex doesn’t ever speak much, but he doesn’t show up at Pato’s place at close to three in the morning without explanation either. They’re friendly, friends even, but Pato is used to long text conversations and casual flirting, not whatever this is. He’s out of his element, Alex too if his stilted behavior is any indication.

Rifling through the bit of clean laundry he still has, Pato is able to procure a tan hoodie. There’s a stain on the front, probably from spilled food, but it’s clean. Alex doesn’t seem to mind, which is strange too, just peels his shirt from his body without preamble and wipes himself down with the towel Pato offers too before sliding the hoodie on.

Pato tries not to stare, fails, watches as Alex runs to towel over his chest, his arms, the expanse of his abdomen. He’s seen Alex shirtless before, worked out with him occasionally and seen him strip out of his fireproofs when he got too overheated, but never in the intimacy of his temporary home. Never when Alex was so close. Alex dries at the water along his v-line, and Pato’s mouth goes a little dry.

He forces himself to look away, makes himself a glass of water and chugs it while leaning against the sink so he can maybe not feel so thirsty that he thinks about dropping to his knees and licking away the rain dotting Alex’s skin himself. Alex doesn’t seem to notice, just slides on the hoodie and then strips out of his socks, adding them and his shirt in a soggy pile next to his shoes.

“Thanks,” Alex says when he’s dressed, no longer standing in the puddle, but across from Pato in the small space of the kitchen. He’s leaned back against the door of the bathroom, arms crossed over his chest again, eyes still not quite meeting Pato’s.

“No problem.” Pato sips from his water now, casts a look at Alex over the rim of the cup.

“I-“ Alex starts, shifts against the door, sighs, “I don’t like storms.”

The thunder rumbles again outside as if to accentuate Alex’s point. He tenses, noticeably, fabric of the hoodie stretched tight across his shoulders.

“Oh,” Pato says, for lack of anything better. Alex didn’t seem like the sort to be afraid of anything, least of all thunderstorms.

“I- it’s the lightning really. Or just- just the whole thing. I don’t know. Mainly the lightning.”

“Oh,” Pato says again, still unsure what he’s meant to do here, “Okay.”

“Sorry, it’s stupid,” Alex says, forces out a laugh, but Pato knows when he’s faking something so it’s not hard to miss the tension in his tone. He glances up at Pato for a second, quickly looks back down, finds another spot on the floor to study with avoidant interest. Pato’s never seen him like this. Quiet, annoyed, yes, but awkwardly picking at the sleeve of Pato’s hoodie with anxious fingers, that’s a new one.

“No, it’s not stupid,” Pato assures him, sets the cup of water down behind him, “Sorry, man, I don’t mean to be an asshole.” He steps closer to Alex, sets a hand over where Alex is pulling on the hoodie at his bicep and then releasing it, repeating the behavior again and again with increasing agitation. Alex flinches at the contact, eyes darting to Pato’s holding for a second before they leave again. He’s biting at his bottom lip nervously, enough that Pato can see blood beading up when he pulls at a loose bit of skin to hard. Alex licks it away quickly, ducks his head further like he’s ashamed.

“It’s not stupid, honestly. What do you need me to do? How can I help?”

Alex shrugs, shakes his head.

“Come on, Alex. You came here for a reason, let me help. Please.”

“It’s dumb,” Alex says, quiet, ashamed. The thunder comes again, and he tenses impossibly tighter, goes so rigid in Pato’s grasp that Pato can feel it. The bus does little to help, just keeps rocking with the wind that gusts against it and doing nothing to mute the cacophony of noise that is the rain pounding against the roof. The storm is picking up, and Alex is only growing more and more agitated with it.

“Alex, I want to help,” Pato pushes. He hates this, hates seeing Alex practically trembling in the dim light of his bus, looking smaller than he should. He’s exhausted, and he can see Alex is too in the dark circles under his eyes and his weary expression. They need to sleep, they both need this rain to end. Alex because he clearly can’t stand the storm itself, Pato because he needs to get in his car tomorrow, drive out the anxiety and frustration that’s crawling up his spine. He curses Indiana weather again, mentally gives it the finger, it responds with a clap of thunder so loud the bus shakes with it.

Alex’s face goes white, his grip on his own bicep goes so tight Pato can see it, feel it beneath where he’s got his own hand resting atop Alex’s. It must be painful, has to be, because he’s gripping skin and muscle with enough force his knuckles are going white too.

“Hey, woah, it’s okay.” He soothes Alex like a spooked horse, pulls the man’s hand away from where he’s attempting to bruise his own arm, lets him grip his hand instead. “You’re okay, dude. All good.”

“S-sorry,” Alex stutters out, choked sounding. He’s squeezed his eyes shut, just as tight as the rest of his body, leaning against the door behind him heavily for support. His breathing comes out ragged, unnatural. “I need- I need to lay down. Please. Under something, with someone. Just- I can’t- I don’t like being alone when it’s- when it’s like this.”

Hence running through the rain and to Pato’s door. Pato remembers Alex telling him Hinch was out of town, gone to Miami for the Formula 1 race. He wonders if that’s who Alex would have run to instead, assumedly he had not been the first choice. They’ve endured plenty of storms during this season and the last, but this is the first time Alex has shown up at his door seeking shelter.

Carefully, still handling Alex with all the care one would a particularly frightened thoroughbred, he takes him by the wrist and leads him back to his room. Alex follows, numbly, blindly, trusting Pato fully. Pato has contended with his fair share of nervous system overloads, understands the way you feel frayed and exposed, like a raw nerve. He doesn’t blame Alex for shutting down.

Alex’s sweatpants are still wet from the rain, and Pato doesn’t have a pair that would fit him.

“Do you want to sleep in these?” He asks, gently tapping against the waistband of the clothing.

Alex shakes his head.

“Okay if I take them off?”

Alex nods.

It’s not the way Pato had envisioned undressing him, and he does so with a gentleness he had not pictured either, sliding the elastic band down past the hem of his briefs, the muscle of his thighs, and then letting them pool around his ankles so Alex can step out of them when Pato pulls him forward and eases him down onto the bed. Alex sits on the edge for a minute while Pato crawls in behind him, all rigid and unmoving, and then falls back on the pillow with a sigh of relief when Pato grabs his arm and pulls him down. He is taller than Pato, longer than him, but the height doesn’t factor much once they’re laying parallel. Pato holds him, Alex turns himself around to bury his face against the crook of his neck. The blanket Pato eases over him ends up pulled to his ears.

When lightning flashes, illuminates the room, Alex’s breath stutters.

“Okay,” he soothes, “You’re okay.”

Part of him wonders at the fear, wonders what it is in the lightning that causes Alex to press closer to him. Come morning maybe he will ask, or maybe he will text Hinch, or maybe he will say nothing at all, and Alex will leave once the sun arrives. This could become something they aren’t meant to talk about, like the flirting and the texts that Alex sends when he’s drunk and alone. Just another thing they step around, until the next storm that Alex comes knocking during.

Pato holds him closer, closes his eyes and inhales the scent of him, the sharp copper scent of rain and skin that isn’t really Alex at all, but will be what Pato recalls when he thinks of this night.

“You’re okay,” Pato promises, because the bus doesn’t muffle much sound, but it keeps out the rain. Alex lets him run a hand down his back, muscles jumping under the touch, coiled so tightly he can’t hide the reaction. Pato does so until Alex begins to relax against him.

Slowly, his own exhaustion begins to return. Despite the rain still pounding down on the roof, beating against the window in sheets, the noise begins to lure him toward unconsciousness. He’s warm under the blanket with Alex, almost unbearably so, but it’s also comfortable. He likes the extra weight on the mattress beside him, how Alex dips toward him, they dip toward each other, with the weight of their bodies at the center of the bed. Alex has nuzzled himself right under Pato’s chin, so that his breath is warm when it ghosts along his neck.

Warmth and heat and a familiar hand clutching at his hip, this is how Pato falls asleep.

In the morning, Alex is still there, snoring softly, body relaxed. One quick look at his phone assures him they can stay in this moment for longer, Pato’s engineer having texted to let him know practice is, predictably, delayed. It’s easy, for a moment, to fantasize a life in which this is normal. Where he might, one day, wake up with Alex in his arms and it will feel like home. Certainly it is the closest Pato has come in recent weeks, since leaving Monterrey and having to pack his life into a bus, an Airbnb, a hotel room over and over and over again. Alex is one of the constants now. Next to Elba, he is usually the first person to text Pato in the morning. Often, it is to ask him if he wants to work out, go for a walk – because Alex doesn’t run – and now, for a moment, he is here. It feels right.

Pato, harshly, hopes they have another storm.

He doesn’t wake Alex, just sets his phone back down on the nightstand and carefully eases himself back to where Alex is curled against him. Alex mumbles in his sleep at the movement. It’s nonsensical, not even words, but Pato can feel them because Alex is so close to him that his lips ghost along the exposed column of his neck.

“It’s okay,” Pato calms him once more, another hand down his back, down the fabric of his hoodie that Alex is now stretching out and claiming, “Go back to sleep, it’s okay.”

“M’kay,” Alex mutters.

Pato smiles.

Sun is beginning to filter through the blinds, despite the rain still pattering against the window, and Alex continues to sleep.  

[moonstruckme]

hi mum can we get more dr rem PLEASE :3

Always pookie <3

cw: implicit nausea and vomit, no description

doctor!Remus x fem!reader ♡ 1.3k words

Remus picks up on the third ring. “Hello?” 

The sound of his voice makes you smile even in your sorry state. “Hi, Remus.” 

“Hi.” Something softens in his tone; you like to think he’s smiling too. “I’m not late to pick you up, am I? I’ve only just got home from work.” 

“No, so did I.” You lean your forehead on the cool ceramic of your toilet tank, thanking your past self for having cleaned it just yesterday. “I actually…I’m sorry, I think I’m going to need a raincheck.” 

A pause. “Oh.” You wince at the disappointment in his voice. “That’s too bad. Is everything alright?” 

“Yeah, I think I’ve just caught a bug,” you say. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much fun.” 

“You’re always fun,” Remus replies warmly, and you smile. “Are you not feeling well?” 

“Not great,” you hedge. You’ve been dating Remus long enough to know how he worries, and you don’t want that. “I’ll live, though. Maybe we can meet later in the week?” 

“Or,” he says, low and coaxing, “I could come over now and make you some soup.” 

You almost sigh, it sounds so nice. What you wouldn’t give to have him rub your back, carry you to bed and press a kiss to your brow. But you’re a mess right now, and you’re trying to save him from it. 

“I don’t think that’d be a good idea,” you say reluctantly. “Anyway, it’s not that kind of sick.” 

“Tell me your symptoms.”

“Ew,” you laugh. “Take me to dinner first, Lupin.”

“Well, I did try,” he says, and you can almost hear his smile through the phone. It catches just as easily as it does in person. “Seriously, love, how do you feel? Do you know what it is?” 

“Not necessarily, but it’s really not bad. I just don’t want to infect you.” 

“I could probably help.”

“But when you got sick I’d feel awful,” you tell him sincerely. “Thank you, but really, don’t worry about it. I’ll give you a ring when I’m no longer a biohazard, okay?” 

Remus harrumphs, but when he speaks his voice still crackles with fondness. “Alright.” 

“Thanks. Bye.” 

You hear him echo you as you lower the phone from your ear, setting it on the bathroom floor before following it down. You don’t feel secure enough in your stomach to leave the toilet just yet, so you curl up on the small mat by the shower and succumb to the exhaustion that’s been chasing you since lunchtime. 

~~~

“Oh, sweetheart.” 

You wake to a warm hand on your even warmer shoulder, startling a bit as you pull your face from the rug. Remus is looking down at you with an awful little crease between his brows. 

“Remus?” you ask, just to be sure. 

“Hi,” he says softly. “You didn’t sound this bad over the phone, you know. I’d have rushed if I knew you were about to take a nap on the floor.” 

You blink, trying to clear the fog from your brain. “How’d you get in here?” 

“You showed me the spare key when I took care of your plants, remember?” Remus looks a bit sorry, wedging a hand underneath your ribs to encourage you sitting up. “I did try to call, but I think you must have slept through it.” 

“Oh,” you murmur, getting upright and crossing your legs underneath you awkwardly.

He smiles thinly and sets a hand to your forehead. The gesture feels oddly intimate. You’ve slept with this man, met his friends, shown him where you keep your spare key, and somehow this feels intimate.

Remus makes a terribly lovely cooing sound. You think you might just die right here. 

“You’re burning,” he says worriedly. “How long have you been feeling like this?” 

“Since about lunch,” you admit. 

“Yeah?” He frowns, cupping your face in the basin of his palm. “How’d you fare at work?” 

“I got sick in the bathroom, but then I just finished out the day.” Remus’ frown is starting to look mortifyingly near to a pout. “It wasn’t this bad then, I don’t think. It got worse once I was home.” 

He hums. “Do you know how you caught it?” 

You glance at the toilet, horrified at the sight of your unflushed sick inside. “Some of my coworkers went home sick, but…look, Remus, it was really nice of you to come, but you don’t have to be here.” You say this with your cheek tucked into his palm, soaking up the feeling of his touch. “It’s way too early for you to see me like this.” 

“Oh?” One corner of his mouth twitches, but he keeps his expression curious. “Why’s that?” 

“Because…because.” You try to imbue your tone with some sternness. “It’s the standard progression of things. Peeing together, saying I love you, then you see me when I’m sick.” 

Remus nods, humming pensively. His thumb strokes at your cheek. “You want to pee together before saying I love you? That’s interesting.” 

You feel your face heat, which you didn’t know was even possible at this point. You thought surely you’d maxed out. “I’m serious.” 

“Alright,” he says. Soft, pacifying. “All that notwithstanding, I’m afraid I can’t leave you like this, lovely girl. I’ll avert my eyes if you want me to, but I’m really not too worried about seeing you any way you can be, so I think it might be easier on you if you didn’t worry about it either.” 

You wither. “But I’m gross.” 

He frowns. “You’re not. You’re just not feeling your best right now, and that’s fine. Let me take care of you.” 

You look at him for a few moments, and Remus looks back. His amber stare is steady. Finally, you give in to your more pathetic urges and nod. 

“Alright.” He gives your cheek another tender stroke. “Do you feel like you’re going to be sick again now?” 

“No,” you say meekly. It feels weird to discuss these things with him, but Remus acts like it’s the most normal thing in the world. 

“Perfect. Think you can make it to bed?” 

You definitely can, but Remus still walks you the whole way, one arm around your waist and his attention cautiously on your feet should you stumble. He gets you situated under the covers, forbidding more than one blanket until your fever comes down, and goes back into the bathroom to get the supplies he’d brought with him. 

You hear the toilet flush and cringe, but he comes back out like nothing happened. 

“I wasn’t sure what to bring since you wouldn't tell me what you had on the phone,” there’s a bit of light admonishment to his tone as he sits on the edge of your mattress with a paper bag, “so I brought most of my medicine cabinet. Do you want some anti-nausea, or are you still alright for now?” 

“Yes, please,” you say in a small voice. Remus passes you a cup of water before shaking a pill into his hand. He watches as you take it. 

“You’re going to want to keep taking small sips of that,” he tells you. “It sounds like you’re right and it’s just a stomach bug, so we’ll probably keep you off solid foods for a little while. You just let me know when you’re feeling up to some crackers or something, okay?” 

“Okay,” you echo him. Your heart suddenly feels as warm and tender as if your fever were affecting it, too. You’re enamored with the idea that you could go to sleep, right now, and Remus would still be here to take care of you when you wake up. He’d probably hold your hand if you asked, or read you something, or just sit with you if that was what you wanted. It makes you feel pathetically teary to think of being so cared for. 

Something shifts in Remus’ expression. He looks at you more closely, pushing a piece of hair away from your face. 

“Everything alright, sweetheart?” he asks. 

“Yeah.” You swallow. “Just, thanks for coming.”

Remus smiles. “Changing our minds about the standard progression of things, are we?” But before you get a chance to hide under your covers and never come out, he leans forward, kissing your cheek. “Don’t mention it.”

[clownsalot]

imo it's the difference between western and east asian society as a whole, because the west tends to lean more individualist while the east tends to lean more collectivist -> western societal attitudes tend to prioritize the good of the individual, eastern societal attitudes tend to emphasizes the good of the collective, and i think this is also reflected really well to how amane's voting is going rn!!

im not gonna say anything about my own opinions on amane's voting since they're complicated and rn now im not really casting votes on her anyway, but im also not going to be stating that one or the other is the 'correct' way to vote because it's a difference of societal attitudes and therefore saying one or the other is objectively better or worse feels weird to me so i won't do that

(now before i keep going im gonna preface this by saying while im not east asian i am southeast asian just like op and the collectivism does kinda still apply to the society we live in even if it's not as strong as it might be in east asia. take that as you will, it's just a note to say while im trying to be as objective as i can and not be judgemental, unintentional biases might still show through yk)

but basically the way i think the different societal attitudes of individualism vs collectivism with the west and east respecitively applies to amane's voting is that:

-i think a lot of western fans vote innocent on amane because of the western focus on individualism, meaning they think about amane's safety and wellbeing as an individual, (eg. not wanting to cause her more pain since she's already been through so much and doesn't deserve to suffer any more than she alr has)

-meanwhile i think the opposite is true of the eastern fanbase, that a lot of eastern fans vote guilty on amane because of the eastern focus on collectivism, and the good of the group, which leads to them focusing on how amane's verdict will affect the rest of the milgram cast (eg. how her verdict might affect shidou's ability to provide necessary care)

which is not to say that one or the other is correct, or that all western fans and eastern fans vote the same or for those exact reasons. this is kind of a broad generalization after all, and i can see the validity of both sides of the argument. but i just think it's a really interesting thing to observe how societal differences also affects differences in voting patterns, and might explain the difference in voting opinions as well

There's something interesting to be said about the opinions of different fanbases based on culture and how it affects the votes but it's late and I can't write it out too much so only one example for today: amane

Down under the cut so if it gets too long it won't affect anyone's scrollin

Also warning the tags are long on this one

- <- this indicates a new talking point

Basically I think the jp/more asian parts of the fandom tend to lean towards greater good (amane guilty to protect shidou/mahiru/fuuta because if shidous incapacitated in any way someone's dying, mahiru is prone to dying any moment, fuuta is prone to cult mindset rn). Despite my non japanese speaking ass not being able to gather direct evidence for this, I use those surrounding me (asian in asian country) as evidence; namely, how they're mostly amane guilty voters

-Now I'm not saying my personal take but the reason given for guilting her is well. As much as it will cause her more woe it's one way of guaranteeing the safety of the prison. Shidou is the only medical professional after all, and she's "completely hostile" towards him, acc to jackalope. And she doesn't need to overpower him; shes smart, and could sabotage his equipment or just like. Go for his hands to incapacitate him. I doubt he'd fight back.

-Alternatively, it's because it would cause her to fall back on believing she's right. Telling her she's forgiven with how she's acting would cause her to believe her persistance and dedication to this (harmful) mindset is what got her forgiven in the first place

-Meanwhile more western? English fanbase ig I'm not too sure of demographic, but the English speaking side tends to focus on how it affects her. Because of the belief that another guilty verdict will cause more harm to her, an innocent verdict is the obvious solution. What I've seen is the greater focus on what caused the murder over the murder itself and the effects of an innocent verdict on others and then her beliefs. A focus on the past over what she's promised to do in the present and future perhaps. Idk.

-Another reason for the difference could. Possibly be how punishment is viewed? Western countries have much more stigma over any form of punishment but in Asian countries it's normal. Now while I'd say physical punishment isn't the way to go, the refusal of punishment shouldn't be rewarded (imo) but that's all I'll say on it.

-The English fanbase also focuses a lot on how young amane is and how her circumstances were terrible and all that. Those around me tend to focus more on her thoughts around the crime, what she believes the crime was for and how in the right she thinks she is. This may also be the cause of the moral grandstanding I see so often (ie. If you vote amane guilty you're a baaad person) (I don't agree with this btw. That's stupid this is fiction don't insult others over an opinion)

What I will say is the English speaking side is more sympathetic towards amane. They (y'all?) Take her situation into a lot of consideration, and focus on her age as a large factor. Whereas those around me and I assume might be close to the views of the japanese fanbase are more objective, looking at what harm she could cause and what's the greater of the two evils, as well as what she's going to do with the verdict (ie. Use the inno verdict as her doctrines are correct and very right).

There's slight thought given to her age and circumstance of course, by it that's not the main concern rn. Given the current situation, most of my milgram voting friends stay certain that an innocent verdict will not end well, hence the guilty vote. I mean I have a couple friends that feel bad for guiltying her because of her circumstance, but do it anyway cuz it's for the better. My opinion is that she should've been innocent trial one, since we wouldn't have known the concequences, but it's too late now and an innocent will cause more harm overall

tldr asian fanbase from experience focus on the crime itself + what they're gonna do with that experience whereas eng speaking fanbase focus on the circumstances surrounding the crime and on judging only the crime

In myyy opinion. Judging only the crime based on your interpretation isn't how the system should be working, it should take into consideration the prisoners' attitudes and how the prisoner perceives the crime as well.

I hope this was coherent I typed it out at 11pm and went to bed immediately after and I've barely edited anything cuz awake me is less coherent than half asleep me

Also hope this was an interesting post? This topic is interesting to me but I explain better in speaking over typing so it's probably hard to read but I hope this topic scritches y'all's brains like it does mine :)

[newtkelly]

Not to word vomit on you but I can't stop thinking about Oliver wanting a love story like Tarlos and how it all accidentally lined up.

Knowing that Carlos and TK were about to move in, and then Carlos made that romantic gesture and TK got scared because it was, "too good to be true."

Carlos is left, confused, puzzled and nursing a broken-heart but still just as in love. What do you mean that TK and Carlos saw a future together, one got scared at that prospect and left before Carlos was the one to leave??

What do you mean that happened after Oliver said he wanted Bucktommy to have a love story like Tarlos; where it was always going to be them?

Then you consider Oliver saying that we might see Tommy and Buck interact during a call and it'll be awkward and who can't help but think of TK and Carlos running into the furniture store and seeing each other for the first time in weeks.

Anyways, sorry to be delusional in your ask box. I'm deep within the Tarlos trenches so this is all starting to look eerily familiar lmao (it could also be Tim is out of ideas, which is most likely the case)

Please feel free to word vomit on me always, I live for it.

Receiving this ask has actually prompted me to share some thoughts that I’ve held back from sharing, just because I wasn’t sure if it was worth it to throw more speculation into the void. But this message is so lovely, and I agree with it so much and so… okay I will share some of my mixed bag of thoughts about this whole situation.

Firstly, I adore Tarlos and LS (even if I don’t post about either much), TK is my baby, and the interesting thing about them for me is that I wound up caring for them more AFTER they broke up and got back together. If Buck and Tommy’s story is formatted as a rom-com, TK and Carlos are a tragicomedy. TK, the heartbroken recovering addict thrust into an entirely new city, a new career, who doesn’t want to let himself get too close to something good because he is misery incarnate. Carlos, the hopeful hopeless romantic who sees TK and doesn’t see something that needs fixing, but someone who his love could help heal. It’s such a gorgeous story, and the symmetry of both characters shockingly losing a parent in a tragic way is painfully beautiful. I LOVE their love story.

That brings me to Oliver and Tim’s comments. Throughout the Buck and Tommy relationship, my belief that this would be Buck’s final relationship only ever wavered twice. The first time was in the immediate aftermath of their first date (I spent the whole episode thinking that Tommy was actually reintroduced to kick off the bi awakening plotline and Buck was not acquiring a boyfriend) and the second time was towards the tail end of the summer hiatus when I legitimately began to doubt Lou would want to come back given everything that transpired. Other than that, I had full faith that this was it, this was Buck getting off the “hamster wheel”—Tim’s words, not mine.

I had confidence for a few reasons. 1 – the story was always handled with care onscreen and gave us no reason to think they weren’t going to work out. 2 – the chemistry was insane, and I knew it couldn’t just be me because an entire fandom was born. Tim and tptb must have seen what we saw. 3 – the supplementary information funneled to us through articles and Tim’s social media, literally up until post-8x06 never seemed to indicate that their relationship was headed in this direction. A big part of that was the comparison to Tarlos.

In order to protect myself (should I name the list of shows, movies, couples that I’ve fixated on that wound up playing out in dissatisfying ways?), I am awfully pessimistic. The post-episode interviews, articles, + hearing a bit from LFJ and OS has me wondering if this was some mass hallucination. Did we truly cling to something good and blow it up, run with it? Was this always the plan? I’ve wondered if because S7 was so short and S8 required that other characters get the spotlight first/other stories needed to be told and wrapped, and if because of production and scheduling and whatever external reasons, did their relationship wind up having a longer life than was ever intended. Were they ever supposed to make it to six months? Were they ever supposed to make it past the fucking wedding? I have been asking myself this stuff a lot. Alternatively, did something happen that made them want to or have to part ways with LFJ? So many questions, and I’m not sure we’ll ever know.

But… then there’s the delusional side of me, and the reason I haven’t totally abandoned hope is because when I was watching 8x06 live, EVERYTHING in me told me that this is a necessary section of the rom-com formula. Even the call-backs throughout the episode made me feel like the writers are so painfully aware, and that the narrative wants these characters to be together (Miceli’s, Abby, basketball, going to the movies, calling an uber, the loft kitchen, “you’re not ready”)—the motifs were absolutely popping off. I did not think it was the end when the episode ended. I wondered when and how they would find their way back to each other to fulfill the rom-com genre, but what I did NOT expect was to open social media and see articles framing this as the end. I wasn’t surprised when I found out who wrote the articles, and listen—if they bait one side of the fandom, can’t they bait the other? I still have some hope, because at the end of the day, anything can happen with network television. Maybe this is all part of the plan, and the interviews should be taken with a grain of salt. I just don’t know.

Interviews with Tim and Oliver from day one positioned the Buck and Tommy relationship as a queer love story devoid of trauma. Okay, well… huh. From where I was sitting, there was A TON of explicitly queer trauma exposed in 8x06. Their “hurdle” is tied utterly and completely to queerness. Tommy runs because he is a gay man who doesn’t trust that his bisexual boyfriend should “settle” for him, and who would rather be alone than heartbroken, and if that truly is the last of Tommy, it has to be one of the coldest and cruelest exits we’ve ever seen on this show. Do they simply not realize how deeply traumatized both characters come off in that episode, or is it all part of the plan? If the interviews positioning this as the permanent end of bucktommy should be taken at face value, shouldn’t the other interviews that position them as a rom-com (with the formulaic third act breakup, boils and all) be taken as the truth as well? If there was some misinterpretation, why hasn’t Tim said anything—he clearly knows a lot of fans were hurt by what they watched. He must have seen the outrage—why radio silence? Did we truly blow this out of proportion? Are the wheels coming off behind the scenes? I need a tell-all at this point lol

Thank you for the lovely ask, I’ve been sitting with these thoughts all week so this was a good excuse to finally articulate them. <3

[thelastofhyde]

you cut your hair, and take some space (2)

pairing. narcos!javier peña x fem!reader

synopsis. an anthology of events that precede and procede the termination of you and your father's best friend's sexual relationship. this is part 2 of 3! (part 1)

warnings. no use of y/n! all spanish text is followed by immediate translation ( please note that i am fluent in castilian spanish, therefore some words/phrases may differ from that of other hispanic countries ), age gap , student!reader, dbf!javi, post-s3!javi, policeofficer!javi bc i said so, break up au, mutual pining, forbidden lovers kind of vibes, reader has a healthy relationship with her parents, violence, nondescript depictions of sa ( not javi ), pedro-ception aka there's a small cameo of another pedro boy, vomiting, mentions of pregnancy, reader is described to have hair and celebrates christmas ( but no mention of the reader's religious beliefs )! smut ( creampie, breeding kink through the roof, domesticity kink?? javi just wants to love and be loved and start a family, dacryphilia, indecent use of a credit card, spanking, dirty talk, prostitution kink?? i feel like i'm making these up at this point, + a hell of a lot more ) this fic is based on bsc by maisie peters except this has a happy ending bc im a sucker for mr. peña :( not all warnings listed here appear in this part, these are warnings for the fic as a whole !

word count. 14.3k

hyde’s input. hey... hey... how y'all doin'?🧍remember when i said part 2 would be posted a few weeks after part 1? yeah, that was a fucking lie. and, remember when i said it would be 2 parts in total? that was also a lie! the universe is praying on my downfall ( i had a fun mental health episode and fell into a black hole for a few months <3 ) unfortunately, i am very much still alive and kicking, so this is me trying to get the ball rolling again when it comes to posting fics. as the fic has surpassed 40k words, meaning it would likely crash the tumblr site for anyone trying to read it + tumblr will not allow me to post it as a whole due to it's paragaph-count limit, i've decided to post it in three parts. the fic will be posted in full on ao3 once all three parts are available on tumblr!

if you see any typos, no you didn't 🫣

“...wouldn’t have to be serious,” he’s speaking, finishing off a sentence you don’t quite catch the start of. “huh?” “this. us. it could be casual, y’know?”

Golden boy, you dropped the ball I am Annie fucking Hall

The year moves too fast.

It’s like you blink, and suddenly it’s Thanksgiving.

Leaves turn brown. Pumpkins are carved only to rot upon front porches. A gathering of friends, young adults getting their first taste at hosting a thanksgiving meal.

You’re put on dessert duty, which culminates in stressful tears and your mother’s hand rubbing soothing circles into your back, reassuring you that it’s okay, everyone burns their first pie.

No one at the party needs to know the pumpkin pie you brought was a product of your mother’s gentle care.

Then there is actual Thanksgiving, which you celebrate, as always, at your aunt's.

The highlight is, and forever has been, the road-trip out of state, your father making it his mission to deafen you and your mother with his horrific singing.

As they drop you back at your apartment, your father has no qualms leaning out the car window and calling after you.

“I expect to see you cheering me on at the Thanksgiving Touchdown event!”

Which brings you here, to said event, sweater sleeves tugged over cold fingers and a wandering pair of eyes who refuse to comply with your wants.

You want to focus on the ongoing football match- Fire Department vs Police.

Your eyes prefer to follow him, striding up the field, his hair soaked in sweat and his t-shirt long removed.

You’ve no valid reason to roll your eyes at the other women who seem to prefer spectating the sport of Javier Peña. You’re no better than them.

Yet, as one of them let’s out a joyous shriek as he takes a pass at the ball, your eyes roll.

"He’s a show-off, that boy.”

At least you have company. An older gentleman, who you caught struggling to pick his wallet up from the floor. He’d smiled as you returned it, and conversation had flowed easily from there.

As the whistle blew, commencing the final match of the local community services’ football league- or, Thanksgiving Touchdown, as your father so aptly named it-, he’d patted the empty seat next to him.

“Hmm?”

He points, and you follow the direction, realising he’s speaking about Javi.

“Him,” he says it with a teasing tone to his voice. It’s like he’s mocking the agent. “Think’s he’s God’s gift, takin’ his top off like that.”

The more you sit with the older gentleman, the more you enjoy his company.

On the field, your dad bellows something at Javi. He replies with a curt salute, and shoots off down the length of it.

He’s fast, agile, stealthy.

A force to be reckoned with, keeping pace with rookies half his age.

The vision of him, gun strapped to his leg and a tact vest on his chest, speeding down streets in the columbian heat conjures in your mind.

You wonder how it felt to know him then, if worry kept his companions awake.

It had certainly kept you awake in recent months, and that was with him safe, in Laredo, cooped up in some bachelor pad.

“Surprised he’s not thrown his top to the crowd of screaming ladies!” The gentleman continues his mocking, and it rouses laughter out of both of you.

A whistle is blown, your eyes return to the field and, though he’s quick to look away, you catch the tail end of Javier’s eyes on you.

Fifteen minutes pass, in which you do your best to not stare at him.

You’ve made worse attempts in the past.

Eventually, the man next to you coaxes you into getting him a lemonade from the food truck.

You oblige, of course, and deny his attempts to hand you cash, insist it’s on you.

He’s kept you smiling on a rather gloomy day.

You tell him you’ll be right back, smile, and realise you don’t know his name.

“Chucho,” he tells you, and waves you off.

You join the queue, keep your head down, ignore the gossiping women three spots ahead of you, claiming to have each shared an encounter with Javi.

You don’t need to know what he’s been up to.

You don’t want to know who he’s been up to it with.

It happens when you’re finally being served.

There’s no longer a queue, just you, smiling as sweetly as possible. The service industry is rough enough, nevermind on holidays.

You order successfully, both Chucho’s lemonade and a hot chocolate for yourself.

The guy working the truck- young enough, a bit too traditionally good-looking, with coiffed hair and a shaven face- he’s talkative.

Friendly.

Too friendly.

Till it crosses the border into flirty.

You’re not interested.

At all.

But it’s flattering, to feel wanted.

Even more so after a something that means nothing yet everything ends out of the blue and you’re left reeling over whether or not some part of you is to blame.

So you let him shoot you his dashing smile, and throw in unnecessary pet-names that just feel forced into every sentence he speaks to you, and write his number on the paper cup of your hot chocolate.

“Here you go, pumpkin,” he winks. The pet-name feels a little too on the nose for the season. Couldn’t he have called you sweetheart instead? “A sweet treat for that sweet smile.”

You wonder if he’s allowed to gift the free donut he slides your way.

Your stomach growls and begs for sugary release before you can fully bring yourself to care.

An awkward thanks. Hands reach up to grab the to-go cups, three fingers curling up the bagged donut. 

He helps you get a grip on the beverages, placing them in your hands.

His touch lingers, more than necessary, fingertips brushing over your knuckles as if trapped in slow-motion.

“So, a pretty girl like you got a boyfriend, or are you gonna let me take you out to-”

Gasps fill the air.

Half the crowd boos.

Your father screams one name, loud and clear, down the pitch.

“Peña, get your head out your fucking ass and pick up the ball!”

Turning on your heal, the scene unfolds.

The ball, abandoned on the ground.

The players, scrambling to grab it before one another.

Javier, frozen in place, face an unreadable maze of emotions, eyes staring right at you.

They follow you all the way back to your seat, even as the game picks up again.

Even as you congratulate your dad on another victory for the police department, now the four-time consecutive champions of the Thanksgiving Touchdown.

Even as you head off to your father’s car.

Even when you’re home, curled under a blanket and watching a televised copy of Annie Hall, you feel his eyes on you.

The look of betrayal on Javier Peña haunts you even once you fall asleep.

If you don’t love me, What was April?

You’ve always been organised.

Everything has it’s place, from the books that line your bedside table to the memories inside your mind.

You compartmentalise.

Tucked deep into the right side of your brain, there’s a box.

It’s contents, memories you’ve yet to process.

Moments you know that, if you wish to move on, you’ll have to relive.

Caution tape holds the lid shut.

Fragile stickers cover every corner.

And, scribbled in bold red marker, April ‘99.

A late night.

You, wide awake, laying on your back and mapping out stars in his ceiling.

Javier fell asleep hours ago and now snores softly against your neck, muscled arm curled around your waist as his legs entangle your own.

The agent is a fiend for cuddling, and so often wraps himself around you like a vine.

You find yourself nestling your hand in his hair, and take note of the sharp breath he intakes.

Go still.

Worry you’ve woken him.

Relax when you feel him snore and press himself even deeper against your naked skin.

He’s tired. Exhausted.

Work was getting to him as of late.

He hadn’t told you that, but he didn’t need to.

You know him. You can read him.

Can tell in the way he moved slower against you.

In the way he let you take the lead, resting back against the couch to watch how your hips wound down on him.

In the way he got even clingier than usual, dragging you into the shower with him just to have you near, holding you from behind as you washed up the plates he’d used to serve you dinner (a trade-off he’d reluctantly agreed to months ago: he cooks, you clean), laying his head on your lap as you curled up to watch some cheesy horror movie- one you’re bound to fall asleep during and he’s counting on it, glancing up till he spots you slumped over and eyes closed, granting him the perfect excuse to carry you to his bed and nestle himself in beside you.

Unlike other nights, you’re trapped awake.

Something feels off, makes you queasy.

There’s something nagging at your mind.

It’s like you’ve forgotten something, misplaced something, and can’t even figure out what it is.

You just know its absence is wrong.

Javi mumbles something, dreaming away, and you feel the subtle press of his lips against your skin.

Fingers curl tightly into the fabric of your (his) shirt.

He can’t get you close enough, it seems.

Playing against his wants, you pull back, slowly, trying to catch a glimpse of his face.

There’s a pinch between his brows, furrowed in worry.

It’s not fair, you think.

Sleep is usually where you see him at his calmest.

It’s a selfish act, born purely from your own desire, but you find yourself pressing a kiss against his forehead.

His grip loosens, though slightly.

It gives you enough time to feel a stir between your thighs, a calling coming from your bladder.

So you do your best to slip out his hold.

It’s a struggle that leaves you topless and feeling a pinch of cruelty, standing over the bed as you watch his hand grabbing at the vacant spot you once occupied, your scent and shirt the only traces you leave behind.

You don’t bother turning on a light, make your way to his bathroom with practiced ease.

Pad your way across the cold linoleum floor, sink down onto the porcelain seat- he’d stopped leaving it up when your overnight visits became more frequent. You hadn’t asked- didn’t need to ask-, he’d simply done it.

Closing the door over, yet not enough for the hinges to squeak and the handle to lock, you pray the wood muffles noise of the flushing toilet.

When it stops, you wait a few seconds, until you’re sure there’s no rustling coming from his bedroom.

Then, you open the tap.

The water is barely a trickle, yet you tell yourself its enough.

Lather your hands in soap, sit them under the constant drip of cold water till you feel the suds wash down the drain.

It’s hard to stop yourself from sneaking a glance at the mirror, just as it’s hard to recognise the version of yourself you see.

Your hair frames your face, though messy.

Your eyes are bloodshot, yet carry less bags.

Your cheeks are rounder, fuller.

You look different.

You feel it too.

Yhen come the thoughts of Javier, and how he sees you.

Has he noticed a change?

Is he the reason for it?

Does he feel different, too?

Your stomach flips.

He’s not said anything. Or done anything, to make you notice a change.

But, then, Maybe it’s been subtle, slow, dragged out long enough it’s not drastic enough for either of you to take note of.

You eye the spare toothbrush he keeps in his bathroom, and try to remember when it became yours.

You don’t remember.

One moment, his toothbrush sat alone. And, the next, you were standing side by side, laughing as you raced to see who could make a foamier mess of the toothpaste.

Corazón, you look like a rabid animal, he’d called you once, laughing through tears as he wiped away the white suds dripping off your chin. You’re lucky that you’re just so cute.

You can recall, even now, how quickly his mouth had found yours that night, with no ulterior motive other than to bask in the minty taste of one another.

The stir in your stomach becomes more intense.

Eyes refocusing, you find yourself in the mirror again.

Only, sweat lines your forehead and your face seems drained of colour.

You make it only two steps back before you’re hurtling across the bathroom floor.

Your knees crash down first, harsh and unforgiving against the tiles.

The first wretch burns, has you coughing over your own gag.

In the dark, it’s hard to see what exactly comes out of you, but you know where it came from.

Your stomach.

Another wave of nausea hits, this one harder, and you’re gripping at the sides of the bowl, spewing into the water below.

A splash meets your cheek, but you’re too out of it to care, wave after wave of nausea leaving you a coughing, gagging, crying mess.

You feel lightheaded, only managing a moment to catch your breath before another wave hits.

It feels like you’re suffocating.

It’s in your throat, in your mouth, in your nose, in your hair.

It feels like it’s never stopping and you’re doomed to spend the rest of your days submitting to the horrors of throwing-

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” warmth, against your naked back.

It’s a nice warmth, not like the one that has you covered in a cold sweat.

There’s a soothing motion over your skin.

Up, down, up, down.

You try to follow it, match your breathing to the tactile comfort.

“That’s it, baby,” cool air meets your neck, the hairs that stuck to your skin now pulled up and pushed back. “I’m right here, I got you.”

Eventually, all that’s left is the burning of bile at the back of your throat and the dull ache of eyes gone raw with tears.

You’re pulled into a solid mass, naked chest pressed to naked chest as you go slack upon the bathroom floor.

You’re exhausted, and covered in your own sweat, tears and vomit.

Javier doesn’t care, pulling you tighter against him and whispering sweet words you don’t quite pay attention to.

“Woke up and you weren’t there, corazón. Don’t do that again,” even in his attempts to chastise, he’s gentle, brushing the remaining strands of sweat-slicked hair off your face. You must be an awful sight, yet his expressions don’t give way. “You wake up, you wake me up too. ‘Specially if you’re gonna hurl, okay?”

You glance at him, swallow back a lump and deal with the realisation that dawned upon you ten minutes earlier, as you sat hunched over the toilet’s bowl.

“Javi,” he smiles at the way you call his name.

You feel sick all over again at the thought of that changing, everything changing, as you build the courage to speak.

He calls your own name back to you.

“I’m late.”

You await the sharp inhale.

And the unwinding of arms.

You imagine he’ll stand up, pace the floor.

Run his hands through his hair, rant over every thought he has.

Ways to get rid of it, the dangers of your dad finding out.

Then he’ll turn the blame to you.

That’s what men do, right?

He’ll ask why you weren’t safer, why you forgot to take that morning-after pill, why you played so fast-and-loose with your body.

None of it arrives.

He stands, yes, but only to pull you up with him, tired limbs leaning into his strong build as he drags you both under the heat of a warm shower.

You watch the remnants of your own vomit wash down the drain, and question how he can stand there, not disgusted with you.

He dries you off, delicate drags over your skin.

He’s rougher with himself, scarcely drying properly before he’s carrying you back to his bed, a replay of hours earlier as he lays you down, crawls in behind you and tucks you both under the soft comfort of his worn-out sheets.

Only, this time you’re wide awake.

He so easily nestles himself behind you, dragging you back against him and committing himself to the role of big-spoon.

His hands have always felt large, their touch always electrifying, but nothing compares to the feeling of him splaying one across your lower stomach, a subtle press into where part of him could be growing within you.

“Javi,” you whine, fighting off the sleep your overwhelmed body so badly needs. “I’m sorry.”

You say it because you feel obligated, like it’s your place to be apologetic.

After all, the blame is yours, surely.

“No seas boba (Don’t be silly),” there’s a fresh set of tears already sliding down your cheeks by the time he replies. “Don’t need to be sorry, baby.”

“But I-”

“But, nothing,” his tone feels final, one that tells you you’ll get nowhere arguing against him. “You’ve done nothing wrong, corazón.”

You fall asleep, eventually, soothed by his gentle breathing and the repeated motion of his thumb stroking over your belly.

Yhe next time you awake, there’s a crack of sunlight creeping through his blinds.

Javi’s still in bed, only he’s propped up on his elbow and staring down at you.

His smile stretches a little wider when he spots your open eyes.

Lips press against your own, soft and subtle.

A quiet greeting, a wordless goodmorning.

“I gotta go, corazón,” is met with a protest from you, rolling over to curl into his solid chest.

Expecting it, he wraps you up tighter in his arms, presses an array of chaste kisses to your head.

You don’t want him to leave this bed.

Or this apartment.

You don’t want him out, in the real world, where the hours you’ve spent cooped up together become more scandalous than the peaceful nature of them.

“I know, I know. Don’t wanna go either, baby,” you wonder if you spoke your thoughts aloud, or if Javi simply knows you so well.

Eventually, he peels himself away from you.

You watch him dress.

Tell him which tie to wear.

Help him tie it, the comforter pooled around your naked waist as you sit criss-cross-apple-sauce and Javi’s at the side of the bed, legs bent at the knee.

He thanks you with a kiss, then asks you to pass him his cologne.

It’s on the other side of the bed- his side of the bed- and you lean over to grab it.

You don’t bother handing him it, spraying it directly onto your own wrist and dabbing it into the skin of his tanned neck.

He lets you, a gentle smile on his face and eyes that pull you in for a hug, burrowing himself between your naked breasts.

He presses a kiss between them, hums in enjoyment.

“You’re gonna smell like me all day, cariño (darling),” he tells you.

“Good,” you reply.

Another hum, this time of approval, and a squeeze to your hip.

When he pulls back, he looks even more reluctant to leave.

Reality rears it’s ugly head, but he pushes it out your mind with the pressing of his hand against your stomach, the same spot he’d held onto all night.

Leans down, brushes his lips against it.

Your hands instinctually curl in his hair, and you like to think you leave it a little messy, enough to ward off any of the women he works along side, hopeful eyes hoping to get a taste of the handsome, unmarried cop.

“Stay,” he mumbles against your skin, as if you’re the one who’s about to leave. “Don’t go, ok? I’ll call around lunch.”

He keeps his word.

Calls you, a few minutes past two, interrupting whatever daytime TV you were pretending to watch.

Answering leaves you feeling lightheaded, like you're trapped in a daydream.

Listening to him croon down the line while your finger anxiously tangles in the phone’s wire as you stand in his apartment, it feels domestic, like you’re waiting for him to come back home, a place you share together.

The thought has you pressing a hand against your womb.

“How bout you, corazón?” He knows how to make you melt, picturing him smiling at his desk. “Have you ate yet?”

With a grimace, you admit you haven’t.

“You need to eat, baby,” you don’t like the fact he uses that pet-name, not right now. “There’s plenty in the fridge. Could make yourself a sandwich, or some toast. Might even have some of that pasta left over. You know, that one you said you liked? Oh, wait, maybe don’t eat that, don’t think uncooked salmon is good for pregn-”

You don’t want him to say the P word, so you cut him off.

“I’ll probably just have toast.”

He says ok, then you hear him take a bite of whatever his lunch is.

The call goes on a little longer.

It’s mostly him talking.

He tells you a quick story, something about one of the younger guys accidentally stapling his tie to an arrest warrant.

That rouses a laugh out of you, makes you forget all about the massive P word he almost said.

“I’ll be home soon, okay?”

That sounds nice coming from Javi.

Home.

Not his home, just home.

A place he feels his soul at rest.

A place he’d begged you to stay this morning, safe and tucked away.

“Was thinking we could drive out to the clinic, find out for sure if we’re pr-” he cuts himself off this time, like he knows you’re not ready to hear that word. “Then we’ll take things from there, okay? Whatever you decide you wanna do, corazón, you call the shots.”

He keeps his word, again.

Comes home barely three hours later.

He walks through the door and welcomes the way you coil yourself around him, humming in delight as he peppers a few kisses over your face.

“Still smell like me,” he says it with approval, takes a purposeful whiff at you as he pulls you tighter against him.

You still smell his cologne on him too, buried beneath a few layers of sweat and cigarette smoke.

Near clinging to one another, it’s a miracle you two make it out his apartment and down the elevator.

An arm around your waist, he guides you over to his car.

Pulls the door open for you, stops you from bumping your head on the way in.

He practically runs round the car’s hood, jumping into the driver’s seat and thrumming the engine to life with the turn of a key.

“You remember to eat?” He asks as he pulls out onto the street.

You nod, then audibly reply.

Tell him you did in fact eat toast, leave out the part where you spewed your guts again twenty minutes later.

The drive is quiet.

Not uncomfortable, just relaxed, with the radio playing gently and his window rolled down enough to let in some air.

At some point, his hand slides over the console and rests against your thigh.

You welcome it, covering it with your own.

As you watch out the window how he drives past the turning for the local hospital, he must catch your questioning gaze.

“They, uh,” he clears his throat, rings his hand over the steering wheel. A small stain of sweat marks it. “Know your dad pretty well in there. And me. Figure you’d rather he not find out about us like that.”

He’s right.

So you relax back into your seat, accept the fact you’re both driving out of town together.

At some point, the beginning notes of your favourite song play through the stereo.

You instantly perk up, sitting up straighter in your seat and tap your foot a little to the beat.

Javi says nothing, simply peels his hand off you to turn the volume dial up.

Seconds later, he turns his head and throws you a look just asking if he’s done good.

You smile, and thread your fingers between his own.

A soft squeeze before he pulls them up to his lips, eyes back on the road.

The clinic is bright.

And squeaky, each step you take making you a little more nervous than the last.

Javier, by all accounts, is solid as a rock, signing you both in, picking up a few pamphlets, buying you a can of soda, all while you curl up in some plastic chair and just focus on not spewing your guts out.

You only relax once he’s sat beside you, helping you get a sip of the sugary drink and wrapping a protective arm around you.

You don’t mean to but you fall victim to sleep, the past 24 hours getting the best of you.

You come-to likely not much later, but to the sound of a childish giggle.

Cracking one eye open, just slightly, you notice you’re slumped into Javier, head on his shoulder.

There’s a giggling little girl in front of you both, in purple overalls and with two pigtails to hold her curly hair.

One of her hands is on Javi’s knees, using him to keep herself standing.

“First time?” You snap your eyes shut as a stranger’s voice fills the quiet bustle of the clinic.

A confused sound leaves Javier.

“Yeah, could tell from the look on your lady’s face,” the man continues. “Same one my own wife had during our first visit.”

You want to pay attention to Javi’s response, but you’re a bit busy dealing with the fact he’s not correcting the man, telling him you’re not his lady nor his wife.

His thumb soothes over your hip, and you wonder at what rate you’ll melt away into a pile of nothing thanks to his soft touches.

“You hoping for a boy or a girl?”

You tell yourself to try harder, to actually pay attention.

You succeed, catch as Javi replies, “a girl.”

“Yeah?” the stranger seems genuinely invested, it almost makes you want to open your eyes, see him for yourself.

But you don’t want to ruin the moment.

“Wanted a boy, myself,” that same little girl giggles again and you can’t fight the temptation to peek once more, catch as she crawls into her faceless-father’s lap. “Doc told us it was gonna be a boy, too. Then this one came along and, wouldn’t ya know, not a boy.”

“Surprise!” the little girl squeals, and you feel Javi’s shoulder shake under your head.

God, you want to look at him, see if he’s looking at her with the same adoration that’s festering in your heart.

“Yeah, baby, you’re my little Sarah-Surprise,” the man coos and, despite his rough accent, it suits him. Like he was only ever meant to speak with gentle words and a soft heart, all for his precious daughter. “It’ll get easier, on your lady, just so ya know. Less scary, more exciting. ‘Bout to welcome our second one, and I’ve never seen my wife so happy.”

Javi’s still not correcting him.

It makes you nauseous for a whole new reason.

“Mr. Miller?” A voice calls out.

A nurse, you imagine.

A chair squeaks as pressure is taken off it, the stranger standing.

You peak your eye open in time to see him picking his daughter up, her little legs dangling off his hip.

He takes a few steps, till Javi interrupts him.

“What,” he clears his throat, and you wonder if it’s of emotion. “What are you hoping for this time?”

“A girl.”

Eventually, it’s your turn.

You’d pretended to wake up to Javier’s coaxing.

Shuffled into some room, reluctantly separating from Javi.

A smiley nurse handed you a cup, talked you through what you needed to do for your tests.

Took your blood pressure, complimented your earrings, and stepped out the room to give you privacy.

A short while and a reunion with Javi later, you sat in a doctor’s office, both a nervous wreck as you clasped each other’s hand.

“Mrs. peña,” again, Javier does not correct the doctor. And you realise it’s because he filled out the forms, he signed you in. He wrote you down as Peña. “You and your husband are not pregnant.”

What should have followed was a sigh of relief, from both of you.

But all you felt was led drop in your stomach and Javier’s grip tighten on your hand.

“You are, however, displaying symptoms of acute food poisoning, likely salmonella.”

The doctor continues on, detailing a prescription you’re being given.

But it falls on deaf ears, the world around you gone blank as you wrestle with conflicting emotions.

You’re not pregnant.

You should be elated. Jumping, and cheering, and dancing all over the place. Instead, you’re silent, letting yourself be guided back into the car by Javi.

This time, the drive is silent.

Not quiet.

Silent.

You watch him drive past the turning into your street.

He doesn’t explain that he’s taking you back to his place.

Getting you back in his bed, switching off the lights, he curls himself in behind you and splays his hand over your stomach.

Over your empty womb.

For some reason, you find yourself sobbing into your pillow, unaware of the tears from him that stain your neck as he tries to hush you.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” the irony of him repeating those very same words last night is not lost on you.

It’s hard to move on, when every month there’s a stabbing pain in your abdomen and a trickle of blood staining your underwear to remind you of April.

And so you keep it locked in it’s box, slapping another caution tape over it’s lid as you groan and roll out your own bed, trudging your way into your bathroom to check if the wetness between your thighs is your monthly visitor.

You played a game But I run the table

You’re avoiding your dad’s calls.

It’s not because he’s done anything to warrant your rejection, but, rather, it’s the forthcoming actions he’ll be guilty of.

See, you know why he’s calling.

Your mom let it slip, over brunch and a few too many glasses of wine.

He’s hosting another poker night.

He wants you there, as always.

Some baseless theory of you being his good luck charm.

Or, at least, that’s what you were until the last poker night he’d hosted, way back in March.

He slips away, phoned by your tipsy mother and obligated to drive three towns over to go pick her up because she misses him.

“Fill in for me, will ya, kiddo?”

It was less a suggestion, more of a pleading, his hands already scraping the seat back and awaiting you to plop yourself down.

He leaves you with his hand, his winnings so-far, and a kiss to the top of your head.

“Watch out for Peña,” he whispered, as if you hadn’t been keeping an eye on the agent all evening, clouded by his own cigarette smoke and sitting looser each sip of his whiskey, no ice. “His poker face is dangerous.”

He turns out to be no threat.

None of the officer’s are, really.

Rounds end and rounds start, and you father’s pile of winnings grow more and more.

It’s an ego boost, taking money from these cocky men who look at you as though surely you have no clue what cards you’re holding.

But, taking from Javi?

That’s something else, entirely.

Each time you win, he gets more agitated.

Flinging down cards, muttering curses, shoving his cash across the table.

All whilst glaring, at you, eyes black with ire.

And intoxication.

And something else.

Something you know all too well on Javier.

Lust.

Nearly an hour’s past since your father left, someone else leaves the table.

Says he needs the toilet, you point him in the direction of it.

You all call for a break, and then you graciously offer a refill on drinks.

It’s what your dad would’ve done, kept them all drinking and lowering their inhibitions, their focus disappearing alongside it.

“I’ll help!” One of the officers exclaims.

He’s on the younger side.

Practically a rookie, it’s only the second poker night he’s attended.

He’s sweet, with his large-framed glasses and his nervous smile.

You both make your way out of the basement- refurbished to be your dad’s man-cave- and head towards the kitchen.

You open the fridge, grab however many bottles of beer you need.

He heads to the liquor cabinet, pulls out a bottle bourbon.

You beat him at grabbing the whiskey, an unvoiced need to be the one who refills Javi’s glass.

Maybe, he’ll offer you a sip.

Conversation flows naturally between you, in spite of him being a near stranger.

He asks about college.

You ask about working with your dad.

You both agree on the fact he’s a pain in the ass.

He tells you about a new bar, downtown.

You tell him where to go to get the best club sandwich.

It’s light, it’s easy, it’s friendly.

You’re enjoying his company.

nNeither of you can tell who causes it, but one of you mispronounces a word and you both wind up in a pile of giggles, falling over yourselves and banging into counters.

His hands grip his sides.

You’re clutching your chest.

Through wheezes, he repeats the phrase that left you both in this state.

You laugh harder, louder, warn him to stop before you lose control of your bladder.

Something thuds in the hallway, your eyes shoot up to the kitchen entry and you swear you see Javi’s retreating figure.

Blink a few times, realise there’s no one there.

You both gather some decorum.

He grabs as many of the beer bottles he can manage, and looks at your empty hands in question.

You tell him to head back without you, that you just need to go to the toilet.

Parting ways, you find the both the downstairs and upstairs bathrooms occupied.

Sigh in frustration, only to remember your parents en suite.

It’s empty, because of course it is. No one would feel comfortable enough invading the privacy of your parents' bedroom.

You do your business, wash your hands, fix yourself in the mirror.

Decide your lipstick needs a little touch-up, your clothes need straightening out.

And, when you’re done and ready to head back down to the poker table, you hear a thud.

Pull open the bathroom door, expect to find your father struggling to put a tipsy, giggly, clumsy version of your mother into bed.

Instead, there is only a brooding look and disapproving grunt.

A firm grip, on your arm, dragging you right back into the bathroom.

The door slams shut, a little harsher than you’d like, the sound of it surely reaching the ears of those regrouping for the next dealing of the cards.

He doesn’t pounce, like he so usually does when he’s wearing that look of frustration.

He’s simmering in it, teetering on the edge of boiling anger as he smooths a hand over his chin, visibly clenching his jaw, swallowing back whatever it is he wants to say to you.

He takes one step forward, and you go one back.

Then two steps, which you also match.

Your hip smacks into the sink’s counter on your fifth step backwards and it’s enough to finally put his hands on you.

He tugs you right into his chest, one hand soothing over where you’d banged your hip.

It’s alarmingly gentle for his stoic features.

When he speaks, you nearly melt into a puddle, the heat of him invading your space, face inching close to your own, enough to have you questioning the sanctity of your parents en suite.

“What’s going on with you, huh?”

“Could ask you the same thing, officer,” you make the fatal mistake of giggling, but you’ll blame it on the fruity cider you’d helped yourself to.

He clearly finds no humour, not even as you fiddle with the top button of his shirt and shoot him your best look of innocence.

“Think you’re real fucking funny, don’t you?” His hand, warm and imposing, grips a hold of your face.

It’s almost painful, but you like it, squirming a little at the blunt stab of his nails and the way he smooshes your cheeks, forcing a pout onto your lips.

You try shake your head, his grip won’t let you.

“Sitting in a room full of men, making yourself the centre of attention,” he huffs a breath out of his nose, and you can’t help but compare him to an angry dragon.

He’s worked up, frustrated, angry.

And it’s hot. A turn-on.

“What’s the matter, Javi? Jealous you’re not the centre of all those men’s attention?” You’re poking the dragon, teasing him, and it’s an act that may leave you burned and scarred.

Or, as you’re hoping, it’ll win you the ride of a lifetime.

He doesn’t even grace you with a verbal response.

No, he scoffs, as though he’s in physical disbelief at the words you’re saying.

Spins you around, pins you to the sink’s counter, tugs your hair till you’re forced to stare at your reflection.

He’s right behind you, seething in anger, fire in his eyes.

His head dips between you neck and shoulder, brushing his lips against your pulse point.

“Not all of us are attention whores like you,” it’s fleeting, and he’ll deny it if you dare mention it, but he smiles.

Just a second, but you feel it, see it even though he tries so hard to turn his face into your neck.

It’s what lets you know he’s playing, teasing, egging you on to push him over the edge.

“I’ve been with real whores, corazón,” he confesses a sin you already know, eaves-dropping one too many times on your dad fishing stories of Colombia out of him. “Fucked them so often they started doing their nails in colours they knew I wanted to see wrapped around my cock.”

Involuntarily, your back arches, brushing your ass against him and providing him the perfect access to wind his hand up between your heaving breasts, all the way up till his fingers curl round the base of your throat.

In the mirror, the image is one of ownership, of Javi seizing your bodily autonomy. A whore and her gentleman caller.

It’s arousing to think about, Javi and his whores.

You wonder what positions he put them in.

How many rounds he lasted with them.

How often he made them cum.

“And not one of them took half the money you’ve taken from me tonight.”

Oh.

So that’s what this is, his pretty ego, bruised at the hands of you?

Poor Mr. Javier Peña, humiliated in front of all his peers round after round, hundred bill after hundred bill.

You almost taunt him for giving into the temptations of the fragile male ego, but you’re stopped in your tracks.

By him, hands squeezing at you a little tighter as he grinds the unmistakable outline of his hardened cock against you.

That single action changes the game, entirely.

Because this isn’t about you stealing his money and his ego.

No, this is something far filthier, that has your panties growing wetter beneath the skirt of your dress.

“I’m worth every dime though, aren’t I, officer?.”

The grip tightens.

He shoves you harder into the counter, so hard a tub of your mother’s moisturiser topples off.

The hard outline of him is still there, ever-present.

“‘S that what you like, huh, taking my money? Wanna be Javi’s personal little whore?”

Every ounce of feminism evaporates within you.

Who could deny such a tentative offer?

Certainly not you, reflection mimicking the way you eagerly nod, teeth biting down on your bottom lip in a failed attempt to hold back a grin.

Javi notices- of course he notices- and takes his victory, hips rocking even deeper into you.

There’s too many layers between you, a feat on which you both agree, yet neither of you do anything about.

You just savour the friction, instead, pushing and pulling one another to the axis of pleasure.

Your panties, soaked.

His jeans, tight.

“What’s it gonna cost me to get you bent over and stuffed full of my cum, corazón?” One hand leaves your body. The mirror snitches on him, exposing how he’s reaching into his back pocket. “This?”

He smacks something down, into the bowl of the sink.

It’s his wallet, and you watch the worn leather of it shine with the residue of water on the linoleum.

The hand at your throat pulses a squeeze, his knee nudges you from behind.

“C’mon, don’t be shy.”

His mouth, right by your ear, lips tickling you with the subtlest of brushes against it.

His hand guides your own, down into the sink, flipping the wallet open and putting it’s belongings on display.

Bills, some placed neatly, others stuffed in forcefully, edges spilling out the pockets. There’s less in there than when he arrived, courtesy of you.

There’s a few miscellaneous cards. A library card, an ID slip you’re sure he uses for something in the sheriff's station, a loyalty card to some record store.

The picture of his mother sits centre stage, radiant smile and loving eyes grabbing the attention of any who dare open it.

He has his mother’s eyes, you notice.

And then you notice something else, peeking out from behind his mother’s picture.

You dive into temptation, dart your nosy fingers over to tug at the object, till you realise it’s another picture.

A picture of Javi, and you.

Taken on a polaroid you found under a box of his belongings, you remember the day clear as ever.

The two of you had messed around, captured your sins on film with the promise of destroying it after. It would be too risky a thing, to allow image evidence of the intimate ways in which you knew each other’s bodies.

Javi’s fingers on your skin, your nipple in his mouth, his cock’s outline bulging within your lower abdomen.

There was no point risking your father ever finding it.

But this picture, this one you do not remember.

Fully dressed, eyes fixed on his television, your head lays in his laps while his fingers card through your hair.

It’s captured from above, as if Javi’s own eyes had made a permanent record of his view.

The sweetness of this living on, of Javi taking something sacred for himself to keep hidden in his wallet distracts you for a moment.

He does good to bring you back into the room.

“Take how much you think you’re worth, corazón,” whispered into your ear, as he rips a few of the notes out his wallet.

They sit in the sink, growing wet.

And you are too, frozen on the spot.

You glance down, count over the different bills.

Five dollars.

Twenty dollars.

Hundred dollars.

With each bill you count, your internal price shooting up within your head, you try picture his reaction.

In the mirror, he’s watching.

Not the sink bowl, no.

You, your face, looking at your expressions in a way that reminds you it’s his job to read people.

You decide to be bold, dig into his wallet and, even though your insides twist in anxious turmoil, hold up your hand to present him with your answer.

Resting neatly, between your fore and middle finger, a shiny credit card.

The gleam in Javi’s eyes just about match it, blackened and blown out with lust.

The card is plucked out your hand.

The hand on your neck leaves, in search of your waist.

The fabric of your dress bunches, wrinkling and creasing as his fabric-straining grip inches it’s hem higher and higher.

You feel sexy like this, face heated and breathing heavy.

It’s an effect he has on you, has had on you, forcing you to look at yourself in new lights, in new angles, admiring every out-of-line trace of you for what you are.

Desirable.

And attractive.

And pretty.

And smart.

And every other word under the sun that Javi whispers into your skin with innocence as his body commits sins within you.

At the bottom of the mirror, you watch as the white cotton of your panties comes into view.

Wet, as you both expected, the thin fabric now turned almost sheer, exposing the delectable view of your cunt hugged cutely by the cotton’s tight seams.

Javi hisses, muttering something to himself.

There’s a strain to his voice, one that would have you worried he’s in pain if it weren’t for the way you’re watching as his face contorts with lust.

His eyes are dark and you study them like he studies his card, contemplating something.

A few seconds pass. 

Tension is puffed out his chest with one exhale, through the nose.

You feel the air tickle your skin.

He nods curtly, to himself, and flickers his gaze back to meet your own in the mirror.

It’s unwavering, even as he brings the black plastic down and smacks it against your mound.

You squeal, he hushes, and you both know he doesn’t mean it at all.

He likes when you gift him noise, a private aria only he has tickets to.

Just as easily as the first time, he snaps the card against you again, a jolt of pleasure shooting straight through your clit.

Just as loudly as the first time, you squeal, a jolt back into his warm, steady, hard embrace.

“What’re you running from, hmm?” His face turns, burrowing itself in the tresses of your hair.

A shallow sniff, and you wonder if he notices the smell of his shampoo on you.

There’s a pressing of lips, against your scalp, and it’s far too gentle of a juxtapose to the imagery of his fingers pulling your panties to the side, exposing your pussy to the bathroom’s cold air and the two pairs of hungry eyes in the mirror.

“You say that this is what you’re worth, and then you don’t want to take it?”

The third spank of the card against your bundle of nerves is harder, louder, echos in the confined space. A moan, minuscule and muffled, slips past tightly shut lips, a look of fear flashing through wide eyes.

Javi’s quick with his reassurance, gentle with his comfort, a hand stroking over your collarbone.

“Don’t worry, no one’s gonna hear you. You just be as loud as you need, hermosa, they’re too busy encouraging that boy-cop to ask you to dinner.”

There’s a tint of jealousy to the way he says boy, and you’re reminded of the image of him in the kitchen doorway.

Smack!

The card strikes down, once more, this time eliciting an open-mouthed gasp. 

He doesn’t let up, repeating the action twice more.

It hurts, in a way that makes your core throb and your toes curl, squirming aimlessly in a grasp he knows you don’t truly want to escape.

But he mocks you, with a hushing noise in your ear and gentle it’s okay, corazón, Javi’s got yous against your neck. His thumb swipes through your folds, coating it in your wetness and dragging itself up to your clit, soaking it in soothing rubs.

His gentle nature lasts mere seconds, his wrist flicking back only to smack the credit card down again. This time, it’s a pattern of three, repeatedly crashing down on your sensitive nerves one after the other.

In the mirror, you watch him observe as he twiddles the card between deft fingers, contemplation on his mind.

The room’s quiet, apart from your shortened breaths and his deep inhales.

You hear a cheer.

From the basement.

It must have been a loud cheer, for you to hear them all the way up here.

And, suddenly, the stakes feel higher than when you were sat at the poker table, counting Javi’s coins with every passing round.

If you can hear them, they could hear you.

This doesn’t seem to cross Javier’s mind, who merely twists your head away from the bathroom door and back to the mirror, to where his hungry eyes await.

All contemplation is gone, he’s decided in what he’s going to do, and so you watch as he takes the card and swipes it through your cunt.

It’s not a pleasurable act, in itself.

In fact, it’s rather uncomfortable, the solid plastic hard on your delicate skin.

It’s the arousal of him doing it that gets you weak in the knees, to have him perform such a mundane act- the swiping of his credit card- in such a crass, dirty, wrong way.

Like he’s paying for you, committing a physical transaction in exchange for your body.

It doesn’t matter that he could have you for free, has had you for free.

He wants to pay, wants to reward you in a way that aligns with the capitalistic world.

“Javi…” You whimper, softly, head lulling back against his shoulder as he swipes the card again.

Your eyes, slowly slipping shut, shoot right back open as you feel the rounded corner of the card prod at your opening, as if trying to notch itself within you.

“Think she could take it, corazón?” Javi bites at your ear, teeth clamping down and pulling at it’s lobe. The card sinks in, not even an inch. You nudge back into, your cry circling the room around you both. “I know, baby, I know. It’d be a wide stretch, but ain’t that all pretty whores like you are good for, hmm?”

It’s automatic, the way you bend to his every whim, head nodding without direct orders from your brain, every part of you, conscious or not, ready and willing to prove you could fit his card inside of you.

For him, you can do it.

“Fitting big things in your little pussies?”

Surprisingly, the hand between your thighs retracts and you watch as he brings the card up to your mouth, glistening with your arousal.

“Open,” the directions are unnecessary, your mouth already dropping open for him in an act of muscle memory.

He hums approvingly, yet his eyes are still fury filled as he slots the card between your lips, lathering your tongue in your own taste. 

“You’ll take anything I give you, won’t you, corazón?”

The statement rings true, both ways: as much as you’ll take anything, he’ll give anything.

You don’t tell him that, though, finding it much easier to rest your palms on the countertop, backing your sopping core into him, enticing him with the wiggle of your hips and whines from your lips to take you already.

“Shh, shh, don’t you worry that pretty head. Javi’s gonna feed this greedy little cunt, ok?”

The unbuckling of a belt.

The unzipping of teeth.

The shucking down of-

Something smashes, in the basement, and it’s enough to have you flinching.

Javi’s touch soothes you, a hand running over the curve of your shoulder as he presses yet another kiss into your neck.

“S’okay, probably just a beer bottle.”

He doesn’t move another inch, not till he sees you nod, melting back into him.

You hear, more than you see, the way he tugs his trousers down, just enough to free his hardened cock from its jean-clad confine. The risky business of a quickie in your parents’ en suite calls for clothing moved aside, and not removed.

Much to your annoyance, his all-encompassing warmth drifts away as he moves back, hands clamping down on your hips. 

He tilts them to the angle he wants, the angle he knows gets him brushing all your sweet-spots.

He tugs the skirt of your dress up, and then readjusts your soiled underwear.

You hear him draw a deep breath and watch his eyes in the mirror, glued to that spot between your legs, entranced.

The drag of his cock over your folds is familiar, the way he smacks the head of it against your clit is welcomed.

He spears you no gentle coaxing, no stretching around his fingers first, coming undone just for him to fill you right back up, this time with his cock.

No, this is a vengeful touch, the kind that’s meant to display his irritation, his fury, for reasons you’ve yet to confirm yet you’re more than willing to accept.

A man like him, so unfairly selfless, taking something in this world for himself, how he wants to and how he likes to.

You’ll be his vice, so long as he grants you his virtues.

Javi fills you with a single thrust, grunting low into your ear as you feel the way the air is physically knocked out both for your lungs.

He’s still, head buried in the crook of your neck as he works on steadying his breathing, giving you time to adjust to the delicious stretch.

You whine out some version of his name, feel yourself pulse around him.

A hand, reaching up to cup your cheek.

A kiss, gentle and longing against your mouth.

He’s making you wait for it, you think, torturing you with an impending paradise.

He’s savouring the feel of you, he thinks, taking advantage of the few moments alone he wins with you.

"Javi,” he barely lets you part from him to speak, chasing a trail of kisses down your jaw. “This isn’t the time to develop patience.”

The snide remark earns you a bite, his teeth nibbling on the sensitive skin of your earlobe. You squeal, try remind yourself to be quiet, only to squeal louder when his hands tickle at your waist.

“I’m a very patient man, corazón.”

You scoff.

“Just not when it comes to you.”

His hips roll back, slowly, but it’s better than nothing, better than when he wasn’t moving at all.

Still, he makes you squirm a little longer, moan his name a little louder.

Only then does his fake resolve snap and he’s fucking into you at a brain melting pace in the blink of an eye.

Javier does his best to keep quiet, at first, biting down on his lip and your neck just to contain all those melodies he usually makes.

You can’t say the same for yourself as, despite your efforts, broken moan after broken moan tumbles out your mouth and into the sink, filling and filling and filling it in sync with how Javi your cunt.

You wonder how long till it all spills over the edge.

“Joder (Fuck),” he groans as you unconsciously squeeze him tighter, pulling him deeper into your walls. serves him right, for the teasing and the torturing. “Tienes el coño más lindo en todo el mundo. (You have the prettiest cunt in the whole world.)”

You feel lightheaded.

Warm, sweaty, covered in the fingerprints of a lover you shouldn’t be with.

The bathroom fills with an array of sounds. The slapping of skin against skin, the broken cries of an agent’s name, the mindless rambling of a man drunk on pleasure.

“So good to me, baby. Always so fucking good to me.”

“Gonna stay here forever, fuck. That sound good to you, corazón, hmm? Full of my cock always?”

“Look at yourself… Pura belleza (Pure beauty).”

He consumes you, mind, body and soul.

There’s no worrying about the happenings around the poker table, no listening out for your father’s car pulling in the driveway, no worrying about your tousled hair or sweating skin.

There’s just Javi.

Beautiful, gorgeous, deserving Javi.

“Please, please, Javi-“ The words all melt together, pleads becoming his name, his name becoming pleads.

You’re not sure what you’re begging for.

It’s okay though, Javi always knows what you need.

“I know, amor (love), I know,” he murmurs into your skin, butterfly kisses so gentle you wonder how they come from the same man that’s pistoning his hips into you like it’s the last chance he’ll ever get. “Let go, c’mon. Show me how much you love this cock, how much you love-”

He’s cut off by his own groan, you cunt fluttering around him as you inch closer and closer to the edge of euphoria.

Hands hurry off your waist, slipping between your thighs. 

It brings a welcomed cushioning, shielding you from repeatedly bumping against the marble of the countertop.

Your legs part further, eagerly, an easy pathway for his yearning fingers to seek out the wonders of the female body as they brush over your clit.

The gentle tactile that he strokes over your bundle of nerves, partnered with the repeated brushing of his cock against that spot that makes you weak in the knees, drool out your mouth, it’s becoming too much.

Eyes glancing in the mirror, you wonder if yours is the same image of the whores who’d warmed his Colombian nights: sweat soaked skin, hooded eyes, messed up hair, wrinkled clothing.

He tilts your hips, a deeper angle to fuck into you that has you perching up onto the tips of your toes, fighting with the chance of losing balance.

He’d catch you, if you fell.

Wrap you up in an embrace that’s more familiar than your own.

“I’m gonna- Fuck! Corazón, need you to cum. Now, please. Please. Need to feel you-”

He’s babbling, losing composure and revealing the side of him you pray he never showed those other women: the side that needs, the side that longs, the side that begs to see you cum before he allows himself to, before he’s able to.

“Javi,” it’s a struggle to speak, but you endure, fighting off your orgasm and holding back tears. There’s something you need from him too. “Cum with me. Wanna be full of you, all of you-”

“¿Sí? (Yeah?)” He pleads back, thrusts already getting a little sloppier, hands a little shakier in the way they touch you. Much like his poker face, you know how to read the face he wears moments before he falls apart. “¿Eso es lo que quiere mi corazón? (Is that what my sweetheart wants?) Want me to cum in you, hm?”

“Yes, oh god yes! So bad, Javi, I want it so bad!”

“Ay, bebesita, no llores. (Aw, baby girl, don't cry.)” He coos, a condescending lilt to his words that has you falling into a bigger mess. “Shh, don’t worry, baby. Gonna fill you right up, so my cum’s dripping down your thighs when that poor kid asks you for your number. Thinks he’s got a shot with you cause he made you laugh, poor boy wouldn’t know how to deal with all the noises I get out of you.”

Javi divulges into a spine-tingling rant of burning hot jealousy, the kind that leaves your cheeks burning and your heart scorching, lit under a flame of your desire for more of him. To have him, equal parts physical and emotional.

You try warn him of the bubble that’s about to burst, the feeling in your loins building and building till it’s seconds way from toppling over. 

“That’s it, baby, squeeze my cock. Lemme feel it,” He urges, heart pounding out his chest against your back, hands tightening their grip on your hips. “Need to feel you cum, ‘s all I want.”

You both crash and burn, together.

You fall first, a chaos of unfinished words, crying out for Javi.

He follows close behind, body pressed against your own like he’s willing you to fuse together, to become to entangled in one another that all possibilities of separation become void.

“Take it, cora-” He’s in your ears, in your head, in your heart. Inside of you, consuming you, as eagerly as he’s willing to be consumed by you, fingerprints on hips and teeth-marks in necks. “Take it, take it, take it.”

Arms envelop you from behind, crossing over your chest to pin you back against him.

He’s nearly stagnant, nothing but the twitch of his cock and the shallow thrusts he fucks you deeper with, filling you with another, another, another pump of his cum.

“So good,” Javi’s voice persists, teeth gritting as he bites back the need to be loud, to be heard, to lay a claim on you so blatant no one could deny hearing it. Your relationship with your father is the only thing that holds him back. “Good to me, baby. Always… Good… Díos. (God.)”

Craning your neck to the side, you manage to pull him in for a kiss.

It’s something he accepts easily, lips parting and melting into a dance against your own.

One of his hands falls over your jaw, twisting your face even closer to him.

The kiss dies slowly, with each of you refusing to truly part, pecks being splattered messily against the other’s mouth.

“Was I,” Javi interrupts you with another kiss, his free hand smoothing up and down your side, his hips still slowly rocking into yours, a delicious sting of overstimulation biting at your core. “Am I worth it?”

He pulls back, tired gaze warm as it takes in your messed features.

With the smile that stretches over his lips, however, one would think you were the prettiest creature in all the world.

He calls your name, calmly, slowly, like he’s trying to memorise the shape of it on his tongue. “You’re worth everything I could give, and more.”

There’s something behind the ways he says it that makes you believe him.

With little will to do so, you peel apart from each other, his hands moving quick to adjust your underwear as his cum starts to leak out onto your folds.

He exits the bathroom first, a final kiss placed on your cheek before your left alone, forced to confront the wrecked version of you that will never see your parent’s en suite in the same light.

Your dad arrives back just in time to see you slipping back down to sit at the poker table, no seat left for him to take but the one between his sweet daughter and his loyal best friend.

If only he knew he was placing you both where you most wanted to be when he suggested Javi give you a ride home, waving you both off through the car window with no idea Javi's cum sat dripping out your cunt, staining the car seat.

Your phone buzzes to life in your hand, slipping you out of your memories.

Your father’s contact name reads clearly on the screen.

Hitting decline one more time, you roll over and try ignore the gathering slick between your thighs.

Damn Javi and all the memories he haunts you with.

Mr, I don’t want a label You made me a little miss unstable (And it)

Days grow colder.

Nights grow longer.

You change your bedsheets, stuff a comforter back inside.

Pick out a tree, synthetic, and lump the box up the countless stairs to your apartment.

Try not to think of how he would’ve insisted on helping, refused to let you carry it.

Even if it culminated in him doubled over in pain, clutching his lower back.

Lights, baubles, action.

The tree’s smaller than you expect, barely reaching your hip, but it’s green, tree-shaped and festive. It’s enough.

Your decorations are minimal, a few inconsequential things you picked out your parents’ stash. There’s a Santa hat, frayed with time. A few cracked baubles, with string so thin you suspect they’ll snap off. A gingerbread man ornament, a glass snow-flake. A crooked star, missing one of its points, tops the tree.

A homemade snowman, one you’d gifted your parents after a busy day in nursery. Neither of them had the heart to tell you you’d made its nose a rather phallic shape.

And then there's the red phone-box, nestled somewhere in the middle, an etching of LONDON brandishing it as a reminder of your trip.

You’d picked it up in a tiny bookstore, right next door to The Distillery Club.

The winter season has never felt so lonesome, tucked away in your grown-up apartment. 

There’s no fireplace to warm your hands, no hot cocoa boiling on the stove. No cheesy hallmark movies to laugh at with your mother, no racing past your father to grab the last slice of dessert.

It’s just you, alone, with only your wandering mind as company.

Sometimes, more often than not, it wanders to him. To if he’s alone.

To if he’s filling his heart as easily as he fills his bed.

To if he’s finally bought a second seat for his dingy balcony.

“Is this some tactic of yours?”

He hums, brows furrowing, lips pouting, smoke dragging into his lungs.

The cigarette sits perched between two fingers of the hand resting on your knee, his other curled around your waist.

“Some what?”

“Tactic,” you repeat. Watch him blow a puff a smoke, taste his ash at the back of your throat. “Only having one chair, so pretty girls have no choice but to sit in your lap.”

He lets his gaze wander away from the streets below and up to you, sitting pretty in his lap. Like a cat, draped over his thighs.

Nothing but his own rumpled, inside-out shirt to cover your skin.

Bare legs, messed hair, smudged lipstick.

Fingerprint bruises littering your hips, bitemarks etched into your collarbone.

“I gave you a choice,” he speaks with a reservation he didn’t have before, when he’d offered you a ride home from the bar. There’s an etching of something that’s diluting his expressions, sinking him deeper and deeper into his own pensive mind. “You were the one who insisted on sitting on me.”

“You weren’t complaining earlier.”

Nails pinch at your thigh, causing a squeal out of you.

A few birds fly off a nearby wire, a head or two turn in the street below.

They don’t see you, or Javi, or the lack of clothing that sits between you.

“Neither were you. In fact, you were a little busy fucking my fac-”

“Stop!” Your sudden modesty feels unearned, yet that does nothing to stop you from placing your hand over his mouth.

He licks at it, you grimace, he licks again.

Then takes another breath of nicotine, as you wipe the remnants of his spit onto his naked thigh.

When he offers the cigarette your way, you hesitate.

Picture your father, disappointed to see you smoke.

The whiff of Javi’s post-sex smell- muted cologne, matted sweat, burnt ash- steals your senses, reminds you you’ve already done enough to disappoint your father, a cigarette can’t do much damage.

So you let him hold it up to your mouth and inhale it’s poison.

You and Javi were never meant to happen.

Sure, the line had already been crossed weeks ago.

But that was supposed to stay in Vermont, tucked between snowy slopes and wooden cabins. Existing in a timeline separate from your reality, where you are your father’s precious daughter and Javi is his trustworthy colleague and friend, that is where it should have stayed.

And it had, for two weeks. Sixteen days, specifically. 

You’d returned to classes, to sharing lunch breaks with your father in his office, to slowly moving more of your things out the family home and into your new apartment.

And Javi, from what you heard, had returned to keeping civilians safe, to sharing a drink or two with your father at the end of the work week, to flirting with every secretary within a mile radius.

Neither of your crossed paths and, when you nearly did, the other made the effort to turn a corner, shut a door, hide behind a wall.

Until tonight.

Until you ditched your mediocre date, some lame excuse of having a last-minute paper due.

Until you’d gone to console yourself over your failing love life, unknowingly sliding into a bar stool right next to the most desired cop in town.

Until he’d turned to you, tilted his head, and asked “d’you wanna get out of here?”

He’d offered to take you home.

The drive was quiet, tense, until his hand drifted over the gearstick and you dragged it down onto your thigh.

He squeezed.

You inched it further up, till the tips of his fingers brushed at the edge of your dress.

He took the invitation, took a turning towards his own place.

Brought you into his apartment, drowned you in his fountain of kisses, begged you to sit upon his face. He’d made you see stars beneath a roofed sky, eyes rolling so far back they threatened to get stuck there.

With barely a moments recovery from a third blinding orgasm, he dragged you down the expanse of his body, sat you down on his cock and refused to help your overstimulated, puddle-brained self ride him, grinning cunningly with his back pressed against the mattress as you struggled through shaky legs.

Eventually, he tired and launched himself, arms tangling behind your back, feet planted flat behind you, hips fucking up into your battered cunt until you both came to a haltering crescendo.

He’d layed you down to rest, cleaned you of any mess, and then wandered out to his balcony, inviting you to join him when the feeling returned to your legs.

Which brings you here, fifteen minutes later.

“...wouldn’t have to be serious,” he’s speaking, finishing off a sentence you don’t quite catch the start of.

“Huh?”

“This. Us. It could be casual, y’know?” Another puff of smoke slips right through his lips. “If that’s what you’re worrying about… your dad, and all that other stuff. I don’t need a label, not if it means I get to have… We could keep it casual, if that’s what you want.”

It takes a few moments for you to fully register his words, and then a few more to formulate a response.

“Is that what you want?”

He shrugs.

Pulls in another breath of his cigarette.

Stubs it out on the arm of the chair.

And says nothing.

You assume it’s a yes.

Because what else could Javier Peña, notorious womaniser, want with you if not a casual, no-strings-attached permit to sleep with you, as many times as he sees fit, without the risk of losing his job or, worse, his best friend?

Silence falls upon you both.

You twist in his lap.

He tightens his hold.

Within a half’s hour, he’s got your hands white knuckling as they grip the metal bannister of his balcony, his own hands busy pulling your hips back to meet each of his desperate thrusts, not even the cool air of the night enough to soothe the flaming desire that burns between you.

Your stomach twists, your mouth dries, your eyes water at the thought of him out on that balcony now.

Somebody else, some new body sat in your spot, upon his lap as they exchange smoke rings and warm mouths.

Broke me big time It’s funny and I’m laughing baby You think i’m alright

The Laredo sheriff’s department is known best for three things: its lack of parking, its swoon-worthy ex-DEA agent, and its office holiday parties.

Each year, it’s the same.

The station, decked out in decorations.

A Christmas wreath, mistletoe hanging from every doorway, egg-nog and mulled wine.

It’s not just Christmas.

It’s menorahs, and ficus trees, and a statues of different gods.

Each piece of culture, tradition, holiday that makes up the people that inhabit the station, day in and day out, behind desks and in cop cars, filing paperwork and fetching coffees, represented in some way, celebrated.

Each member of staff is encouraged to bring their friends, their family.

Their spouse, their mothers.

Anyone, and everyone, is welcome.

Then there’s the gift exchange, a Secret Santa system, optional for each member of staff.

It’s the part you look forward to most.

Crowding your dad the minute he gets home on the first of December, poking and prodding till he lets it spill who he’s got.

Fishing out a pen, some paper.

Drawing up a list, made of details and anecdotes your father remembers of his target.

Dragging your shop-avoidant father down to the mall, for a day of gift hunting and sweet-tooth indulging.

Getting to watch your father’s coworker open their gift, eyes lighting up as you once again knock the ball out the park and gift them something perfectly tailored to them, winning your dad the spot of top gift-giver year after year.

This year, there was none of that.

No list of pros and cons for each gift option.

No trying to crack just what exactly your dad should gift his person.

No waiting with baited breath to watch them open it, heart racing with that little fear of them not liking it, of you failing.

No, the moment that name fell from your father’s mouth, you knew what he needed to get.

Hinted at it, slightly.

Claimed you’d smelt it on a friend, thought it would be a good idea.

Sipping on some wine and picking at the buffet, you watch him pick up his gift.

Hold it up to his ear, shake it.

Look down at the box, confused, then tear into the wrapping paper.

The whole room stops.

Not really, but it feels like it does, as somewhere across the room Javier Peña holds up a bottle of that damn cologne.

And, when his eyes instinctively find yours, it feels like everything else fades away.

Fades to grey.

It’s just him, and you. The only two within the room, holding a secret too heavy on the tongue to ever speak it aloud.

He knows.

Of course he knows.

Knows you’d watched him spray it on his skin, day in, and day out.

Knows you’d worn it on your own, sunk it deep into your pores after intertwining your souls upon wrinkled sheets.

Knows you’d watch its contents decrease over time, time you’d spent with him.

That bottle of cologne reminiscent of a timer on you both, that morning before the hospital trip becoming the last few sprays he got out of it.

Colour returns to the world that surrounds you as your dad steps into view.

He’s hugging Javi, pathetically tipsy and ignorant to the lipstick stain on his cheek, no doubt ingrained to his skin with how hell-bent he is on having your mother kiss him beneath each mistletoe.

They’re exchanging words you don’t hear, slapping one another on the back.

You turn on your heel, insides twisting as nausea overcomes you at the scene.

The next time you see Javi is hours later.

You’re trying to leave, tempted to take the good old Irish exit and just slip out a back door.

But your parents- ne, your father- are so busy show-ponying you around the room, that you fail to take a single step that goes unnoticed.

“There she is!” Your father calls out, somewhere behind you, as you slip your hand into the arm of your coat. This act sparks outrage, a frown birthing onto his face. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving too.”

You say you’re tired.

He boos, loudly, like he’s not the chief of police and a whole grown adult.

Grabs at you, lovingly, trying to pry the coat out of your hands.

The effort is minimum, and you know he’s only messing around.

You can leave, if you want to, even if he’d rather you stay.

“It’s not even midnight and you two buzzkills are leaving!” He wails, all the while he’s reaching around and helping you slip your other arm into the coat.

That’s when Javi’s face comes into view, over the arch of your dad’s shoulder, sporting a smile and a pair of keys dangling off one finger.

You try your best to counter his smile with your own, though your throat feels dry and your cheeks feel tight.

“I can’t believe I’m being betrayed like this by two of my favourite people!” The smile slips before you can catch it, eyes widening at your father’s words.

Words you’d spent months agonising over the thought of hearing. Picturing the circumstances in which he’d find out. Imagining the horrendous fallout, a red slash over Javier’s reputation. Swearing you’d quit it, quit him, and then winding up tangled in his sheets again, head pressed to his chest, eyes closed in the soundest of sleeps.

Javi plays it cool.

Nudges your dad’s shoulder, shakes his head and tells him to “quit the dramatics, viejo (old man).”

“I gotta head out to my pop’s first thing in the morning, he’s wanting me to help him rewire some of the fences.” Comes out as his excuse, one your dad can’t really argue against.

He knows better than anyone that Javi drops everything for his dad.

Well, better than anyone but you.

Your excuse, however, falls a little short, a consequence of the last minute conjuring of the lie.

“I’ve, uh, got an early class. Don’t wanna flunk out in my last year, right?”

Your dad stares at you.

Your mum stares at you.

Javi stares at you.

And that’s how you know you’re screwed.

“Class? I thought you were on winter break.”

Javi takes the momentary distraction to shrug his coat on, over those broad shoulders.

Shoulders that twist with the rest of him, as he makes space for you in the doorway, nodding you over. Here, he’s saying without really speaking, escape with me.

So you do, tiptoeing past your parents as though, the slower and quieter you move, the less they’ll notice your approach to the exit.

“Oh! Yeah, I- Sorry, I meant that I-”

“The library, it’s still open for the graduate students,” Javi swoops in effortlessly, dragging the spotlight off you.

He takes hold of your jacket, too, slipping the zip into place and dragging it up the length of your torso, over your chest, till it rests snuggly at your sternum.

A little too snug, making each new inhale deeper, harder, practically heaving the air into your lungs.

At least that’s the reason you give yourself.

You don’t get to dwell on it too long, fortunately, for your mother lets out a gasp.

She points, eyes a little widened by excitement, at the both of you and nudges at your father.

“Look!” She tells him, and you watch in confusion as he displays her same reaction, eyes wide and mouth agape.

Then comes the laughter, straight out the depths of your dad’s belly and right to your weak heart, a melody that reminds you so much of easy Sundays and curling up next to him on the sofa, watching kids’ shows that seemed to entertain him more than you.

“Oh that’s just,” he takes a laugh break, doubling over slightly, his own finger joined in pointing at you two, beneath the doorway. “Too perfect!”

Before you can inquire on either of your parents bizarre reactions, Javi’s eyes are staring into your own and pointing upwards.

Wrapped with a red bow and barely hanging onto the door frame with a single strip of tape, a mistletoe stares down at you, two white berries like mini eyes.

When you glance at the agent once more, it’s hard to read what he’s thinking.

His shoulders are tense, his lips are pursed, his brows are furrowed. But, his eyes.

His eyes burn you with an unspoken intensity, a look he should never possess in front of your parents.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” You mom, camera in hand, urges you both, a wide grin cast upon her face.

You dad is in no better state, rushing forward to squeeze you both closer, one hand clasped over the back of Javi’s head.

When the once-agent exhales a nerve-striken breath, the warmth of it, of him, hits your neck.

“Dad, c’mon, stop-” you’ve never imagined yourself stuck like this, your mother and father both urging you to kiss a man you spent months tossing and turning in bedsheets with behind their back.

The creatively deviant part of your brain tells you this is how it could be, maybe, in some other life.

Some other life, where Javi’s not a cop, you’re new in town, and you both bump into each other at the grocery store.

Both of you reaching out for the same apple, or box of cereal, or bottle of milk.

Your hands, brushing.

Your eyes, meeting.

He’d charm you, easily as he always has.

Get your number and then, the next day, a date.

One date leading to two, three, four, more dates.

Till you bring him home to meet your parents at last, squeezing his hand tighter when he tries to pry it away as the door opens to your father’s stern face.

It would take a while, you reckon, for your dad to see past the difference in years.

Your mother wouldn’t care, wouldn’t spare a second thought to it, not when she notices how much he makes you laugh and how he can’t keep his eyes off of you in any room you occupy.

This could be your first Christmas together, your parents begging for one sweet photo of you under the mistletoe, before you both head off to spend the rest of the holiday season with Javi’s father.

But it isn’t, and you’re not.

“C’mon, it’s bad luck not to!” Back in the present, in reality, your dad’s found his way over to your mother’s side. “Peña, just kiss the girl on the cheek for Christ sake, I ain’t gonna bite your head off for it this one time!”

His lips brush your cheek like an autumn breeze.

Gentle, a hint of warmth, a tickle from the wisps of his well-groomed moustache.

“Get a bit closer, you’re not fully in frame!”

The flash goes off on your mother’s camera, and the two give a little cheer, and Javi wraps an arm around your back, squeezing you a little closer.

When all is said and done, your mother’s forcing you both to stare at the camera screen, a perfect picture of the most doomed couple to ever grace this Earth.

Such dramatics in your thoughts reminds you of the copious glasses of prosecco you’d downed throughout the night, and of your intentions to get yourself home before you done something stupid.

Like stand under the mistletoe with your former casual lover, the very same man your father calls for golf matches and March Madness debriefs.

Javi offers you a ride home, an idea your father approves of.

“I’m heading that way anyway, gotta pick up a few things before I drive out to the ranch.”

A part of you thinks he’s lying, wanting any excuse for a moment alone with you, but then that’s the kind of delusions you shouldn’t be feeding into.

You and Javi don’t spend time alone anymore.

You and Javi do not exist together anymore.

Maybe you never did.

“It’s okay, I already called a cab.”

You part ways at the door, your father watching you from inside.

Javi calls your name, before you can take more than a few steps.

For a second, he just looks at you.

Then his arms are pulling you in, and he’s got you right against his steady chest, and he’s resting his head atop your own, arms squeezing tightly at your sides.

“Get home safe.”

He walks away before you can tell him to do the same, the door slamming to his car the last thing you hear as you pull out your phone and call a cab.

It takes twenty minutes for it to appear, in which the rain starts and your clothes get soaked, but all that and the fifteen dollar fare are a cheaper price to pay than the torture of letting Javier Peña drive you home.

Crawl up the stairs, unlock the apartment door, drop your clothes onto the floor.

You find sanctuary under the shower, soap suds and boiling water, a dynamic duo that scrub off any remnants of his skin against yours.

Even as you step out, fully cleaned and towel wrapped around yourself, you catch a hint of his cologne, the very same one you’d made sure your dad picked out for him.

And as you pick your coat off the ground, a distant voice that sounds much like your mother scolding you for leaving such a mess, you notice it.

First, just a little extra weight.

Then, scratchy paper as your hand dives into the left pocket.

The wrapping is haphazard, with an uneven bow tied atop it, but that’s not what matters.

You tear away at it, let the paper fall to the floor at your feet.

Then you’re met with a small box, which you tear open too. 

And find it sitting neatly among balls of yarn, the prettiest, most delicate looking glass bauble.

It’s ribbon a deep green, and it’s centre an image of mountain slopes, backed by a green forest and a valley full of wooden lodges.

It shakes in your grasp, and you spy the snowglobe-esque white foam that dances around within it.

In it’s centre, in bold, italic and green, Vermont.

One more glance in the box.

There’s a note, tucked at the bottom.

You fish it out in one breath, hold it up to read what it says.

Corazón, For your tree. I hope there’s still space.

[mrsrookhunt]

Scent Headcannons for whoever I want across Fandoms because I'm insane and exhausted, thank you for your time

Characters: Azul Ashengrotto, Rook Hunt, Chuuya Nakahara, Howard Phillips Lovecraft, Nikolai Gogol, Sebek Zigvolt, Trey Clover, Jouno Saigiku

Warnings: this is absolute trash slathered onto a page written by someone who got 1 hour of sleep last night. My condolences to you.

Azul Ashengrotto

He smells like the fancy cologne with those terrible labels in French so no one actually knows the scent, they just recognize the word 'musk' and think it's absolutely manly-- whenever he's running the Lounge. When he's alone?

Smells like bananas, it's the gentle scent of his shampoo; it might not be prominent, but if you were to lie down in bed with him and cuddle, you would certainly get a whiff of the flax, chiaseed, and banana shampoo worked into his soft tresses.

Rook Hunt

I'm almost 100% sure there's a vignette where he's mentioned using a cologne Vil made for him, but honestly I'm not sure what's a fever dream and what isn't these days, so he may smell like musk and some sort of flowery scent, or he may smell like cedarwood and patchouli, thanks to his heavily scented deodorant.

He loves anything heavily scented, it gives him a sense of distinct presence and gives you a headache. When he's hunting, however, he uses unscented products, so you may be able to escape the cloud of heady aroma occasionally by accompanying him on a hunting trip.

Chuuya Nakahara

Another cologne user SHOCKING!

Chuuya's cologne is milder than you might think. He doesn't need a strong aroma predicting his presence, and he doesn't like it either. His cologne is light and scented with sandalwood and cherry.

It's just enough to smell on him when you come within two feet of him, but nothing even remotely overpowering.

Probably the most modest cologne user in this list. The rest of them absolutely bathe in them like it's the middle school boy's locker room with axe body spray.

Howard Phillips Lovecraft

He smells like ozone. You might know it as the scent of being outside too long, but it is stuck to him. The general scent of the outdoors fluctuates on him.

He smells like salt water, particularly when you go in for awkward hugs, and his hair is coarse and knotted with sand and sea. He always smells like the ocean to some degree. You could drag him through a shower and wash and untangle that matted hair of his, and throw the most aromatic stuff possible on him and he still would come out smelling like seasalt and ozone.

It's never coming off of him. I hope you enjoy the sea.

G o o d l u c k

Bonus, the first time you tried to wash his hair out a nest of crabs crawled out and he wasn't even shocked.

Nikolai Gogol

He smells like cookies. You may be thinking, why would he smell like cookies? Well, how do you think the DOA lured Sigma in?

It's his deodorant. It's highly strong. After one night of using it, he awoke to his entire bedding smelling strongly of warm cookies. I am definitely not describing the deodorant I use and speaking from experience cough coUGH

I hope you've got a strong stomach, because you will crave sweets every time you get a whiff, or, conversely you will think of Nikolai everytime you smell cookies.

Sebek Zigvolt

Drowning himself nightly in whatever scent Malleus once mentioned was most pleasing to his senses 3 years ago. Probably eucalyptus and Anjou pear.

It is, luckily, a pleasing scent, even if it's so adept at assaulting your senses can smell him coming farther than his voice reaches. He's killing your ears and nose at the same time. The two birds didn't even require one stone, they dropped dead when he got too close.

Conversely, at home, he uses a light, citrus scented bodywash that leaves a pleasing glow on his skin and a comfortable smell clinging to him. He had to stop bathing in the pear scent after clients at his family's dental clinic vomited when he entered the room.

Trey Clover

Another false alarm for bakers everywhere, believing their pastries grew legs and walked out the door. Smells like cinnamon rolls at absolutely all times.

It's very, very pleasant and most people adore the soft scent that eminates from him when he gets close.

It's the result of ordering a perfume on accident, after believing he was ordering a charcoal and birch scented cologne. It smelled good enough that he was willing to overlook the fact that it was for young girls.

Jouno Saigiku

HE SMELLS SO GOODDDD

Turmeric and sage bodywash + flaxseed shampoo.

It's subtle, so you'll only be lucky enough to be graced with the scent if he lets you get close into his personal bubble, which can either be rare, or he could be extremely enthusiastic about keeping close contact with you at all times. It depends on who you are to him.

When he's going to an event or to receive some sort of award, he puts on a splash of pine-scented cologne. It's very classic, but he claims it fits him well.

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June 20th, 2023

-Kaori

[goomens]

I've had an idea but I won't get around to writing it think.. I imagine Crowley being drunk on wine, taking to Nina after *the event* and just word vomiting, telling her everything about who he is. And then Nina ist like "so when you said 'angel' you actually meant..." maybe you can do something with that? 😂

such a cute idea!!! fic under the cut <3

It’s nine in the morning and Nina is jolted from her sleepy reverie by the violent tinkle of the front door bell; a figure in black slithering into a nearby seat and thunking his head down onto the table. Crowley, she thinks, watching him carefully from behind the counter. Without Mr. Fell in tow, tense around the shoulders, and creating quite a sad display, she feels a pang of something like pity inside her chest.

“Gretel,” Nina calls quietly to one of her newer baristas after a moment of consideration, “Take over for a bit, please?” And she makes her way over to Crowley, not bothering to say hello as she pulls out the other chair and sits down in it. He doesn’t lift his head. By all means, he seems lifeless. Completely still. Eerie, like he isn’t breathing. Her heart stutters in fear for a second, thinking he’s just up and died in her coffee shop, but—

“Oh, calm down.” Crowley retracts his forehead from the cold plastic table with a grunt and glares at Nina—she thinks, at least—through the impenetrable black lenses of his sunglasses. “I would like a mug of coffee with four measures of vodka, please and thank you.”

“It’s not even half nine yet, you know,” She scolds him, not really meaning it, but not willing to serve him alcohol so early either. He’s a bit of an odd fella (or, whatever) but Nina draws the line at serving a customer four units before noon. “No boozy breakfasts here. You’ll have to wait ‘til later—on Saturdays we have a boozy brunch. There’ll be cocktails.”

Crowley doesn’t speak for a moment. Then, “Pity.” He sighs. Snaps his fingers for some reason. He reaches into his blazer, pulling out an entire litre bottle of ABSOLUT and uncapping it. Nina opens her mouth, ready to tell him off, but he holds a finger up and guzzles down half of it before she can get the words out. When he sets the bottle down, she raises a questioning eyebrow.

“Thirsty?”

He ignores her, choosing to scowl instead, and looks off out the window of the shop looking a bit lost. “Your advice was shit. You and that—that vinyl seller. Thought you should know. Don’t go trying to influence anyone else’s ‘love’ lives, eh?” His words are full of forced humour, but his voice shatters a bit at the end, and suddenly Nina feels like some kind of villain. She looks at Crowley and sees someone in mourning. He’s grieving. He’s heartbroken.

“Fuck,” She says with feeling, and motions for Gretel to bring over two mugs.

Hours later—in the midst of Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death’s boozy brunch—Crowley is drunkenly taking Nina step-by-step through his and Aziraphale’s extremely long history. They go back much, much further than she ever thought. Than she ever thought possible, actually. It’s all quite strange. And sweet, and sad, the way he talks about Aziraphale. “He’s so smart,” He says. “He’s good. He’s lovely. He’s the one I love. He’s only gone and returned to Heaven and left me on my own.” He also says, “I’m a Demon, I know I don’t deserve him,” and “He’s an Angel, he doesn’t want me. He could never want me.” And Nina is suddenly putting the pieces together, making sense of it all, her stomach—full of the buttered bagel she’d had for breakfast, half a bottle of vodka, and not much else—turns and swoops, threatening to expel its contents.

Crowley watches her then bursts into a startling laugh. It’s low and surprised. “There’s no way—no way—you’re just now realising what I am. What he is.” She just blinks and stares, and his laugh dies down but the lines of amusement remain etched on his face. “Oh, brilliant. You humans are brilliant. So bloody obtuse.”

“Oi!” She protests, reaching out to push at his shoulder. But she misses on account of being a bit more tipsy than she thought, and he laughs at her again. “I am not obtuse! ‘M quite clever, actually.”

There’s a smile on his—the Demon’s—face now, which is nice, much better than the frown he sported earlier, but when he gestures to his face and grins fiendeshly, she only stares confused for a second before realising that, ah, maybe she is a bit obtuse. His eyes are bright and a little bit playful, without the sunglasses. Big and yellow and snake-like, and oh, that’s what the Eden story had been about. It hadn’t been a metaphor or a weird figure of speech, but the truth. She’d been so busy listening to him she hadn’t noticed the moment he’d pocketed his sunglasses.

Instead of crippling fear or mortal terror, Nina just laughs and laughs. She orders them both a creamy coffee and some malt biscuits, even at his weak protests, and she lets him tell her all about the planets and the stars, Mesopotamia, the crucifixion, the Seven hills of ancient Rome, the burning of witches in the fifteenth century, the Armageddon-That-Wasn’t…

[tls123]

WHAT is ORV. I'm trying to figure out what you're obsessed with rn

ORV is a story about a reader and about the story that specific reader is obsessed with (of which he is the ONLY reader btw) but it's also a love letter to you the reader (if you do read it) and it's about the life-saving nature of stories in and of themselves and it's also about how innate it is to want to save each other, and how yes, maybe you can do it alone but you don't have to because there are people around you who want to help.

i would say it's about sacrifice and love and saving the world by saving one another and also dooming the world to save a single person and it's about your loved ones' happiness as the ultimate goal and it's about letting people in, reaching back when they reach for you.

it's about knowing that a lot gets lost in translation when talking to other people (especially those you care about) and also about knowing that it's worth it to try anyway.

ORV is about going through life so damn sure that you want to die, that you could just disappear tomorrow and be glad, and then finding out that maybe, actually, what you've wanted the entire time was to live. and it's about the people who love you trying their damn best to keep you alive until you realize that on your own.

and some people say it's a copout to say "[blank] is about love" because it's a vague, all-encompassing comment that doesn't really say anything but believe me when i say that ORV is about love, in any and all forms you can imagine, and not even just between people but for things too—the love you have for anything that might keep you here on this earth for at least one day longer.

unfortunately i am actually not qualified or eloquent enough to really say what ORV is without tripping over myself, but there's this wonderful post by @ot3 that explains everything so beautifully it makes me cry because yeah, yeah ORV really is that perfect. the characters, the meta, the dynamics, the pace, the worldbuilding, the themes!!

ORV is a webnovel (which has already been translated in its entirety). there is also a webtoon out but i have no personal interest in it, though i know a lot of people enjoy it!

here are some links:

info carrd (<- links to everything else are here, including the webtoon and the korean raws)

epub carrd (<- this is the copy i read and am familiar with)

as always, PLEASE READ ORV <3

EDIT: also if you were just curious then i'm sorry for the word vomit, but if you DO start orv, even if you personally don't mind spoilers, i would recommend going in as blind as possible. i was able to read all of it knowing only what's in the summary and every little bit of it blew me away. it doesn't really lose its charm and power if you know things in advance, but still!

[oleanderbailey]

Please only interact/follow if you're 18+.

𖥔 WRITEBLR INTRO!! 𖥔

Hello! My name is Oleander, though I mostly go by Olly.

I've been a Writeblr lurker for a while, but I'm not the most social of people and have a hard time getting into communities. Only now have I plucked up the courage. I've been on Tumblr for years, though... so I'm not really new, I suppose?

--=.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖=--

About me:

☽ - 19 y/o ☽ - he/him ⚧ ☽ - Art student (and cartoonist I guess?) ☽ - Mentally afflicted with The Horrors - I don't talk about it much, but it'll probably be reassuring to know that my type of writing doesn't come from someone who has never seen a day of mental struggle.

--=.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖=--

My writing:

☽ - I mostly write in the psychological thriller and dark comedy genres (I wrote so much fantasy as a tween that I now struggle to go back to it ✌︎︎). ☽ - My full-on WIPs usually have psychology as a primary focus. I like to get deep into my characters' mental states, which is why my projects tend to only have 2-3 persistent characters. I am both a novelist and screenwriter. ☽ - My favourite tropes/topics to write about: grey morality, mental illness, personality disorders, autistic experiences, nuances of gender identity, dysfunctional family relations, romantic relationships with atypical dynamics, living after severe trauma, horror overlapping erotica. ☽ - You're more likely to catch me running for prime minister than you are to catch me writing something set in the present day or the future. ☽ - My current WIP is titled Into The Vortex. You can read a lil bit about it on my blogpage here (only via PC) before I make a proper post for it and, well, everything else...

--=.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖=--

Why am I here???:

☽ - Largely, I'd just like somewhere to word vomit about my writing when I CBA to actually write ☽ - Some mutuals could be nice, perhaps... :)

[loverboy-cc]

Our own starlight

A SFW Modern AU Halsin x Tav/Reader ficlet

“What’s something small you miss? From living in the forest I mean.”

“Starlight. It was one of the first things that really threw me off about this… place. Night is unbearably dark, yet somehow unpleasantly bright at the same time.”

TWs: Family death, grief, spoilers abt Halsins backstory.

Reader is gn and undefined besides working in a greenhouse.

AN: waugh this is just kinda word vomit following me having a really good idea. It’s entirely unedited so if you see any errors no you don’t <3

Also I am fighting for my life trying to find a voice for halsin bear with me please.

Halsin remembers being a kid in the cabin his family lived in. His mother teaching him how to cook alongside his younger siblings.

He too remembers sitting outside with his father, the chill of fall nipping at his face while he was taught how to pick good sticks for firewood; along with the promise that next year he’d be old enough to help split up logs with his father.

He remembers a thick book shared between him and his eldest sister while she taught him Druidic magic, and the terror on his mothers face when he gave himself fuzzy little bear ears (and his sister laughing because couldn’t figure out how to get rid of them.)

He remembers being sick, just a little sick. A stuffy nose and a sore throat he caught from falling into the stream in late November when the frost set into snow.

He remembers burying them all that spring.

He didn’t want to, but he knew that disease clings to corpses long after the flesh chilled. He thanked Silvanus that the illness came in December and not one of the warm months that would’ve forced him to bury them immediately lest he meet the same fate.

He remembers the following winter being warmer than usual, but little else of the year.

Halsin knows now that he had gotten lucky, unbelievably so. The gentle winter allowed him to live despite being unwilling to split his own firewood, it allowed him one year to prepare himself before he was truly forced to acknowledge the finality of it all.

He remembers finding his balance the following year. Their garden took quite of bit of work to recover after being abandoned for a year. But he managed it, along with making himself some traps based on some diagrams in an old book and the odds and ends he remembered learning about how to make them more effective from his mother.

“So… why are you here?”

They look up at him, visibly confused.

“Not that I don’t like talking to you- but it seems like you were managing fine past the first year.”

“The expansion of the city drove the animals away. Then men in suits appeared at my door asking for documents I didn’t have. Proof of ownership and deeds to the land our cabin was on. They threatened to arrest me for squatting if I didn’t leave.”

He sips his tea, it was brewed far too hot. Leaving it bitter even with sugar, but it was something he could afford, which seemed few and far between lately.

“I only recently learned what squatting actually is. They’d looked at me like I was a fool for asking”

“That’s… Gods I’m sorry. I can’t even fathom how shit that must’ve felt, I’ve always lived in the city so…”

“It isn’t all awful; being in the city. Living is a much more manageable kind of tiring.”

He was lucky to be as strong as he is, he’d manage to land a job as an unskilled labourer. As much as he resented the title he knew it wasn’t a slight, he didn’t have any of the certifications or diplomas required to hold any other station at the greenhouse he worked in. Even if he knew more about many of the plants they grew from his own personal experience working with them.

One thing of many he’d yet to get used to. Your experience doesn’t matter in the city unless you have a piece of paper proving it.

“That’s fair I suppose… I would give damn near anything to be able to be self-sufficient like that… Alas I’m doomed to forever be a slave to capitalism.”

Halsin wants to tell them that they’re not.

He wants to say that if enough people stopped thinking that they don’t have the option to rebel the entire system would fall apart.

He bites his tongue, figuratively and literally. Wincing as the sharp taste of iron settles in his mouth.

Well, it’s not like his tea could’ve gotten much worse.

“What’s something small you miss? From living in the forest I mean.”

“Starlight. It was one of the first things that really threw me off about this place. Night is unbearably dark, yet somehow unpleasantly bright at the same time.”

They nod, and ponder their tea for a beat.

“Do you have any plans tonight?”

“How forward.”

They scoff, but it lacks venom.

“Just answer me you dork.”

“No I do not.”

Their smile widens considerably.

“You do now, assuming you don’t mind coming over to my apartment.”

He nods in agreement, and they beam.

Another thing that’s definitely not awful about living in the city is them. He had met them through the greenhouse they both worked at, and had kept contact after they had quit.

The afternoon passes by as it usually does during their little dates. They would talk about their job and their cats, he would reply in kind. His tea went cold long before he finished it, and he’d thank the barista as he handed their mugs across the counter.

The walk to their apartment was nice. He realized as they spoke about the bus they missed how much he missed not being alone.

It was a long walk, he silently thanked Silvanus.

Their apartment was almost identical to his on the outside. Grey building, black doors, painfully sterile.

The inside however, was not. Almost every flat surface was plastered with posters and prints, the shelves full of knickknacks and candles more so than actual books.

“Okay so, I don’t have a couch obviously because I have a studio apartment but my bed doesn’t have the best view of the thing I want to show you.”

They push some things haphazardly out of the center of the room, before pulling a blanket off their bed and laying it out.

“Gods this is so sketchy I’m so sorry- Lay on this and close your eyes.”

“It’s alright. I trust you.”

The blanket is soft, but thin. The linoleum below digging into his shoulders as he lays down. There’s a soft click and the lights turn off, they settle beside him after a moment.

“Okay. Open your eyes.”

It takes him a second to put together what he’s looking at.

Stars. Painted on the walls and ceiling between the posters and tapestries, glowing in the dark of their apartment.

“It’s obviously not as pretty as real stars but… I dunno I’ve never been far enough out of town to see many real ones so I made my own starlight.

“It’s beautiful.”

He doesn’t need to be able to see them to know they’re smiling.

© cakeboxie •• 2023 •• Please do not translate/repost. reblogs are appreciated and requests are open!

Part of the @eveningatthrmoviesnetwork

~~

Taglist: @yarnnerdally • @starrry-angel • @yuelqnn • @yeonpm • @beardedladyqueen

Wanna be added? Send me an ask off anon and lmk if you want to be on the sfw only list!

[bittersweetresilience]

WAIT FUCK SHIT just realized that you actually commented on my fic oh my god. oh my god

i'm having a complete fangirl moment rn AAAAAÀAAAAAAAAA you're a literal legend i can't believe you read that word vomit but also i am over the moon.....senpai noticed me fr 😭

i adore the way you write. i don't even know how to describe it but it's in the emotions, how palpable and visceral they feel....just wow i'm absolutely in awe of the way your prose flows. it's so witty and beautiful and i can only hope to write like you one day

your writing genuinely has me choked up rn i feel crazy.....also as a fellow lore nerd it made me feel so seen that you noticed all those little renjing details :D god i love your jing yuan's inner voice he's so fucking old and tired and burdened by the weight of all his responsibilities yet the yearning hasn't waned one bit.....it comes across in all his interactions with other people....(the conversation w yukong killed me) he is never moving on, is he?

the letters to yingxing wrecked me each time. so painful but so artfully done. to be honest, i have always struggled a lot with writing jy and striking the correct balance between the wise, experienced general of the hunt that he is vs the sopping wet mess he becomes when it comes to Emotions and his friends and yingxing/blade. you captured that perfectly and i already know that i will be thinking about this fic for a long, long time

i am really sorry for this long ass ask 😔 i wanted to leave you a comment on ao3 but it is currently 7 in the morning and clearly i am barely coherent...i want to reread your fic and then try to gather all my thoughts for a proper comment but for now just know that you've saved my life with this fic

weirdly enough, i don't peruse the jrj tags much on ao3 which i now realize is quite stupid of me. this is the first time i've read one of your fics and i'm so glad that i stumbled upon it. for some reason i really missed blade and jy today and this fic truly made everything better (even tho i had tears in my eyes) uni is beating my ass rn but i'll def make time to read all of your fics now ty for your incredible service <3

SORRY FOR THE MINDLESS RAMBLE ;_;

AHKLBJADKFJALFDA DID I COMMENT ON YOUR FIC????????????? ANON WHO ARE YOU... WELL I KNOW YOUR TUMBLR USERNAME NOW BUT WHO ARE YOU ON AO3... could it be the incredible and lovely dustedpink who i met during renjing week...

I'M AJAKJDJKFKDHGHJD NO NO I'M BLUSHING SO HARD AND I AM SO HAPPY YOU'RE HAPPY BUT ALSO I'M NOT ANYONE SPECIAL I'M JUST A LITTLE GUY!!!!!!!!!!!! a little guy on the internet who really likes renjing 😳 and your fic, if i am thinking of the right fic, was absolutely wonderful and thoughtful and funny too 🥺 i don't normally read jingren things but i wanted to get to everyone participating in the week and now i'm even more glad that i did!!!!!!!!! i'm giving you flowers... 💐💐💐💐💐💐

i'm screaming about how sweet you are about my writing AAAAAAAAAAAAA... i'm SO SO glad you enjoyed it and YOU!!!!!!!! YOU ALREADY WRITE BEAUTIFULLY!!!!!!!!!!!! AND LORE YESSSSSS omg i love gnawing on tiny pieces of canon i will do that forever it's so fulfilling

JING YUAN IS SO TIRED 😭😭😭 HE REALLY IS 😭😭😭😭 his conversation with yukong is one of my favorites next to the one with fu xuan so I'M SO GLAD YOU LIKED IT...

"the wise, experienced general of the hunt that he is vs the sopping wet mess he becomes when it comes to Emotions and his friends and yingxing/blade" JLAKJMFKLAKLFAKLDFJKDJFHJDFhdS no no you're so right about this 🤣🤣🤣 HE CONTAINS MULTITUDES. and we love to see it...

🥺🥺🥺 I'M SO HONORED TO RECEIVE SUCH A THOUGHTFUL ASK PLEASE DON'T EVER APOLOGIZE FOR THIS!!!!!!!!!! AND ALSO!!!!!!!!! OMG PLEASE GET SOME SLEEP!!!!!!!!!! i cannot judge you for i have also stayed up forever in the name of renjing but I AM TUCKING YOU INTO BED AND WRAPPING YOU IN WARM BLANKETS

i'm giving you a big big hug and i hope everything is a little softer and sweeter for you tomorrow and there's!!!!!!!!! never any rush to do anything!!!!!!!!! anxiety and ennui about writing have been beating MY ass the past few weeks but i'm 😭😭😭 WAAAAH I'M HOLDING YOUR KIND WORDS SO GENTLY...

thank YOU for being so kind and NO APOLOGIZING!!!!!!!!! BECAUSE!!!!!!!!! MY ANSWER IS EVEN LONGER AND MORE MINDLESS!!!!!!!!!!! HAHAHAHAJKFSJKFKSDF GIVING YOU ANOTHER HUG BECAUSE I'M SNEAKY 🫂💓❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛❤️

[zankagi]

hey!! i've been thinking about a specific kyman scenario that i wanted to share here. i lowkey suck at speaking english so sorry if there are terrible grammar mistakes teehe. also, it's not really organized because i literally thought of this at 3 am last night, this is just me vomiting words.

⚠️ WARNING ⚠️: it has a little of nsfw. nothing explicit really because it isn't even important, but if you're uncomfortable with please be mindful of that. also, if you don't like or hate kyman, please don't read. just scroll past this.

ok so !! a highschool au where the boys are in the last year of highschool, and they start thinking about college and their adult lives. it's cartman's last year in south park bc he already decided to move out to another place (far away, i don't really know abt us states but you go imagine some place far from colorado). he applied to a prestigious college and he actually got accepted, so it's a huge opportunity for him. although there is another reason for him to leave south park apart from the fact that he doesn't like the town; and that is kyle. he's been in love with him for years now and he knows kyle would never like him back, so he wants to leave all his feelings behind and have a fresh start. he wants to forget kyle, or at least all the years he spent yearning for him.

the guys know, not about his massive crush on kyle of course, but about him moving out. at fist kyle thought that he would finally be free from cartman for good, and he didn't even have to do anything at all! but, the more the year progresses, the nature of their relationship changes. maybe it's because eric wants kyle to at least have a few good memories of him before he leaves, or maybe it's because deep down kyle can't imagine what his life without cartman would be. he isn't accustomed to not have cartman around, and he doesn't know what future holds for him (i imagine kyle would go to a college near south park, let's say it exists because i need it for the plot), so he's actually a little scared to lose his friends... even cartman. whatever the reason is, they start to grow closer. they start going out more (as friends, of course), they hang at each other's houses, they start laughing a lot more, and even though they can't stop fighting for absolutely everything, they find they start enjoying the fighting too (more like kyle finds out, eric has always enjoyed them in his own way).

kyle knew there was good in eric after all. he had lost hope at some point on trying to fix him, but he found that they could actually get along and they had a lot more in common than he realized. he remembered that there were some rare occasions in his childhood when cartman wasn't antagonizing him and they were actually on the same team. he remembered how fun it was back then, and he actually missed it. it was really fun. though weird, eric understood him in a way that kenny and even stan couldn't. it really was weird, but he was sure it was the same for eric too.

at some point in the year, this change in their relationship got kyle doing a lot of thinking. some random night, after a day spent laughing, arguing and playing videogames with eric, kyle came to the conclusion that he actually liked eric. he freaked out and was weird for a week or so, being especially weird with cartman. after a lot more of thinking, he got his head around the idea that he liked cartman, and wasn't as freaked out and weird anymore. he realized that this wasn't really news to him, he'd been obsessed with eric since they were kids, always trying to make him change for the better or trying to stop his schemes when he didn't really had to. he just never though much about it because it was "the right thing to do", but it all made so much more sense now. he wasn't telling anybody, though. not even stan. never.

so, the year goes by and he doesn't say a word and never acts on it. it would be stupid since eric's moving out in a week so whatever. the four boys decide to spend that last week together in a sort of farewell to eric. they have a really good time together laughing, having sleepovers and doing dumb and dangerous things together like when they were kids. everything is like the old times and there are no worries, no pressure, no uncertainty, no anxiety... just them being kids all over again.

the night before eric's trip arrives. he's leaving early in the morning and kenny, stan and kyle had already said their goodbyes to him. kyle is having dinner, but he can't stop thinking about eric leaving. he's leaving for who-knows how long to a really far distance from colorado... and, hell, he'd probably not come back anymore because, who would want to come back to fucking south park? the little, boring and stupid town that caused trouble to anyone living there? eric would probably start a new life, meet new people, far from anyone he knew before, he'll probably fall in love with someone else and make a good life away from everything and everyone. all of it while kyle is still in colorado and being miserable, probably.

that's when kyle can't take it anymore and when his family is asleep, he sneaks out from his house and goes to eric's. he climbs up to his window (just like eric did a lot of times when they were younger, entering to kyle's bedroom unannounced) and knocks lightly. eric was already in bed and was really confused when he saw kyle outside but opened the window for him anyway and helped him into his bedroom. they sit in eric's bed and the brunette looks at kyle for a few seconds before speaking.

"what are you doing here?" he asks.

kyle doesn't answer immediately, but looks around the room that was only illuminated by the rays of the moon entering from the same window kyle climbed. he sees eric's suitcase and various boxes with almost every decoration of the room inside them. he notices how the bedroom he knew for practically all his life and that was witness of so much memories was now cold, lifeless and felt strange and unknown. he feels his stomach sink uncomfortably and it's all he needs to muster up the courage to look eric in the eye and say "i wanted to see you." with the most sincere expression in his face.

eric tries (and fails) to suppress the blush that spread through his cheeks, and coughs to cover it up.

"you saw me yesterday." he replies, and kyle rolls his eyes. he doesn't appreciate being questioned because he feels exposed.

"yes, but you leave tomorrow morning and i don't know if i will be awake to see you go."

eric shrugs it off and they start chatting, laying on his bed, looking at the ceiling. they talk about everything, but mostly about memories together. they laugh together at some of them, and fight about other ones because they really can't stop arguing and antagonizing each other. the only difference is that now fighting seems more fun and friendly than before, and they both enjoy teasing the other and rile each other up. at some point they stop talking and enjoy the silence for a little bit and maybe it's the fact that it's kind of late and he's nostalgic, but kyle breaks the comfortable silence, whispering;

"even though i hate you with all my heart.." that was a lie. this year they grew closer and kyle realized not only that he liked eric, but that he actually never really hated him. "... i'm gonna miss you, man."

eric huffs a laugh. if kyle could be sincere with him, he could too.

"i hate you too." he lies. "but i'll miss you." they fall in silence again, and now is eric's turn to break it, feeling specially sincere that night. "hey," he starts. "remember that time when you moved to san fransisco?" he doesn't wait for an answer before speaking again. "that made me realize that nothing was the same without you... it wasn't as fun as before." he moved his head to look at kyle, who was already looking at him. fuck he thought. he looks beautiful. before embarrassing himself, he continued speaking, looking at kyle. "i can't believe i'm telling you this because i thought i would take this secret to my grave but... i did a plan to bring you back here. with butters, i mean. we did a plan to bring you back."

"really?" he asked, his green eyes gleaming.

eric explained him everything they (he) did and didn't miss any crazy detail. he told him everything they went through just to bring him back, and added that trying to replace him with butters ended up being more boring than originally planned. soon, he had kyle laughing at the anecdote. he couldn't believe eric did that for him, the ridiculousness of the situation and the fact that eric tried to replace him with butters of all people. and okay, fuck, kyle was beautiful laughing like that, eric couldn't hide his own smile.

kyle stops laughing and looks at eric, smiling at him. every coherent thought left his brain instantly, so he simply exhales and closes the distance between them, giving eric a short peck on the lips.

he immediately flinches and almost falls out of the bed with how quick he distanced himself. he blushes and starts frantically apologizing to eric, saying that it was an accident, that it was inappropriate and blah blah blah.

"shut up." says eric, grabbing kyle's cheeks with one hand, managing to make the ginger stop taking. he copies kyle's action, and gives him another chaste and short kiss. he stops squeezing kyle's cheeks and they separate again. they lock eyes for a few seconds before leaning in again and now kissing properly.

they make out for a while, one thing leading to another and well... they are boy. hormonal boys. i don't imagine that they fuck, i think they just masturbate together or maybe give the other a bj but you know what? i'll leave it up to you. you can even pretend this didn't happen. when they finish cleaning up (lazily, because eric doesn't want to be apart from kyle) they fall asleep together.

a few hours after, lianne knocks on eric's door and tells him that breakfast is ready. kyle and eric wake up and eric tells lianne that he would be downstairs in a minute. they look at each other in silence for a few minutes, kyle looking pensive and eric too sleepy to say anything.

that's when kyle has an idea, and he starts stripping eric off his shirt. eric starts panicking and tries to keep his shirt on. "wait, kahl." he says. "last night was great but i really need to go now."

kyle rolls his eyes and shuts him up with a kiss. one kiss becomes two, and three and four. kyle presses their foreheads together, eric looking confused but willing.

"i'm not going to do anything, dumbass." he explains, putting some distance between them. "i just want to keep your shirt."

"no." eric declines. "no way, this is one of my favorite shirts."

"i know." kyle replies, matter-of-factly. "that's the point. i will keep your favorite shirt so you have a reason to come back."

eric smiles at him, and concedes. "don't get too comfortable with it jew." he says, tossing the shirt at him, and searching in his suitcase for another shirt. "i will come back to get it."

they share a last kiss before lianne yells from the kitchen that the breakfast was getting cold. eric helps kyle get out from the same window and watches him go back to his house.

a few minutes later, eric and lianne are carrying the boxes and the suitcase in lianne's car. kyle couldn't go back to sleep, so he's watching them from his own bedroom. he watches as they get inside the car and how lianne starts driving, the car becoming smaller in the distance. he looks down at the shirt in his hands and clutches it. he wanted to put it on, but it had eric's smell on it and he didn't want it to disappear so soon. that shirt represented the promise that, some day, eric and kyle would see each other again.

AND THAT'S ALL!!!! well not all all. in my original idea they see each other again but many years later. eric comes back to south park and kyle has the old shirt forgotten in the back of his closet. he has a girlfriend now and they've been going out for a few years now. after eric left, stan kenny and kyle's friendship wasn't the same, they stopped seeing each other frequently and became good acquittanances (i hate that word) but do not fear because when eric comes back they start rebuilding their broship. the only thing that doesn't go back to normal is that now kyle has to fight his demons (bisexuality) and realize all over again that he's still in love with eric. he has a whole conflict with himself because he made a life without eric and now he has feelings for him again but he feels abandoned !! and also he is in a long-term relationship and he's happy !! but he hasn't talked to eric in years (let's say he changed his number or stopped reaching out at some point or whatever) and even if they spent YEARS apart, kyle had always had eric present in the back of his mind in some way or another (in the form of a shirt that has been forgotten) and now eric is back and his whole world and everything he constructed without him is upside down !!! but don't worry they figure it out and they end up together. this is not the official ending because this might as well end when eric leaves and have an open ending or it can end with eric not leaving, or him coming back as soon as possible, there's so many options... i'll leave it up to you, i like a little bit of drama and angst so i thought really quick about that last part that's why it is not as developed as the rest of the idea but !!!! who knows who knows everything is possible.

i just wanted to share my thoughts here because it's been DAYS and i can't get them off my head, it has been a while since i had kyman brainrot and now it came back at full force. blame the not suitable for children special for that (ik it didn't have kyman but it had eric and i love that little bastard so it all started with the eric cartman worms for brain and now here we are)

ANYWAYS I'M RAMBLING SORRY I LOVE TALKING hope you liked this any suggestions thoughts and or comments you may have are totally welcome !! have a nice day / night depending on when you are reading this hehe 🫶🫶

[ohdudedhesflirting]

I love you so I let you go, final part.

Part 1. Part 2.

Pairing: Seok matthew x f!reader

Warnings: Therapy, YN is going through a depression (not diagnosticed), vomitting, mention of bullying, anorexia

Tag : @seok02, I hope you will like it Nina, this is the end <3

Genre: University au, Matthew fell first, friends to sweethearts, angst, break-up.

Synopsis: Y/n and Matthew were in a relationship. Y/N get some needed help, before finally meeting Matthew again.

Notes : This is the final part, I hope you will like it <3 English is my second language. Please if anyone is huring you, if you are knowind difficulties, please tell someone, do not stay alone.

Words : 2667

... Under the cut...

A smile barging on your lips, you where looking outside the windows seeing your boyfriend, Seok Matthew, happily passing by with some of his friends.

You still had difficulties to believe that Matthew had chosen you. On your side Matthew had alwyas been the evident choice, he was the perfect man and the most kindest person to ever exist to you.

Excitedly you were working over an assignement which had been assigned to you in one of your classes. You just wanted the time to go by faster and meet with your boyfriend. You had a date later that day at his place and you could not wait one minute even more.

A loud scrape on the floor got you out of your thoughts. Looking at what made the sound you were met with one of the girl from your class. Miranda. She was not the meanest but not the kindest either. Just the type you had to say hello to when passing by in the hall, but not the type one would willingly have a drink with.

« How are you doing Y/N ? »

Startled by her question you replied « good thank you, I trust you are as well »

« Actually I am not »

Questionning her with your eyes you wondered what the sudden urge of honesty came for. You were not especially close and she had lots of friends why would she suddenly rant to you ?

« I dont understand how a girl like you bagged a guy like Matthew.. I really dont get it. »

Your smile that already had gotten smaller got even more smaller, just completely dissapearing from your face. You though all those insults and remarks had gotten away, it had been a while since anyone said something clearly to your face and you did not miss it.

You knew what those remarks were doing to you. You were just spiralling into your own insecurity and sadness every time.

« Look at you. Ugly litlle girl, just fat and no muscles. Nothing particular about you, just a boring plain gril »

Saying so she took your brown hair between her long fingers. With your eyes you followed her do so. You knew that this was only going to be the beginning and wanting to preserve yourself you started to pack your stuff to leave. You did not need to hear any more words, you had heard enough.

"Wake up Y/N, Matthew is just doing charity work you know ? One day he is gonna ditch you and then what ? You are nothing"

Droping your pencil case on the floor, you slowly bend down to take it back before she pushed it over with her shoe and left. Slowly going up again, you left a sigh leave your lips. When was this going to stop ?

--

Hearing your alarm you kept on hitting the button to turn it off.

You just had passed the worst week of your life. The absoulte worst.

After your breakup with Matthew you still pushed yourself to go to class and follow everything. As a scholarship student you couldn’t be absent to class but the effort it was asking you was terrible.

You felt as if every eye was on you, and it was as if they knew about you and Matthew.. The insults and whispered remarks had not died down. Not wanting to eat alone at the cafeteria you had just skipped lunch the whole week week. Its not as if your stomach could handle any food, any time you tried to eat something you just puked it out. The only thing you could tolearate was some yogurt.

Finally it was the weekend and you would be able to be alone without forcing yourself to put on a facade. Trying to be brave.

The light coming for your window had been too much and you just closed everything down, leaving in the dark since a week and the though of not seeing the sun was the greatest of all.

Alone in your bed, curdled up in one of Matthew’s sweatshirt you were wondering if you had comitted a mistake.

Matthew was the greatest thing to have ever happened in your life. He was realiable. Kind. You loved the way his whole face lighted up every time he was smiling, the way he reached stuff for you on high shelves. Enguffling yourself even more in his sweatshirt you started to feel the tears coming in once again.

You missed Matthew terribly but it was the best for him. You kept repeating this to yourself over and over again. Every time he was sending you a message, you did not even dare to open it. Every time he called you, you just turned your face over to not see his contact picture.

You had to do it. All those people were right, you were stopping Matthew from growing, he derserved to be happy and free.

Yes it was the best choice.

And as you kept repeating over and over the sentence in your head your tears just kept on falling down as waterfalls.

A loud knock on your door, stopped you in your cries. Eventually you though that the person would leave but a second knock was heard on your door, before a third. You refused to move, your body could not move anyway.

That person will just leave, thats what you kept thinking.

Not until the key was put inside the lock and unlocking it, letting a person come into your place. You had not even noticed just sobbing on your bed, hidden fully under your covers.

Footstep were resonating in your appartement, before a hand finally placed itself on the doorknob of your bedroom. An impressive silhouette letting himself in and putting down the food he brought on the side.

The hand solwly pulled up a part of the cover, unveiling you, curdled up crying wearing one of Matthew’s sweatshirt, holding another in your hand.

« Seriously YN what the hell »

Lifting up your gaze you where left with Han Bin’s gaze. The older man was just looking at you in disbelief. Or at least the shadow of you,

« Hanbin ? What are you.. ?»

« You and Matthew are exactly in the same state.. Scoot over »  

Slowling pushing yourself on the side, you left a place for your friend. The man just looked at you in disbelief, with your puffy eyes and red nose. But also at your bedroom covered in tissues.

« This place is gross let me tell you »

Looking at him, you didnt understood what he was doing there and how exactly had he gotten the keys

« Before you ask, no I did not break your door, Matthew gave me the keys »  

« Is Matthew alright ? « 

« He is just like you so a mess basically »

Sighing you could feel yourself feeling even more down, the whole basis of this breakup was to free him so he could be happy away from you.

« YN listen, I know about what people are saying, I heard.. I don’t think Matthew knows, are what they are saying the reason you broke up with Matt ? »

Slowling confirming with your head,Han Bin sighed and pulled his hands up to his face.

« Why are you like this ? They are just jealous, seriously, what you and Matthew have is so important and you are just letting yourself have your relationship ruined by them ? »

« They are right Han Bin, Matthew is missing out on college life because of me, he deserves someone that pull him toward the stars not push him down lower than earth »

« You are not. The bond you have is unique and wholesome. People will always talk, behind your back or in front of you, do not let your relationship be ruined by jealous people YN. »

- -

"Why do what they are saying are so important to you ?"

"Well if it had been only one people I would not have cared that much, but so many people think the same and Matthew.. Well"

Slowly your therapist -that you were now seeing since two months-  encouraged you to talk

"Matthew is great. He is everything you could wish in a person and the though of making him unhappy even for one second destroys me, he deserves to be happy and loved and if by being with me he cannot be as happy as he could be, than I should let him be free"

"Correct me if I am wrong, you never told him about what those people told you right ? And you never asked him if he was unhappy with you ? Don’t you think that here it is your own insecurities that you projected into your relationship with Matthew ?"

Speechless you looked over at your therapist, was it what it was ? Did you truly let your own insecurities eat you up whole, you and your relationship ?

Slowly going back from your therapy session to your place, your mind was wandering off everywhere.

The therapy had not been your idea, but Han Bin and Jiwoong that litteraly kidnapped you one day after your classes to introduce you to this therapist. She was great really but every time you left a consultation with her you felt like your whole life was upside down.

Not really looking where you were walking you heard a voice from a distance. It was Matthew.

You had not saw him since over three months, when you broke up with him at his appartment. He never stopped sending you messages, yes they were less frequent but always send some.

In awe you looked at him. He had gotten more muscular, he had let his hair grown and he could now put it behind his ears. You remembered you always told him that it would suit him well and that you would love to see him one day with long hair. And you were right, he truly was looking good.

Looking at him from a distance, you thought about how much he seemed to have changed. His shirt was letting his biceps show, and you could see he got a new tatto,  he seemed to be doing well. His skin was shinig and he seemed to be getting enough sleep. You were relieved to see him this way, happy, healthy. You were suffering but at least seeing him happy was making up for it.

Finally you saw he was accompagnied, you recognized one of the two people walking by his side. The first one was a man named Keita, he was a bit shorter than you and obviously Matthew, you had talked to him a few times and he was really funny and sweet to talk to. A smile escaped your lips happy to see Matthew kept such a good friendship.

And then you saw her, Miranda, laughing with Matthew. Putting her hand on his biceps, curling up her hair. A feeling of knife went into your stomach and suddenly you once again wanted to puke. Running to the closet alley you vomitted everything you had ate. It had been a little while since it did not happen and you did not miss it at all.

A tissue approached your lips and you slowly took it from the hand of the person that was giving it to you.

Meeting with big brown eyes, you saw Matthew.

The man was scrutinzing you with his eyes. You had lost weight, gotten an haircut, you had pack under youe eyes, you looked globally exhausted.

"Are you alright ?"

You slowly confrmed it with your head not able to let any sound escape your lips. You could not belive he was in front of you, hearing his voice again, seeing his sparkling eyes once again, everything felt too good to be real.

Seeing Miranda and Keita slowly approaching you excused yourself before Matthew even had a chance to understand what was happening.

Seeing you run and leave him once agin, he had not even gotten the time to reach for your hand.

« She did not change uh »

Looking over his shoulder, Matthew questionned Miranda with his eyes. He was not especially fond of the girl, he always had found her too nice, too honey like with him and his friends. She was always as the place as he was. Just like today, he was just supposed to meet Keita for a cofee but she somehow was there at the café.

"YN, I can't believe you dated her, I remember how all of us would tell her how shocking it was"

" What ?"

Miranda laughed before pulming her hair behind her ear, Keita on the side was silent. All of Matthew's friend had promised to not say a word about what you had went through, you had asked Han Bin to ask them, and also messaged some of them. Matthew shouldnt and could never know what happened.

"She never told you ? We were always jokingly, of course, telling her how ridiculous itw as you two were together". She paused for a moment before continuing "Well thats what everyone said anyways"

Matthew stepped back for a moment, his mind wandering accross his memories, all the whispers he could sometimes hears, all the time you looked sad, scared in the corridors, all the time you vomitted, all the time you said you were feeling uncomofrtable. Why you never told him you loved him verbally. Everything matched up.

Finally Matthew undertsood why you had left him.

"You bullied her"

Laughing Miranda replied "We played, and see if she didnt told you anything it that it didnt mean anything"

Completely disguted Matthew left her there, followed by Keita, he asked his friend about it and he finally learned the truth. What you had went trough, how you made them promise to not say anything, you had been suffering alone since months and he knew nothing.

Going to your place, Matthew kept banging on your door, for months he had given you space, missing you in silence, but he could not stand it anymore, now that he knew the truth, he wanted to feel you in his arms. The sooner, the better.

Slowly you opened your door for Matthew, seeing your tiny figure, Matthew englobbled you in his arms

« Why didnt you say anyhting ? »

« What ? »

« I just learned, everything or almost everyhtng, why havent you said anything ? »

« I just.. It felt true to me. And well I was scared that if I told you you would leave me, I was gredy and I wanted to keep you  by my side »

Keeping you even closer to his arms, Mattthew brused your hair

« I love you and I won’t let you go, never. Those people they are wrong »

« They were not completely, if I had been secure it would not have happened, it happened because I let them destroy me »

Solwly pulling you aay Matthew took your cheeks between his hands.

« Listen to me, I love you and I deserve you, you deserve me. You are not a burden to me. You never were. Come back to me. »

Slowly breathing in and out, you explained to Matthew that you could not yet, you needed help, you needed to be worth of him, but not away from him this time. You would go back together slowly, just getting back the time you had lost all while seeing your therapist.

Matthew englobbed you in a tight hug and placed a tender kiss on your forehead. He understood, of course he did, but he could not be away from you anymore. You would be getting help and talk about it, but he would be by your side.

Loving each other and always staying at each other side.

[addic-tea-d]

Draco Fic Idea 👀

okay but what if there's a fic about Draco that follows him throughout the books to highlight the little things that show he's really not all that bad and, like Harry, is also a creation of his environment and the people around him. Mrs. Weasley "He's just a boy" vs Narcissa "He's just a boy"

I am basing this on the movies cause I never read the books. also, please excuse my writing, this was all word vomit. I also love a good Drarry fanfic

This is a lot to read, and slight suicidal thoughts/intentions in Year 6?

Year 1/Philosopher's Stone: Draco's so excited to meet the famous Harry Potter and was really excited to be friends but how?? dare Harry?? not take his hand??? So first year is just Draco being jealous and petty and that's where the bullying starts from. Stealing Neville's Rebembrall is just him wanting Harry's attention: if they can't be friends, might as well be enemies. And despite all his trying to act tough, he's truly a scary cat at heart: pure terror on his face when there was a troll in the dungeon, meeting Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest and quickly running away. And honestly, he looked like he was going to cry when Slytherin lost the House Cup.

Year 2/Chamber of Secrets: Daddy Lucius is starting to act weird. Why? Dark forces are at work and he's getting nervous. Draco is always out to make his father proud because that was how he was raised: always looking for praise. He's obviously a curious child: looking around the shop that Harry flooed into but can't really look because "don't touch anything, draco" (Was that a deleted scene? idr). Gotta live up to the Malfoy name. Always spewing Purebloods are better because that's all he knows. "I didn't know you could read" and then looking impressed cause he learned something new from a 'friend' (they don't share much because they're more like followers than friends so he's always open to learn more about them). Still gotta keep up bullying Harry (and his friends) because who knows what Crabbe and Goyle will report back to their parents and then trickle to his father. Also doesn't help that Lucious keeps muttering things about Harry at home. And him injuring his arm at the quidditch game? Refusing to leave the infirmary? He's hoping Lucius will show up and check on him like Harry's friends did. Let's face it, he was obviously spoiled growing up, but his definition of family love is vastly different from the norm.

Year 3/Prisoner of Azkaban: "Potter, is it true you fainted? I mean, you actually fainted?" Definitely hiding his concern for Harry under the guise of making fun of him. And him looking impressed on learning how to open the monster book of monster by petting the spine? Adorable. And that look over Harry, 100% he's checking him out but then had to hide it by saying dementor. Because what if his father hears about that??? Checking out a man?? And he's such a curious student, and not just for potions. Yea, he's a little mean about it, pushing towards the front to watch, but that's the mask he's created over the past few years and it's definitely not easy to lose. Him charging up to Buckbeak? Definitely wanted to one up Harry. I mean, Buckbeak was looking very calm when Harry got off, maybe he thought Buckbeak was calm enough to approach? Or he was just being a teenage boy. But once, again, he's little scardey cat. Got scratched a little and nearly fainted lmao. And I fully believe he didn't need a cast, he just wanted to be fawned over like Harry usually is. And soft-hearted Draco when he pushed Neville aside to get in line for the Riddikulus charm: he looked shocked at how hard he pushed Neville. And he absolutely did not need to put in the effort to fold his note to Harry into a crane. OmG Dracon was absolutely terrified when he and his goons were attacked by Harry at Hogsmeade. OH OH my favorite part is when Hermione has her wand pointed at Draco and you can see his mask completely vanish to show the scared boy underneath it. Everything Draco is and does is a mask.

Year 4/Goblet of Fire: Draco boasting about him and Lucius getting good seats was him trying to get onto Lucius's nice side but that quickly backfired. Lucius has definitely gotten more stern over the years, much harder on Draco, like he actually hit Draco with his cane?? Bruh?? Draco will definitely work harder to try and get on his father's good side this year, doing whatever it takes. Still wants to be connected to Harry in any way but can't get too close because his father is getting weirder about him, so he takes his bullying to a new level. You can't look at me and say Draco climbing into a tree and taunt Harry wasn't because he wanted Harry's attention. That's so much effort not to be anything. And him lowkey telling Harry he thinks more highly of him than his father? Lasting ten minutes instead of five? I'm telling you, he's hiding how much he actually cares about Harry under all the bullying, you gotta read in between the lines. And if Draco was so terribly "oh, I don't want to mingle with halfbloods and muggle borns", he would not have had so much fun at the Yule Ball, he could have just sat out on the side, but NO! He was slow dancing and had a great time with the band. And you can't tell me Draco didn't look sad when Dumbledor was giving his speech about Cedric. Sure, Draco and his friends/goons have been bullying other students, but to hear another student dying? That's completely different.

Year 5/Order of the Phoenix: All thoughts about Draco being just Draco is out the door, he can only be Malfoy. I'm sure Lucius told Draco and Narcissa what actually happened that night with Voldemort's return. Lucius is definitely changing more and much faster, he needs his honor back and to be in Voldemort's good graces again. And upon learning Lucius is a Death Eater, Draco knows there will never, ever, be a chance of him and Harry becoming anything more than enemies. Draco is still a wimpy boy, flinching away when Harry charged at him on the platform despite being 'bold' enough to taunt him. But his curiosity ensues as he takes Divination with Professor Trelawney, an elective class. If this website is correct, that means Draco not only chose Divination as an elective for Year 3, but stuck with it for 2 years and didn't drop it. That, or he wanted to be closer to Harry. I'll take both. And Draco definitely uses 'Harry up to no good' as an excuse to stalk follow him in the open, fueling his Harry obsession. Draco's face when Umbridge slapped Harry? If he truly did hate Harry like he pretends he does, he would look happy at the action but instead he looked oh so bamboozled.

Year 6/Half-Blood Prince: Things had definitely shifted at home. Lucius was thrown into Azkaban, his mother was probably all over the place, there were probably people Death Eaters entering and leaving his house quite a lot. He's terribly on edge, you can tell on the train when the 'smoke bomb' went off: he's the only one standing up and looking around. The comment about Draco throwing himself off the Astronomy Tower if he had to continue at Hogwarts for another two years? He knew something bad was going to happen at school and he didn't want any part in it (with him having to find the vanishing cabinet. He was reluctant to follow after his mother into the shop with the first cabinet, showing he wasn't comfortable with the idea). This book definitely shows the conflicts Draco goes through, wanting to make his parents proud, but also being forced to do things that would kill him if he didn't comply. A little excessive to break Harry's nose, but he did do it because Harry put his father into Azkaban, and he did still look up to Lucius. I can't really say I approve. He was acting completely unlike his usual self during school. Before, he would at least be more animate, perhaps bully other people, but instead, he looked down and kept to himself. When he found the second Vanishing Cabinet, it looked as if he couldn't believe his eyes, as if he had hoped he wouldn't have found it. He didn't want to be a part of Voldemort's plans, but since having found it, he knew he had no choice. "I was chosen for this. Out of all others, me. I won't fail him." Yeah, well, he didn't sound all that proud when he said that to Snape. And even Snape could tell Draco was afraid. Who wouldn't be? And the symbolism between Draco and the feather he was holding?? A feather from a bird who can fly away with their own freedom yet Draco cannot???? I can't *cries*. Let's admit Draco did a shoddy job of trying to assassinate Dumbledore. A cursed necklace? Poisoned Mead? He wasn't even trying, it was like he was looking to get caught.

omg the bathroom deserves its own little paragraph. Obviously Draco is stressed and nearly going crazy due to everything happening in his life. He was nearly having a panic attack, clothes felt too constricting so he took off his sweater vest and starts heaving and crying. Sure, Draco cast the first spell and started the fight, but who's to say he didn't do it out of fear? Thinking perhaps Harry was there to curse him so he attacked first. And who's to say Draco didn't hope he actually died after being hit by the Sectumsempra spell?? Then he would no longer have to continue working on the cabinet or assassinate Dumbledore. And who's to say, after being saved by Snape, he didn't ask "why did you save me, why not just leave me to die?"

The scene of Draco and Dumbledore is pretty self-explanatory. The Malfoy mask is gone and it's just Draco. Draco who was not only dragged into a war, but into evil. He who showed Dumbledore his dark mark but held no pride for it. "I don't want your help. Don't you understand? I have to do this. I have to kill you... or he's going to kill me." This entire scene, just pain. Nothing else. The pain on his face when Bellatrix? blew apart the Great Hall, a place that held memories of his past six years. And the painful realization Harry was there when Snape killed Dumbledore, which means he saw Draco there (who knows how long he was there).

Year 7/Deathly Hallows: would Draco not be depressed here? Lucius is home, but Voldemort and Death Eaters had taken over his home. Voldemort is always talking about Lucius' failures, and Lucius is not taking that very well. Any happy memory Draco had in his own home would be quickly covered with dark new ones, who was murdered where (like the lady in the dining room), and probably also screams from the cells. omg imagine being terrified in your own home where one wrong move could end your life. Always pressured by Lucius to do better so they would be forgiven by Voldemort. Ugh imagine the pressure but he still tried to do good by not revealing Harry. And he didn't try very hard to hold onto the keys to the cells when Harry grabbed them. And when Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle face Harry, Goyle tells Draco "go on Draco, don't be a prat" when Draco doesn't move. Draco doesn't really want to hurt Harry, he just wants his wand back (I think that's what's happening here? idr). We all know how special a wand is to a wizard. Poor Goyle dies in his own fire, even if they weren't all the closest, Goyle was still one of the closest people Draco knew and he never really had time to grieve. Lucky to survive the fire, Draco is definitely going to have a fear of fire after that. And his hesitation to walk over to his parents after Voldemort comes to Hogwarts carrying Harry's body?? He really didn't want to go. He only moved after his mother called for him (haha fu Lucius) and went to his mother's side (FU AGAIN Lucius!). He definitely did not enjoy Voldemort's hug. And my FAVORITE SCENE but is a deleted scene ahhh is when Draco calls out to Harry and throws him his wand. Despite everything, despite knowing he could very well die by doing so, Draco still wants to do the right thing and help take down Voldemort.

He was just a boy who needs lots of love and hugs and much therapy and goddammit now I need to write this.

[thrilling-oneway]

OKAY N25 event is starting tomorrow and it's lasting 12 days but who cares I need to word vomit about event spec instead of doing my homework.

WxS event is Tsukasa no question unless the devs have given up on 2D:3D MV ratio given the updates. I mean daichan basically confirmed it on the stream lol. Anyway Tsukasa has never had a vsinger on one of his unit gachas so that's gonna change probably. I noticed they've been putting out cards for vsingers other than the starters/miku probably to show off the new costumes that didn't get L2D, which leaves us with MEIKO. However, she's been on 2 WxS events this year (one of which was Tsukasa's) so I'm ruling her out and am willing to just settle for KAITO (doubtful about Miku considering the likelihood of her sanrio 4* being soon).

Anyway as for the others definitely not Nene. She's been on all of Tsukasa's gachas so far give her a break please. Staff actually caught all of wxs up on exchange cards now but I'll say 3* for now just because it's been longer since her last one than her last 2*. Now the 3rd 4*. Emu or Rui? On the one hand, Emu has less cards than Rui and less 4*s this year, but on the other hand, she's been one 2 Tsukasa banners already when Rui's only been on 1. But then again, Rui needs a 2*. And I'm tempted to say this could be a wxs boys centric event given the teaser, but then again you have events like BFBY, BFST and woao which have significant characters as a 2* or just not at all. And then again, Emu has a 4* lim coming up, so her getting a gacha card followed closely by a lim is somewhat unlikely (although has been done in the past). And then there's the fact that if Rui gets another 4* he catches Miku. Fuck. OH actually WL lims are gonna make Kanade and Mizuki equal with Miku lol so yeah here we go

Either Tsukasa/Emu/KAITO + Nene 3* Rui 2*

or Tsukasa/Rui/KAITO + Nene 3* Emu 2* (emnn can be swapped in this instance tbh)

mm maybe meiko still works looking back after i finished this post

AND then for mixed event I'm still standing by my initial school festival spec. Probably Nene banner and Kami 2-A lims. Nene's last lim was the vday one 11 months ago, Akito's last lim was his fes about 5 months ago, and An's was the 2.5th lim 8 months ago, so it works. An's been an exchange card recently so 4* for her is fairly likely anyway, plus Nene pretty much guaranteed to be an exchange card on the Tsukasa event. This could be an Akito banner ig but I've tentatively got him down for White Day rn, however he doesn't actually have a mixed event stamp yet, but he could get one even if it was a Nene event anyway. Slap a WxS vsinger (Rin?) reward card and idk maybe a Toya 2* (or Rui if he isn't 2* on the Tsukasa event) and bam.

nene/an/akito + rin 3* toya or rui 2*

N25 has to be the first event next month lol since WL doesn't count as part of the main rotation and saying those a lim cards is fucking stupid they're barely lims. On one hand, it's been a year since the last ena event, but Kanade has less events than everyone else and also Ena sanrio lim. I would've said Ena 4* for Kanade event but we're gonna scrap that and for now i'm tempted to say mafuyu again i know she's been on 2/3 kanade events so far but hey if nene can go 3 for 3 on tsukasa gachas then sure. i would have said mizuki but once again. lots of 4*s already. this gives kanade the most 4*s in the game but who even cares atp not clpl that's for sure.

kanade/mafuyu/kaito + ena 3* mizuki 2* (mzen are swappable)

kanade/mizuki/kaito + mafuyu 3* ena 2*

then maybe a leoni honami event with ichisaki 4*s, shiho 3*, vsinger 2*. also this or n25 is the xmas event. and fuck knows who new year could be. mizuki? n25 hasn't had a NY banner yet. fuck do i know.

[sugar-omi]

honestly all that was sooo what i needed to hear rn bc a girls been STRESSED so thank you <3 😭

i'm gonna major in biotechnology! i went to a votech and that was my trade there and i loved it so i wanna continue studying it. not totally sure what job i want yet so i don't know how much schooling i'll do but yeah! :D

BIOTECH??? THAT SOUNDS SO COOL N SO COMPLICATED please i literally had to google that shit bc idk what it entails but this is some big brain shit, n all i gotta say is good luck n i am cheering you ON!!🎉🫶🫶

although i think you got this in the bag already. anyone with the balls to do something so advanced. is a very smart n strong person. from what im reading on google this is some really cool shit, no matter what direction you go with it. n you have your work cut out for you, but i know you got this!!

so don't doubt yourself!! you got this!!! your brain is huge n you are powerful!!!!

n of course!!! i figured saying something like that would help with anyones anxiety, because really, its the pressure (even if they're not actually pressuring you) and the overwhelm of questions and expectations that make the future so stressfullll

*ramble utc because i... cannot help yapping i guess LOL and while i'd usually be embarrassed and delete my ramble n word vomit, but i figure someone else readding this may appreciate the relatability of what i have to say about my fams reaction to my plan after hs, and find some comfort in my word, if thats not to presumptuous

because i decided to take a gap year (it's been a year since i graduated, for reference), and everyone freaked out. my mom n uncles first reaction was "yeah well, you won't go if you do..." before they came around n agreed with my reasoning. and my dad was all "if i had it my way, you'd go full time--" (mind u, he likes to brag that he worked n went to school full time AND partied.... he did not finish college LMAO) and when i graduated, said to me a MONTH. AFTER MY GRADUATION. "if you're not going to college any time soon, go into the air force."

and when my extended family would ask my plans, and i only had a short "i'm just gonna take a break right now, figure some things out, work... and by then i'll have come to a decision." because i was tossing around the thought of art school, and then i thought abt getting an english degree to be either a teacher or go into writing/editing, journaling or whatever... but was also tossing around the thought of psychology and even real estate. my ideas for my future were absolutely jumbled, and i was torn between what would make money, what i loved, and what i was interested in that i thought could be a career.

it's tough. especially depending on your financial situation yknow, so your thought process always leads towards something profitable but also wanting to do something you enjoy, maybe even love, but not wanting to burn out and tarnish your beloved hobby/hobbies.

like while i did have people who supported me upfront, and never doubted my plan, it's the small things too yknow. because for months my dad's words haunted me, i felt like i wasn't doing enough. or when i met family, and they asked how it was going, or what i was doing now, i felt disappointed that my answer was always "i haven't been doing anything. just been sleeping, drawing, writing..." or eventually that and "practiced driving.. n that's about it."

or when i'd talk to close family members, and i admitted i was going through a hard time, my mental state finally falling on me now that i didn't have to be strong n power through school. i even got sick a couple times, because my body was finally feeling the stress. even now, i feel a mental lag, a fog. but i feel clearer, a bit.

but yknow, the looks and the "you said that last time" or "i think you're lying" is tough.

but at the end of the day, if not working for the summer, or not going to college for a semester, or 2, or 3, or a whole year. or if going part time, or whatever you're doing... and it benefits you, and it benefits your mental health. then do it, don't listen too much, don't feel too guilty.

because if you need it, just like i needed the time to rejuvenate, then don't listen to anyone else. don't force yourself to do anything. because if you have the ability to take a break now, do it. you're not doing this because you're lazy, or selfish, or unambitious. or anything like that. you're taking that break, you're taking this break right now, for future you.

because if you don't take it now, when will you take it? and when you do take a break... will it be at the cost of your health? will it be at the cost of something greater? when the break comes, will it come when you're being handed the gold medal you've been fighting for.. and then it slips out of your hand just like that.

anyway.. do whats best for you. what you need. don't worry about figuring things out too fast either, because in fact, i've been plotting this moment of my life for about 10 years, genuinely, and i still had to revise it. still had to come to a conclusion because even with all that plotting, it doesn't plan for the hard times. or the 'you' you are right now. you will be someone else next week. and you will be someone entirely different 2 months from now.

take your time. because if you jump into something, and are unsatisfied, or "waste" time doing something other than what you "should be doing", the time still passes.

if you "waste time" anyway, waste it on yourself. not others expectations. or wishes. or their dreams.

and once enough time passes as well, no matter what you do by then. the questions do stop coming. the weight of the future, once you get there, is suddenly not so... big. intimidating.

you do not need a grandiose plan. if you are content with the future in your mind, that is enough. because at the end of your life, who will sit in that chair and ponder the life you lived, and weight it's satisfaction, if not you?