#snippet got longer so here it goes

[painterofhorizons]

(post Akuze rehab banter)

The first acute pain flare up James witnessed in Reda completely shifted his perception of where in her recovery process she was, and what side effects clouded the way for her. For him, it was pretty straight forward: wrack ACL, get surgery, let the shit heal, build back mobility and strength, be done. He had let himself be fooled at first to assume the same was true for Reda – having met her during a relatively good episode. But he was quickly brought back down to earth witnessing her state over the past few days.

Now, on the end of day four since the flare up, he finally began to see some light at the end of the tunnel. While Reda was still bed bound, at least she was sitting, she didn’t need sensory depriving aids anymore, and pain management seemed to be working. She was even up for some light conversation, or at least endured him talking bullshit to keep her entertained. She’d even signed a few words.

All the things he’d taken for granted with her just days ago – sitting, walking, talking, excercising. Until that house of cards had collapsed, because things just weren’t that simple.

James insisted on keeping her company during his time off, spending the free time in between treatment by her bed, even though she’d told him he didn’t need to waste his time like this. He’d swallowed the impulse to argue with her about that and just reassured her it was fine for him. Because it was, and it felt like the most valuable thing he could do with his free time at this very moment.

And he didn’t intend to leave just now.

When the door swooshed open and nurse Kalyani entered the room carrying a small tray of jelly, James sat up a little more upright, trying to get himself into a posture that was slightly more impressive, a little more manly, and put up his best flirty face. He’d seen the disgusted microexpression on Reda’s face knowing what was to come, and he was eager to brighten the mood by hook or by crook.

He gestured towards the tray.

“Hey, any chance I can get one of those?”

Reda frowned at his words, but her eyes were rivet to the object of her hatred sitting on the table board in front of her. Jelly time was a nightmare. Eating, in general, was. But this tasteless, gunky, undefined substance of nauseating consistence was a particular joy four times a day for her, when she was taken out by pain or other complications.

Kalyani side-eyed the bulky marine in the chair beside her patient’s bed. She’d seen him around here a number of times by now, and while she was no fan of his attitude, as long as he kept a low profile towards Reda she tolerated his presence, knowing having a friendly face around was beneficial for her.

“Pretty please?”, James added with a smirk on his lips.

Kalyani handed him one of the spare cups of clear jelly from the tray.

The smirk on James’ face grew into a grin. “Any chance I could get a bigger one, you know, proper for my size?” He gestured with both hands forming a circle around the tiny cup that was about eight times the diameter.

“Don’t stretch your luck, Mr. Vega.”

Reda slid her own tiny cup of jelly down the table towards James, and earned a warning glance from the nurse.

“And you don’t stretch my patience, Reda”, Kalyani dunned her.

“Worth a try”, Reda muttered, making James snicker.

“No worries, nurse Kalyani, I’ll make sure to not touch hers. Even if you hurt my feelings with this tiny portion of a deliciously tasteless treat.”

Kalyani snorted and shook her head. Then, looking at Reda, she said “I’ll be back at half past with your meds.”

[outsideratheart]

A/N: I know it’s been a while since I posted the first snippet of this fic but I’ve been struggling with writer’s block which is think is just about gone.

To apologise here is another little part of it.

“Alexia, that is enough!” Lucy slams her fist on the locker before turning to her captain “She has come to this team and done nothing but good. She plays well for us and gives it her all on the pitch. Off it she makes the effort and yes sometimes she says no to things but isn’t that her right? You stand there as our captain but look at you, you’re nothing but a bully. I am ashamed to say i’m your team mate right now. That girl has been through hell these past couple of years and since coming here all you keep doing is reminding her of what has happened. You are obsessed with her. Look around, no one else is digging for information. No one is making her uncomfortable on a daily basis”

“She is lying to us. She won’t tell us where she was for over a year. She is hiding something and that isn’t fair on us” Alexia tried to defend her actions.

“Isn’t fair? Are you really that self centred? You have no right to talk about what is and is not fair. I don’t care if you are my captain, I won’t stand by you while you treat my best friend like she has done something wrong. You, Alexia, are a —“

“Lucy” The whole locker room turns upon hearing your voice “I have given up on Alexia, it’s time you do too”

“No! I won’t let her talk about you that way. You don’t deserve this”

“No I don’t but —“

“Y/N” Lucy begs you to let her fight you case.

“Walk away Lucy” 

A stare down takes place between you and Lucy. A few seconds later the defender grabs her stuff and leaves the room. To everyone else you are calm and collected but Keira recognises the look in your eye, you are furious.

“I want everyone to listen to me and listen good. My past is none of your business. To those who have let the obsession go, thank you. To those that haven’t” you look Alexia dead in the eye “I want nothing to do with you. I will remain civil on the pitch. Other than that I ask you to stay away from me. That’s if you can respect my wishes. I know it has been hard so far”

You quietly gather your things and try to ignore the multiple sets of eyes on you. With each second you can feel your chest getting tighter and you know it is only a matter second before you will no longer be able to control your breathing. You just needed to get out of there, away from prying eyes.

The hallway is the furthest you got. You mind was filled of flashbacks, the moments that you tried so hard to bury. The past was not a pretty place, not the last year, but you know that it was only a matter of time before it came crashing down on you. 

“Y/N, are you ok?” Mapi and Ingrid are by your side, clearly the couple had left just after you.

“Natalia, she, she” 

Ingrid and Mapi shared a look, who was Natalia? They had never heard you mention a Natalia before. Both of them didn’t know what to do. Whilst you had become friends with the pair, they didn’t know you well enough to cope with this moment. 

Luckily for them Keira appears out of nowhere. The English woman clearly equipped with what to do.

“Get Lucy, now!” She whisper shouted and Ingrid goes running hoping to catch the defender before she leaves.

“Keira—Natalia”

“I know, I know. We can talk about her later if you want. Right now, I need to focus on me. Can you do that?” 

You nod your head as tears flow down your cheeks. 

“What happened?” Lucy rushes over to you.

“We found her on the floor. She kept talking about Natalia” 

“She told you?” Lucy asks shocked. She knew you wasn’t ready to tell them team but in a state of panic you might be let it slip.

“No. She only said her name” Mapi says. She couldn’t take her eyes off you. This wasn’t a panic attack, no she had seen one of those before. This was something much more intense.

A few minutes pass and Keira manages to keep your breathing under control but you’re still not ready to move. Lucy, Mapi and Ingrid stay close making sure to tell anyone who passes to keep moving.

“What is going on?” Alexia asks with concern, a concern that doesn’t reach Lucy in fact her asking is the worst thing she could have done.

“Get away from her” Lucy is up on her feet and pushing Alexia backwards. She would has fallen to the fall if not for the wall behind her “This is all your fault. You see this, you see her, this is what you have done to her”

“Lucy” you reach up and take her hand. The defender used her strength to pull you up. 

You, Lucy, Keira, Mapi and Ingrid walk towards the exit of the stadium.

“Y/N” Alexia’s voice is soft and it is only now that she realises she might have taken things too far.

You turn around to face the Catalonian. For the first time since arriving you make no effort to hide the pain you have felt on a daily basis.

“I want nothing to do with you Alexia”

[changenameno]

Fingerblast PART 1

(Complete, link for the second part, down below ⬇️)

Summary:

It’s the middle of summer and therefore incredibly hot. Of course right then something had to be wrong with your AC. How fortunate for you that a handyman can come right over…

Pairing: Syverson x Short Fem. Reader

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, cursing, explicit description of sex, thirst trap named Sy, teasing, size kink, chasing?, choking (if you squint?), p in v (use of y/n = Your first name) -> most of these warnings apply to the second part

Word count: 1.3 K

A/N: Okay here goes my first attempt at writing smut…This is way longer than I intended it to become, whoops. Honestly this just came to me while stumbling over a song (aka the title of this specific fic 🤣). Also I think this reads a little like a bad porn video SORRY…but anyway….here goes nothing🙈😅….

It’s not proofread, any mistakes are my own. Please be kind, comments/reblogs are very appreciated…Thank you❤️✨

!Syverson is not my own creation (unfortunately)! And the song/lyrics don’t belong to me either!

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PART 1

It hadn’t even been twenty minutes since you’ve called but apparently the handyman had just arrived, if the heavy rumble of tires on gravel was anything to go by. So you made your way onto your porch, because honestly it didn’t make any difference if you’d wait in- or outside.

The heat had been crawling into your house since sunrise and now it was nearly more stifling inside, than out on your shaded porch. And at least here the stone beneath your bare feet was somewhat cooling.

You squinted at the huge red pickup truck now parked not far from your house.

Whoever was still seated inside was listening to music, clearly above a healthy decibel level, because you could hear it blasting even from where you stood quite a distance away.

At that exact moment the door swung open and you heard just a snippet of the song still playing, “Use my index, I can use my thumb.

Even use my pinky, it'll make you come. Close your eyes, it'll happen real fast

I just got you off with a fingerblast…”.Before you could hear more the door of the truck shut loudly. The sudden noise almost startling you.

Shaking your head you tried to compose yourself after overhearing what must have been a most charming song. You took a step forward, hell bent on pretending you hadn’t heard anything. Only now you’d noticed the mammoth of a man that had existed the truck.

Chiding yourself on how you hadn’t noticed him before.

You wrote it off as shock, because how else could you not have noticed the biggest fricking man you’ve ever laid eyes on.

Said man raised his left hand in greeting, while pushing his sunglasses up on his shaved head with the other. He wore a red T-shirt and a pair of cargo shorts. Realizing you stared way too long at the handsome stranger without reciprocating his greeting, you quickly waved back; albeit a bit too late, as he had already turned his back to you.

Fortunately for you, he took his sweet time getting to his toolbox or whatever. Giving you the perfect opportunity to stare some more and that you did.

Good god, how did his shirt not rip when he moved? All that muscle had you salivating.

As he turned towards you, with his toolbox in hand, you couldn’t help but notice the ominous bulge in his shorts.

And then one thought lead to another, having you think about, how something entirely different would most certainly rip, upon his movement. That image had you clenching and swallowing thickly.

“Hey, I take it, you’re hav’n problems with your AC?” he drawled in a rough southern accent. You didn’t trust your voice, lest only a squeak would leave you, so you shook your head yes.

“Alright then, may I come ‘n?” He continued, an amused expression on his face, after you didn’t make a move to let him past you or into your house.

Finally you found your voice again, “Mmh yes, please do come…in,” you finished awkwardly, wanting to hit yourself for behaving like a middle schooler with a major crush.

It didn’t seem to bother him though, he simply chuckled deeply and entered your living room. As he walked by, you caught a whiff of his colon along with what must be his own natural musk, making you swoon on the spot. Damn it, he even smelled fucking fantastic.

From inside he called, “The name ‘s Syverson by the way, if you were wonderin’. But everyone calls me Sy anyway.”

Taking a second to draw a deep breath to calm your nerves and more accurately calm your ovaries, you headed in, after him.

He was standing in the middle of your living room, toolbox standing on your little coffee table, taking in your interior. Shaking your head, as if you could rid yourself of any indecent thoughts, you studied him once more.

Sy was big in every way possible, from his height, to his built and presence. Easily taking over your normally at least middle sized living room, making it seem shrunken.

This time you were a little bit more prepared when his sparkling blue eyes landed on you. Smiling you replied, “I’m y/n. Thank you for being here so quickly. The AC is right over there.” With a wave of your hand, you gestured in the direction of your adjacent kitchen, where the damned thing was let into the wall. He picked up the toolbox once more, before he followed closely behind.

As you lead the way into the kitchen, you could feel him staring at you hungrily, making you shiver from anticipation alone.

Sy swallowed thickly as the white dress you wore, showed even more of your pretty legs, with every bouncy step you took. Once in the kitchen you pointed up, at the opened AC. “I don’t know what seems to be the problem, normally if I do this…” you tried reaching the green button, even going as far as getting on your tiptoes, to show him, what normally did the trick.

As if hypnotized, he kept staring at the hem of your dress continuing to ride up, now almost getting a glimpse of your perfectly white panties. Fuck it, he thought as he drew impossibly closer, putting the toolbox on the kitchen counter in one swift movement.

You squeaked in response, when you felt his broad chest collide with your back. Before you could lose your balance, a beefy arm pulled you back by your midsection and against his sturdy body. A hot breath tickled your ear as he growled, “Darlin’ that dress of yours, might be a tad short for what you had in mind.”

His deep, lust filled voice made you reckless so you purred right back,” Mmmh I think it’s quite perfect for what I had in mind, no?” To emphasize your point, you pushed your rear purposefully against his groin, making him growl some more. “Careful there sweetheart, once the beast is awakened, it got a hankering…and…for one thing only.” You could undoubtedly hear his cocky grin. So you playfully replied, “Oh no, we certainly don’t want that now, do we? You know what they say, about sleeping dogs …”

Following your teasing you grabbed his arm and swiftly pulled it away to be able to slip from his grasp. Striding over to the door, making sure to sway your hips, all the while stifling your giggles. When you turned around, lightly leaning against the doorway, Sy still stood unmoving, glaring at you with dilated pupils. He was sure he’d never wanted a woman as much as he wanted to have you.

One more push and you knew you had him right where you wanted him. You bit the insides of your cheeks, trying to conceal the gleeful smile forming on your lips. Deliberately slow you blinked up at him, readying yourself for what you were about to do next, “Catch me if you can…” You didn’t wait for his reaction, you just bolted through the doorway and straight up the stairs.

PART 2

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Taglist:

If you're interested in being on my taglist, please let me know! And if you want to be taken off (my taglist), feel free to tell me!❤️✨

[from-the-clouds]

texas sun - joel miller x f!reader - vol. ii

series masterlist | series playlist | writing masterlist | previous chapter

chapter summary: Joel tries, and fails, to keep Sarah away from you, and you get to know the family across the street a little bit better. It’s a slow burn, so let the yearning begin, baby! pairing: pre-outbreak!joel miller x f!reader words: 7.7k chapter warnings: some light angst, alcohol use, references to marijuana use, parental neglect. divorce mention, implied age gap. reader has daddy issues - shocker! a/n: Was absolutely floored by the love on part one. Seriously you all are the best. I hate doing chapter summaries because I don't like giving away too much info, so I'd suggest just reading this. This story might end up being a longer than six parts, because I don't want to rush anything and it's been really fun to write these relationships as they form! Let me know what you think :)

-March 25th, 2003- 

Joel cannot keep Sarah away from you. 

Unfortunately, he can’t blame her. Unlike him, she doesn’t need an excuse to show up on your doorstep after school and on the weekends to be in your company. Still, he doesn’t technically know you that well, and he imagines you didn’t intend to see her as often as you did after extending some kindness to his family for one night. 

Despite the two of you having not spoken since you helped him with the Tommy situation, Joel feels like he knows you, or is getting to know you, just from the snippets of information Sarah drops to him, which is then followed by a barrage of questions.

“Do you know she grew up in New York City? Have you ever been there?” 

“She gave me her old tennis racket. Do you think I could start taking lessons?”

“She says her brother got her front-row tickets to The Strokes last year. You like them, don’t you?”

Joel decides to give Sarah a talking to about her tendency to wander over to your house whenever she sees your car in the driveway. Perhaps you are just being friendly, and feel bad saying no each time she’s asked to come in. He tries to broach the subject with her one morning in the kitchen while she’s eating breakfast. They’re already running behind, her for school, himself for work, but neither of them are in a rush. If you’re already late, what’s an extra ten minutes?

“Take it easy, alright? She might not want company after a long day at work,” Joel leans over the countertop, hand wrapped around a mug of hot coffee, watching her shovel cereal in her mouth.  

“Dad, she said I could come over whenever,” It’s accompanied by an eye roll, which is a new thing that had started about six months back. Teenagers. Well, almost teenagers. She’s still the sweet kid he’s always known, he’s just playing with fire trying to talk to her at seven in the morning, an indent on the side of her face still fading from where she slept on a crumpled pillow. 

Joel was at least grateful that she did have occasional company on nights when he was working late. It made him feel better to know Sarah wasn’t alone.

“What do you even do over there?”

“Homework, reading….watching TV.”

“So the same thing you do here?”

Sarah thinks about it. “Well, no, because she’s teaching me to knit.”

“And what does she do while you do your homework?”

“She works too. Or makes calls.” Sarah smiles a little. “It sounds like people ask her for advice a lot. She does give good advice.”

“Better than mine?” Joel holds his hand over his heart with mock offense.

Sarah groans. “Relax, don’t get jealous…there’s just stuff I can talk to her about and not you. Girl stuff.”

“Girl stuff? What like, boys?”

“No, you wouldn’t get it.”

“I was a boy once.”

“Ew, dad, gross.”

“How is that gross?”

“Just- not everything is about boys, okay?”

Joel isn’t going to argue with that, and Sarah eventually goes back to finishing her cereal.

“Alright babygirl,” he raps his knuckles on the counter after he’s finished his coffee. “I’ve gotta load up the truck, and you better get going, or I’m gonna get an earful from Miss Davis.” He grabs his keys and his wallet, then yanks a baseball cap over his mess of hair that’s long overdue for a haircut.

“Oh, I bet she would love an excuse to talk to you,” Sarah slides out of her seat with her empty bowl and marches towards the sink to rinse it out, grabbing his empty mug on the way.

“What do you mean?” 

“Don’t you remember how giggly she was at parent-teacher conferences?” Sarah says. “I’ve never seen her so happy before.”

It’s Joel’s turn to roll his eyes. He’d pegged it as unusual, but never considered it was because Miss Davis was into him. He wishes Sarah isn’t so….observant. 

Over the years, Joel has basically kept his head down, doing his best to keep things together. Because of that, he feels like he’s sort of lost his ability to pick up on when women are interested in him. And it’s safe to say, in general, he’s had a pretty uneventful love life since Sarah’s mom left. 

For the most part, he got by on flings — one night stands, casual no-strings-attached arrangements that always fizzled out. Joel had never been a man who liked that sort of thing, and ultimately craved a deeper level of intimacy, companionship, but he had trouble sustaining anything more. And even when he thinks of the more serious relationships he’d had over the years, those were also never completely satisfying. 

The fact of the matter was that when you had a kid, you weren’t just looking for someone for yourself anymore. For most people, introducing their partner to their parents is always a big deal. But for Joel, it was always introducing girlfriends to Sarah. Over the last decade he’d only ever introduced her to three different women, and at that point he had usually been dating them secretly for several months before deciding that it was serious enough. It always felt like he was trying so desperately to ensure they liked each other. But he could tell that Sarah was never quite comfortable with any of them. And when they’d start asking about moving in, marriage, and babies — he’d always panic. It was reasonable for them to want those things, hell, he wanted those things. But it had to be the right person. He knew he couldn’t bring someone into his life, forever, that didn’t love Sarah like a parent should. Like he did. No one ever would, and because of that, he knows there’s a good chance it’ll just be the two of them forever.

So, even if Sarah’s teacher, as cute as she was, were to ask him out, he would never be able to go. But less for the latter reasons, and more because he knows he’d never hear the end of it from her. 

“Alright, that’s enough. I’m leaving in five minutes…with or without you.”

“Nooo!” Sarah screams in mock panic, scrambling upstairs to brush her teeth. 

Joel exits through the garage, grabbing a few extra tools from his workbench that he needs for the job today and a saw. 

When he opens the garage door, the harsh sunlight is the first thing to greet him, and then he sees you. 

You’re in your driveway across the street, barefoot and in a short, black silk robe that’s cinched at the smallest part of your waist. Next to you is a man in a suit, holding a briefcase and trying to straighten his tie. He can’t do both at the same time, though, so he pauses and turns to you, murmurs something, and you slow to help him, your fingers wrapping around the tie, tightening where it’s looped around his neck and tucking it into place, straightening his lapel before stepping away. The type of domesticity that doesn’t happen with a one-night-stand.

It makes sense, he thinks. That you’re with someone like that. It’s the world you’re in all day. And even though he’s standing in his own fucking driveway, Joel feels like he’s seeing something he’s not supposed to. Or maybe, he just doesn’t want to be seeing it. 

Joel tears his eyes away, putting his stuff in the back of the truck – the toolkit, the saw, glancing over to see the man kiss you on the lips and mutter something unintelligible before getting in a shiny, blue sports car. You nod, offer an easy smile, and stoop to pick up the newspaper. The car's engine roars to life, and you cross your arms, looking after it until it peels out of the cul-de-sac.

The bashful smile you’re wearing drops instantly once it’s out of sight, and he watches you pinch the bridge of your nose, and tilt your head back to the sky.

He turns before he gets caught, and slams the back of the truck shut, which is a little ignorant in hindsight. Joel looks over his shoulder to see your attention has shifted, and you’re shielding your eyes and squinting at him. 

Great.

“Hey Joel,” you wave, your opposite hand pulling at the bottom of your robe, in a futile attempt to cover yourself. You look good, obviously, but it makes Joel feel a little guilty to make the observation because it’s clear you didn’t actually intend to be seen like this.

“Morning,” he answers. 

“Where’ve you been?” you ask, crossing your arms across your chest. 

“Busy. Work.”

“That’s no fun but…same here, I guess,” You shuffle forward hesitantly. 

Joel takes a beat to think about what he’s supposed to say in response, but doesn’t get the chance, because you speak up again.

“Hey uh, not to put you on the spot, but were you actually serious about fixing my step the other night?” you ask. 

Before he can answer, you continue. 

“It’s okay if you weren’t, but I twisted my ankle on it the other day, so I need to get it fixed before that happens to someone else. I was thinking maybe I’d just call-”

“No-”

“It’s no big deal if you can’t-”

“No,” Joel cuts you off. He had been biding his time, waiting for the right opportunity to bring it up to you, not realizing that taking said time probably made him look like an asshole. “Don’t call anyone else, I can do it. How about Friday night? Will you be around?” 

“Friday?” you answer, pondering. “Yeah, that works. I have a friend from out of town coming to visit, so I’ll be home early because I’ve gotta pick her up from the airport.” 

“Alright, I’ll try to cut out early, too.”

“And also I can pay-”

“Stop it, I”ve got you, don’t worry,” he waves his hand. 

You smile at Joel. He’s sure it means nothing, but he gets some satisfaction from how sincere it is compared to the one you’d given the guy you had been escorting out of your home. 

He feels himself grinning back, and you open your mouth to speak, but are cut off by the sound of his screen door slamming. Sarah stumbles down the steps, backpack hanging off one shoulder, headphones to her walkman around her ears, holding her bright pink windbreaker in one hand and a book in the other. She looks at Joel, then you, standing in your driveway, and her face lights up as she calls your name. 

“Hey, Sarah,” you wave. 

Sarah opens her mouth to speak, and Joel knows whatever she’s going to say will start a much longer conversation that unfortunately they just don’t have the time for.

“She’s gotta get to school,” Joel tilts his head in the direction of his daughter before she can say anything. “But I’ll get that done Friday.”

“See you then!” You turn on your heel, and he looks away for a second to Sarah before glancing back in your direction, and you’re already gone, the only evidence you were there being your front door slamming shut. 

Joel waits until he and Sarah are in the car on their way to school before he speaks again. 

“She’s never mentioned a boyfriend or anything, has she?”

Sarah doesn’t even look up from her book. “No.”

Joel nods, and it’s quiet for a moment.

He hears Sarah’s book shut. “Why?” she turns to him, and she’s got her eyes narrowed, like she’s trying to figure out what the question really meant. He’s never seen her make that face before, and it’s a little terrifying, because it looks like she could see right through him.

Joel wracks his brain for a good enough excuse. “If she has people over, I don’t want you hangin’ around adults I don’t know.”

That seems to satisfy Sarah, and the skeptical look on her face disappears. If anything, she seems slightly annoyed by the comment, which is definitely preferable. “Well, you don’t have to worry about that because it’s never happened.” Sarah plays with the dials on the radio, changing the station until it lands on one playing The Chicks, her favorite group. She hums along to the song, filling in the gaps whenever the radio cuts out, and looks out the window. 

“Alright.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

-March 28th, 2003-

“Oh, I wanna come!” Sarah jumps up from the couch and joins Joel in the entryway. It’s Friday evening, and he’s about to head out the door to your place.

“You’re stayin’ in tonight.”

“What? Why?”

“Well first of all, you’re grounded, in case you don’t remember.”

“You don’t even know what that means, though.”

Joel shakes his head, because she’s right. He’s never had to ground Sarah before, but when he’d gotten a call from her teacher that she had failed her last math quiz, and was close to not passing the class, he figured it was an appropriate punishment. “I’m pretty sure it means you can’t leave the house.”

“But this is barely leaving the h-”

“Second of all,” he cuts her off. “She told me earlier this week she’s got a friend visiting, so it’d be rude to intrude if that’s the case.”

Sarah groans, throws her head back, and falls onto the couch dramatically. “But I’m so bored.”

“You could study. Practice dribbling, clean your room, clean your bathroom-”

“Dad, it’s literally Friday night.”

“And?”

“All that stuff is so boring.”

Joel can’t help but chuckle. “Look, when I get back we can watch a movie. This won’t take long.”

She sits up a little, placated. “Okay, but it’s my turn to pick.”

“Deal. I’ll be home in an hour or so,” he steps out onto the porch. 

There’s a special kind of glow in Texas about an hour before the sun sets. Warm light filters behind the trees, casting the leaves and anything else it catches in a golden halo. Joel takes in the view for a moment as he walks across the street, skipping the rotten step and knocking on your front door. 

You answer it quickly. “Hey, you wanna come in?”

Joel supposes he doesn’t have to, and could just let you know he’s here, stay out on the front porch and just get the job done, but he accepts your invitation anyway.

There’s another woman sitting cross-legged on the couch, two half-full glasses of wine on your coffee table, music playing low on some speakers in the corner. The front windows are open, despite the chill of the evening, and your sheer curtains billow in the breeze. 

“Claire, this is my neighbor, Joel,” you say. “He’s helping me out with the steps. His daughter’s Sarah, the one I was telling you about. ”

“Oh, yeah.” Claire’s face lights up in recognition. “Joel. Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” he nods.

“Claire’s visiting from New York. We grew up together,” you explain. 

“Oh, yeah?” 

“Her and I were roommates at boarding school,” Claire explains, finishing off a glass of wine. “We got into a lot of trouble together.”

“Hmmm, if I recall, it was more like you got me into trouble, but sure,” you say. 

“You were bad, if not worse, than I was.”

Joel smirks, and you turn to him, changing the subject. “She’s jetlagged, so we’re just staying in for the night.”

“But…we’re still getting drunk, obviously.”

“Oh yeah, that too,” you say flatly, although to Joel, you don’t seem drunk at all. Luckily, your friend answers his question with her next sentence.

“This one isn’t very good at keeping up, though,” Claire tilts her head in your direction, then finishes off the glass of wine in her hand.

“You sound like Vincent,” you roll your eyes.

“Oh, how is Vincent?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” you cross your arms and look at Joel. “She always had the biggest crush on my brother, and it was dis-gus-ting.”

“To be fair,” Claire clears her throat. “At the time, he was pretty dreamy. And if we’re being honest….he still is…too bad he’s married.”

“Divorced, actually. But still…” You wrinkle your nose. “Gross.”

“Divorced?” Claire sits up, jaw dropping. “When? Why didn’t you tell me? What happened?”

You raise your hands and shake your head, like it’s too much to get into. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you about it later. Sorry, we’re being rude,” you turn back to Joel. “Can I get you anything? Want some wine?”

“I would, but it doesn’t usually mix well with power tools,” Joel answers. “I should be good, though, I brought everything I need.”

“Great well… I’ll let you get to it, then.” you pad across the floor to return to your friend on the couch. “We’ll be in here if you need anything.”

“Sounds good,” Joel nods at you and your friend before stepping back out onto the porch.

The screen door shuts behind him, and the birds are quieting down for the night. He only has a little bit of sunlight left, but this shouldn’t take him long. Just as he is about to get started, he hears your friend’s voice, muffled, from inside the house. 

“Okay, I thought you were lying because your taste in men is usually questionable, but you’re right, he is really cute.”

“Dude,” you interject, and Joel hears a sound of impact, like a smack on the arm. “Lower your voice the fucking windows are open.” Claire starts giggling, and you continue. “You know you don’t have to say, like, every thought that comes into your head.”

He hears your friend laugh even harder, and eventually you join her. Joel shakes his head, but even after he starts working, can’t keep the grin off his face.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

-April 5th, 2003-

It has been the longest week of your life. Work had been hectic – you’d spent the last five days going to so many meetings and dinners with potential clients that you had almost no time to do your actual job. Plus, your visit from Claire had already wiped out nearly all your energy, since you had spent the whole last weekend showing her around Austin, entertaining.

Normally, on a Saturday like today, you’d do a number of things – the first of which would be to sleep the fuck in. The ideal schedule would go something like this: You’d get out of bed in the early afternoon and immediately order some kind of takeout – most likely pho, or ramen, or some other type of soup. You’d get high, eat the takeout, and then watch TV until you’re tired enough to go back to bed in the early evening. If you’re feeling motivated at all, you might change into a fresh pair of pajamas before you crash again. It would be the ultimate lazy day, and you had desperately wanted it.

However, the past version of yourself had made plans to play tennis in the morning with some friends, and then check out a new breakfast place in the city. Sometimes you hated how optimistic she was about your ability to wake up before 10 a.m. While you weren’t excited to play tennis, you were excited that there was, at some point, going to be food involved. 

So you dragged your ass out of bed, rifled through a box of clothing in your garage (one that you still had yet to unpack) to find a tennis skirt and visor, and then got in your car to go play all before 8 a.m. Then, you’d had your ass handed to you by your friends on the court. It was a little humbling to realize that you weren’t very good at tennis anymore. The last time you’d seriously played was when you were still in school, and you’d originally started because your father had wanted you to be involved in an extracurricular activity. According to him at the time, anything involving the arts – music, dance, drama – didn’t count. You had challenged this idea, and it had escalated to become one of the top ten worst fights you’d ever had with him. After that, you had learned that it was better to just do as you were told. 

You’d joined the tennis team, and started to pick up on how intrigued your father was by the trophies and ribbons you’d bring home when you did well. He started to ask you questions when he saw them, pat you on the head and say things like ‘that’s my girl’. Regardless of whether or not you liked playing, you had finally found a way to earn his attention. So, you got better. One time, he even came to your school to watch one of your matches. Of course, when you lost that one, it all kind of crumbled. But you still stuck to the sport since that’s what all your friends were doing, even if it didn't get you what you wanted. 

On the drive home from your morning out, belly full of breakfast and ready for a nap, thinking of your family brings about a terrifying realization. 

You look at your phone. Shit.

April 5th. 

Immediately, you dial a number on your cell. You’re aware of the dangers of talking while driving but you know if you don’t make this call, you’ll never hear the end of it. The line only rings twice before it’s picked up.

“Hello?” 

“Vincenzo!” you say with your best – but probably horrible – attempt at an Italian accent. 

“Well, well, well….if it isn’t the estranged daughter…” the familiar timbre of your brother's voice answers. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

You roll your eyes. “Well first of all, fuck off…” We're off to a great start. “...and second of all…Happy Birthday.”

You hear your brother’s chuckle on the other end of the line, a noise that you’d been on the wrong side of –  laughing at you, not with you – more than once, but your heart aches a little at the sound of it now. I miss you, you wish you could say, but you keep it to yourself. 

“Thanks, I’m surprised you remembered,” he says, lightly.

“I’ve never forgotten.”

“There was that one year-”

“Oh my god, I was like twelve.”

“You were fourteen.”

“Okay, well, sorry…It’s been over ten years and it hasn’t happened since.”

“It feels like you’ve forgotten more than once, but that might just be because it’s pretty much the only time you ever call me these days,” Vincent says, and if you were with him, in person, you’d be able to tell by the look in his eyes whether or not he was joking. But over a cell, you’re not sure at all. 

“That’s not true,” you say, turning your car into your neighborhood. “But I mean, the phone does work both ways.” 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” you catch something flippant in his tone. 

“Do you want this to be a nice conversation or are you gonna be an asshole?” you ask, maybe a little too matter-of-factly, but at least you can determine whether or not it’ll be a waste of your time to try and be cordial. If he’s in a bad mood, you know it’s pointless.

“Relax,” he says, and you hear a hint of the teenage boy you once knew. “You’re always so ready to argue with me, I’m joking.”

“Very funny,” you say, and try to be nice about it, because deep down, you know Vincent is right. You don’t talk to your brother enough to argue with him when you do speak. You take a deep breath to steady yourself. “So what are you doing on your big day? Anything special?”

“Nothing really special, I worked out, had lunch with a friend, and I think I’m having dinner with Elizabeth tonight.”

“Oh…really? Elizabeth?” At the mention of his soon-to-be ex-wife – or maybe current ex-wife? You’re not sure – you’re surprised.

“Yeah she and I are uh….talking still, I guess. For Ethan, mostly, but…I don’t know…the divorce isn’t finalized, and I think now that I’m seeing a therapist and shit, maybe we can work something out. We’ll see.”

“And do you want to work something out?”

“I mean, she’s only the love of my life so yeah, it’d be great.”

“I think so, too. How is Ethan, by the way?”

“Oh he’s great,” you hear your brother’s smile over the phone. “Just a big ball of energy, and so fucking smart. He told me he misses you the other day.”

Your heart lurches at the mention of your sweet, five-year-old nephew. “You’ll have to tell him I said hi, and that I love him.”

“Yeah, yeah, I will,” he answers. “You know, next weekend I’m having a proper birthday party.  We’re all going to the Hamptons. I could fly you out here, you could tell him in person.”

“I can’t, I got shit to do,” you answer a little too quickly, turning the car into your cul-de-sac.

“What uh, your little corporate gig keeping you busy?”

There’s a subtle dig in there, little. 

“Maybe.”

“I’m telling you, all I have to do is phone a friend, and we’ll find you something here that’ll pay a thousand times better and won’t have you working weekends.”

“I don’t work weekends,” you say, pulling into your driveway.  “And I’m not interested.”

“You like making yourself miserable, don’t you?”

“Vinny,” you say, exasperated, putting your car in park. “I’m happy here.”

“In Texas? I don’t believe it,” he says. “And you know, at this point, you’ve proven whatever you wanted to dad. After everything you’ve done, he probably respects you. Like, you did it. You cut yourself off, you made a name for yourself, you don’t need us anymore. Congratulations, amazing. I get it. But you should come home now.”

“Vincent,” you repeat yourself. “I’m not going back. You know what it was like for me. For you.”

“You’re my fucking family too, you know? You can’t just let him control every decision you make,” he says, and he’s not quite yelling at you, but he is sounding a lot more stern than he was before. “And by the way, it wasn’t so bad. You and I always got along.”

“Even if I move back, things will never be like they were.”

“You don’t know that.” he says it with such a deep sadness in his voice that you want to take back every cruel thing you’d ever said to him – not just from today, from forever. And then he speaks again. “You know, you used to be so sweet when we were kids….I don’t know what happened.”

I do, you think. “I had to look out for myself.”

Before he can respond, you change the subject. “Anyways, you should move out here instead,” it’s only halfway a joke.

“I’m not leaving New York.”

“Well, I’m not leaving Austin.”

“Well…” he says, clicks his tongue. “Then I guess things’ll just stay this way.” 

“I guess so.”

You wish you could offer more. But he has never understood. The silence on the other line is so loud, your ears are ringing.

“Look, I just pulled in my driveway, I gotta get going.”

“Yeah.”

“But have a nice day, okay?” you’ve gotta turn this conversation around because it went so far off the rails. “Tell Elizabeth I say hi, and I hope you do work things out with her because you know I think she’s great. And give Ethan a kiss for me.”

“I know, and I will,” you can see him closing his eyes, fingers pinching between his eyebrows.

“I love you.” 

“Yeah…okay,” he says, like he doesn’t believe you, and it’s a punch to the gut. As usual, you weren’t able to say the right thing. Tears start pricking the back of your eyes, guilt twisting deep in the pit of your stomach.

“Goodbye,” in one swift movement, you end the call and get out of the car, slamming the door shut. You’re sad now, but it’s only a matter of time before you become angry, which is always easier to deal with, so you just gotta suck it up until it passes.

Trying not to be upset is such a high priority that you don’t hear your name being called right away, and when you turn around, it’s too late.

“Hey!” Sarah Miller is skidding to a stop in front of you, wearing boots that look a size too small for her feet, dressed in athletic clothes with her hair pulled back. “My dad says I’m not grounded anymore so I can-” she falters when she sees your face. “Are you okay?” she asks. 

Clearing your throat, you fix your expression and try to shake away the lingering disappointment like dirt off a kitchen rug. “Yeah I’m fine,” you lie. “So does that mean you passed math?”

Since that night you let her stay when she was locked out, you’d seen quite a bit of Sarah. It was a little unconventional, and you probably needed to find friends in the community that were more age appropriate, but you enjoyed her company. She would hang out and do homework at your house while she waited for her dad to get home from work. You had always valued your independence, and told yourself you preferred to be on your own, but whenever she left, your house always felt a little emptier than you remembered. Maybe you needed to get a fish or something, since Martini’s appearances were few and far between. 

“Not yet, but I did get an A on my last test. I hate to say it but my dad was right…studying actually helps.”

“Yeah, that tends to be true,” you say, relieved at how easy the smile comes, and you glance over your shoulder to see Joel standing at the edge of his driveway with his hands on his hips. He looks fucking good, and you’re almost sort of mad about it, or it’s hopefully just the irritation kicking in after the conversation with your brother. 

Does Joel know? He has to. It’s like having whatever the male version of a siren is living across the street from you – working with his hands, being a doting father, and mowing the lawn shirtless when it’s hot out. And apparently this was a record-breakingly hot spring, because you’d seen that more than once. Not that you minded, though it only made you want a closer look. Years ago, you probably would’ve scoffed at what sounded like a suburban mom’s wet dream, but actually experiencing it, you felt differently. There was just something about him. 

You give Joel a wave, and he waves back, shifting his weight from foot to foot like he’s trying to decide if he wants to come over and talk. As usual, he seems like he’s got somewhere to be, but he’s too polite to tell you to fuck off. 

“How have you been? I’ve hardly seen you,” Sarah says. “Did you play tennis today?” she pokes at the racket that’s hung over your shoulder. “Were you serious about teachin’ me to play this summer?”

It’s hard not to be amused at the barrage of requests. You admire her ability to be so enthusiastic, so open, something that most people are unable to do, but for her, is effortless. She’s older than your nephew, but you get the same kind of relief from interacting with both of them. The kids are alright. At least, some of them are. 

“Of course,” you answer, and notice that Joel is slowly and hesitantly making his way up your driveway. It’s upsetting that everytime you run into him, you conveniently look like shit – like last Tuesday when you’d just rolled out of bed and were still in your robe. Or right now, after spending the whole morning chasing after balls on a clay court, scuffed knees and hair slick with sweat. But you suppose that’s sort of what neighbors are for.

“Hey, how’s it going?” you ask Joel. 

“It’s goin’,” you take him in as he gets closer, notice the way the arms of his t-shirt are just a little too tight because of his biceps, and feel like you need to take a cold shower to wash yourself of this morning. “Babygirl, we should probably get going.”

He calls his daughter babygirl? There’s no way he was being serious, that it isn’t some ironic joke, or part of an act. You always assumed that was just something you saw in movies.

“Because I did so well on my test my dad is takin’ me on a hike,” Sarah says, and then her face lights up. “Wait….you should come with us! Dad, can she come?” Sarah whirls around to face her father.

Joel looks down at Sarah, and then up at you, and then at Sarah again. “I mean, that’s fine, but…she might have other things going on.” 

It’s hard to tell if he’s trying to give you an out, or if he’s hinting that you shouldn’t come. And you probably normally wouldn’t want to go, but the alternative is moping around your house and thinking of all the things you could’ve said differently to your brother to ensure the conversation would have gone better than it did. You’re always desperate for a second chance to do things over, and do them right. 

You look between the two of them, back and forth. “I mean I would totally, I just…don’t want to interrupt a father-daughter activity-”

“You aren’t,” Sarah says so quickly that Joel looks offended. “I couldn’t leave the house this week so we’ve been spending too much time together.”

Joel frowns. “That’s rude.”

“What?” she says. “It’s true.”

Joel sighs. “She’s right, though. You wouldn’t be interruptin’.”

“Please?” Sarah begs, and you realize you can’t say no even if you want to. You wonder how Joel was even able to ground her for a week, looking in those big, innocent eyes. 

“Yeah, just…uh, could I put my stuff inside and maybe change?” you ask, gesturing towards the house. 

Joel nods, and Sarah rocks back and forth on her heels. “Yes, yes! Take as long as you need.”

“I’ll be fast,” you assure her, and duck inside. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Halfway into the hike with Sarah and Joel, and you’ve decided you’re out of shape. You try to tell yourself there could be another reason you are so out of breath – you already worked out once today while playing tennis. But that doesn’t seem like a good enough excuse. Of course, you’re trying to play it cool, because you’re not about to embarrass yourself. Sarah is entertaining you with all kinds of talk about school, and soccer, and sleepaway camp she gets to go to for two weeks once school's out. And you suppose the pain you’re in right now is also  welcome distraction from thinking about Vincent. 

However, you can’t dip away from the group to rest for a second, because Joel is already trailing behind, and he’d catch on. However, his distance – several paces back from where you and Sarah walk – is not because he’s out of shape. On the contrary, he seems to be putting almost no effort into the steep climb. He’s on his own, head on a swivel, kind of like a brooding security guard, and you wonder if he feels left out. 

You steal a glance over your shoulder to take him in, shrouded by the verdant foliage. He looks at home in this environment, sun-kissed and rugged, a finger hooked behind the strap of a leather bag he carries over one shoulder, his gait measured. Aloof, but there’s a quiet confidence to him that draws you in, causes your stare to linger just a touch too long, so when he turns his head straight, his eyes catch yours. You focus back on the trail ahead. 

He hasn’t said much since you’ve started hiking, or in the car, even. Most men are easy to read, but so far, Joel has kind of stumped you. There were times, during the night that you’d helped him bail his brother Tommy out of jail, that you had thought maybe he was- no. He’d been pretty tense in every other interaction you had, so you still couldn’t decide if he had been flirting with you.

And he was older than you, you were pretty sure. Not so old that it wouldn’t be out of the question for him to be interested, but enough that, depending on the type of person he was, might see you as a little too young for him. And he had a kid, responsibilities. 

You were a-single woman with a high-powered career, one cat and a fish on the way. You slept in on the weekends, refused to learn to cook for one, and got violently stoned on your back porch a minimum of three times a week. In suburban Texas, most of the women your age were long since settled, and you were an outlier. It was fair to imagine that Joel probably didn’t see any real promising future when he looked your way…. or maybe he was more of a one-night stand kind of guy, and didn’t care about that at all. This was not necessarily information you needed – but you wanted it anyway.

Not feeling like an outsider would be one upside of moving back to New York – you could be exactly yourself, and still blend right in. It was one of the parts you missed most, besides Vincent. Your heart sinks, and you realize that the hill you’ve been climbing has flattened out, and so you’re able to think clearly again, which is why you’re thinking of your brother. 

Sarah has pulled away, and is wandering towards a clearing. Your eyes are on her form, bounding up ahead on the pathway, the sunlight peeking through the leaves dancing on her skin, when your foot lands on a loose rock, and slips out from beneath you. 

Please, God, n- You don’t even get the chance to plead yourself out of humiliation, because there’s a steady hand on your hip and your back collides with a broad chest. 

“Gotcha,” Joel’s voice is right in your ear — when did he get that close?  

He’s solid, strong, and for the shortest, sweetest moment, you’re overwhelmed by him – get notes of his bar soap (pine, cedar, mint)  mixed with whatever laundry detergent he used, and just the faintest bit of - Fuck. In one swift movement, he brings you upright like you’d never slipped at all, then pulls back. The skin on your hip smarts even after his hand drops away.

“You alright?” Joel steps beside you, watching Sarah, who stands with her hands on her hips, her back turned to you both.

“Yeah,” you nod. He looks back over at you. “Come on,’ he tilts his head towards his daughter, and you walk beside him to where she’s standing.

The whole hike you’d been so occupied with bullshit. Trying not to think about your brother. Trying not to act too out of breath. Trying to not let Joel catch you staring, although you’d already failed at that. But now, you wish you wouldn’t have been in your head, because what you’d come to see made worrying about all that seem stupid.

Stretched out in front of you was a wide creek with moss-colored water that flowed down over layered slabs of rock, and crashed into the waterfall’s churning basin. The sun hits the mist in just the right light, and casts a series of rainbows midair, which move and shift as you turn your head to study the lush, tree-lined shore across the river. 

You’re standing with one hand on your hip, and out of the corner of your eye Sarah shuffles back a few steps to stand beside you, looping her arm through yours, her cheek on your shoulder while you both enjoy the view. 

“I’m glad you got to see this,” she says, and you can just make it out over the sound of the falls. “Isn’t it pretty?”

“It’s beautiful.”

Joel’s hands land on Sarah’s shoulders as he steps close behind you both. She straightens, leans back against him until he wraps his forearm across the front of her in an easy embrace, and she grabs for his wrist with both of her hands, tucking them beneath her chin. A pang of familiar grief stirs inside you at the sight, and you turn away, back towards the view.

“This is the only time of year it’s worth seeing,'' Joel says to you. “It dries up in the summer.” 

“It’s still pretty in the summer,” Sarah pipes up.

“Not as pretty.”

“Can you get me the water?” she asks. Joel grunts an affirmation and a moment later you hear the sound of a zipper.

When you’ve had a considerable amount of time to contemplate life while looking at the water swirling across the granite, you turn to find Sarah sitting on a rock, struggling to peel an orange, and dropping each tiny piece of skin she can get off into Joel’s begrudgingly outstretched hand.

You use the opportunity to stretch your calves against a nearby tree.

“Have you hiked before?” Sarah asks.

“Here and there,” you say. “But not often.”

“Why not?”

“Well this is basically a workout. I don’t like working out, I’m pretty unathletic.”

You’re surprised when that draws a smile from Joel.

“But you play tennis.”

You shrug. “Eh, kinda.”

“Me and my dad go hiking a lot.”

“That’s sweet,” your eyes flicker from hers to Joel’s, because they are both staring at you, and you’re pretty sure, though it’s hard to tell from this distance, that their eyes are the identical shade of caramel. Sarah finishes peeling her orange and Joel pockets the scraps of skin. She eats a slice before offering you both your own, and you step closer to accept it.

Sarah’s taking her last bite of orange when Joel speaks up. 

“Should we head back?”

Sarah turns to take one last look. It’s mid afternoon, the slant of light from the sun as intense as it can be, and you squint when it reflects back off the water and into your eyes. 

“Yeah, we can,” Sarah decides, and it’s clear that Joel would have stayed there for as long as she wanted. It wasn’t up to him. 

The hike back isn’t nearly as difficult. It’s all downhill, and Joel leads. Sarah stays behind with you, and clings to your arm while she teaches you how to navigate the trail without slipping. Back at the trailhead is one steep step that drops off into a puddle of stagnant water. 

Joel jumps down first, and turns to offer his hand to Sarah, who takes it and leaps lightly, landing on two feet on the other side. You aren’t sure what you’re expecting, but it’s not for Joel to offer you his hand to you as well. But he does.

“Careful,” he murmurs. And of course, you could’ve easily done this yourself, with no help. It’s a two foot drop and an inch of water. But you accept it anyways, putting some of your weight against his hand as you hop down, noticing how he doesn’t waver.

By the time you’re long since settled in the car, pulling into Joel’s driveway, you can feel sleep tugging down your eyelids. A steaming shower and a pair of pajama pants is imminent, and it’s like your body knows. Surely, you will still probably feel guilty about your brother, but you’re convinced that you won’t lose sleep over it, which you consider a win.

Sarah, who insisted that you both sit in the back together on the way home – leaving Joel in the front alone – gives you a quick hug after you’ve gotten out of the car, and then plucks the car keys from her father.

“Sorry, I drank a lot of water and I have to pee!” she says, before jogging up the walkway and unlocking her front door. 

Joel lets out an exasperated sigh, but turns back look at you with startling warmth. 

“Thanks for having me, I really needed that,” you tell him, and you’re not sure why you feel compelled to be honest with him, but continue on. “My brother and I got into it on the phone this morning, so if I didn’t go I probably would’ve spent all afternoon moping in bed.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice soft. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, it’ll be fine,” you say, quickly, brushing it off. “Siblings, you know?”

“Yeah,” he nods, but you can tell he isn’t convinced. “I know.”

“How’s Tommy, by the way?” you ask. “Staying out of trouble, I hope?”

“He is,” Joel answers. “We actually have a big project we might be about to book. Pays well, and will keep us employed for the next year.”

“Oh that’s exciting,” you nod. “So what I’m hearing  is…if my step rots again, you wouldn’t have time to come fix it?”

“No,” Joel chuckles again, and you’re dizzy after hearing it. “I’d make time.”

You take a deep breath. “Good to know,” you shuffle a few steps backwards. “I better get going, though.” He doesn’t answer right away, and just as you’re turning to walk across the street, Joel calls out to you again.

“Hey,” and you pause, facing him again. “I wanted to ask you if…” he hesitates, blinks and shakes his head once before continuing. “If Sarah is coming over too much. If you want, I can tell her to cool it.”

“Are you kidding?” you ask. “I don’t mind at all. She’s great company, really.”

“You sure you’re not just sayin’ that to be nice?”

You sniff, look at the ground, then back up to him. “I’m not actually very nice.”

He studies you. “I’m not sure I believe that.” 

“You hardly know me,” you shrug, and his eyebrows pinch together very briefly before his expression neutralizes. “I’m just saying….if I didn’t like having her around, you would know.”

He bobs his head slowly, and you turn back around to walk to your house, glancing at him from over your shoulder. 

“I’ll see you around.”

- - - - - - - - - -

taglist: @yaskna @venomous-ko @lomljigg @yeehawbitchs @ay0nha @eldahae @lol-im-done @melancholicmelanin @reggies-floatie @omniscientqueer @superflymaterial @mikkorantanev @zbeez-outlet (i'm sorry if i missed anyone, i didn't tag anyone that didn't explicitly ask!).

part iii

[yeyinde]

omg if you could, would you please write literally anything about soap?? If not then would you possibly write some jealous ghost? (,,: maybe the reader and Soap are really close and fuck around together and ghost just watches from a distance until it's taken a little too far and he does something drastic ? Reader and Soap are goofing around and end up in a compromising position and ghost just yanks them apart and at first they're like "that was so unprofessional I'm in trouble oh no" but it turns out ghost was just enraged with jealousy lmaoo

i absolutely write for Soap (and Price, and Alejandro, and Gaz, and "Alex"... honestly, all these COD boys got me simpin something fierce). 

i'm so sorry this took so long—i had a lot of ideas about Soap, but i mostly wanted two pining idiots in a pub! i tried to add elements of the Ghost request as well (messing around, blink and you'll miss it Ghost jealousy), but i really just enjoyed that almost comfortably claustrophobic feeling you get when you're with someone who ensnares your full attention until everything just completely goes away. that "oh, are we still in public?" dazed feeling.

i really hope you enjoy this! 🖤

tw: none, mostly just fluff and banter; gratuitous use of Scottish slang

Ghost’s Version

He slides you a glass filled with amber, eyes dancing in the low, golden glow of the pub. Fairy lights. They catch on the green in his irises; a boscage in hazel. 

There is something warm in the air—the taste of victory, of scotch (Price insists, buys two bottles, and offers up Maduro cigars to anyone who looks at him)—and you cling to it, wrapping your hands around this feeling, and tucking it close to your thudding heart. It's comforting. 

Everyone is together again. Price knocking his hand against Gaz's shoulder, loudly telling anyone who'll listen about the time the kid was hangin' out a helo. Fuckin' nutter. Laswell nursing a glass, pad in her hands. Ghost beside her, eyes drawn to the names of men you'll eventually have to go after flashing in his dark eyes. 

Gaz shoots you a glance. Help me, it says. 

Your return smile, a wave. No way. 

If you get close to Price now, you'll never get loose. You'll end up walking away with the taste of a battle on your tongue, scotch in your belly, and cigar smoke clotting inside your lungs. He always leaves you feeling dazed, whiplash sick. 

It's best to avoid your captain when his voice is a raw scrape, a wheeze, after yelling in the trenches for so long. 

It might, of course, be said bottles of scotch that permeate inside of you; a low heat in your belly. You feel giddy with it. 

"A'right, bonnie?" His voice is a thick fog in the morning. A blanket of white over the pastures. Sun peeking through. 

"Aye," you murmur, riding a very thin line between that confidence only being a shade away from drunk can bring, and coy—coquettish. Teasing. It's been like this all night. 

(Maybe even longer—ever since he knocked his knuckles to your shoulder, bottom lip between his teeth to stem a grin, and said, not bad for a bonnie lass.)

Soap's hand jerks. The glass scratches across the tabletop. 

"Oh, aye?" He thickens his accent, lets the twang of the highlands congeal in the space between you. 

"That's it, bonnie."

He's close—leather, plastic; he smells of polymer and oak—and the flecks of caramel in his eyes remind you of the sun. So close, you can feel the rays scorch your cheeks when he leans in, when his white teeth flash, blinding, in your periphery. 

"That right?" 

"We'll make a Scot out of you, yet." 

It happens in between everything. 

A break in the clouds between rainfall—turadh. 

That's how most things happen with Soap, you find. Small moments here or there; little snippets. They stack up slowly, a steadily filling dam until the levee begins to crack, and crumble. 

It spills over; a splash. A lull.

He's meant to be teaching you cuss words that you can hurtle at your enemies, or a secret language meant for the two of you if you'd ever gotten into a tight spot together. Maybe, even a way to annoy your Lieutenant. It's slipped in somehow—between it’s a dreich day and whit’s fur ye’ll no go by ye! —and sits heavy in your chest.

Turadh. 

(Is there even a word out there more beautiful?)

His chin is pointed up toward the arching ceiling when he mutters it softly, a ghost, perhaps, from his childhood. It slips out like it wasn't meant to. Like it was lost somewhere in his mind, his memories, and slowly buoyed the surface, captured between trembling hands. A forgotten piece of home dipped in the evanescence of nostalgia. 

It feels like the end of a storm when his eyes drift to you. A crooked smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. 

"Heard it from me granny," he says, shrugging, bashful. "Heard a lot more than that, too. Cussed like a sailor." 

He says nothing more. His past, like most of the men whose company you keep, is a secret. Held tight to the chest under a thick bulletproof vest. Untouchable. Unreachable. 

Your fingers itch all the same.

"She definitely raised you well."

"Is that an insult?"

You flash a light smile his way. "If I wanted to insult you, I'd call your haircut naff."

"Cheeky little—," Soap huffs. "No one appreciates the mohawk anymore." 

"Did they ever?" 

He leans down, eyes honeycomb golden in the gloaming, and smells of alder and wych elm. "I happen to think so." 

The fissure splits. Water leaks. You wonder if he'd taste of the highlands. 

"You happen to think a lot of things," tremulous words, barely above a whisper, slip from the seam of your wobbling lips. "Doesn't mean any of them are right." 

"We'll see, bonnie." He motions for you to take your drink. "I'm sure you'll find I'm always right."

"Is the clause in that always ironclad?"

"Aye, and you best know it, lass."

Another word is learned— fadachd —when he smiles at you; a soft crook of his lips, shadows catching on the jut of his mouth. His eyes are warm honey; molasses. If you stare too long, you think you might just get stuck. 

A shudder, then, rolls through you. 

(You've had worse ideas, really.)

"You're not teaching me the good stuff," you pout, thumb brushing over the curve of the cup, dragging through the impression of your mouth left on the rim. 

"I'm not much of a teacher," he shrugs, bringing his glass to his lips. 

Your throat is dry. Eyes locked on the way his Adam's apple buoys with his swallows; on the smooth column of his neck, on the stubble that falls beneath his chin, jaws. 

You can't look away quick enough when he turns to you. His eyes burn into yours. The glass clinks against the table. 

"What do you want to learn?"

"Everything—," you choke, fingers curling over the cup. "I—I mean… what are some, y'know, stuff I can use on a date."

His voice is thick, raw from the alcohol he drank. "A date?" 

You nod. The glass is cool against your palm. You bring it to your lips, and let the sharp liquid sit on your tongue. 

"With who?" 

You mimic his shrug, swallowing. His eyes are on you. You try not to tremble. 

"Anyone. Just—," your voice is a rasp; a shade under a whisper. 

You take another swig—liquid courage—and try not to grimace. The alcohol burns through you. 

(His eyes are suns. Dizzying. Blinding.)

When you turn to him, you flash a slow grin; eyes lidded. Teasing. Kittenish. You feel a little bit like an imposter. "How do I get myself a Scottish man?" 

You can see him swallow. Hear the click in his throat. 

Beside his sternum, you watch his vein tick. Wonder, dazed, what it would be like to sink your teeth into his skin. To mark him as yours for the world to see. 

Soap— Johnny —MacTavish: all yours. 

You shiver. 

"A Scottish man, aye?"

"Well, if you teach me right, I'll know how to seduce one."

His elbow rests on the tacky tabletop, knuckles pressed into his chin. He leans over you until all you can see is him. 

"And if I teach you wrong?"

In the triangle of his arm and jaw, you find Ghost in the corner—sitting beside Price and Laswell (you wonder, for a moment, if any of them ever really stop) as they pour over documents—and tip your chin toward him. 

"I might end up with an Englishman."

Soap raises his head, peering over his shoulder. He pauses for a moment, eyes darting between his Captain and Lieutenant.

It's satisfying to hear him huff through his nose. A heavy exhale. You wonder if he's jealous. 

It makes you think of Madrid. Of that stunning woman draped in Chantilly. 

Aye, lass. It was a pleasure to meet you. 

You turn to your glass, mulling over what he might say in response, your comeback, but his grip on the glass catches your eye. 

His knuckles are white. Nails red, flat against the surface. 

"Soap—"

He turns back to you. The tight grip around the glass eases. 

When he smiles, it feels like a cloud cover, hiding away the blaze. "Lt? Might be good for him."

"Yeah…" you murmur, words quiet in your slurred panic. You don't know how to salvage this. The teasing, the banter—it was bordering on flirting, and now—

Distance. 

He's just Soap. And you're just you. 

(Aye, lass—)

It stings. Prickles between your ribs and your heart, and the ache of it makes the alcohol in your gut churn. 

"I doubt he'd go for it." 

"What? He's been keekin' you all night." There is a divot between his brow. When he turns his head, the fairy lights behind make his stubble look darker. "Yer aff yer heid!"

You blink, a small smile growing. "D'unno that one, yet, professor."

"It means: you're talking rubbish. He can't stop lookin' at you." 

He enunciates the words for you, even adapts a spiteful English accent to go with it, but it's the burn in his gaze that makes you feel like you're floating. Bubbly and light and reaching for the stratosphere. 

You don't want to lose this.

(The ever in that is ironclad.)

"How do you say I'm drunk?"

Soap shakes his head, tension dissipating. It's a relief when humour cuts into his grin. "Too many ways to count, lass."

"C'mon," you slide forward on the barstool, elbows perched on the table, palms cupping your warm cheeks. They feel blistered, sunkissed. "Just one? It'll even be the chef's choice."

"Oh, aye?" He mimics your pose, leaving only one hand to grasp the glass between his palm. He rolls it between his thumb and fingers for a moment, eyes downcast as he thinks. "Yer mad wae' it." 

You roll the words around your tongue. "Mad with it?"

"Aye." 

"I like it."

"Are you?" 

"Am I…?"

"Mad wae it?" 

"Just a little…"

Soap levels you with a look that knocks the wind from your lungs. "You're blootered, bonnie."

"Awa' an bile yer heid!"

Something sits in his brow at the sharp words that spill, unpractised, from your lips. A rumble in the distance warning of approaching rain. 

You think the deluge might drown you. 

"Careful, bonnie," his breath smells of scotch. Tastes like a sunburn. "You might just bite off more than you can chew."

The burn of the alcohol does little to abate the itch in your throat. 

"Bonnie," you murmur, numb. You can't hear much past the thudding in your chest. "Why'd you call me bonnie?"

(Aye, lass—

Bonnie. Bonnie. Bonnie—)

His head drops when he huffs, a soft laugh spilling—almost reluctantly—from his chest. He stays like that for a moment, head bowed and the corner of his mouth twitching. When he raises his head, his cheeks are stained rubescent. 

The alcohol, you think, dizzy. The world spins, and then narrows into a pin-drop where only the ruby smear on the bridge of his nose exists. 

"'Am no diddy, but—"

"Sergeant." 

There is a misty cloud surrounding you; a gossamer spooling over your eyes. You blink the cobwebs away, but they're stuck to your retinas. 

Ghost stands shrouded in the smog. His dark eyes slide to you. Endless black. Unfathomable. 

"Soldier." 

The command is clear. Stop muckin' about.

His voice is a warble when he speaks. Gruff, low. "Lt, comin' to learn some Scottish, too?" 

"Negative." He says, clipped. Then: "can barely understand these pissed Glaswegians as it is." 

"It's a lovely accent," you murmur, grinning. Stupid, dopey. It feels like waking up after a long nap on the beach. 

His eyes are liquid pools of black when they slide to you. "Bloody hell. Must have knocked your head one too many times if you think that's lovely."

"It was more of a smack." 

"Christ. With a rifle?"

You like it when he's loose like this. Relaxed. When he isn't barking out commands, and orders, and keeping a chasm between everyone. 

"No, with a hand." 

"Better see the medic. Don't need you suffering any more brain damage."

It's on the tip of your tongue— aw, you do care —but his words stick to the gummy lining of your scotch-filled head. Any more. 

You pout. "You're a stone-cold bastard, you know that?" 

Somewhere under the mask, you like to imagine that he's grinning. "Never said I wasn't." 

"What do you need, Lt?" 

Liquid eyes slide to him. "We're heading out. You stayin', MacTavish?"

He nods, sharp. "Aye. Might wander around Glasgow for a 'mo."

"And you, soldier?"

Ghost stares down at you. Soap's words surface—keekin' you all night—but you see nothing when you match his stare. When the heavy brunt of his full attention falls on you. 

Soap glances at you, eyes a half-sun. Your hands prickle. You wonder if wandering around might include a trip to the Cairngorms. 

(You imagine you could reach up and kiss the sun. 

Maybe, him, too, if he'd allow it.)

"I—," you tilt your head, nervous suddenly. "I'd like to learn more Scottish. If you wouldn't mind the company." 

"Aye, bonnie." There is victory in his grin. 

Ghost gives a sharp nod, and doesn't wait. 

You watch him leave, suddenly tense. Soap hasn't looked away from you yet. It simmers inside; another fissure. Another crack. The levee wobbles. 

"So…," he says, his voice a tickle in your ear. "About wantin' to seduce a Scot…"

"Not just any Scot," you murmur, eyes low. Framed by the hazy fairy lights, his grin feels like the sun cresting through a storm cloud. 

"Got my heart flichterin‘," he mutters. His hand is warm when it touches your wrist. "Wanna feel, bonnie? Feel what you do to me, hen?"

It feels like you're underwater when you nod. Like you've been dragged below the surface, then spat back up on the sandy shores, drenched in the rays. 

The heat kisses your palm when he presses it flat to his chest. His pulse hums under your lifeline; the grand wings of a bird fluttering in his ribcage. Your nails sink into his shirt, curling over the fabric until it's knotted in your fist. You could hold on to him forever. 

His eyes feel like a dawning sun when they land on you, wrapped in that equinox between day and dusk when you can still bask in the warmth that curtains over you. Liquid honey. Melted wax. It seeps over you, filling the cracks. 

(You, the earth; him, the sun: a perfect perihelion. You bloom under his cosmic heat.)

When you were younger, you'd stand on the hills, and gaze up at it in the aether. Your eyes narrowed into slits, watering from the blaze. The smile on your face was warmed under the rays. 

They warned you, then, when you'd come home with a headache, rubbing your tender eyes, that you'd go blind for it. That the sun would ruin you, that it wasn't meant to be stared at so nakedly. 

You think of it, now, when your eyes begin to crease. When the blistering intensity of him—luminous, bright, blinding –stares, open and raw, back at you. 

—you fucked in the upper car park at the Cairngorms, nestled near the base of a hill. he took you under the setting sun, and whispered how pretty you looked bathed in ochre and desperate for him

—it was Price who bailed you both out after getting slapped with public indecency ("haven't you two ever heard of doggin'?")

—he takes you to a football game for a proper date, your well-won Scottish man, but spanks your ass at home when you cheer for ManU over the Celtics; it's blasphemy in this household

—Gaz doesn't even want to know why you're barely able to sit in the chair, and why Soap looks so damn satisfied whenever you wince

(you tell him, anyway.)

translations (forgot these, oops)

—turadh: A break in the clouds between showers | dry spell

—it’s a dreich day: miserable day

—whit’s fur ye’ll no go by ye: what’s meant to happen will happen, or what will be will be

—naff: boring, rubish

—fadachd: yearning, longing

—keek: looking

—yer aff yer heid: acting stupid, someone that's too drunk or talking nonsense

—blootered: drunk

—diddy: coward

—flichterin‘: soft fluttering, as in the wings of a butterfly, or the flame of a candle.

—bonnie: used by older gens; used to describe someone pretty or attractive (is actually gender neutral - could be bonnie lass or bonnie lad)

—hen: used for a younger lady (can also be patronising) but kind of like sweetheart or honey)

[ohcorny]

hey corny. so i always see people recommending to outline their story before starting it, but could you talk a little bit more about what that means? what is an outline and how do you structure one? how long are the ones you write, depending on the project? do you focus on plot beats or feelings? how specific do you get? can u recommend any readings for learning more?

up front i don't have any resources for this, only experience. and outlines feel like one of those things where it's like... there are a million ways to do it and the way that works for me might not work for you. i have a friend who writes out all his ideas on index cards and that, for me, is insane. but he's also a better writer than me so who can say what is right or wrong.

anyway an outline is essentially a sketch but for a story. you go through the whole thing, start to finish, and figure out what goes where and what happens when. the idea is that this is the stage where you work out all the big picture stuff and make sure it all fits together, now, and not after you've drawn twenty pages and suddenly go "wait shit that doesn't work" and have to do it over. it is much easier to delete and rewrite a paragraph than to redraw several pages.

doing anything more, ie including dialogue or feelings, depends entirely on how useful that information is to you at that point in the process and whether the purpose of the outline is for your own guidance, or so somebody else can tell what you're trying to achieve.

this got really long with multiple examples

here is an excerpt from the original outline i used to pitch Hunger's Bite to publishers. this one had to be polished to a professional standard, because somebody else was going to read it and decide whether they wanted to give me thousands of dollars to tell this story. (also several of the details are no longer accurate. for instance it now takes place 9 years earlier lmao)

this paragraph represents the first eight pages of the book. the final book is 264 pages long, and the outline was 12 pages of paragraphs as dense as this one.

it establishes where we are, who's there, and what they're doing. i describe their conversation, but i don't commit to the dialogue. i will occasionally include snippets of literal dialogue, but usually only if it's Important Dialogue, or i just don't want to forget a good idea i had while outlining. it's not expected at this step.

an outline written as part of a pitch to a publisher should tell the whole story, with all the important details, and leave nothing ambiguous. they need to know the tone, shape, and the arcs. no secrets! all the spoilers. outlines for yourself should do this too, but outlines for others need to be as clear about your vision as possible. again, an outline like this exists for the purpose of getting you paid thousands of dollars. you should write it like that.

in comparison, here's an excerpt from the outline i wrote for revisions to my WIP prose novel, so i could show it to my agent (who already read the draft) to be like "do these changes sound good?" i'm not selling it to anyone yet, just making a guide so i can have a conversation about it. so it doesn't need to be neat, it just needs to be functional and clear. the first chapter was entirely new stuff. the second bit was just writing down what was already in the chapter that existed.

i have historically been very bad at outlining things when i don't think i "need" to, and only wrote this one after having written like 60k words of the book without any overall plan. i gave what i had to my agent for feedback and then sat down and figured out how i could apply it. it's made the whole revisions process significantly less daunting. now i have a checklist for things i need to do! this one was a paragraph or two for each chapter, with the ones that needed a lot of rewriting given a bit more detail.

lastly, here's a bit of the outline for the first roger crenshaw book. i was the only person who had to see this, and since the story was planned to be very short i didn't have to worry about a whole lot. as long as i knew what was supposed to go where, it would work. honestly it's not a whole lot different from the previous example.

this one was like five paragraphs and it did the job, and this story was like 15k words. you only need as much or as little as will actually help you on the page.

basically if you take nothing else from this, it's that there are multiple ways to write an outline, that it does not need to be perfect if you're doing it for yourself, and that it only needs what you think is important (unless it is for other people. then it should have everything). and also it's a good idea to do it earlier in the project than after you've written 60k words or drawn--jesus christ i got up to 12 chapters in never satisfied? it's amazing i didn't quit sooner

[itsjustaninchident]

Hi love! Can I request a social media au with our lovely Chili with his gf who loves cooking and spicy food? Thank you so much and love your account xo

You're in the Kitchen Humming🍝

Carlos Sainz x Chef!Reader

smau♡

summary: yn loves cooking as much as she loves Carlos, a snippet of their relationship full of food because a way to man's heart is through his stomach😉

warning/s: none

author's note: sorry for taking this long to take your request >< Life just got me busy. Anyway, I hope you like this and have a good day! Lovelots♡

yourusername

liked by carlossainz55, landonorris, and 109,234 others.

yourusername another day, another recipe.

view 6,789 comments...

carlossainz55 can't wait to be home.

yourusername hurry up then :P user1 HELP THIS IS SO CUTE user2 IM SO SINGLE user3 brb while i lay down the road and wait for a car to run me down

landonorris you better save up some for me

carlossainz55 are you sure, last time you ate some you look like you're gonna explode because of the spice

landonorris tbf it was very spicy but still good

yourusername awww thank you lan!

charlesleclerc can I have some too?

carlossainz55 not you too

user4 yn is so wifey material😭 i want her

liked by carlossainz55 and 145 others

carlossainz55

liked by yourusername, charlesleclerc, and 456,342 others

carlossainz55 date night with my mi amor❤️

view 23,876 others...

user1 who cooked? 🤔

yourusername he did! he's getting tired of the chilis i put into every dinner😭

carlossainz55 i love your cooking but you know I can't take much spice y'know

yourusername very ironic for your nickname🤣

user2 will you marry me instead yn? I love spicy food i would eat it all day and all night😄

carlossainz55 no

user3 a love like this? 😭

user4 they're so domestic it physically hurt my heart

user5 don't ever break up pls😭

yourusername

liked by carlossainz55, lilymhe, and 678,920 others

yourusername rest day so mr. chili right here took matter with his own hands🥰

view 39,576 comments...

carlossainz55 i love cooking for you, means I get free back hugs

yourusername i love your cooking as well maybe we can switch jobs? I drive, you cook?

carlossainz55 deal 🤝 you're not a bad driver yourself😉

yourusername i've got the best teacher😜

user1 this love is so pure🥺

user2 im so😭

user3 ME N WHO?!

user4 might as well go cliff diving without a harness

landonorris so when will i get an invite to one of your dinners ?

carlossainz55 when you're no longer annoying

landonorris you're so mean

yourusername you're welcome anytime lando!

landonorris this is why i consider yn my friend more than you, carlos

carlossainz55 blah blah blah

user5 they're like kids😭😭😭

user6 now i wanna taste yn's cooking too😭

user7 this is what i think of when I listen to sweet nothing by taylor swift

user8 true

user9 taylor told me she wrote it about them

carlossainz55

liked by yourusername, charlesleclerc, and 1,284,029 others

carlossainz55 cooking show off, guess who won?

view 23,738 comments...

charlesleclerc i love u mate but yn definitely won

carlossainz55 i will remember this betrayal

yourusername for that, i will send u some pasta

charlesleclerc 🤩🤩🤩

carlossainz55 so this is how it goes huh

yourusername sorry love, but even your parents said my cooking was better 😜

carlossainz55 okay, masterchef winner

yourusername ig you can get an extra serving of the pesto pasta?

carlossainz55 i will forget everything that has happened in this comment section😄

user1 IM SORRY WHAT? MASTERCHEF WINNER?????

user2 yep!!!😭

user3 OKAY I GET THE HYPE NOW WHY HER COOKING IS LITERALLY SOUGHT OUT AFTER BY THESE VROOM VROOM MEN

user4 the fact that carlos was able to bag her,,, imagine your normal dinner tastes like it's always from a three star michelin restaurant

carlossainz55 can confirm, i would even give it a 5 star if that's a thing💁

liked by yourusername and 2,395 others

user4 NOT CARLOS REPLYING #)"($($('!$

user5 when do i get my own yn????😭 I can't keep eating mac n cheese

carlossainz55

liked by charlesleclerc, landonorris, and 1,482,093 others

carlossainz55 happy birthday, my love. I will love your cooking until I could no longer taste anything. I love you, yn❤️

view 23,047 comments...

user1 HAPPY YN DAY!

user2 HAPPY BIRTHDAY OUR QUEEN

user3 will there be a dinner? Are we invited?

landonorris guess I'll taste yn's cooking💁

yourusername sorry to break your heart lan, carlos didn't let me cook ;(

carlossainz55 well it's your birthday???

landonorris 💔 I should've went when it was his birthday

carlossainz55 the dishes were all for me

yourusername maybe a gathering will do? 😄

landonorris count me in!

charlesleclerc me too!

pierregasly me three

alex_albon me (and lily) four!

georgerussell63 me five!

user4 not yn unintentionally inviting the whole paddock

redbullracing maybe we'll get you as the chef for the catering?

yourusername name your price 🤣

redbullracing anything for the food!

ferrari not so fast

carlossainz55 this is like the worst betrayal ever

user5 redbull will lay down everything for their catering

yourusername thank you, mi amor! I love you too even if you kinda hate spicy food...

carlossainz55 y'know what happens when i eat a lot of it :(

yourusername im just kidding you big baby !

user6 so happy for mother😭😭😭😭

lilymhe happy birthday yn!

yourusername thank you love!❣️

user7 oh to be loved by yn 😭

liked by carlossainz55 and 54,786 others

[magicalrocketships]

do you have any updates on baby max?

I have a little update about Daniel for you instead, which I hope will suffice :)

All earlier parts can be found in this masterpost and on AO3 here (and I feel weird about updating AO3 with a snippet this short, so I'll put this up whenever I write anything a bit longer in this verse!).

It's You And Me (I Know It's My Destiny): Waking Up

It's late when Daniel wakes up. The sun's shining through the windows, curving across his sheets, hitting his face. 

It's quiet. Too quiet. 

Max is always awake hours before now, and if Max isn't, then the Jimmy or Sassy cats are. 

Daniel knows before he gets up that Max is gone. That the cats are gone. But he checks anyway. The sheets are rucked up, half on and off Max's bed, Pikachu on the floor all caught up in a messy, trailing sheet. Daniel touches the bed but it's cold. Max's Pokemon pyjamas are on the floor by the wardrobe, the basket Daniel keeps on the top shelf with Max's grown up clothes has been rifled through and things taken. 

He picks Max's stuffed Pikachu up off the floor. Doesn't put him down again. 

In the hall cupboard, the cat carrier's gone. So are the cats, but not the unfinished remains of their food in the kitchen. Daniel puts the whole bowl straight in the bin. He doesn't bother to scrape it out. The litter tray hasn't been emptied either. 

In the living room, on the shelf in the corner, the little basket labelled Max has been taken down and tipped out on the counter. It's always got the contents of Max's pockets from when he went Small; his phone, his wallet, house keys. Daniel keeps his phone plugged in and charged because of all the fucking admin of being Max Verstappen's guardian. 

But it's gone now. Like Max. 

Daniel goes to sit back down on his bed. He picks up his phone and texts Max: are you ok and I'm assuming you're big again. 

He waits until the ticks turn blue. Watches the three dots appear and disappear. 

Max's message says, eventually, Yes. Thanks. 

Daniel nods, swallows, locks his phone, and buries his face in Pikachu's soft, loved fur. Then, carefully, he gets back into bed, pulls the sheets up over his head, and doesn't bother getting up again. 

[girlfromthecrypt]

Got a lot of writing done today! But damn, Chapter 4 is going to be massive. With the best friend choice added, it's so much branchier than the ones before. I really think it's going places, though!

Also, I had this amazing idea for an IF I'm planning to do after. I know that's faaaar off in the future bc I'm forcing myself to EXCLUSIVELY work on Such Happy Campers, but let's just say it's going to be fucking awful. Heartbreak and doom in, like, a trilogy of books.

Don't worry, though, I'm laser-focused on SHC. Have a snippet of MC standing up for a kid right below!

“He was full-on verbally harassing her,” I say. “Purposefully calling her a boy, saying cruel things about her looks… Her punching him is understandable, if not excusable.”

Huda frowns, glancing down at Enola. “He said all that, did he.”

Enola’s gaze is trained on me. She looks almost shocked that I’m defending her.

“Seems like there’s a longer conversations to be had here,” Huda goes on. “Enola… look at me. We don’t hit people. But that doesn’t mean you have to take that boy’s bullying. I’m sorry if I made you think we were picking sides here. We want you to enjoy your stay here as much as anyone, I promise.”

Enola swallows audibly. “I… I mean… Okay?”

“Come on,” I prompt, gesturing at the group of kids playing behind the lobby building.

“I don’t want to see him, though! Please. Not right now.”

Huda smiles. “Don’t worry, Benny’s inside. Getting his nosebleed taken care of. We’ll have to sit down together sometime, but we’re not going to drag you right on over there.”

“Okay,” Enola repeats, shakily. “Thanks,” she whispers to me.

[slowd1ving]

[KILLER] SNIPPET ゜・MOZE

I'd kill for one of those really long cigarette holders but like those bubble pipes

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

It happens like this. Occasionally, a man as ill-fortuned as Moze receives gets a break. 

There’s a tumbler of whiskey on the low coffee table in the living room. Polished chestnut—if you had to describe it—with the light shining through the amber liquid just so, until it reflects onto the varnished surface. A cube of ice sits dainty in the middle, clinking as you tip the glass this way and that. 

“Don’t spill it,” the assassin murmurs. From behind the couch, breath ghosting just past your ear. You don’t shriek (perhaps he hoped you would)—you don’t even glance his way. 

“I feel like that was a redundant warning,” you remark brusquely, taking a swill of the liquor. It’s sweeter than it would’ve been normally: courtesy of the saccharine pipe nestled betwixt your fingers and the smoke still lingering in your mouth. “Were you hoping I’d jump?”

“Yes.” Short. To the point. Laconic. That’s how those outside this home would describe the man currently leaning down, hands splayed on the backrest of the couch. “We’ve got a mission tomorrow, and you still haven’t done the dishes.”

“It’s your turn,” he adds, because he likes seeing how this man’s expression wrinkles in exasperation, likes that stupid cant of your head—for it means Moze has won this little encounter. It’s all because he strongly dislikes his roommate, no other reason. 

“You suck.” Syrupy plumes ghost his face as you exhale into his face above—he doesn’t move back, even as the traces of burnt caramel become far more prominent, even as it feels like you’re blowing him a kiss more than anything.

“And you need to clean and go to sleep before you’re late,” he grits out, more annoyed than he was a moment ago. He’d say it was due to your lack of responsibility, but this angle allows the loose robe to expose your bitten collarbone—like some stupid fucking trophy. “Like you always are.”

“I’m never late, A-ze,” you enunciate each word in such a way that makes it clear you’re not drunk—so clearly the nickname is just to piss him off. A last-ditch middle finger; a threat that hasn’t worked for some time, one that makes his stomach churn uncomfortably but not enough to admit defeat. “You’re just up stupid early.”

He goes silent, in the way he does when you’re right. Instead of saying anything, he instead plucks the glass from your hand: downing the smooth alcohol from where you drank it, enjoying how for once your mouth closes just like his. The pipe in your hand tilts this way and that as you take a drag thoughtfully—recovering far too quickly for his liking. 

“A-ze.” Like this, with wisps exiting your mouth and silk draped over you, you look good enough to eat. He freezes at the implication of his thoughts, freezes at the sound of the name blanketed in some gruesome replica of affection. He hates it; hates how his heart squeezes and a faint flush of red dusts his cheekbones. Aeons. 

It is common knowledge to not toss a starving dog a bone before it hungers for more. 

“What, you don’t hate it anymore? Here I was, hoping you’d turn tail and leave,” you sigh, theatrically despondent—much like you normally are. Too damn dramatic for your own good. 

So desperate, drinking your sorrows away as if that’ll possibly work. He scoffs, striding the short distance over so he can tower over from the front. 

“Maybe you just like calling me that,” he breathes. There’s a smile playing on his lips: the rare one he gets when he knows he’s got a point, knows when he’s right. It’s unconscious—he’s far too oblivious to notice it only occurs around you. 

“I do,” you murmur. “Bet it warms your heart though. No one likes you enough to call you that.”

“So you like me?” There’s an odd buzz in his veins tonight. As the orange lights from the street blink into existence, and the room is no longer illuminated by ‘day’, he’s glad for the darkness that conceals the heat in his face. Your clothing rustles as you stand—practically nose to nose with the man in front of you.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Xiaoze,” you mutter, and the heated breath from your lips fans over his sensitive skin—mingling with the tobacco wisps and alcohol vapour. He swallows. “It’s pity.”

“Pity?” he sneers. “Like how you sleep around to get over your boyfriend? That’s not pitiful?”

“Like I said—” your tone becomes frigid as you shift closer: until his chest brushes up against yours, until he can count every lash that glows amber in the incandescent street lamps, until he can practically taste the rolling fury off your tongue. Warm. Scalding heat ebbs from your body and flows right into his own. “—don’t get ahead of yourself, Xiaoze.”

His breath comes in ragged waves. So close. When he stands so near to a human, it typically means he’s feeling life flow from them. Not like this; but he cannot bring himself to get away. 

He’s never been more thankful for his unwavering voice. 

“Don’t give bones to starving dogs,” he murmurs, mellifluous rather than jarringly annoying. “They’ll bite.”

Smoke wafts into his face as you survey his expression: flushed, brows knitted taut, lips still slick with liquor. 

“So you’re a dog, now?” Your fingers graze his chin, canting his head this way and that as he makes no moves to evade your grasp: heart beating miserably in his chest. There’s a strange sort of hunger in your gaze. 

He’s never seen it before. 

“No, it was proverbial—” Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “—you know?”

“Just as desperate as one,” you mutter. Trailing your finger down until they graze his collarbones, it’s no wonder he flinches—and you stare at him, unimpressed. “If I tell people about this, your reputation would immediately disintegrate. How many years have you cultivated that stupid mysterious image?”

“Hah—who would believe you?” It’s true, not many people would—but alas, the important ones have already witnessed this man looking at you. 

“Jiaoqiu, but I guess he already knows what a loser you are.” And you miss how when he lowers his head, he looks like a completely different person—flushed visage mired in shadow, like the assassin he truly is. He’s staring right at you, unblinking as he watches the cruel movement of your lips. 

“Don’t talk about him right now.”

And so, you don’t. 

[thehuntfortrencherlostmedia]

The Origins, Ramsay Fiction & The Confusing Mishmash of Everything Before Fix Me - A Marianas Trench Retrospective

Okay, so my post got likes, but I only got one actual response from anyone, agreeing with me on the fact they like things in chronological order. So, I guess it's time to talk about the bands early days, eh?

The truth of the matter is, the band as many know them started in late 2003 and early 2004. Anything before that gets placed in this weird murky middle section with a name change, members leaving, and also a complete and utter mess of when Ramsay Fiction came to an end and where Marianas Trench begins. We have located a demo disk from 2001 with the Marianas name on it, but we also don't have any dates as to when certain things were recorded or uploaded onto MP3.com.

Here's what we do know: Josh Ramsay, a teenager dealing with both an addiction to heroin and an eating disorder, loved music from a young age. His father owned a recording studio, and his mother was a vocal coach. Music was literally in his blood, but even though the two had connections into the industry and everything, he set out to make it into the business on his own. And he knew one thing for certain: He DID NOT want to be a solo act, he wanted to be in a band.

The issue for Josh was getting that band together. At first, it was him and his sister Sara (backup vocals), her then boyfriend and later husband Trevor Spilchen (on bass, even though he was a guitar player), Josh's friend Steve Marshall (on guitar and backup vocals, despite being a BASSIST), and a rotating list of drummers, eventually finding Ian Casselman in a series of classifieds in a newspaper late into the bands life. This lineup didn't last long, as once Sara became pregnant with her and Trevor's first kid, they stepped aside... leading to 2 new members joining: Josh's friend Matt Webb (originally a keyboardist), and Steve's pal Morgan Hempstead (the man who bestowed them the Marianas Trench name). It's tough to say who plays what on a lot of the Ramsay Fiction tracks that make up Cooler Than Me, as I think they come from two different recording sessions, if not more. Same goes for a lot of the self-titled EP work too, as we know at least two tracks from that era, an early recording of Fix Me, and a early recording of Skin & Bones, were both first made public to people in 2004... months after Steve and Morgan left, and Mike Ayley joined the group after getting to know everyone as Ian's roommate.

In fact, for the longest time, a lot of the Ramsay Fiction stuff was lost media, songs that nobody outside of a rare few had ever heard. As of April 1st this year, this is no longer the case, and all the songs have been found and preserved (yes, even PMS... despite it being taken off Youtube, has been saved.)

To talk about these songs is hard. There's definitely a lot of emotion and pain in these tracks, and the overall sound is very 90's, going for more of heavy grunge and alternate rock sound, very reminiscent of Matthew Goode. But you can also hear those other elements creep in from other acts Josh has referenced time and time throughout in small snippets. The biggest thing holding a lot of these songs back is a mix of production (which is still insanely impressive for the time period and the fact it was done by a teen no less), and lyrical ckunkiness, making them semi hard to decipher.

What do I mean by this? Take track 1, the one everyone knows: Primetime. The song's verses speak about how something is this, but the person is the opposite... bu we don't get a clear picture of who the person is.. only that supposedly a hit of heroin will make everything feel better. It's odd that this is the song that's somehow lasted the test of time out of all these tracks. But hey, it did lead to a great callback on End of An Era.

Track 2, Shiny Like Dirt (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bG-OoIsFbow), is truly a song where Josh took a ton of ideas he had for songs, and threw it against the wall to see if it would stick. And... it does stick, but also doesn't? The chorus is super catchy, basically admitting he's a confusing person, and that nothing he does makes sense... and yet, despite it all, he still has fears of the unknown. The "coming up for air" bridge is probably my favourite part, but it's definitely an earworm I return to occasionally. I've also linked it in case you've yet to hear it.

Track 3: Shallow. The song we've known about for the longest time, the one the fandom cherished like a baby... and honestly, it's probably my least favourite? I've tried to decipher the lyrics on this one for ages, but I can't come up with anything concrete. I do think the song has a good tone, and the guitar solo is totally awesome. In fact, there's a lot of great guitar and bass work throughout a lot of these songs. But there's something missing for me on this one.

Track 4: Playing Dead. This seems to be the earliest recorded song of this bunch, going off Josh's voice here. And honestly, I think it's the closest tonally to a current day Marianas Trench song. There's a bit of a swing sound going on in the drums, the harmonies.... and it's an interesting number overall. Also, it's our clearest sampling of Steve's voice, and just how close it is to Matt's vocals xD... it seems to be a simple love song about a girl and how he's open to roleplaying almost anything with her, using "playing dead" as his main metaphor. It's the black sheep of the CD, but a good one.

Track 5: Hideous. Here we go... the first track Josh ever wrote about his bulimia and depression... and how it was eating him from the inside... and how he was asking for help, even though he wasn't fully ready to accept it at the time. The beginning parts are very slow, and methodical.... only for the song to pick up energy in it's second half and become truly one of the standouts on this album.

Track 6: PMS. Okay... so... this one is tough to talk about. We knew for years it was supposedly very comedic in nature and that it was also politically incorrect, but that was it. For those of you who still have not heard it, there's a copy of it in this Discord server in the links and archive section: https://discord.gg/d5M3xVN9

As for the song itself, I personally really love it. It's a song about Josh being petty to a girl and truthfully telling her off. It's definitely of its time period, but in the best way possible. And once again, the guitar work here is SO GOOD. If you can stomach a song that truly is a time capsule and understand that Josh would never write anything as juvenile today, give it a listen.

Track 7: Don't Touch Me. The song that holds a special place in my heart... as I was the one to LOCATE IT after 18 years in the massive pile of MP3.com links that were given to the Internet Archive in 2021. And it's a ballad all about Josh dealing with both the arguments and turmoil he would feel when coming down from getting high. Truthfully, this might be the most emotional song of this batch, and one that definitely sticks its landing.

So, my overall thoughts here are to give these songs a listen, and understand them for what they are: the start of a musical prodigy finding his footing and his sense of style while getting clean and hoping somebody, anybody, would give him a chance. While the tone might not have influenced Josh’s style fully going forward, there are elements from these songs that were taken and repurposed into later Trench tracks.

Luckily, and also sadly... Jonathan Simkin & Chad Kroeger gave him that chance. And thus, we got ourselves a self titled EP... and a full title debut. But that'll be next time.

[ohforficsake]

The Margay: Chapter 10

Read the Last Page

prev / series masterlist / main masterlist

Summary: Santiago recruits Frankie to contract for a covert agency that pairs them with danger in more ways than one. A series of one-shot snippets taking place during and around missions.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Sniper!OFC Audrey 'Moose' Goddard

Word Count: ~4.4K

WARNINGS: Triggers for themes of self harm/ suicidal ideation / fearing that someone will self-harm / Mentions of physical spousal abuse and escaping an abusive marriage. Please read with care.

Rating: Explicit 18+ / language / mentions of past drug use / Minors DNI

A/N: Frankie tries to put himself back together. Frankie tries to figure out why the fuck he's like this. Audrey realizes there is something she's afraid of.

Dividers by @cafekitsune

As always, this is un-beta'd, please do shoot me a message with any typos. Feel free to pop into my inbox if you'd like to chat. We've only got one chapter after this for these two. I hope I do them justice. Here goes nothing.

Francisco spends the next two weeks in hiding.

As much as Benny’s place can be considered hiding. 

Santiago is too close to the thing and Will would have tried to pull it apart, deliberately. Methodically. So he could come up with a way to make it right.

Frankie doesn’t want solutions right now, he just wants to feel like shit.

And Benny knows Catfish fucked up somehow, because the last time Frankie was here was when he got hit with the coke charge that suspended his license. 

He supposes Fish hiding at his place is better than Fish running through an eightball. 

But Frankie’s first night here is the worst night Benny’s had since then.

The night after Tom died included. 

It wasn’t all on him then. 

He couldn’t hear Frankie’s stuttering sobs in the next room then.

His stomach didn’t churn with the wails that Frankie tries to stifle with pillows when the walls of his heart can’t hold them in any longer then. 

But Benny soon learns that Frankie going silent is far worse. 

And so he hauls himself from bed, grabbing his phone off the nightstand, and quietly makes his way across the hall to the guest bedroom, rapping two knuckles against the guest bedroom door.

“Fish?”

Still, silence. 

“Listen, you ain’t gotta tell me what’s up. Not if you don’t want to. I just. I just gotta know that you’re okay, buddy."

“I don’t have fucking coke if that’s what you’re asking.” Frankie’s voice is hoarse. Muffled where he’s face-down in a wet patch on the pillow.

And Benny already knows because Benny checked his bags while Catfish was in the shower and nabbed Frankie’s keys and pocket knife to tuck into his own bedside table. 

But still.

“I just need to know—” Benny starts. Thinks better of it. Decides he couldn’t live with any more regret. Continues softly. 

“—that you’re not going to hurt yourself, Fish.”

“It’s fuckin’ fine, Benny,” Fish’s voice is only muffled by the door now. 

Benny stares at the ceiling. 

“Okay,” he rolls off his tongue. “Can you do something for me though?” He bends to sit on the floor with his back against the doorframe. 

“The fuck is it Ben?”

“Can we just—do a few breaths?”

And Fish doesn’t say “no” because Fish doesn’t say anything.

“I’m gonna put my hands on my stomach,” Benny reframes, “and breathe in through my nose. All the way in until I move my hands.” There’s a pause as he does. “And I’m gonna let it out and do it again.”

He repeats this cycle. A bit less instruction each time, but following through himself. Palms rising and falling over the worn jersey of his t-shirt. 

He repeats the cycle. 

Of forcing Frankie to breathe. 

Of ticking his nervous system cool.

Until he hears a mumbled, “thanks, Benny,” from the other side of the door. 

“Listen man,” Benny starts softly.

“I love you, okay?”

“Love you too, man.”

And he feels a bit better. 

But Ben Miller still doesn’t sleep that first night.

Fish hangs around the house like a phantom for the next three days. Benny hears the creak of floorboards in the guest room. The latching of the bathroom door. The tv click through channels. 

Hears Netflix pause when it asks if Frankie’s still watching. 

He is. 

Baking shows from the sound of it. 

Benny tries the whole first day to offer him coffee and breakfast. Lunch and Pepsi, because maybe Coke would have been insensitive. Dinner and a beer. 

“‘M not hungry.”

“Frankie, you gotta at least drink some water.”

“Got some from the sink.”

So Benny takes to leaving snacks in the guest bathroom.

He breathes a little easier when some of them start to disappear. 

And he occasionally hears Frankie sniffling. And then hears deliberate breaths. 

He’s grateful to have given Frankie that at least. 

The poltergeist’s activity spreads on day five when Benny hears footsteps on the stairs.

And he has to fight a wince when finally the man appears. 

Frankie looks like a husk. 

Puffy eyes, hair matted down to his head. Overgrown, scraggly beard that's greying on sallow cheeks. 

And Benny just pulls two beers from the fridge, cracks them open on a magnet, and klinks the base of his against Frankie’s.

“Wanna watch the game?” 

“Sure,” Frankie mumbles.

And Benny breathes a little easier.

He clocks Frankie on the knee with his knuckles after about half an hour of silence, “hey, you eat today, man?”

“Don’t remember.”

“Go take a shower. Gonna order pizza. Sausage is good, right?”

“Not hungry.”

“I’ll get goat cheese on it.”

And Frankie sits for a beat.

“Fine.” 

He has a bit more color in his cheeks when he returns to the kitchen.

“Hey, you ever try meditation?” Benny asks after a bit through a mouthful of pizza. 

“No, I’ve never fucking tried meditation, Benny.”

“I can show you, if you want.”

“Not right now.”

“No,” Benny huffs through a bite of crust, “not right now. I’m gonna get you a journal too.”

And Frankie starts to protest, but he knows Benny is trying to offer him the tools that he himself uses to get him through.

There’s a Moleskin and a pen in the bathroom when Frankie ventures out in the morning. 

And like summer sun after the spring equinox, Frankie emerges from his cave earlier and earlier each day.

“You wanna talk about it?” Benny asks one night from where he’s slumped down on the couch, beer in hand, basketball game on tv. 

“Nah.” Fish answers from the other end of the couch, taking a swig from his own bottle.

“‘S about Moose?”

“Yeah,” Frankie works a fingernail between paper and glass, the tack of adhesive catching on his fingerprints.

“She get hurt out there?”

“No,” Frankie answers.

After a minute.

“I hurt her.”

“You cheat on her?”

“Wha–no. No. It’s not like that. I didn’t cheat on her.”

“Good, you’d…” And Benny chokes off his first reaction.

“’S fine, you can say it.”

“Nah.”

“I’d be a fuckin’ idiot. I already am. I’m aware,” Frankie scrubs a hand down his face. “I just. I said things I ain’t proud of.”

“So go fix it.”

And Frankie lets out an astonished huff at how simple the world is to Benny sometimes.

“You in a headspace for me to tell you somethin’?”

“Say what you gotta say, Benny.”

“Listen, Fish. You gotta just face it. And don’t just say 'I’m sorry' because girls hate that shit. Say what you’re sorry for and why you were a fuckin’ idiot for sayin’ it and that it’ll never happen again. And then don’t fuckin’ do it again. Not if you wanna keep her. Because that girl? She ain’t gonna put up with your shit.”

“She left.”

“She left because you probably pushed her away, Catfish.” Benny shifts on the couch to place his beer bottle on the coffee table, elbows resting on his knees before he finally looks over at Frankie.

“Look, I dunno what you said, but she’s got thick fuckin’ skin. Moose will take a lot of shit right on the chin and fling it back at you. So whatever it was, you gotta figure out why you said it. You gotta do that work on yourself, man. And don’t yank her chain, either. She ain’t gonna give you third and fourth chances.”

“You read that shit in a book somewhere, or you just got a lot of experience apologizing, Benny?”

“I do.”

Frankie scoffs.

And he wants to jump right up off of this couch, march up the stairs and slam the bedroom door behind him. But he knows what that would do to Benny. 

So he waits until the game is over.

Excuses himself with a “goodnight” and a “thanks for the beer.” 

He finally cracks open the journal Benny bought, and on the first page he scrawls:

Why the fuck am I like this?

The hardest part, Frankie thinks, is that his neural pathways are still wired to her presence. 

Any second she’ll step through the doorway.

Wild black curls and a soft smile. 

A matter of moments before she’ll press her soft weight to his back and her lips to that spot just behind his ear with a soft hum.

Lithe warm body to cover his own.

A pretty little thing to be used when the need strikes and then…

His own words ring in his ears. Crumble the fantasy into powder.

The dreams don’t help either.

The ones of that night in her apartment. 

The way things could have gone.

Her hands braced against the wide expanse of his chest as she chases the high that will make her forget.

Both of them move to fit around his neck.

And she comes with his full name on her lips.

And he follows her with sparks bursting in the black at the edges of his vision.

Little death has green eyes.

Little death that slips through his fingers each time he palms his cock in search of relief.

Frankie finds the strength to face Santiago once he’s back at his own place.

Strength or loneliness.

He’s not actually sure on that one. 

But he swipes a hand down his face after he shifts his truck into park in the driveway. He rubs it around to the back of his neck, fingers working at a knot there.

He's here.

Might as well.

Dinner passes without incident. Santi's fresh off the plane from Guatemala. And the hesitancy with which he discloses it tips Frankie off.

"How is she?"

Santiago angles hard dark eyes in his direction. And he wants to tell Frankie that she's distracted. That her gaze is constantly weighted with something that all of this dredged up. She's functional now but she's running on luck. Audrey can't afford to run on luck.

She's not well. But that's not Santiago's to confess.

“Frankie. What happened?” Comes out instead.

“I flipped.”

That’s all he needs to say for Pope to know how bad it is.

“What did you say, Francisco?”

“I…I was jealous seeing her there," he rubs at his lips with a finger. "With that man. And then I couldn't stop myself from thinking about everyone else. I said crude things.”

“We say crude things to each other all the time, that wasn’t it. What did you say, Frankie.”

“I talked about other men using her,” he swallows hard. “I…I called her a pretty little plaything to be used when the need strikes and then…”

“Discarded?” Santiago finishes, eyebrows in his hairline. 

“I didn’t," Frankie looks down at his lap. "Didn’t say that. Didn’t get that far.”

Santi runs his palm down his face and across his chin and springs from his seat. “Oh. Well then. What were you going to say? What did you intend to say when the first half of that sentence left your fuckin’ mouth. Huh? What was it, Francisco?”

“I wasn’t myself, Pope…I…”

“And you put your hands on her. Again you put your hands on her, Francisco.” And some dark part of Frankie’s brain thinks that where Pope took his side the first time, now he takes hers.

He should be taking hers.

“I saw the bruises.”

“I’m sorry…”

“Don’t fuckin’ apologize to me, apologize to HER.”

Gestured broadly in the direction of Washington DC.

“I did. I did that night,” his voice is a low rasp, “but I…I was a mess.”

“What did you tell her? I’m sorry with big fuckin’ tears in your eyes?”

“Yeah.” And the big fuckin’ tears are back. 

“You told her she was disposable, Francisco. I don’t care if the word didn’t come out of your mouth. That’s what you said. A body. Because you were thinking with what, your dick? You told her she’s unwanted. Unloved, Francisco.” 

And something in the way he says it makes Frankie think that he knows more than he lets on.

“The crocodile tears? That shit’s not enough. How many times has she grounded you? Pulled you out of one of your fuckin’ moods without asking what put you there in the first place? How many smiles has she put on your face, huh? She brought the fuckin’ light back into your eyes, hermano. I see it when you’re with her. How many times has she made you fucking feel something again, Francisco?”

“She fuckin’ sees you. Every. Fucking. Part. Of you," Santiago stabs two fingers of one hand into the palm of the other with every word.

“And you know what?” He points at Frankie now.

“She loves you anyway.”

“She doesn’t love me.”

“You know she sent your daughter a birthday present from you because she knew that you were gonna forget? Yeah. Your daughter’s birthday was a week ago, Francisco.”

Santiago’s kitchen is spinning.

"I should go," Frankie starts, wincing at the way his chair scrapes across linoleum when he stands.

“But you told her she’s a thing that you wouldn’t keep.” And he definitely didn’t tell Pope that.

“I think we both know that’s a lie, Francisco. But only one of us is willing to admit it.”

“And you know what? You shouldn’t. You don’t fuckin’ deserve her.”

“And it’s your own fuckin’ fault. I can’t help you out of that one.”

But Santiago knows how hard he just bit.

And the part of him that loves Frankie.

This wrecked shell of a man.

The part of him that doesn’t want to get a call in the morning about an overdose tonight.

Now tries to lick wounds.

He wraps Frankie in a hug.

And Frankie hugs him back with closed fists, heaving sobs into Santiago’s shoulder.

“I love you, man,” Santiago murmurs. “I don’t wanna see you throw away one of the best things that’s ever happened to you. The best thing since your little girl.”

“I don’t know what to do. Without her.”

And Santiago’s viscera twist with the pain in Frankie’s voice.

“We’ll figure it out,” he moves back a fraction, hand on Frankie’s shoulder. “We’ll figure it out together, okay?”

Audrey tosses her keys, phone, and a stack of mail on her kitchen island, toeing off her sneakers as she piles her curls at the crown of her head and secures them with the tie on her wrist.

She washes her face and slips into the bedroom, tossing her clothes and bra onto the leather butterfly chair in the corner, swapping linen for the same tired t-shirt she's worn for the past two weeks.

It's one of Frankie's. Found at the bottom of a duffle that never got unpacked in the aftermath. Marled grey cotton that falls halfway down her thighs with a faded Corona Extra logo over her heart.

She idly pulls the collar up over her nose and holds it there as she sifts through the pile of mail.

An L.L. Bean catalogue.

An invitation to her cousin's baby shower.

A padded manila envelope.

From F. Morales.

She tears it open and pulls out a burgundy leather notebook with a yellow post-it stuck to the front.

I’m leaving this with you, because it feels fitting for you to have it. An exercise in remembrance. If you read nothing else. Please just read the last page.  x F

But Audrey’s brain.

The one that’s kept her alive after over 20 years on the razor’s edge of survival. 

Has already identified the worst possible contingency. 

And she frantically gropes for her phone with panic squeezing her chest.

Santiago answers not two seconds later.

“Yo,” he starts.

“Santiago, don’t say a single fucking word that's not an answer to what I ask you right now. Do you know where Francisco is?”

“Yeah, he’s sitting right across from me. All good.”

Fuck.

FUCK.

Her forehead falls into her palm as she heaves a sigh.

“Okay.”

But it comes out very wrong.

Cracked and choked. High-pitched on the last syllable.  

"Okay," she repeats as her legs begin to falter. "Thank you. Thanks, Santi."

And Santiago hears the tremor in her voice.

The raw fracture as she sinks to the floor. Back braced against the cabinets. 

Santiago gets up from the bar table, feeling Frankie’s eyes on him and steps out into a cloud of smoke on the patio.

“Hey, hey, hey, Aud. He’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.” 

“He sent—sent me this book and this note and FUCK."

She's hyperventilating now. Now that she's past immediate danger.

Now that the feeling catches up to her.

The fear.

“The…the way he worded this, it. I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m sorry for bothering…”

“Hey, Aud no no no. What did he send?”

“A notebook. A note that says I’m leaving this with you.”

“He’s not there, Aud. He’s okay. He’s okay, I promise. He’s not in that space. Benny and Will are here. We’ve got him.”

And he hears the sharp gasp of breath through her constricted throat. The staccato of her letting it out on a sob between beats of her racing heart where everything she’s tamped down rushes out of a crack in the earth.

“He’s clean. He’s not, in that headspace. Not near that point, Audrey,” Santi coos, his own throat tightening now. “He’s okay.” 

The Operative spoke first.

The Woman is speaking now. 

“How.”

And she means how do you know.

How the fuck can you be so sure. 

“We’ve,” Santi clears his throat, “we’ve been through this with Frankie before. Twice. He’s not there.”

“Santi.”

And the tremor in her voice hits him like the first time he saw his dad cry.

“Take care of him. Please. Please take care of him.” 

“Please.”

In the softest voice he's ever heard Audrey use.

And it’s the simplest plea delivered to him as though she were tendering her still-beating heart. 

“I will, Aud. You have my word, I will.”

Santiago hears her let out a broken sigh that’s muffled by a hand over her mouth.

“Thank you, Santi.”

“He’s gonna be okay, Aud.”

The line goes dead.

And Audrey weeps on her kitchen floor.

Until she’s wrung moisture from the marrow of her bones.

She reaches up to grab the little burgundy notebook, thumbing through to the last page.

A date range, a week and a half from today.

And an address in Jamaica.

An address that she knows.

A place where her future split off a new branch. The limb that she’s curled on now.

And she doesn’t know if she has it in her to go there again.

But not knowing what more to do, she flips to a random page.

Had a good day today. Made it down to the gym with Benny and Will. Think I smashed my hands up a bit, but it still felt good after. 

It's a journal.

And she idly realizes she's never really seen Frankie's handwriting before. Composed of tightly wound capitals in places that languidly flow together at the same time.

It suits him.

Another entry.

Saw an old Chevy for sale today and thought about buying it and fixing it up. Part of me wants to. But I don’t think I can right now.

And she flips all the way back to the very beginning. 

Why the fuck am I like this?

The journal spans the nearly three months that they've been apart.

Therapist asked me this afternoon if I’ve talked to her. Told him I haven’t tried and he asked why. I don’t think she’d want to talk to me. But he said that’s a decision I’m making for her. Guess that’s right. Asked what I’d say if she did pick up the phone. I don’t actually know. He said would you try to convince her to come back. And I don’t think I would. Not because I don’t want her back, I want that more than anything in the world. I want a future with her in it.  But I don’t think it’s right to try to convince her. 

He has “convince” underlined twice.

I want to be better. I need to be better first. What’s that shit they say about if your flower bed sucks. You don’t fix the flowers, you fix the soil. You make it a good place for them. I’m not a good place for her right now. But I want to be. I already fucked one good thing up because I wasn’t. I can’t just keep doing the same shit. Not just for her, for Luci to. She deserves a good dad. Audrey deserves a good man. Trying to convince her wouldn’t actually change anything. I guess that’s good to remind myself of.

Chevy’s still there. Talked to the owner, said he’d knock $500 off it for a vet. I’d still give him full asking. Still don’t know if I’m ready. But I hope I’m getting there.

Been thinking about mom and dad a lot lately. That last fight they had before the divorce. How mom just looked so defeated. How she looked at us with so much love. Even after what dad did. Even though her whole world was breaking. Even though we’re half him. How she just told us to get our favorite toy and tucked us into the back of her car with our blankets and never looked back. I remember holding Mr. Bear so tight that night.  I don’t remember ever seeing the bruises. But they had to have been there.  I think I’m dad. The last thing I wanna be is dad. 

Audrey stands briefly, fingers closing around the nearest bottle of wine and the stem of a glass before she returns to the floor and Frankie's notebook.

I keep thinking about that question, what would I say if she picked up the phone. All I can come up with is I’m sorry and I love you. It doesn’t feel like it’s enough. 

Had a dream about Aud last night. We were sitting on a patio watching a storm roll in. It was like I could feel her right there. Today was hard.

She flattens her hand to her heart at that one.

Lucia said today she wants a puppy for Christmas. Her mom definitely doesn’t want a dog in the house. I think a cat’s better since she’s still so young. Tried floating that idea, didn’t fly. Wish I lived closer so she could have a cat at dad’s house. I’d worry about being away so often. Probably on Davis’ shit list right now though so maybe that doesn’t matter. Hadn’t thought about that until now. The last two years doing this set us up pretty well. College and a car for Luci aren’t an issue anymore. Haven’t felt that weight off until now. Feels kind of hollow.

Bought the Chevy. And Santi thinks he’s making progress. Maybe things are starting to look up. Still scares the shit out of me though. Dunno what I’m in for. 

I used to wipe the tears from Mamá's cheeks when she tucked me into bed. What the fuck am I now. This isn’t who I am. It’s who I was taught to be. It’s what I was shown. It’s wrong.  It isn’t love. It’s fear.

Talked to the therapist about dad today. About how I think he always resented me for being more like mom. For not liking the things he did. How he would yell at me for being soft. And useless. I still remember that. Dug that in every time he could. He hated when I cried. Hated that I would spend hours playing with Mr. Bear. Hated that I liked to read. I think some part of me still believes him. That I'm not enough. That I never will be. I'll never be anything. And I fear it sometimes. Why would she want a useless fuck-up like me.

"You're not," Audrey whispers, running her fingers over the page like somehow it will carry her message to him.

I think he was afraid of irrelevance, at the end of the day. I wasn’t interested in anything he knew. Anything he could teach me. Think it made him lash out. And Mamá still got the divorce. Made him fuckin irrelevant anyway.  I think he got one fuckin awful lesson in that I never asked for. Love isn’t lashing out. It isn’t screaming or yelling. It isn’t won with a fist. But I think it fucked me up, seeing only that. I think I learned that from him. I look like him. But I’m not him.

Tears slip down her cheeks as she presses on.

Leaving for Oklahoma tomorrow. Santi’s coming with. Says we’ll have some fun while we’re out there. Part of me is looking forward to it. The other part of me doesn’t know if I’m ready. It’ll either move me forward or set me back. No way of knowing but to try. Because I can't stay here. I can't live like this.

The entries go silent for a week.

Just got back. Needed that time away. Think it helped clear the doubt. Feel better than I have in weeks. It was the right choice. Oklahoma is pretty in the summer. 

And a zing of jealousy for whatever is in Oklahoma shoots through her. 

As if she doesn’t have something of her own there. As if that’s not the first place she ran to. 

I wonder if I should give this to her. If it might be able to say everything that I can’t seem to. Because I know in the moment, if ever there is one, I’m gonna fuck up. I’m gonna look into her eyes and forget everything I want to say. “I’m sorry, I love you” is all I’m gonna have. And it isn’t enough. 

“I love you too, Frankie.” She whispers into her kitchen.

She thumbs the long tails of his “y”s. Lazy “r”s that always bleed into the next letter. 

But it’s the notion that his hands touched these pages. 

Formed these words.

Shed salt upon ink in places.

The way she holds some essence of him in her hands.

The way all she wants is to hold him again.

It’s two hours and three quarters of the bottle of wine gone when she makes her way through, again flipping to the last page. 

Her knees crack as she stands, grabbing her packet of Parliaments and lighting one off a gas burner. Three long draws before she sits back on the floor between her wine and Frankie's journal.

Fingertips reach for the glass of her phone as she opens her messages and taps on the “FM” bubble right at the top of the page.

I’ll be there.

Read 1:36 am.

Three dots appear on the screen.

I can’t wait to see you, Aud. I miss you.

And she doesn’t respond right away.

She can’t see through the tears.

I miss you too, Frankie. 

I miss you so much.

Taglist: @harriedandharassed @missladym1981 @sarcasm-theotherwhitemeat @toomanytookas @spookyxsam

@bloviating-vy

And tagging some of the lovely folks who keep me going on here. As always, please do let me know if you'd prefer not to be tagged:

@tinytinymenace @legendary-pink-dot @for-a-longlongtime @theshensei @iamskyereads

@la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @soft-persephone @julesonrecord @criticalarchitecture @oliveksmoked

@jessthebaker @tanzthompson @youandmeand5bucks @ems-chaos-corner @thethirstwivesclub

@76bookworm76 @tuquoquebrute @jeewrites

Please note that old chapters are hosted on the OFFS Library page. New chapters will be posted here at Ohforficsake.

Shoot me a message @ohforficsake or comment under this post if you would like to be added to the taglist for updates! Thanks so much for reading.

[sapphire-weapon]

I don't know if this is just my perception, but I've noticed that Krauser uses Ashley several times as a way to provoke Leon (especially during their final fight).

In their first encounter, immediately after Leon realizes it was Krauser who kidnapped Ashley, the camera focuses on his angry face and then on his hand about to grab his gun. As if the knowledge that it was Krauser who was to blame for Ashley's kidnapping was Leon's motivation to start fighting back.

Then there's that cinematic where Leon arrives just in time to see Krauser take Ashley away with nothing he can do to stop him. Krauser even walks slower and without bothering to turn to look at Leon, not even when he shouts Ashley's name. In Separate Ways, we see Krauser start running with Ashley in tow as soon as Leon can no longer see them.

After killing Salazar and using the elevator, if we use the rifle to get a closer look at the speedboat, Krauser turns to look at Leon, while Ashley is unconscious in the back seat, almost as if he is challenging him.

During their final fight, Krauser mocks Leon's concern for Ashley, and then tells him that he won't be able to save her, and that's when Leon explodes again.

Krauser taunts again when he tells Leon to hurry up or who knows what could happen to Ashley.

And near the end of the fight, Krauser tells Leon that if he needs motivation, he should think about Ashley.

I think Capcom's intention was to show how deeply Leon cares about Ashley through Krauser. That's why I can't take seriously people who say Leon only cares about Ashley because 'it's his job', it just doesn't fucking make sense, it's like they haven't played the damn game, or just decided to ignore all that.

there's a lot going on here, actually, and it goes deeper than just Ashley herself. Krauser absolutely dangles Ashley over Leon's head, don't get me wrong, because he knows that it's a source of angst and insecurity for him -- but it goes far deeper than just this one woman.

Krauser says at one point that he knows Leon's potential better than anyone -- he knows Leon better than anyone. and he may just be right.

in OG, Krauser asks Leon: "what is it that you fight for, comrade?" to which Leon responds: "my past, I suppose."

now, take that little snippet of a conversation and stretch it out over the course of four years of military training. it's likely that Krauser had to dig deep into Leon's psyche in order to motivate him to perform at his absolute best -- and what's at the center of everything for Leon is what happened in Raccoon City. Krauser likely knows every detail of what happened that night.

and what happened that night was that Leon failed to save the life of a single person.

so, since LeonA is canon in the Remake-verse, let's take a look at the list of people Leon failed to save in Raccoon City:

the cop in the gas station

Officer Elliott

Marvin Branaugh

Ben Bertolucci

Annette Birkin

Ada Wong

I don't know if you're keeping score, but that's... just about every person that Leon meets. the only exceptions to this are Kendo and his daughter (who Leon never attempted to save), Claire (who never needed saving), and...

Sherry, whom Leon then gets kidnapped and held hostage almost as soon as he volunteers to take sole custody of her.

so, when Krauser says to him: "you can't save anyone" he means anyone. the US government sent a man who's never been able to save anyone but himself on a mission alone to rescue the president's daughter. if anyone knew his history and his track record, he likely wouldn't have been the agent assigned to do this.

but the only person who knew it was Krauser, because Krauser's the only one who ever got close enough for Leon to tell. and since Krauser's now a traitor and a terrorist, he uses that knowledge as a cudgel to beat Leon with.

so -- yes, Krauser is purposefully using Ashley as a knife to twist in Leon's heart, and yes, saving her is more than "just doing my job" for him. it's extremely personal for him for many reasons. and as he starts to feel more and more affection for her, this need to save her becomes more and more intense, and it becomes easier and easier for Krauser to weaponize that against him.

and this is just storytelling 101. as the story goes on, the stakes have to rise higher and higher until they reach an absolute crescendo at the climax. and since Leon is so physically capable and very little in RE4make comes off as an actual threat to him, his stakes are mental and emotional in nature. as his feelings for Ashley intensify, so too does his anxiety about being able to save her.

the climax of RE4make's story is the walk to Luis's lab, and by then, Leon's feelings for Ashley have gotten so strong, and his need to save her has become so intense, that he sees her life alone as comparable to all of the people who died in front of him in Raccoon City.

if he can just save her, that would absolve him of his other failures.

that's why the script was written so that Ashley says the actual words to him in the ending.

this is the culmination of Leon's several character arcs in the series so far; it's the payoff for his character development; it's the catharsis for the angst he brings into RE4make with him.

Leon was a man who couldn't save anyone, but he ends RE4make as a hero.

his 21-year-old self would be so proud.

[blackberrysummerblog]

Oh my goddd how is it already Sunday?! I’m leaving for a really big trip on Tuesday and so naturally my house is not ready for the dog-sitters to stay over, and I am not packed. No worries, I’m sure I’ve got this covered 😒

Thank you so much to everyone who’s been tagging me! There’s so much good reading out there, and the art this week for Simon’s birthday—I’m blown away by the talent in this fandom.

I haven’t done as MUCH writing as I would like—I’m at that stage in my life where I no longer handily remember huge swathes of my “internal” writing, so if I don’t get it down right away or get called off to do something in the middle, it’s lost, and that has been my entire week, folks. I did get some done though! Here’s a little bit from my COBB that I fully expect to get some blowback over, because…well. You’ll see:

I bend down to admire some perfectly iced cinnamon buns, and above me hear someone chuckle. “You’re a Pitch, aren’t you?”

I glance up. And up. I rise to my full height and…I’m still looking up. It’s not often that I find myself craning my neck to look someone in the face, but the cheerful-looking man behind the counter must stand 6’5”, at least. He has short dark hair, square-shaped glasses, and a curious glint in his deep brown eyes. There’s nothing unusual about him other than his height, and yet I find myself staring. After a moment, I realise he’d asked me a question. “I am,” I say, keeping my voice even.

He smiles, and something feels like it’s cracked inside me. “Yeah, well, I’m Adam,” Adam says, extending a floury paw. “Adam Price. Your ancestor relieved mine of a herd of goats 500 years ago.”

Long enough ago that a grudge isn’t worth bearing, but then again, this is Watford. I ignore his hand. “If your ancestor had paid mine her due, perhaps he wouldn’t have been so wracked with guilt that he thoughtlessly left his pen open one night. Goats are wont to wandering.”

“…wont to wandering…” Adam repeats, tilting his head as his hand drops reluctantly back to his apron. He narrows his eyes. “Your family raises goats now, doesn’t it?”

“They’re hardly 500 years old,” I scoff, then pause. “The goats or my aunts.”

So yeah, there’s that 🤣 By the way, the art for this fic is SO gorgeous—my partner has been absolutely amazing and I can’t wait for everyone to see it when we post!

This snippet is from the one where Simon cleans up the room after blowing up Baz’s bed, and meanwhile has to sleep on the floor. For the first couple of days, anyway. Ahem:

“Snow.” I’m standing in the middle of the room in my pyjamas, waving my arms. He drives me up a wall. “Take the bed. You’re walking like you’re a hundred and three.” I’ve been spelling the floor soft for him every night after he goes to sleep, but it doesn’t seem to have helped.

Simon is in his school-issued pyjama bottoms and a thin cotton t-shirt, standing mere inches in front of me on top of his blanket heap. He presses his lips together and shakes his head. The motion apparently triggers a crick in his neck, making him wince in pain. “The bed is big enough for two,” he allows.

Absolutely not. “Absolutely not,” I tell him firmly.

“It is!” he objects, misunderstanding.

“Snow.”

“If you don’t want to share, then it’s all yours,” he says stubbornly, sticking his chin up at me. He always has to look up at me. “Is it because you’re a vampire? I won’t stake you,” he adds.

Crowley below. I can’t think too much about that statement, but it’s the last straw. “Sleep on the floor, then. The hard, cold, stone floor.”

And that’s it! I may not be heard from for a couple of weeks, other than posting COBB should the schedule place us on early. I will be traipsing around Scotland, then Paris, and I think it’s going to be a pretty good time! I hope all of you have good things happening for you too. No pressure tags to:

@palimpsessed @rimeswithpurple @valeffelees @cutestkilla @artsyunderstudy @thewholelemon @youarenevertooold @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @bookish-bogwitch @orange-peony @j-nipper-95 @letraspal @roomwithanopenfire @asocialpessimist @aristocratic-otter @aceumbrellaheroes @drowninginships @thehoneyedhufflepuff @monbons @carryonsimoncarryonbaz @forabeatofadrum @c0nsumemy5oul @nausikaaa @alexalexinii @ileadacharmedlife @iamamythologicalcreature @tender-ministrations @fiend-for-culture @larkral @arthurkko @skee3000 @stitchy-queerista @ic3-que3n @raenestee @facewithoutheart @supercutedinosaurs @beastmonstertitan @mooncello @cows4247 @harrie-leithillustration @prettygoododds @sailorblossoms and anyone else with things to share!

[daffi-990]

✨ Inspiration Saturday ✨

Tagged by @disasterbuckdiaz @watchyourbuck @hippolotamus @callmenewbie @jeeyuns @exhuastedpigeon and @jamespearce9-1-1. Thank you all so much for the tags 💕

Here’s a moodboard and a tiny snippet for the tsunami arc in Rival Firefighters 🚒 . I’ll be changing things up a little from canon in a what if Buck got swept away while saving people and didn’t make it back to the fire truck kinda way 👀.

Hold your breath, don’t let the water in.

Christopher.

Look for the light. Light means the surface.

Don’t breathe.

Christopher!

Light! Keep going!

Don’t breathe!

Hold on just a little longer!

ALMOST THERE!

Buck breaks through the surface of the water, gasping for breath. He tries to take stock of his surroundings as he breathes in lungfuls of air, relieved that he’s still able to. Water stretches out around him and goes so far into the city, Buck can’t see its end. Copious amounts of debris float along the surface of the water, and Buck knows even more lays beneath. Cars, trees, telephone polls, anything you’d usually find on the streets of Los Angeles was now submerged under the tsunami’s war path. Among the debris Buck also knows are bodies, people who hadn’t been as fortunate as him to survive the first wave. He prays to whoever is listening that Chris isn’t one of them.

No pressure tagging: @thewolvesof1998 @lover-of-mine @wikiangela @malewifediaz @loserdiaz @jesuisici33 @monsterrae1 @eddiebabygirldiaz @athenagranted @spotsandsocks @ladydorian05 @rainbow-nerdss @try-set-me-on-fire @the-likesofus @devirnis @giddyupbuck @fortheloveofbuddie @hoodie-buck @honestlydarkprincess @captain-hen @bekkachaos @weewootruck @nmcggg and any others who want to join in and share. All are welcome ☺️

[melkyt]

There is something so sexy about Cora wearing dog-tags.

Mmm Cora loosing his memory in the snow trope, only the dogtags to identify him, and all they say is 'Rosi', a series of numbers and a marine base on the back.

That's where he goes once he wakes up, and this time, he really can't talk, beyond a word or two. The bullets did a number on his lungs, windpipe, and everything else. It's a miracle he is alive.

Rosi wonders without a clue, clumsy as ever. Chancing on a village, getting cleaned up, and getting some much needed treatment. When he wakes up, he is reported to the marines.

He is taken to the main marine headquarters.

Where he has a chance meeting with a certain red head, who is there to talk to the elders. Shanks informing them that the key to the one piece, joy boys fruit is now out of circulation, and if they try anything without Luffy confronting them directly, he will stop them but thats not here or there.

Shanks, tired, head addled from bloodloss at loosing his arm only a few days ago. Not paying attention where he is going, bumps into Rosi.

Rosi tries to help, only to hit his head on the low ceiling and falll, pulling Shanks with him. Trying to apologies but it doesnt work, trying to untangle only to get his hands caught in Shanks' coat.

Shanks telling him to calm down, and untangling. He gets a look of Cora and smirks. "You are way to cute to be a marine" He flicks the bullet pierced dog tags. "Rosi, huh?" He makes no move to get up.

Rosi blushes, taking out the notepad where he pre-wrote his situation. He also added that he has a feeling he is looking for someone. All he has is a feeling that its a kid, his kid. He has a name, but thats it.

Shanks nodding as he reads. "I got a ship, I can help you look." Shanks not passing up to have the cute blonde join his crew, even for a little while xd

Rosi is hesitant at joining a pirate crew but feels like this is his best chance to find out more about his lost memories. The marines no longer feel like the right place for him. So he joins the red haired pirates.

Re-learning sign language while on the ship, sitting with Shanks, listening to the mans stories, about Luffy, the world.

Them getting closer as they travel. Rosi gets a little discouraged that there is no sign of Law or his memories coming back. He decides there is little chance he will every get his old life back, so he settles living with Shanks, joining the crew officially.

It is a decade and some before he gets a snippet of information.

Shanks keeping an eye out on Luffy, and crosses across an article that mentions a Trafalgar Law. His eyes widen and he goes to get Cora,

Shanks for the first time in a while calling up Luffy for the info.

Luffy just going, oh yeah, "Traffy! He's cool!" Then probably yelling to Law since they traveling together, the news hits Shanks right around Punk hazard

Law taking the receiver, cautious about wtf an emperor wants from him.

Shanks throwing the snail at Rosi who fumblees with it before catching it. His voice isnt sure. "Law?"

Law freezes and then hangs the fuck up. Its obviously a trap, Cora in his mind is dead.

Rosi crying and not sure why, his memories not back yet. Shanks hugging and comforting him. They were headed in the direction of the strawhats anyway, since he heard it on the wind that they were headed to take down Kaido. He pushed the ship faster to meet the kids.

Mmmm them meeting up in Dressrosa. Shanks just catchhing up with Luffy. Law not there, he is focused on revenge soemwhere else. The bird cage seperating the kids from CoraShanks until after Dressrosa.

Rosi is a mess, Shanks has a decision to make of getting involved directly and hurt Luffy's growth, or dissapoint Rosi, who he very much loves.

Luffy runs off before he can decide.

Shanks calls up the kid and tells him to bring Law to a spot where the cage is weakest. Luffy goes sure whatever. They are running around town anyway

Law still thinks its a trap, even if he sees Cora with his own two eyes. Some trick of Doffy's, for sure

Rosi, even without his memories knows this is the kid he was looking for but has no way to prove it.

Shanks is about to cut down the birdcage using Haki. Luffy yells at him to not get involved, he's beating Mingo for Traffy!

Rosi' eyes unfocus on the birdcage, he doubles over in pain. Law, despite himself, is worried, fake or not. They still look like Cora, albeit older and less stressed. Law telling Shanks to get him the fuck out of there and that this is their business.

Shanks not sure he should leave their kids alone but also seeing how much pain Rosi is in just by being there. He grumbles and decides to leave, it is Luffy's battle and he did promise not to interfere in the kids quest for the one piece.

They leave back to the ship. Rosi goes into a deep sleep as the memories hit him. Shanks is by his side, holding the blondes hand. Afraid to lose the man he caught feelings for.

Rosi is out all of Dressrosa, and wakes up only when Doffy is all beat up.

Luffy immediately drags Law to Shanks' ship when they both wake. There is a whole teary eyed reunion for Cora&Law.

Shanks smiling as he has never seen the man just that happy, and well, its kinda funny that Rosi's 'kid' is the one who saved Luffy during the whole marineford situation. He only finds out later, and takes note to call Buggy and gets on his case for not mentioning Law. His old friend should have known to do it. That way he could have made Rosi happier sooner!