#stream eternal sunshine for good fortune

[gothcsz]

The Boy is Mine | Javier Peña x Fem!Reader | ~7k wc | Part 1 of the Fantasize series | Explicit. Minors DNI.

Summary: You become obsessed with the new DEA attaché.

Tags: oral (m receiving), stalking, voyeurism, dirty talk, masturbation (f), we're humping a pillow y'all, light spanking, javi's gun makes an appearance, some physical descriptions but overall it's pretty vague, dubcon, no use of Y/N, reader is a photojournalist, other shit i’m probably forgetting.

A/N: i told myself i was going to take my time with this but i've been hyperfixated on this song and music video since it dropped... imagining my favorite pedro boy and... well i cranked this sucker out so fast. oh to break in to javi's apartment and blow him into oblivion 😫 let me know what you think! i might write a part 2 if there's interest for it xoxo mwah enjoy queridas. 🖤

DIVIDERS CREDIT: saradika

You’ve never seen a man so handsome. So determined. So capable.

So perfect.

You knew from the moment you laid eyes on him that he was the one.

You’d been waiting outside of the embassy in the pouring rain for over an hour trying to catch him while on his break, wanting to get a quote from the new DEA attaché on his plans to tackle the Cali cartel.

That’s why you’re here in Colombia. Fresh out of grad school with a masters in photojournalism. Your advisor had presented to you a great position in South America involving documenting the war on drugs and its subsequent effects. Despite Pablo Escobar’s death, this so called war remained relentless, and with your ability to capture photos that truly are worth a thousand words, your advisor knew you’d be perfect for the job.

So here you are, immersed in a beautiful country, working your dream job. It had its bad days just like anything else; but your passion and prowess made those hard days worth it.

When he finally did emerge from the government building, you shivered and it wasn’t because you were soaking wet from the rain. 

Your handbag did little to nothing to shield you from it as you held it over your head and jogged over to him.

He immediately blew you off, quickly eyeing your appearance before giving you a simple ‘no comment’ which would usually piss you off and have you press further–– however, you were left in a trancelike state by merely being in his presence.

He was more handsome than you could have imagined. You didn’t know what he looked like before arriving, solely going off the description given to you by your boss then what little his secretary had told you when you called to ask for a meeting earlier (which you were denied).

Brows cinched together in a perpetual frown, pouty lips turned downward in a scowl with chocolate brown eyes that make you miss the warmth of your hometown. 

He had taken your breath away entirely, leaving you standing there in a puddle of both rain and arousal as he darted off in the opposite direction.

That was all you needed, really, to be thrown into a pit of absolute delusion and wanton want for Javier Peña.

You watch him relentlessly. At first, it began with scouring through the archives, reading any printings that involved him, seeing his photograph on countless articles and video footage of him giving press conferences.

The more you dived in to the professional life of the agent, the more devoted you became.

Then the following started. To and from work. Late nights at the bar. While tracking down leads. You can’t help yourself, you are obsessed. Everything this man does is fascinating, further deluding you into an infatuated trance.

You don’t know where this side of you came from. You’re usually so unproblematic and independent, your sole focus being your career with little to no time to even fathom romance.

There’s just something about him that flipped this twisted switch within you, rendering you a cock-thirsty, lovestruck mess.

One night, you watched him bring another woman home and that’s when you realized how palpable your obsession had gotten. The jealousy that bubbled in your chest became unbearable. So much, that it led you to get out of your car, climb the fire escape of his luxurious apartment building, and onto his balcony.

You observed from the other side of the glass door, in the shadows, as he took this woman on his couch.

A plethora of toxic emotions swirled within you. Envy and arousal the most intense, your thighs clenching together at the sight of his bare torso against the gentle, warm light of the singular lamp that was on.

A sheen of sweat glistened over his tan skin. He is so chiseled with a softness that makes you want to run your tongue against every dip and ridge, all the way down to the enticing trail of hair that leads right to what you crave the most.

You sighed, fantasizing about being in that lucky bitch’s spot, with his hands running all over you, kneading and squeezing your curves, the scratch of his mustache having your skin curl beneath the coarser touch. You managed to control the whimper that threatened to slip up your throat in the off chance that it got you caught.

It’s not until you felt your pager in your pocket that you returned to reality, the buzz forcefully pulling you from your erotic daydream. With a final glance at their moving bodies, at him, you swiftly descended the fire escape and to the nearest phone booth.

Since that night you’ve been insatiable. You just need one taste, a small, micro dose of him to keep your hunger at bay.

It’s not until a few days later that you return to his apartment. He’s away for work in Cali (you followed him to the airport, watching him board the plane behind your thick sunglasses and a newspaper) leaving his place empty with no surveillance. You ascend the fire escape again, the city lights of the capitol twinkling in the distance. 

Slipping your gloves on, you expertly pick the lock of the balcony door before suavely entering the space. You’ve been practicing on your own at home in preparation.

It’s neat and clean. Not much personality to it which is unsurprising considering how stoic this man is. His hardened demeanor amongst the many things about him that drive you crazy. There’s never a break in his expression, always painted with typical tension and weariness.

You wonder if you could be the one who is able to crack him. To get a reaction out of that handsome face.

After surveying the entirety of the open space, you sneak down the hallway and push open the door of his bedroom.

Immediately, his smell engulfs your senses and your eyes flutter close at the scent. It’s comforting yet enticing; nothing different than what other men smell like, but there’s something about Javier specifically that you just can’t describe.

It’s so satisfying. A fucking aphrodisiac.

Walking deeper into the room, you diligently rummage through his belongings, beginning in his en suite bathroom.

With every little piece you study, you learn more about the agent. What toothpaste he uses, the brand of razors that he buys, the specific shade of blue of his towels.

Little things you wouldn’t be able to catch during your, plainly put, stalking.

Back in the room, you open the drawer that stores his shirts, your fingers running along the front of a brightly colored pink one that’s neatly folded at the top.

You imagine yourself walking around in this and nothing else, the softness of the fabric hanging from your curves, unbuttoned enough to expose the swells of your breasts, and maybe even a nipple slip to tempt him even further.

Would he think you look sexy in his clothes?

You now stand at the foot of his large bed, the window behind it casting the silver of the moonlight against the mattress tantalizingly, as if urging you to go full on goldilocks by climbing in it and pretending it’s a bed you share with him.

You stare and you stare, lower lip pinched between your teeth before you gently crawl onto it, lowering your chest so it brushes against the duvet as your nose trails up up up until it’s at his pillow, inhaling deeply as you get a more potent smell of him. 

A sweet moan pushes through your lips, your clit throbbing in tandem with your heart as you lose yourself entirely, your mind already conjuring an erotic fantasy.

Your lips against his thick neck, licking and biting the salty skin while he fucks you in missionary. The details become so vivid; that familiar furrow of his brows as he concentrates on your soaking cunt swallowing his cock, fingers digging into the skin of your hips as he praises you for taking his dick like the good little slut that you are.

You whimper, grinding your hips against the mattress, the friction delicious against your clit, while your nose remains buried in the pillow.

Deciding that you need more, you lift your head momentarily to grab one of the other cushions and then slip your jeans off; tossing them on the floor and placing the cushion between your thighs.

Positioning yourself at the perfect angle, you bring the pillow he sleeps on up to your face and begin to grind down on the one between your legs.

Drifting back to your lewd thoughts, you picture him beneath you while your hips move at a sensual pace. You know you’d take him bare, needing to feel every vein and divot… how thick he is breaking your pussy open while simultaneously molding it to fit perfectly tight around his cock.

His mouth on your bouncing breasts, nipping and sucking on your nipples while his large hand runs down to land a harsh slap against your ass cheek, groping the skin to soothe it before repeating the action again and again and again.

You move faster against the pillow, your now ruined panties only adding to the overwhelming sensation as the wet fabric rubs against your needy pussy. 

“Javier…” His name falls from your lips in a gasp when your face leaves the pillow, your body needing fresh air but you being selfish and wanting to suffocate in his scent. You know your wetness is smearing all over the pillow but you really don’t give a fuck at the moment, too caught up in your own pleasure and delusions to think of how wrong this is.

But it feels so good.

Your free hand goes under your shirt and bra to massage your sensitive tit, stomach tightening as your orgasm begins to creep up on you.

You think of his devilishly curved nose and how fucking magnificent it’d feel nudging against your clit while you ride his face. That position specifically has always made you a little nervous due to the thickness of your thighs and ass, but you just know that he would be able to handle it like the sex god that he is.

His tongue would lap over your slit hungrily, kissing your folds before wrapping his lips around the flesh of your clit and sucking hard. The phantom sensation of it is enough to get you to hump harder against the pillow and bury your face into the one in your hands once more, your cunt clenching around nothing as euphoria washes over you.

The room is filled with your muffled moans and cries of his name as you come undone, hips wildly thrusting against the cushion and your juices absolutely soak through it.

It’s an out of body experience, really, as you attempt to return back to earth.

You’ve never came that hard, especially not on your own.

Breathing heavily, you take what feels like an eternity to calm your shaking body down. Once your mind is a little clearer, you wobble off the bed and proceed to wash the pillow you just marked like a possessive cat, lounging around his apartment until you’ve made sure everything is as he left it before swiftly making your exit.

His return comes in the form of a news broadcast. You’re in the middle of cooking dinner when you hear the anchorwoman report that one of the Cali godfathers, Gilberto Rodríguez, has been arrested thanks to the joint efforts of the DEA and Search Bloc.

The kitchen knife falls from your hands and onto the cutting board as you scurry over to the boxy television set in your living room, fingers twisting the knob to increase the volume as he appears.

You’re kneeled in front of the screen, face damn near pressed up against it as you intently watch him command the room. He stands behind a podium with microphones pointed at him from every direction, cameras shuttering, an array of men on either side of him and a large crowd gathered at the front.

“I promise you… the other three godfathers will fall.”

You nod your head as if he is speaking only to you, ��That’s right baby, you tell them. So hot.” 

You stand, attention still fully on the television as that familiar stir of arousal begins to heat up within you.

He’s home and your resolve is wearing thin. Thin enough that you decide to say fuck it.

You need another taste.

Dinner is long forgotten as you go to your room, pulling open the closet and grabbing a solid black box from the top shelf.

You purchased this little number when your fantasies had begun. Wearing it around your apartment while you teased yourself, roleplaying him coming home after a long work trip and using your pussy to help him forget the horrors of his job.

Using a realistic looking dildo, you imagined it to be the man of your dreams while you fucked yourself with it in a myriad of positions.

The outfit is simple. A short, black leather dress with a corset bust and sheer sleeves that cover your shoulders and arms, doing a great job of making you look sexy. The skirt falls at your upper thigh, exposing your nylon clad legs paired with simple black heels. You slip on your mesh gloves, your red acrylics popping against the black, almost see through material.

The ensemble looks divine against your skin but you feel like something is missing. Taking one, long look at your face you realize that you’re not ready to fully reveal yourself to him, so you turn back to your closet and your eyes light up once you see the cat mask you wore to a costume party not that long ago.

You smirk at the idea.

A sexy little cat burglar. Breaking in to take what she wants.

Putting it on, your reflection stares back at you and you feel like a whole different person. The corset cinches your waist just right, your thighs curvy and inviting beneath the stockings, tits pressed together and almost spilling out the top.

The lacy mask covers half your face, leaving your glossy lips exposed with cute kitten ears at the top. 

You’d fuck yourself, honestly. This new wave of confidence does nothing but fuel your determination.

Walking over to the opposite side of your room, you tilt your head up to take in the shrine of photos you’ve made of him.

Most come from you and your camera, all those days you spent watching him and documenting his every move. Others are from newspapers then there’s some messy sketches you did out of boredom.

Your finger comes up to trace his sharp features on one of the pictures, lingering on his nose and your pussy tingles as you breathe out a wistful sigh.

You can’t wait to try him.

Throwing on a black trench coat, you leave your apartment and take the familiar route to his. It’s raining, but not harsh enough to spoil your plans. Just a light drizzle.

When you arrive, your heart sinks at the fact that he isn’t home yet. Of course. He was just on TV! You hadn’t really thought this plan all the way through, absolutely blinded by your desire.

Whatever, you take the time to touch up on your makeup and fix your hair. The night presses on until finally you see his jeep coming down the road and pulling into the garage of the building.

With a final look over in your rearview mirror, you exit the car and cross the street to make your way up the familiar ladder, careful not to slip against the slick surface with the heels you have on.

Thankfully there’s no one out tonight, and if there was you aren’t sure how the hell you’d explain what you’re doing. You don’t even know how to explain it to yourself.

The butterflies in your stomach wildly flutter once you make it to his balcony, rain droplets adorn the glass door and you crouch to keep yourself hidden.

He walks in not long after, looking exhausted as ever as he pulls his tie loose around his neck and tosses his keys into a small bowl at the entryway table. His expensive dress shoes are kicked off, suit jacket slipping from shoulders revealing how broad he is. You bite your lip.

He stalks across the apartment, not even glancing in your direction, unbuttoning part of his shirt and rolling up the sleeves. His figure is a little blurry due to the condensation on the door but you don’t care, you’re under his spell as you watch him pour himself a glass of whiskey.

Wetting your lips, you can almost taste the spicy liquor as he drinks it in one shot before pouring himself another. Except this time it’s on the rocks.

Would the ice make his lips cool? Surely. A shiver dances down your spine at the thought of them pressed against your heated skin. 

The orange street light casts softly into the space, the shadows sharpening his features and making him look more rugged and masculine and just downright fuckable. You want to so badly break through the glass and take a seat on that chiseled jaw, to have him harshly grip your ass as you fuck yourself on his tongue.

He disappears down the hallway and into his office, giving you the opportunity to sneak in like last time. You give yourself one final pep talk before fully committing, slipping off the trench coat and tossing it aside.

After picking the lock, you very diligently and quietly slide the door open and enter, shutting it behind you.

Just like the cat burglar you pretend to be, you suavely follow his trail down the hallway, leaving a wet trail of your own from the rain, stopping at the cracked door of his office.

You see him hunched over his wooden desk, back facing you, deep in thought at whatever documents lay sprawled against the surface.

His back muscles tense with every subtle move he makes, your dark eyes taking him in entirely from his slutty little waist to the curls at the nape of his neck.

You can tell he’s been frustratingly running his fingers through his hair since it’s sticking up in some places, making it look so sexily tousled.

You want to tug on it, run your fingertips against his scalp while he devours you whole.

So lost in your observance of him, you don’t catch the moan that escapes you and his head snaps up at the sound. 

Your eyes widen and you take a delicate step back, still watching as he reaches for the gun that’s nestled against his lower back.

Trying not to make too much noise, you make your way further down the hall and into his bedroom, heart in your throat as you climb into his bed, laying on your side with your body weight propped up on one hand as you anticipate his presence.

This is it. This is what you’ve been dreaming of since the moment you laid eyes on him.

The first thing you see is the silver tip of his pistol as the door opens further, then he comes fully into view with that goddamn scowl on his face that makes your skin tingle.

His breath hitches once he lays eyes on you, large hands squeezing the weapon as you sexily wave at him.

“Hello agent.”

Your sweet voice fills the space, the muted sound of the weather picking up outside serving as the perfect white noise to set the ambiance for this scene.

“Who the fuck are you and how the hell did you get in here?”

Oh, his voice. So smooth yet raspy like the whiskey and cigarettes he can’t live without.

“An admirer that saw you took down one of the godfathers and decided to come thank you in person.”

His gaze narrows, gun lowering slightly as he contemplates whether you’re a threat or not.

You are, but not in the way that he thinks.

“How did you get in?”

“That’s a trick I’m going to have to keep to myself.”

You shift your body, moving to rest on your knees and you watch as his eyes lustfully trace the contours of your figure. You’re absolutely keening beneath the heaviness of his stare, loving the fact that you have his undivided attention.

It doesn’t even worry you that he’s got a fully loaded gun pointed right at your pretty face. If anything, it just turns you on even more.

“What do you want?”

“I already told you. To thank you in person.” Your eyes roll and his jaw tightens.

“Thank me in person?” He echoes your words with a dry chuckle, “What the fuck does that even mean?”

“Let me show you.” Your tone is hushed and dripping with suggestion, slipping off the bed slowly and sensually.

You watch his adam’s apple bob at your change of position, letting him see you in your full get up, watching intently as his eyes land on a different part of your body with every second that passes.

“Drop the gun, Javier.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I could do right now.”

You cock your head to the side, eyes narrowing behind the mask as you contemplate your next move.

He’s standing on the rug that’s spread out against the wooden floor which gives you an idea.

“Please? I’m not going to hurt you.” You whine with a pout, beginning to lower yourself to the ground as if showing him your unwavering submission.

The seconds that tick by feel like hours as you attentively take each other in. Then you hear it, your ears twitching at the faint sound of the safety switching on and it’s enough to spur you into action.

You don’t know where this newfound strength comes from, probably the adrenaline you feel of simply existing in the same room as him. You yank the rug, causing him to lose his footing as he falls onto his back with a loud thud, the gun slipping from his grasp and sliding across the floor.

He groans out in pain but you don’t care, pulling him closer, then fully on your knees as you begin to crawl over to him.

“I told you to put the gun down.” 

He’s still on his back, making no attempt to move as you draw closer. He does lean up on his forearms, dark eyes fixed on you, watching as you shuffle on your hands and knees until you plant your hands on his shins and work your way up.

You barely graze the hardening bulge in his pants, causing him to shudder, and white heat licks at your core knowing that in this moment; he wants you too.

The two of you don’t break eye contact as you straddle him, gloved hands falling on his pecs.

“I’m not usually like this…” you begin in a gentle murmur, running your open palms anywhere you can, relishing in feeling his taut body beneath yours after fantasizing about it for so long, “Shit, it’s like news to me, but I can’t ignore my heart anymore.”

One of your hands wraps around his tie, tugging on it harshly until you’re nose to nose with the man that’s been living in your head rent free for the past few weeks.

His lust blown, brown eyes search yours, as if trying to discern your identity which you assume he’ll never figure out. You’ve only ever had that one interaction and even then he had barely paid you any attention.

You feel his breath fanning across your mouth, so badly do you want to press your lips against his but you suppress the urge.

You continue to play with him, enjoying this sense of power you have with how compliant he’s being.

You expected for him to be fully dominant, which you know he’s capable of being since you watched him fuck the shit out of that one girl. But it seems like this, your taboo act and the suddenness of it, is affecting him in an entirely different way.

You put pressure against your palms, having him lay flat on his back and you hover over him, taking in all the small details of his charming face.

The frown lines, hairs of his mustache, blemishes and faint scars. Every little detail making you fall harder and harder for him. He has no idea just how much he means to you.

“What game are you playing at here, gatita?” He gives in, entranced by this enigma of a woman that’s perched over him. His calloused hands grip at your outer thighs, blunt fingernails almost ripping the fabric of your stockings.

You hum at his touch, loving the sound of the pet name, gently rocking on his lap and clutching his shirt in your fists.

“One where you’re the prize, handsome.”

You lean forward, sticking your tongue out and slowly licking a broad stripe from his chin all the way to the tip of his nose, curling your tongue when you flick at it.

His chest vibrates with a groan and you smirk at the feeling of his cock twitching underneath his pants.

“You looked so good on the news tonight. I couldn’t help myself.”

You undo his tie, toying with the notion of wrapping it around his wrists to detain him, but with what you have planned on doing to him tonight, you’d rather keep his hands accessible. 

Maybe next time.

You toss the silky fabric aside to focus on unbuttoning his shirt. He does nothing but remain silent, his chest heaving up and down while he suppresses the primal urge to take over and fuck this sweet little thing that’s dropped herself on his lap.

And you know he’s more than capable of switching the roles. He’s strong and skilled, could easily flip you onto your back and proceed to exert his dominance over you.

But you’re the one with the grand plan here, not him, and he’s indulging in your shared fantasy by letting you do whatever it is that you want, lost in a horny daze of his own.

The silence is comfortable and it further builds the sexual tension. You finish getting his shirt undone, opening it wider to get a better look at his toned body.

“So hot. You drive me crazy, agent.” You’re so wet, the slickness of your arousal seeping through the flimsy material of your thong smears against his fancy dress pants.

“Y tú, kitten, look like something out of a wet fucking dream. I have to be dreaming.”

You giggle, blushing at his words as some coyness slips into your facade.

“You’re not dreaming. I promise you.” 

Leaning down once more, you begin to leave wet kisses against the cut of his jaw, suckling on the warm skin then running your nose along the length of his neck.

You take in a deep breath, smelling his cologne atop of his sweat and natural scent and you feel so high. 

No amount of cocaine comes close to how Javier Peña makes you feel.

You suck a love bite against a protruding vein in his neck, a grunt pushing past his lips at the sensation of your teeth grazing the skin. 

Satisfied with your possessive marking, you lick from his jaw all the way up to his ear, biting down on the lobe.

“Now I’m going to taste you.” You purr seductively, leaning back to look down at his absolutely wrecked face.

His puppy eyes stare up at you like you’re the only woman in the world, a goddess that’s decided to bestow such an erotic experience onto him. He knows you’re about to ruin his body for any other woman that comes after you.

You decide to be a little theatrical, slowly pulling off your gloves to reveal your pretty hands and fresh manicure.

He can’t help but bring his large hand up to grasp your wrist, pulling your hand closer to his face as he studies your nails before gently nipping at your fingers, then slipping two digits into his mouth, running his tongue all over them and sucking them softly.

You gasp at the sensation, not breaking eye contact while he smirks at your reaction. Suddenly, lighting strikes and the room is illuminated for a split second in the white light. 

You both look so feral, suspended in this vivacious moment.

Pulling your hand away, you let it drag down his pouty bottom lip, pinching the delicate skin before shuffling back on his lap.

You hover again, this time at eye level with his chest as you place soft kisses against his brown skin, tongue peering out to lick his pecs then down his soft tummy.

His hips buck involuntarily and you pull back, tilting your head to the side as you look down at him.

“Stay still or this little kitten is going to find someone else to play with.”

A litany of curses fall from his lips in both English and Spanish, but you pay it no mind, your attention on his belt as you unbuckle it then pop the button of his dress pants.

Leaning down, you bring your face until it’s right at his crotch and you catch the metallic zipper between your teeth.

Slowly pulling it down, your eyes flit up to him and he’s intently watching you, his own tongue hanging from his mouth like a dog in anticipation of what you’re about to do.

You press your nose into the fabric of his now exposed boxers, nuzzling your face against his erection and his breath catches in his throat.

Your wetness managed to penetrate through his pants and onto his boxers, so you kitten lick your arousal from him and he lets out a guttural moan.

Basking in the sounds of his pleasure, you continue until there’s a giant wet spot on the cotton.

Deciding that it’s time you get what you came here for, your fingers hook at the band of his bottoms, dragging them down to his mid thigh and he assists you by lifting his hips.

His cock is so fucking big. Your eyes widen at the sight as it rests against his left thigh.

It’s thick, like you imagined, with ridges and veins that are begging to be traced by the tip of your tongue.

The color of it is a little darker than the rest of his body, the weeping tip plush and leaking with excessive precum from your foreplay. It’s cut with a subtle curve, long enough to where you know if he angles it just right; he’d bruise the fuck out of your cervix.

“Mmm,” you hum, licking your lips like a woman who has been starved for far too long.

“¿Que pasó, nena? Cat got your tongue?” This asshole, teasing you as if he’s not the one at your mercy.

But is that really the truth? One would observe that you’re the one at his mercy; considering your obsession with the DEA agent.

“It just looks so delicious,” you purr, bringing your hand to hover your face.

Meeting his gaze, you seductively lick your palm, wetting it with your saliva before wrapping it around his throbbing length.

“Mierda,” he hisses, head dropping back against the hardwood floor as you begin to pump him in languid motions, getting a feel for what he likes. Attuned.

His flesh feels warm and smooth beneath your smaller hand, your thumb swipes over his tip as you collect some of his precum.

You bring it up to your lips, sucking it into your mouth and you whimper at the taste. Salty, heady, intoxicating.

You need more.

Your hand leaves his cock as you position yourself in between his strong thighs. His dick stands erect, waiting for you to lavish it in your attention.

Leaning down, you poke your tongue out to run one long, broad stripe from his balls all the way up to his head.

He shudders, fists clenching at his sides while his slit spurts out more precum.

“I got you all wet, baby.” you gloat with a gentle laugh, repeating the motion a few more times.

Each groan of his and twitch of his body influences you to keep going, placing open mouthed kisses all over his base then up and down his cock. Making out with it.

You let a wad of spit fall over his tip and watch as it drips down obscenely over his length, bringing your hand back to pump him a little faster with a tighter grip. Your saliva drips from in between your knuckles. 

“That’s it, gatita, just like that pretty girl.” He’s getting more vocal now and you’re intoxicated, drunk off his praise.

You slap the fat head of his cock against your pursed lips a few times before letting your tongue lap at the slit then sinfully lick around the tip. 

Your tongue continues its assault on his girth, lapping every inch of it like he’s a refreshing mango popsicle on a hot summer day.

The attention is then shifted on his balls as you continue to jerk him, the tip of your muscle outlining the sensitive skin before you suck one into your mouth softly.

“Puta madre, bebita, esa boquita feels like fucking heaven.”

You whimper, nuzzling your nose against his sack and taking in his musky smell. Your mouth waters, drool leaking from the corners as you reposition yourself back over his hard cock.

You part your lips, taking him slowly, inch by inch as you savor the weight of him inside your hot mouth. Your hand remains at his base while you swallow him whole, tongue lapping around the bits that it can reach.

It’s not until you feel him tickle the back of your throat that you pull back slightly, sucking your cheeks in and beginning to set a slow pace.

Up, down, up, down.

He’s so fucking big, you’re not able to take him fully down your throat… yet. You’re gonna need a moment to break open your mouth enough to fit him.

He continues with his praises. The sweet filth that fills your ears urging you to be a good girl and to suck his cock like your life depends on it.

Because it does. All you want to do is lose yourself in him, to become nothing more than just Javier’s plaything.

Tears pool at your tear ducts from the messy head you’re giving but it doesn’t deter you. You just blink them away and take him further down your throat.

You splutter and gag as he presses against your uvula, causing him to inadvertently bring his hand down to the back of your head, fisting your hair.

You wince but the pain feels delicious on your scalp. You pull away and his saliva coated cock falls from your swollen lips with a trail of spit connecting you two.

“I want you to fuck my face, Javier. Can you do that for me?”

You bat your lashes, biting on your lower lip as you look up at him.

Your back is arched sexily, giving him a good view of your ass behind you as you remain on your knees in between his legs.

“Si, gatita, whatever you want.”

He gathers your hair into a makeshift ponytail, guiding you back to his cock.

He slips back into your mouth easily, his hips bucking upward to fully bury himself down your throat.

You breathe through your nose as he begins to set the pace, much harsher and faster than what you’ve been doing on your own.

The filthy sounds of his groans mixed with your gagging and squelching of your mouth fill the room and it’s like music to your ears.

You fucking love this. Love the way he’s fucking your throat and using it to get himself off.

His other hand falls down to tenderly caress your cheek, cupping your jaw and that sets off an explosion of fireworks against your needy pussy, moving your hips against nothing. The simple act is enough to get you closer to your own orgasm.

Your fingernails dig into his meaty thighs when he manages to fully situate himself into your mouth, the tip of your nose brushing against his coarse pubic hairs.

He keeps you there, depriving you of oxygen and your jaw aches with how it’s been widely unhinged for the past however long.

You don’t care about your pain, you only care about tasting his cum when he finally releases inside of you.

“I’m so close baby, god damn it I could die in this pretty little mouth. Such a filthy whore, breaking into my apartment just so you can suck my cock.”

You whimper, the sound vibrating around his shaft and you bring one of your hands down beneath your skirt and panties, rubbing tight circles against your engorged clit.

He goes back to thrusting in and out of your throat while you pleasure yourself; both of you teetering on the precipice of your respective orgasms.

The hold on the back of your head tightens as his climax begins to peak, and the tension of it is enough to send you over the edge first.

You splutter and groan all over his cock while you cum, your release coating your fingers and dripping down your folds and onto your inner thighs.

“Fuck I’m about to come. You better swallow every fucking drop gatita. Isn’t that what you came here for? Ah-shit, to milk my cock like the perverted bitch that you are?”

If you hadn’t come already, you would be now with his abrasive words and rougher thrusts of his hips.

“I bet, fuuuck, bet that pussy tastes so fucking sweet and feels as heavenly as this mouth. Ay gatita sucia, you gonna let me destroy your tight little cunt or are you going to leave me with just a taste of your boquita?”

You want to respond, to tell him that you want nothing more than to have his cock split you open, to render you a mess that can’t walk for days after getting fucked hard by him.

His thrusts stagger and he comes with a primitive growl, his hot seed spilling into your mouth and down your throat.

You moan at the feeling and he holds you flush against his pelvis while he empties his balls into you.

When he’s finally drained, you tentatively let him fall from your mouth with a lewd pop, some of his spend still resting on your tongue.

You climb up his body again, noticing the bead of sweat dripping from the tip of his brow and down his chiseled cheek. His lips are swollen, much like yours, from chewing on it due to the intensity of your ministrations.

His dark eyes are swimming with lust and adoration, shallow breaths exhaling from his nostrils.

You open your mouth wide, sticking your tongue out so he can see his milky cum against the pink muscle before you retract it and swallow exaggeratedly, smirking as you bring the back of your hand up to wipe the saliva and other fluids that coat the bottom half of your face.

“Thank you for keeping us safe from the narcos, agent.” You whisper, reaching for your gloves to slip them back on.

He watches intently before he raises the hand that had just cupped your cheek affectionately to the edge of your mask, beginning to lift it up to expose your identity.

“¿Quien eres, gatita?”

You stop him by grasping his wrist harshly, shaking your head.

“Un secreto,” you whisper back, close enough to where your lips are softly brushing against each other.

Moving his hand away from your face, your eyes gaze into his one final time before you lean in to press a sweet kiss against his lips. 

It’s everything you dreamed of and more, the feeling of his mouth slotting against yours in the most passionate kiss you’ve ever shared with anyone.

You pull back before things get heated again, your mission now complete until the next time.

“I’m going to leave now,” you begin in a hushed tone, “and you’re going to stay right here. You’re not going to follow me out or stop me. Are we clear?”

Another tilt of your head and you can see the resistance in his stare, how badly he wants to keep you here like a pet. His kitten.

But he nods ever so slightly.

“Will I see you again?”

Yes, but you don’t reveal this to him so easily.

“Only if you do something worth warranting a visit.”

With that, you rise from his lap, your long legs on either side of his waist as you look down upon this man you just wrecked without giving him your name or letting him get a good look at your face.

His eyes trail over you, trying to etch the image of you in his mind for the lonely days that are about to come.

He won’t forget you, that’s for sure. You’re about to infiltrate his mind in the same manner in which he infiltrated yours.

The soft click of your heels can be heard as you depart from his bedroom, leaving him with his soft cock out and pants down his legs.

Before closing the bedroom door behind you, you stop and look at him over your shoulder.

“Goodnight agent.”

The minutes tick by agonizingly slow before he scrambles to get up, grunting at the subtle pain in his back as he tucks himself back into his pants and picks his gun up to place on the dresser.

He follows your wet trail down the hallway and to the glass door of his balcony that you purposefully left cracked; an answer to his earlier question.

“How the hell did you get in here?”

He smirks when he sees the heart shape you’ve left against the surface. 

[someweirdoreblogger]

Onyx Cream Cookie is a well-respected fellow. He is the right-hand of First Cream Cookie for a rightfully great reason.

He is a warrior, upkept. Never underestimate him, don't believe him too burdened by the mold eating away, devouring the majority of his pristine crust and fluffy cream.

He is a fine, disciplined man of a many brilliant word and proficient strategy, what Cookies usually don't realize is those little charms hanging stubborn on the hilt of his ripper are not mere design choices, they are not enchanted by any magic. They hold no special significant prayer or timely devotion to any angel or god. They don't dangle to improve his footing or balance when he unseals his sword from the wrap tightened upon his leather belt.

Gifts. From his closest chosen. Adorable charms; colorful ideas of good fortune, goodwill, and moral support. Onyx Cream Cookie sees a lively silver of you in them, sunshine in his pocket. A mirror couldn't represent this clear reflection. He can't help the sentimentality.

(They're just so...

You.)

They almost breathe. In an inanimate silence, he can almost swear it. The care, the love, the delicate life you line in those pallet shells of material, worked with a monk's patience.

All for no reason at all, then to be reassured, to know Onyx Cream Cookie will occasionally peer down like a curious child and consciously smile, a cresent dawn. Your lovely ornaments, still there looking at nothing at all, slowly waving like leaves lost in the endless gusts of wind, dancing free under the crawling pressure of chill and rain.

In the craftsmanship, twists, curls, swirls, and longful strokes. The reflections of your deepest passions, a strong chain full of fond memories, of all the times he quietly pressed a touch of lip there on the forehead of one of your dear trinkets. Your care for him in a physical form, these truly beautiful cluster of tiny promises strapped to his trusty weapon of inevitable justice, it never fails to remind him there is someone home he must diligently ensure a safe return to.

There are heavy days, tainted bags digging deep in his eyelids, irritating the sensitive infection of mold, the lonely nights-where Onyx Cream Cookie drifts off into a running stream of incoherent thoughts. Where he falls, afloat into a dream, a daze, and he can do nothing more then simply look up, peer to the sky and sees you written in the stars, staring back in a wonder he can't properly describe.

You are timeless. Eternity is you in dough, he knows. Onyx Cream Cookie believes this wholeheartedly, a love he never thought he would hold, grasp fondly in the naked palm of his hands.

Such lovely things, fragile beings we all are in the grand scheme of life and death. All just small layers of flavor in the cake of life Cookies are relentlessly baked in.

Onyx Cream Cookie often offhandedly trips into a trap of his own making, not always on purpose in his honest defense. He catches himself staring, and a man such as himself holds no pride in distractions, but the temptation can't be denied much to his obligation, impossible to resist in the vulnerable moments. Excuses are pitiful, unnecessarily needless. He will be the first to admit, although he is shameless about it at whoever notices him.

The very pieces, lovely shades, the reason he would lay down his dough and flavor for; One most dearest, whose simplicity is a thing of upmost charity and beauty, made by the apple of his eye, he tells himself everytime the sun kisses the horizon. The Heavens is the sightless halo for Earthbread, same as is the sky, the acting color of the peerless ocean.

A sight for sore eyes.

His beloved made those Onyx Cream Cookie will ease; 'I hold them here, right next to me, compared to everywhere else, nowhere rather they be.' Seeing his charms wiggle like gummy worms, mindlessly sing and jiggle like jellybean bells on his ripper's little sheath paints a permanent happy curl on his face.

[ghostbustermelanieking]

a dozen different lives

summary: Five lives Mulder and Scully shared.

written for a fic prompt by @o6666666 and an anon from a soulmate au prompt list: 19. the one where soulmates are reincarnated and keep finding each other throughout their different lives. it got a lot longer than i expected, so i decided to make it a separate post. 

i borrowed a couple of scenarios from my tfwid rewrite, but they don’t necessarily exist in the same universe, and you do not have to read that fic to understand this one. there are also references to tfwid and triangle. in researching the historical portion of triangle, i discovered that the OSS didn’t exist until 1942, but in the TXF universe it existed in 1939, so let’s say that it does here, too.

---

i.

The match is made by their parents. An arrangement that will be beneficial to their families and all of their neighbors. He is skeptical, initially, of the idea of an arranged marriage—although he has been told by his mother and many other people that love is a luxury—and he can tell, as soon as he sees her, that she is, too. But still, skepticism is not necessarily a way out, and they are married that day.

That night, together inside their new home, he offers to let her have the bed to herself. “I do not want you to be uncomfortable,” he says, “since we are strangers despite our new connection.”

Relief washes over her face, and she smiles. She has a beautiful, face-splitting smile. “You are quite kind,” she says, sitting in the edge of the bed. “I believe I will accept your offer, although I do not know if it can last forever. I know that children are expected from this union.”

“It can last as long as we like,” he says. “I would prefer to get to know you, if that is all right.”

She nods, her hands folded primly in her lap. “I would like that very much,” she says.

And so she takes the bed and he sleeps in another room.

When he came up with the idea the day before, he had expected the distance to remain, perhaps for the entirety of their lives together. But that does not seem to be the case. When she shares breakfast with him in the morning, they have a lively conversation, and hope blooms within his heart.

---

Throughout his life, he has seen many unhappy marriages that he knows were arranged. That he knows there is no love in. His parents are an example. He had expected the same thing out of his own marriage. But that does not seem to be the case. He has been getting to know his new wife, and he has begun to care for her. Maybe even to love her. She is incredibly intelligent, maybe even moreso than him, and they often stay up late nights talking and telling stories. She can make him laugh, harder than he's ever laughed before. She is beautiful, radiantly so. She still sleeps alone, and he would never suggest that she does otherwise unless she wanted to, but the way she smiles at him when she says good night makes him melt.

He is not sure that she feels the same way until one night when they fall asleep by the fire. They fall asleep lying next to each other on the ground, and when he awakens, she is curled up next to him with her head on his shoulder, her hair loose and waving. He lays there for longer than she should, waiting until she starts to stir beside him to move. Her face grows red when she sees him looking at her, and she murmurs an apology, avoiding his eyes. He feels ashamed, as if he has overstepped, until that night after dinner. She covers his hand with hers and says in a soft voice, “Perhaps… you could join me in the bedroom tonight, if you would like. It is your bed, after all.”

His heart leaps in his throat, almost involuntarily. He says, “It would be my honor to do so.”

Later that night, she falls asleep curled in his arms. He thinks to himself that it may be the most blissful moment of his life.

---

They spend much time together. Perhaps more (as people like to comment) than a husband and wife should. They go for long walks each day and spend their nights chatting by the fire. She will often accompany him when he is partaking in his duties, and will often offer her own opinions on the matter. They find excuses to spend more time together. He is tempted to explain to people that it is because they are in love, and that is the simple truth of it. He wants to spend time with her, as he should, since she is his wife.

He muses, sometimes, on how fortunate he is. How he could've connected so strongly with a woman who was strange to him not two years ago—how he could've gotten as lucky as to be paired with her. It feels as if it is a miracle.

After three years of marriage, their first child comes. It comes with a bit of a scare, as all births do—he fears, of course, that he will lose her, or the baby, or both—but it is fortunately an easy birth. His wife lives, although she is weak for a few weeks afterwards, and so does the baby. He is so grateful that he nearly weeps at her bedside, kissing her sweaty temple and repeating his thankful mantra: that he is so happy that she is okay, that he does not know what he would have done if he had lost her. He feels as if he is the most fortunate man in the world.

---

Later—years later, when their children are nearly grown and they have been living together for what seems like an eternity—she will take his hands and tell him, “I must admit something to you; I was not at all sure about this union prior to meeting you.”

He laughs with ease. “I will admit the same thing,” he tells her. “It feels so foolish now, to view it in this manner.”

She narrows her eyes at him in a jovial warning. “I was afraid you would be cruel, or quite different from myself. I hated that I had to marry a man I had never met.”

He had felt the same way. He clasps her hand close and listens attentively.

“But you are right,” she continues, looking up at him with the same loving look in his eyes that always brings him to his knees. “Those thoughts seem foolish now. I cannot imagine ever having married anyone else but you. I…” She falters a bit, looking back down. “I find it hard to express, sometimes, the depth of my love for you.”

His chest swells with the same care he has felt for her since that first night they spent together, and he takes her hand and kisses the back of it. “You should not find it difficult,” he tells her. “You make it known. I feel as if the two of us have always understood the other's feelings… and I do understand yours. You need not feel as if there is something lacking in the way you express yourself to me… truthfully, you do not even have to say anything out loud. I know. I would always know.”

She smiles at that, and moves forward until she is leaning against him. He winds his arm around her and leans down to whisper into her hair. “And I love you,” he says, “more than words can say.”

ii.

She has seen the woman before, the one with the fiery hair: at the river when they gather to wash clothes. She has not spoken to her before tonight, but sometimes, when she begins to tell the stories she makes up at night, stories she tells her cousin of fairies and goblins and spirits, she sees the bright-haired woman rolling her eyes, almost playfully.

Now, now their village is ablaze, and she is certain that her family is dead. They were inside the house; the only reason she was not was because she was mending the laundry outside. Her father angers when they burn the lanterns too long, and so she had been mending by the moonlight, and she'd fallen asleep, and woken up with heat on her face and to her little cottage on fire. She had screamed her family's names and they had not answered. The fire spread to the dry grass at the edge of the house, flaring up dangerously close to the edge of her skirt, and God help her, she had ran. She had not known what else to do, where else to go; she did not want to go alone.

And so it was. She had run through the heat, through the burning houses and fields, firelight flickering in her eyes and her skirt clutched in her hands so she would not trip. Until she ran directly into the bright-haired girl from the river. She was her nightclothes, the white of the shift stained with soot, her face smeared with soot and tears, her sunshine hair streaming down her back. She regretted, then, ever describing the girl's hair as fiery.

Neither of them had said anything. They had both been crying, and they were both terrified. The girl had wordlessly reached for her hand, and she had taken it. They both began to run together.

And now, with the inferno far behind them, their pace has slowed to a walk. The girl's hand is cold, as is the night, the freezing wind whipping around them and pushing at their hair. They have never spoken before tonight, but now they whisper to each other in the night as they walk together up the lonely road. The girl speaks of how she escaped, how she had smelled the smoke and felt the heat and slipped out of the window before thinking of her mother, her widowed mother who was the only one inside their small house. The girl cries, and she cries with her, wiping her tears and leaving smudges of ash along her cheeks. She tells the girl of her lost parents and her cousin, a ward of their family who had become like a sister to her. They walk through the moonlight, shivering in the cold.

---

They reach the next village by morning. When they walk into the marketplace, they see the whispers of the men and women at their informality: two peasant girls, one in her dressing gown with her hair loose and uncovered, their faces smeared with soot. When they tell their story, the villagers demand to know why they are the only survivors. They send a rider to go and examine the village, to find whether or not they are telling the truth. There are whispers of witches in the crowd, and she begins to feel for her life all over again. Until an employee of the lord of this manor system spots them and takes pity on them.

They are taken to the manor, being warned repeatedly that they must pray that the lord has much pity as the servant has, that orphans such as them would be fortunate to give such an honor as to work for the lord. There are things she wants to say in response to this, but she bites her tongue and stays at the bright-haired girl's side. Her tongue has gotten her in trouble many times. She does not know what she would do if they were turned away.

But they are not. The pity does indeed extend to two poor orphan girls. The lord remarks that they may start as scullery maids, and that they should learn their duties quickly, and that they should be grateful for the opportunity given to them. They both thank him meekly, heads bowed, although she notes a spark of defiance in the other girl's eyes.

They are shown to a small room with no window, with an even smaller bed that they are to share. And then they are put straight to work.

---

The work is often larger than the work that she used to do in her father's home, alongside her mother and cousin, but it is not that different. Still, she does not take to it quickly, and is often scolded or struck for mistakes. The other girl takes to it quicker and sometimes helps her, offers suggestions in the dark of their shared room. They rise at dawn and to to sleep late at night. Often, she falls asleep with enough space between the two of them that would be considered respectable and wakes up curled up at the other girl's back. Sometimes, she will find the other girl curled up against her as well, her bright hair falling across their faces. It is strangely comforting in a way that initially makes her feel guilty, but she reminds herself that she and her cousin used to sleep close to conserve warmth.

Often, she will have violent nightmares and wake up crying out for her mother, her cousin. The other girl will often press a hand over her mouth, simply to prevent her from crying out too loud—the first time she had woken up screaming, the cook had come into the room and slapped them both, warned them not to wake her again, lest they wake the lord and his family—but then she will calm her. She strokes her hair, wipes her tears away, and whispers, Shush. Shush. You are all right. It is enough to calm her, to lull her back to sleep. The other girl holds her hand as she drifts off.

When the bright-haired girl wakes up crying out, she will do the same for her.

---

As the years pass, the work becomes easier. The punishments and scoffs and cruel words lessen. She grows closer to the other servants, finds a companionable nature in some of them. But the bright-haired girl from her former village remains the most companionable, her truest friend. They often stay up much later than they should, whispering together in the dark. Her friend often urges her to tell her ghost stories, despite not believing any of them. She urges her friend to tell her own stories. They whisper together when mending clothes, when doing the laundry, when drawing the water or changing the bedclothes. They occasionally braid each other's hair in the morning, pick up the slack on each other's chores, share their rations when necessary.

They still sleep curled close together. It is often too cold to do otherwise. Her friend will often reach for her hand and clasp it in hers. Sometimes they will sleep with their arms around each other. Sometimes her friend freezing feet will press against hers. Sometimes she'll wake up with her face in her friend's sunshine hair.

---

The first time that the girl kisses her, in secret in the dark of their room, it feels like they have done something wrong. They both feel guilty the next morning; they avoid each other's eyes, work in silence, slip into bed in silence. She feels guilty, yes, but she also feels embarrassed for her avoidance of her friend.

But she finds she cannot stop thinking about it throughout the days, when she does her chores, in the quiet moments where there is no one to talk to. She keeps thinking of the softness of her friend's lips, of the way she whispered her name just before. She is remembering once when her cousin told her of a kiss with a boy by the river, the way it made her feel. Her cousin said that she was in love. She always said that she had not understood.

The truth of it is that she has lost everyone else she loves in the world, and her friend is all she has left. She loves her dearly; she has known that for years. There is no question of that. (The truth of it is that the two of them go rather unseen. Even their other friends among the servants do not seem to notice them. They do not cry out in their sleep anymore, and so no one comes into their room at night.)

She kisses her friend next, secretly in the dark of their room once again, her fingers tangled in her hair. (Her friend makes a small, surprised sound in the back of her throat, her mouth parting, her fingers clutching tightly at the shoulders of her shift.) It happens again and again, night after night. The guilt lessens each and every time she does it.

---

When the stable boy, the one she has often had conversations with when drawing water, proposes marriage if their lord permits it, she immediately declines.

iii.

She meets him when they are children. Her family lives next to his, and their mothers often do the chores together: hang the laundry, care for the livestock. And so they are often herded along with their mothers to be watched while they work. They begin to play together at a young age, for almost as long as she can remember. The first time he convinces her to run off into the woods while their mothers are distracted, she thinks a part of her knows she has found the right person to spend time with. They come back hours later to their furious mothers and a spanking, both covered in dirt and her dress torn, but she doesn't care at all.

From then on, they are always spending time together, getting into trouble together. She's always afraid he's going to want to play with someone else, but her older sisters have no interest in playing, and his brother is still just a baby. So it's always just the two of them. They get into so much trouble that her mother says, daily, that he is a bad influence, that it's unladylike to run around so and she should sit down quietly like her sisters. But there are no other children around for them to play with, and she refuses to be discouraged. Eventually, their mothers mostly give up.

---

“I want to go places,” he tells her at age ten. They've snuck away from their chores (they usually end up doing chores together; she has no brothers, and since she's always been a bit of a tomboy, her father encourages her to do the chores normally intended for a boy), and they're sitting by the river. He's throwing stones into the river, trying to skip them; she's reading a book from her father's library. “I want to travel the world, and fight pirates, and have adventures.”

“That sounds quite interesting,” she says absently, turning a page.

He throws a pebble; it hits the back of her book, and she looks up at him. “You could come with me,” he says. “You could be my first mate.”

She laughs, rolling her eyes at him. “First mates are not girls,” she tells him. “And besides that, why should you be in charge?”

“Captains aren't girls, either,” he says stubbornly, “but perhaps you could be the first.”

“Aye, perhaps I could be,” she says absently, going back to her book.

He reaches out to tweak her left braid, and she looks up. “I do not want to travel with anyone else,” he says seriously. “Please come with me. You can be the captain, if you want.”

She blinks in surprise, smoothing her mud-stained skirt. “Perhaps I shall,” she says, smiling teasingly at him. “Someday, when we are older.”

He smiles right back. He throws a handful of pebbles into the flowing water, splashes her with a kick of his foot, and she squeals indignantly and splashes him right back.

---

When they get older, talks of marriage begin, of course. Their two small farms have grown into a slightly larger settlement, and there are suddenly more young people around them. Her oldest sister is betrothed, and will be married in the fall, and her other sister begins to whisper. “Are you not betrothed as well?” she asks her with a giggle.

She doesn't want to speak of such things, she tells her sister. She's being incredibly silly. But the older they get, the more she begins to think about it. It is almost involuntarily, but she begins to think about it. When they're mucking stalls together, or hunting, or caring for the cows and pigs. When he's giving back the books she gave him, or telling her stories, or climbing up onto the back of her horse (that she rides bareback despite her mother's horror at how unladylike it is), holding onto her waist and laughing wildly in her ear as she drives the horse into a gallop. They still spend too much time together; her mother tells her again and again that it isn't proper. They are nearly adults, nearly at the age of marriage. They should not be spending so much time alone. But it doesn't matter to her. She's never been much of a listener.

One night when they are seventeen, she wakes to a flurry of pebbles at her window. He's standing in her yard with a lantern flickering across his face, squinting up at her. She's downstairs in a minute, the two of them slipping together into the stables.

They sit together in the loft, brushing aside the hay in case the lantern falls. He hands her half a piece of bread, fresh-baked by his mother, and she inhales deeply, smiling. They chew for a few moments in silence before he bumps his shoulder against hers. “I have learned some news that I wanted to share with you,” he says.

She looks over at him, raising her eyebrows at him. His tone suggests that it is not good news. “All right,” she says.

He takes a deep breath. In, out. He reaches out as if he is going to touch her knee but pauses, pulling his hand back. “I—” he begins before pausing abruptly, clearing his throat several times. “My parents,” he says, “have made a match for me.”

She freezes, her shoulders tensing. The bread, unnoticed, falls out of her hand and below to the floor. “Oh,” she says. “That… that is fortunate.”

“Yes.” His feet are swinging in the air. He isn't looking at her. “It… it is to that girl we often see at the well. They believe her family will be advantageous to have a link to.”

“Indeed.” She swallows, almost painfully. “I… I should offer my congratulations.”

“Thank you,” he says quietly. He reaches out gingerly, again, and does touch her knee with soft fingers. “I… Do you remember when we were young? The things we wanted to do?”

“I do,” she whispers, her eyes half-shut. She swings her own feet. She feels foolish, scrubbed raw, although she could not explain why if she was to be asked. “You wanted to travel the world.”

“I wanted you to come with me,” he says. He taps her knee through her nightgown with one finger. “I… I think about that sometimes. It's tempting to hold onto those childhood dreams.”

Her face goes red-hot, and she shuts her eyes all the way. She feels so foolish, so childish. Like maybe she should have listened when her mother told her that she should not be spending so much time with him anymore. Or when her sister asked if they were betrothed. She wonders if he's ever seen her as anything more than a sister, or a childhood memory. “Yes,” she says, rubbing a hand over her face. She will not cry. There is no reason to cry. Someday she will be married and he will be married and all of this will just be memories. She scoots across the edge of the loft, puts her feet into the rungs and swings herself around so she can descend. “I am very happy for you and your engagement,” she says, swallowing hard. “I'm sure the two of you will be very happy together.”

He sits up a little straighter in the flickering lantern light. “Wait,” he's saying, “wait, don't go…” But she's already gone. She reaches the bottom of the ladder and slips out of the stables, back into the house. She wipes her eyes as she creeps up into her bedroom. She lets herself cry.

---

There is a distance between them following this revelation. They still spend time together, still work together, but there is a distance between them. She feels insecure now, like she has revealed too much, pushed the boundaries. He is as quiet and respectful as she may have expected. They do not discuss the impending wedding, where he will live, if it will be far. They do not discuss it at all.

Her mother begins to speak of a match for her, and she always grimaces at the prospect. She's tempted to say that she'll never be married, but that feels too silly and unbelievable. She had never really considered marriage until recently, and never with anyone besides him. Thinking of it now just leaves her embarrassed, and so she refuses to speak of it. She does the same things she has always done, throws herself into her work and pretends that nothing is wrong.

She must do a bad job of hiding things because he begins to ask, nearly daily, if she is all right. After weeks of replying with a simple, “I am fine,” she loses her resolve and snaps, “And what do you presume is wrong, exactly? Why do you care for my feelings so deeply?”

The way he draws back from her with hurt in his eyes, as if she has slapped him, tells her she may have gone too far, after months of long silences and irritable responses. He mumbles a quick apology and turns away, is gone before she can offer an apology of her own.

They begin to avoid each other. She arranges her chores so that she does not have to work with him. She begins hiding in her room with her father's books (another unladylike habit her mother often comments on, reading) instead of venturing out. Her second sister, now betrothed herself, tells her that she is being silly and she should simply tell him how she feels. She tells her sister that this is ridiculous. She knows he does not feel the same way about her. If she is going to make amends, than she will have to work to preserve their friendship and nothing more. (And even their friendship will ultimately fall through, because it will not be appropriate, once he is married, for him to retain a friendship with a young, unmarried woman.) She tries to tell herself, once again, that she is growing up and a natural part of growing up is losing your childhood. And he is everything she can think of when she thinks of her childhood.

She does not know what else to do. She reads the books he lent her years ago, and greets his fiance as politely as she can muster at the well, and she tries not to think about attending his wedding someday.

---

One day, weeks after their last encounter, his father comes to their house. She foolishly thinks it is about the rift in their friendship, but of course, it is not; he has come to tell her that his son has gone on an extended hunting trip with some of the other men in town, and he wonders if she would mind taking over some of his duties. She's immediately shocked; she had no idea that he was even gone. He has gone hunting plenty of times before, although it's usually with her and they've never gone overnight; her mother would have died with shame. She is a little hurt, but she has no right to be; she reminds herself that she has initiated the distance with him. She tells his father she'll do his chores.

There has been talks of the war; she has heard whispers of them when merchants come through. A few of the valiant men in the growing settlement have volunteered to enlist in the army. But it is largely limited to the coast, and they are far from the ghost. They have not seen any battles, any deaths. It is so far off that they can nearly forget it is happening. And she has forgotten that it is happening, until she gets the news.

A lone member of the hunting party scrambles into town several days later, frantic and terrified. He tells them that the enemy came across their party when they stumbled across a fort. That they took everyone in the hunting party (aside from him; he escaped into the woods) hostage. That they are taking them to the coast, and there were discussions of whether or not they should be killed.

She is instantly horrified, as is the rest of this town. The men gather to discuss negotiations to get the party back, but the general  consensus seems to be that they have no power in this situation. The most they can do is try to get in touch with their country's army, to see if they can organize some sort of rescue, but the best thing to do, they tell the families, might be to give their sons up for dead.

She won't accept that. She refuses to accept that. She sees people who are distressed, his fiance distressedly twisting her handkerchief in her hands, almost theatrically, and she doesn't understand it because he isn't necessarily even dead yet. How can they give up on him when he is still alive somewhere, and he needs help? She cannot understand it. She tells her father that they need to go to find him and the other men, that they can't just leave them for dead and rely on an army of people they have never met to save him, and her father tells her sternly that there is nothing that they can do and she should let it go. That she should not think of these things, especially about another man's fiance. Her mother tells her that she needs to forget it, and she should take this as a sign to stop this unladylike behavior that has been going on too long. She can't understand their dismissal, after so many years with him. She's grown up alongside him, he's as much a part of her life as any of her family, and she doesn't understand how her family, his family can just dismiss it. She saw his little brother at the meeting, and he was as angry as she is, protesting the abandonment of his brother, but his parents and his fiance seemed to have dismissed him as dead. She cannot understand it. She needs him to be safe, she needs him to come home.

Her sister whispers to her, “If you truly love him, you could go for him.” And as much as it is her instinct to deny it, she cannot get the suggestion out of her head.

She slips downstairs that night, steals some food from the kitchen, her father's gun she used for hunting, and slips out the door. She takes her horse from the stable, climbing onto its back, and rides off into the woods without another thought. She is going to get him back.

---

She rides for days, her hair flying out behind her and tangling in the wind, her cloak flapping around her. She is headed towards the coast, towards where the man said they were taking the hostages. She doesn't exactly have a plan, which worries her a bit, but she doesn't know that there's a feasible one. She just knows she has to try.

She stops through many towns on her way, and they all have no information, until she reaches one nearly fifty miles from home. There, she finds a unit of soldiers, and finds one who knows of the hostages. She gets information by lying and telling him that she is his fiance; shame rises in her throat, but she pushes it back, tells herself that she is doing it for him and no one ever has to know.

The soldier tells her that there is an attack planned on the fort where they are being held, and that they may be released during the attack, if they are still alive. He directs her to the area where the fort is and advises her to steer clear of the battle.

She rides in the direction he advises, thinking as she goes about all the things he's done for her and she for him, about all of the promises they made and the adventures they planned that seem childish now. She tells herself that whatever happens after this doesn't matter, as long as he gets out alive. She doesn't care if he gets married or doesn't get married or goes off to travel the world; she just wants him to be okay.

---

She gets there in the midst of the battle, which is almost a relief; she would be willing to charge into the midst of a fort to rescue him, but she feels as if doing so would just get them both killed. She can't get anywhere near the front lines, to her frustration, so she stays at an inn nearby, waiting in the pub to hear news. As soon as she hears that the fort has been captured, that their army is victorious, she slips out to the stables, takes her horse from its stall, and rides straight to the front.

The edge of the fort is crawling with soldiers, enemy prisoners, bodies that have not been moved. She picks through, ignoring the questions and jeers of soldiers, until she sees a cluster of men she recognizes, sitting along a log with blankets around their shoulders. She sees men she recognizes, men she's talked to, and then she sees him—the back of his head, overgrown and shaggy, the slump of his shoulders, and she calls his name. She pulls her horse to a stop as he turns towards her, slides to the ground and begins to run towards him. Shock dances over his face as he stumbles to his feet, the rough blanket slipping from his shoulders, a beard beginning along his jaws and his eyes wide. She calls his name again, running to his side, touching his jaw with gentle fingers. There's a bruise along his face, his eye swelling, and rope burns around his wrists, and he looks so small and whole and she's so happy to see him. She resists the urge to wrap her arms around him. “Are you all right?” she whispers.

He nods, his jaw clenched. “Those bastards were plenty rough, but I'm all right… What are you doing here?” He touches the side of her face with the rough palm of his hand; he almost looks as if he's going to cry.

“I’ve come to find you,” she says firmly, not leaving room for questions. She reaches up to touch the spot beside his blackening eye, and he winces. “What did they do?” she whispers.

“What anyone would do with any hostages… You traveled all this way?” He is staring at her in astonishment. “You have come so far… for me? After everything?”

Her nose stings, her eyes burn; she feels as if she's going to cry. “Of course I came,” she whispers, and smiles. “I am your traveling companion, remember? Your first mate?”

“You are the captain,” he whispers, and smiles back at her. “You… I can't believe you…” He cups her cheek, stroking it with one thumb. He leans down and kisses her softly. She kisses him back, her mouth falling open under his; his hands are on her waist, holding her close, and she cannot believe it. They have never kissed before. When his lips touch hers, it feels as if the horrific scene and all the soldiers around them have fallen away.

When he pulls away, he seems a bit dazed. “I… thank you,” he murmurs.

“I would do it again,” she whispers, taking his hands. Her traveling companion. Her dearest friend.

He looks down down at their joined hands, their tangled fingers. “I… I know that I am betrothed,” he says hesitatingly, “but… I do not wish to be married. At least not to her.”

She sniffles. She squeezes his hands.

“I… I think I would prefer to be married to someone else,” he says.

She dips her head to rest her nose against his knuckles. She whispers, “I think that is very wise.”

He pulls one hand out of hers and lifts it, sliding his thumb under her chin and tipping it so that he meets her eyes. He is looking at her in that soft way he used to when they were children and she helped him to climb a tree, when she first came outside after a long, nasty illness that left her bedridden at age twelve, when they had accidentally fallen asleep in the stables at fifteen and had to sneak back into the house without getting caught, that way he'd looked at her when she first woke up. “Shall we go together?” he whispers. “You can still be the captain, the way I promised you.”

Her answer is her lips against his again, when she rises on her tiptoes and takes his face in her hands and kisses him. They will go together, wherever they go, and this is the way it was meant to be.

iv.

She meets him on accident. It's because of the dead-end job that her father got her, a secretary job for a government official that she's only working at to save money to attend college. A reporter apparently has an interest in interviewing her boss, and she's sent instead. He seems as annoyed as she is at the entire prospect, but after a few minutes, she figures out that he's not really annoyed with her. “I think that's pretty demeaning to the both of us, don't you think?” he asks, and that warms her to him considerably.

He doesn't end up interviewing her, but they end up talking for hours. She slips up and complains about her job, about the lapse in her education, about years of basically being ignored or overlooked, and he doesn't chide her or laugh in dismissive amusement. He listens. He offers stories of his own frustrations with reporting, with the dead-end assignments his boss gives him, and she laughs despite herself. She likes him, almost without having to think about it. When he asks her to dinner after the non-interview, against her better judgement, she accepts.  

They take it slow, at her insistence. As much as she likes the guy, she doesn't want to rush into anything. She doesn't want to be duped by some guy who's not looking for anything serious. But that doesn't seem to be the case here. He seems to like her, genuinely like her. He doesn't talk down to her, he asks for her opinions on things. He starts wanting her to come along on his jobs, to do some investigative reporting. She should probably say no, but she's always been a sucker for an adventure.

She doesn't do it on purpose—she used to tell her mother as a child, rebellious and furious, that she would never get married—but she finds herself falling in love with him.

---

“You should quit,” he tells her one night in his apartment, nights that have started becoming more frequent now. She used to feel guilty about those nights, but she's a grown woman, and besides that, half the building has gotten real fed up with her late night phone calls. “You're better than that job, sweetheart. A million times better.”

She laughs, her head on his shoulder. Maybe a little bitterly, but it's hard to be bitter when he's touching her this way, his hand on her spine. “I don't know what else you think I could get,” she says. “You got any ideas, you let me know.” College is starting to look like a dimmer option, considering how little money she makes. She always wanted to go further than this, than being somebody's secretary, but she doesn't know if she really can.

“You could do it, hon,” he says, stroking her wild hair. His eyes are sparkling in the dark, and he's grinning at her like she's worth a million bucks. That's what he tells her all the time: You look like a million bucks. “You could change the world.”

---

In 1938, he proposes. He doesn't do it in the big, public way that she's heard about girlfriends getting proposed to—he does it in the doorway to her apartment, when she's groaning and pulling her heels off, swearing she's going to give up dancing, at least to swing music, and she turns around, and there he is with the ring. She says yes, of course, because what else is she going to do? She loves him, and she wants to, and she says yes, laughing and nearly crying. He scoops her up and whirls her around, right there in the hall in her sock feet, and she gasps out something about her reputation, even though it's long been ruined, and then she kisses him right there.

They make plans for a wedding—a small one, of course, neither of them can afford a big one even with her father—and plans for a life, a little apartment in DC and a real story for him and a real job for her and maybe children someday, everything they've ever wanted. She tells him that he's daydreaming, and he tells her anything can happen. What if there's another war? she whispers, because she still remembers the aftermath of the first one, her mother crying over her younger brother who was drafted and died somewhere in a trench overseas, she never got over it. What if that happens to them?

Neither of them want to say there won't be another war. They've been reading about every horrible thing happening overseas; they both lost people in the Great War. He lost his father. So he doesn't say that. Instead he says, I'd come back to you. Or you'd come with me.

Oh, baby, she whispers, I don't think it works like that.

It could. It could, you know. We'd find each other.

She wants to believe him. She wants to believe him badly. She kisses him instead and tried to picture the future. A good future.

---

In the end, Europe goes to war but America doesn't. And she goes to war before he does. Her boss comes out of his office and smiles too toothily and tells her that he has a little job for her, that he's seen her potential, that he knows she can do it. It's work for that new government agency, the OSS. He wants her to go on a ship to Europe, the Queen Anne; he wants her to pretend to be the wife of a scientist, an important scientist that they need in Europe, so that no one will suspect who he is. It'll be like she's protecting him.

She wants to tell her boss that she has a gun, that she could actually protect him, but she doesn't dare protest. This is the best opportunity she's had in ages, the only opportunity to do something important. America isn't in the war, but she's been reading about the Allies overseas, the fight they've been fighting, and she knows she wants a part in it. She doesn't see any choice to accept.

Later, that night, she goes to her fiance's apartment. She feels the need to apologize, apologize over and over again, but he tells her not to be ridiculous. Tells her that this is important, that this is the type of thing that she was meant to do and that he's proud of her. “Just be careful,” he tells her with a wayward grin, holding her hand. “If you're serving as somebody's bodyguard.”

She shakes her head with amusement and tells him that she's hardly a bodyguard, she's simply there as this man's cover story, and that's all. He shakes his head in response and kisses the top of her head. You'd sock someone's lights out if given the chance, sweetheart, I know you would.

She packs the nicest things she owns—which isn't much; she has to borrow things from her roommates, and even calls her mother out of desperation. She packs her revolver, too, sliding it out of sight under her clothes. If this person is important as her boss has hinted, then she's not going to just stand there passively as his cover; she's going to take action, if she needs to. He sits on the edge of her bed and teases her and tells her she's going to save the world. She rolls her eyes at him; she has no idea whether or not this will be important, but she doesn't feel important. She feels like a doll.

The night before she leaves, he comes to her apartment. Her roommates are out at work, working the late shifts in a factory, so it is just the two of them. She's already told him he can't come with her to the docks. He puts on the radio, on a slow song that makes her shiver, and the two of them sway together there in the tiny sitting room. “It's odd,” she tells him, “but I feel like I'm leaving for a lot longer. Like I'm not going to see you for a while.” It's ridiculous, that she feels this way, but she knows the danger. She's headed for war-torn Europe with a man who's essentially a weapon. She could be walking into danger.

He shakes his head, holding her closer as they move. She can hear his heartbeat under her ear. “It won't go like that, sweetheart,” he whispers. “It can't. You're going to be amazing, and then you're going to come back home, and we're going to be married. All right?”

“All right,” she whispers, his coat scratchy underneath her palms.

When he leaves, he pauses in the doorway, turns around and kisses her sweetly. “I'll see you in a few weeks,” he says.

She breathes out shakily and touches the side of his face, smiles up at him. “See you then,” she says.

When he's gone, she takes off her engagement ring, reluctantly, and slides it into a pocket on the side of her suitcase. She hates to do it, but she doesn't want people seeing it and asking too many questions. She swears she's going to out it back on the second she gets to England.

---

The scientist she's traveling with is a lot kinder than she expected. He doesn't seem to think she's incapable of actually protecting him, although he smiles a little indulgently when she tells them about the revolver. He promises to keep a respectable distance from her, and he asks her questions about her wedding plans. They schmooze it up with the rich people every night, and she retires to her room afterwards, slips her ring on her finger and writes a letter to her fiance. It's not exactly idyllic, but it's okay. It's all perfectly okay, and she keeps telling herself that it can bring her new opportunities, a way to move up in the world and get herself a better job, when the Nazis show up. And right behind them, a man in ragged clothes who claims to know her, who calls her Scully. He claims he knows about the scientist, which is enough to terrify her, but then the Nazis start killing people in an attempt to extract the information. They almost kill her, more than once, push her to her knees beside this man who calls himself Mulder and put a gun to her head, and all she can think of is the bed in her fiance's apartment, the ring tucked into the side of her suitcase, his face when she said yes. How he told her that she'd come home. How badly she wants to see him again.

They almost kill her, and then they don't, and this Mulder guy pulls her away from the ballroom and through the ship, talking about time travel and Einstein and almost getting killed a couple more times. She'd hate him if he didn't, somehow, remind her of her fiance. A more arrogant version of her fiance. He insists that she has to turn the ship around or he won't exist, or history will go the wrong way, and then he grabs her and kisses her. Kisses her hard and passionately, but sweetly.

She forgets herself for just a moment and kisses him back, before she remembers herself and tears away. She socks him hard across the jaw, and winces at the instantaneous stinging of her knuckles. She's furious, fuming, and so distracted that when the Mulder guy turns around and jumps right off of the ship, she has no idea how to react. She throws the life preserver into the water, searches the black, churning waves for him because goddamnit, he does remind her of her fiance, and he may be an arrogant ass, but she doesn't want him to drown. But he never reappears. He's disappeared, with the answers to all her questions with him.

She shakes her head hard and turns away from the deck. She slips back inside and finds the captain and convinces him to turn the ship around. The passengers somehow subdue the Nazis as they re-enter the Bermuda Triangle. She finds the scientist and takes him back to her room, locking the door and loading her revolver. The scientist holes up at the desk, scribbling on sheets of paper and muttering under his breath. She sits on the bed, slides her ring back on and holds the revolver in her lap and wishes for home.

But she never gets home.

---

They’re adrift for days. Weeks, months. She loses track of time. The water is black, and the sky is always dark, and it’s so foggy that no one can see where they’re going. The climate is all wrong here, she thinks, they’re supposed to be in warm waters. The sailors comment that they should’ve reached land a dozen times by now. She stops keeping track of time.

She remembers what that man, Mulder, told her: that they were in a time warp, or something like that. She doesn’t believe in such ridiculous things, she tells herself a million times, but how, then, have they not gotten home yet?

She keeps writing letters to her fiance, even though she knows she cannot send them. She wears her ring all the time now; it doesn’t matter what people think. She sits at the foggy window and looks out into the nothing, her head against the cool glass. The scientist tries to console her, but she doesn’t listen. She draws absent shapes in the glass, shuts her eyes and wishes for somewhere else. She wishes for him.

She dreams, sometimes, when she can sleep. Dreams and wakes up clutching her ring so hard the stone has left an imprint in her palm. She dreams of him looking for her, hiring investigators who search and find nothing, who tell him she is dead and leave him screaming furiously in their faces. She dreams of him crying for her, refusing to go to a funeral her father arranges, refusing to give up even when multiple people tell him that there’s no hope. She dreams that America enters the war and he enlists, hoping that he will be able to find her somewhere overseas. He writes her letters that he will never send. She wishes, again and again, that she could tell him that she is alive, but she’s not entirely sure that she is. She cries herself, crumpling her handkerchief in her fist and wiping cold tears off of her cheeks. She halfway wishes she’d jumped off that ship after that Mulder man, so she could’ve swam home if nothing else.

She dreams, some time later, that he dies. He dies, bleeds out on a beach in France, and she wakes up screaming his name, and there is no one to hear her. The halls are empty, the ballroom is silent. He is dead, and she thinks she might be, too, and there is no way to find him or to go back home again.

She dreams, once, that he comes to the ship. That he walks into the full ballroom, looking lost, and she runs up to him and he picks her up and whirls her around, the way he did when she said yes, and he holds her so tight. He's kissing her again and again, kissing the tears where they fall, and he tells her, I told you, I told you we'd find each other. It's so vivid she almost thinks it is real.

Later, she lies on her bed, watching the ceiling, as drowsiness overtakes her. She is so tired. She's thinking of Mulder again, for reasons she can't quite explain; she can't stop thinking of how much he reminded her of her fiance. He was an ass but he acted as if he knew her, as if he cared about her… or someone who looked like her. He looked a little bit like her fiance, when they were kneeling beside each other on the ground or just before he jumped or right after he kissed her. He said, It's me, Mulder, and he called her Scully… he called her Scully…

v.

“Scully,” he whispers. “Hey, Scully.”

On the other side of the bed, she grunts—her Mulder, please don't wake me up grunt. He curls a little closer to her in bed, stroking a hand over her forehead. “Scully, are you awake?”

“I am not,” she mutters irritably.

Mulder leans close and presses his lips to her forehead. She swats his shoulder lightly, but he can feel her irritation melting away. She opens one eye to stare at him. “What is it, Mulder?”

He lays his head on her shoulder, winds an arm around her waist. “Do you ever think about reincarnation?” he asks softly.

She opens both eyes now, runs a hand over his arm. “Not since that case in ‘96,” the says. “With… the cult.” She's dancing around a subject she knows is somewhat sensitive. “Besides,” she adds, rubbing that same hand over his shoulder, “I don't particularly believe in it.”

“Oh, really.” He rests his chin on her shoulder, turning on his stomach to look at her. “Not even a little?” he teases.

“Not even a bit,” she says seriously. She ruffles his hair, leans down to kiss him lazily.

He nuzzles his nose against hers. “What about the idea of soulmates?” he whispers.

She reaches out to touch his cheek, to cup the side of it. “Mulder,” she whispers back, “what are you thinking?”

He shrugs. “I've just been thinking about it,” he says. He runs his fingers through her hair, scratching her scalp in that way she likes. “What if… what if soulmates were real, or if reincarnation was real. What if we'd been reincarnated?”

“Well, according to that hypnotism session you participated in, you have been,” she points out. “Remember that?”

He shakes his head. “I don't buy it,” he tells her. “I think that if I've been reincarnated, I've been with you.”

“Well, that was what you said when you were regressing through past lives, Mulder,” she says. “I was your sergeant, remember?”

He shakes his head. “Not like that,” he says.

“Well, then, like what, Mulder?” she asks, persistent.

He shrugs. He lays his cheek on her breastbone. “You'll think I'm cheesy.”

“Mulder, I already know you're cheesy,” she teases. When he doesn't say anything, she nudges him. “Hey,” she says softly. “What is it?”

He sighs a little, his hand spread over her stomach. “I've just been thinking about it,” he says, teasing a little now. “What if we're soulmates? What if we have known each other in past lives, what if we were meant to find each other in this one?”

He can feel her smirking. “You're right, Mulder, that is pretty cheesy,” she says, and he chuckles, leaning up to kiss her underneath her jaw. “In all seriousness, Mulder,” she tells him, her voice solemn now, “I don't believe in these things. But I think we're as much soulmates as anybody else is, if you want to use that terminology.”

“You're such a romantic, Scully,” he teases.

She rolls her eyes. Leans over to kiss him gently. “If you don't mind me asking, Mulder… why is so important to you?” she murmurs. “Why do you want to believe we've been reincarnated so badly?”

He shrugs. “I don't know,” he whispers. “It wouldn't really change anything… but it's a nice idea. That we've known each other for so long. That I'll never really have to lose you, because I've found you before and I could find you again…” He slides up the mattress to kiss her hair gently. “It's just comforting, I guess.”

“Mmm.” Her voice is sleepy again; she snuggles into his side. “You're sweet, Mulder,” she murmurs.

“But you don't believe me,” he says good-naturedly.

“Oh, I don't know.” She yawns, her face half-buried in his neck. “I don't know, Mulder. If anyone could find each other again and again, through multiple lives… it's us.”

“That's true,” he mutters.

She kisses him, right there at his pulse point. “I love you,” she mumbles. “Now let's get some sleep.”

“I love you, too,” he says. He's loved her for as long as he can remember, and if it's at all possible, he'll love her until the end of time.

[bryonysimcox]

Thoughts on Mindfulness, Onions and Jealousy: Week 10, Spain

It’s hard to fathom that we’ve entered double digits as I count the weeks we’ve been living away from the UK, and even harder to fathom the coronavirus crisis that the world continues to face. This week, I explore mindfulness, barbequed spring onions and the evils of jealousy.

The last week of March has brought both sunshine and rain here in Catalonia. Sunday was glorious, and the warm rays of sun felt like nature’s invitation to take the afternoon off from film editing and staring at screens. Even I, who usually finds it hard to ‘just’ chill out, responded to this invitation and slowed right down, sipping cheap Spanish lager and whiling the day away with a good book. By contrast, there have been numerous days of solid rain here too. Temperatures have dropped and George and I remain huddled inside, wrapped in layers and eternally grateful to have a house to stay in throughout lockdown.

It looks like the weather in the UK has been pretty glorious. It’s sod’s law that after a long winter, when Brits are finally ready to get out and about, everyone is required to stay at home and can only see and admire the sunshine from afar.

This state of lockdown is undoubtedly a reminder of our need to access nature, especially for those who are living in urban areas and apartments.

The flipside to the restrictions, of course, is that reduced travel and activity means reduced carbon emissions and pollutants. Like many others, my heart has been lifted by photos of Venice’s canals which now run clear, satellite imagery and data showing dramatically reduced air pollution in major cities, or sound recordings of magnificent birdsong made audible thanks to minimal traffic. Similarly, whilst I’m not a huge fan of the rain, it’s a real blessing here in Catalonia, a region which is often very dry. The land around us in the cottage is looking more luscious than ever, and the rain is doing wonders for the green beans, olives, herbs and spring onions (or ‘calcots’, but more on them later) which grow here.

(images) Mother nature’s gifts.

I’ve been feeling infinitely more connected to nature while living in lockdown. Not necessarily because we’re staying in the countryside, though that helps, but perhaps because I’m increasingly aware of my dependence on it. The natural world (which we often forget were a part of) provides us with the sustenance we need to survive, and I can’t help but feel like empty supermarket shelves in the UK are a symbol of how disconnected people are to where food actually comes from, and the supply chain which starts with mother nature.

Nature is not only essential as a source of food but as a source of energy from which we nurture our minds.

The alarming spread of coronavirus and its devastating and far-reaching effects threaten to overwhelm me. As I mentioned in last week’s post, I constantly feel at the edge of this overwhelm, ready to be swept under by the noise and chaos of news headlines which just keep getting worse. In an active effort to address these feelings without adopting a ‘keep calm and carry on’ approach of outright avoidance, I have started to practice mindfulness, using breathwork techniques from Gaba Podcast’s daily sessions.

Nature has become a central part of my amateur mindfulness practice, as it provides a constant calming presence in the now on which to focus. Simple things in the natural world have proven incredibly grounding, like the cycle from day to night, the passing of clouds across the sky, the sound of little birds scuffling across the roof of the cottage and the fresh aroma of soil after it’s rained. Of course these elements don’t erase the existence of Covid-19 and the lives it is both threatening and taking, but they provide a counterweight to the noise and anticipatory grief that I’m experiencing.

(images) Stuff can get pretty overwhelming at the moment, so the natural world has become a steadfast element on which to rest my focus.

I have also been thinking about the way in which nature is not just a resource to be taken from, for our wellbeing and our existence, but something to give back to. I’ve been inspired by so many people I follow online, and their mutual apprehension that this could be a pivotal point of change for the world. Their shared thoughts and musings suppose that we might move away from our addiction with consumption and competition, and towards more regenerative cultures. Friend and ex-colleague, Adam Russell, has written a fantastic summary of ten books worth reading if you’re interested in regenerative cultures and living in harmony with the planet. The summary can be found at the Saltbush Projects website, which documents the pretty cool journey that Adam and his family are taking in suburban Australia, of growing food, making things and living more simply. Adam’s project is one of a few which are inspiring George and I to shape up our own dreams for a self-sustaining lifestyle and off-grid house.

Amid panic, paranoia and overwhelm, I am optimistic about a different future in which equality, sustainability and community emerge as the shared values by which we live.

Unlike the accounts of our adventures before lockdown, I don’t have much to report on a day-by-day basis. Back during our time in France and our initial month in Spain it felt as though every day was rammed with new experiences and places that George and I had visited in the van! Now though, the days start to merge into one, and I have lost my usual motivation to spring out of bed and into action. I try not to beat myself up about it, and in fact have leaned into the ‘not-knowing’ of the future and the monotony of the present. I trust that one day, somehow, our travels will continue, and try to reaffirm the motto “I’m exactly where I need to be” even when it can feel super frustrating that all life plans are on hold for the time being.

(images, left to right) Layered up in lockdown as it rains outside, watching a live stream DJ set from England complete with visuals created (live, too) remotely by my brother in Scotland!, and slowing down and soaking up the sun on Sunday.

The monotony of the present has also allowed for me to reflect inwardly. I think a crisis of the magnitude that the world currently faces puts certain things into perspective, and after another week filled with skype calls and catch-ups, I don’t think I’m alone in my increase in philosophical thoughts. The insecurities of weight gain, obsessions with career progression, anticipation for planned holidays, fixations with buying new things and other everyday thoughts shared amongst my friends and I now seem like petty hiccups in the grand scheme of life.

Food, friends, our health and shared prosperity feel like the only things that matter anymore.

On that note, I’ve been thinking about jealousy - a strange and ugly emotion that I have grappled with for years. In last week’s post I talked about my shifting relationship with social media in recent weeks, and the possibility that sharing things like photos and status updates can be perceived as insensitive, and perhaps even trigger jealousy. Whilst it could have seemed that I was referring to jealousy induced by the things that I post, I have also been thinking about my own jealousy, and taking a tiny step back from Instagram and Facebook has been part of that.

As a child, I remember being preoccupied with other people’s looks and achievements. I think at one point I even claimed to my mum that I wanted to be my best friend! That jealous streak is something which has filtered through my life, and it’s probably only in the last five years that I really feel like I’ve faced up to it. Jealousy is horrible for so many reasons, but for me, not only did it make me feel rubbish but it also impeded my ability to be happy for others. Instead of relishing in shared pride for a friend or family member’s success or good fortune, that success would become a cruel tool to devalue myself. It would push my focus away from them, and back onto me, leaving me both as a crap friend and a selfish individual.

(Image) I’ve grappled with jealous over the years, a muddy and confusing emotion that threatens your ability to reflect on yourself and others.

This period of lockdown feels like a closing chapter for me in addressing jealousy, which is perhaps why I’m sharing it even if it seems personal, in the hope that it may be of use to someone else.

When I say ‘closing chapter’, it’s not as though jealousy will never rear its ugly head again, because of course it will. But the common cause of tackling this horrible virus has been a trigger for me to consolidate what I’ve been practicing these last five years: to turn jealousy around into more constructive feelings, like pride and admiration for others, and aspiration or contentment for myself. All that said, it is really hard to find coherent words to explain my relationship with jealousy, and I do not at all profess to be immune to it! I only hope that I can continue to address it head on, rather than suppress it and let it eat away at me.

On the topic of eating, food has become a crucial part of mentally surviving lockdown! George and I have been cherishing the opportunity to take longer to cook, to experiment with new recipes, and even new ingredients (if we can find them in the tightly controlled supermarkets). I know we’re not alone in this, and have heard stories of friends’ first homemade loaf of bread, experiments with pickling and fermentation, making pasta by hand and brewing beer at home. By cooking and eating more slowly, I think we are also showing our appreciation to nature, and re-assigning value to a ritual intrinsic to humanity.

Calçots, as I mentioned at the start, have been a magical little food discovery for the two of us. A type of green onion renowned in Catalonia, calçots are best cooked on an open fire. After letting them crisping up for five minutes, you peel the blackened outer skin off to reveal a sweet and juicy inner, which when dipped in romesco sauce, is absolutely delicious.

(images, left to right) Calçots in the garden, roasting over a fire, and ready for dipping in sauce.

The sauce, known as ‘Salsa de Calçots’, can be made at home with blanched almonds, hot peppers, garlic, tomatoes and olive oil, but we actually picked some up in the supermarket. A few nights this week, we’ve had the pleasure of cooking calçots like this, and not only do they taste incredible, but they’re messy, fun and super simple.

While it could sound ridiculous, small experiences like cooking fresh spring onions on an open fire have transcended into special, almost spiritual moments of communion for me. I believe we need these glimpses of normality and conviviality to survive what is an extreme and scary time.

As it sinks in that we could all be living like this for a while now, let’s not forget to look after ourselves and others. Rather than settle for judgement and jealousy, I am trying to equip myself with kindness and compassion, a choice inspired by the nurses and doctors, farmers and supermarket workers, respirator-makers and scrubs-sewers, soup kitchen volunteers and careworkers, newly-appointed homeschoolers and online mindfulness coaches.

These people give me hope.

[ikonislife]

Soulmate 1

- OT7 x Reader

- It’s not all honey and sunshine in the world where soulmates are something of God given will. Will the boys be strong enough to get through the day with their better half or will the relationship will tarnish with the tick of the clock.

-Fluff, slight angst, soulmate au, soulmate!iKon

-Disclamer: Yes, that first sentence is borrowed from Jane Austin’s Pride and Prejudice, one of my favorite romance book to read. I was rereading the book for the umpteenth time when this popped up in my head. I don’t know why but hopefully it’ll be a good series.

-Chapter 1: Chanwoo

-Chapter 2: Hanbin

-Chapter 3: Yunhyeong 

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man (or woman) in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a mate. Just in this universe, this time and space, that truth is a bit more complicated than most. It seems as though everyone around you were raised on the rigid schedule of school, career, marriage. People stumbling and bumbling around like fools waiting for that special someone to drop on their laps and be merry as if their sole purpose in life is to find a mate. Sure lots of time it works out for the better but more often than not, it entails a string of heartbreak and tears that perhaps is nobody’s fault but the outdated belief that your soulmate gets assigned to you for a reason so just accept it and let it be. The ridiculous belief that the meaning of life is to get a fortune, or as close to one as you could in the modern days meaning a good career, then getting hitched off to some stranger for the rest of your life and be merry for all eternity.

That’s right. This is one of those world that soulmate comes to you neatly wrap in a bow by some sort of higher divine, cosmic bullshit. You had always wonder had it been any other way, in some other universe where soulmate is what you decided or the idea of soulmate is altogether preposterous, would it be any better. The idea of stumbling through life searching for the connection to the person you’re suppose to spend your life with is curious yet intriguing. How many times, trials and errors would you have to go through before ending up with that person. Whatever it is, seems better than having someone popping up out of nowhere like a flower in spring and just “Tah dah, I’m your soulmate, love me.” Where’s the romance, where’s the passion. Sure this was efficient when the human race was on the brink of extinction but now with it thriving like a horde of unstoppable cockroach taking over Earth and moving onto outer space, why was looking for your own love so radical. 

You had heard the story thousand, no, millions of times of course. When you meet the one that was meant for you, your heart will just know. How could it be any more cryptic than that. Come on, couldn’t the ancestors had asked the Gods for something more obvious like a sign,their names appearing on your skin as a tattoo, the sound of their voice, the world bursting out with colors, anything. Nope! All you got to go on is heart palpitation or something like that. You scoffed at the girls huddling together excitingly sharing the tale on the playground at age 6, cafeteria at age 11, again at the gym locker at age 16. Some girls are so hellbent on “saving themselves heart and soul” for their soulmate that they would turn down completely good men and happiness times again. You sigh as the fleeting giggle as a group of girls murmur amongst each other, something about the girl named Hani finally felt that heart clenching moment. 

Maybe you’ll never feel it, maybe it’ll be tomorrow but who knows… Whatever it may be, you’re in no rush to find out.

Chapter 1: The Boy with the Baseball Glove.

You were about done with the world, what is it about Friday afternoon and the throngs of customers flooding the small cafe you’re currently employed at. By all mean you weren’t one of those “I hate my job, kill me now” type of employee. You like the job and it pays well enough to keep your motivation up but some days, some days are just worse than others. Just as the door to the quaint place creaked open, a group of what you could only described as annoying “frat boys” with nothing better to do but belittling everyone else around them stormed through the threshold. What’s with the quotation around “frat boys”? Well you have friends in frat and you know just because a boy is in a frat doesn’t mean they’re good for nothing, obnoxious, making pass at anything that move. They wore their letters proud and make maximum effort at showing off their muscles as they passed you by. Just as the boys’ attempts at putting about absolutely every greasy remarks in the book to get you into one of their beds finished, a horde of teenagers that bought between the 5 of them 2 cups of hot chocolate, 8 glasses of free water and taking up half the place for almost 4 hours had your manager ticking with anxiety. Then a man returned his drink that was ¾ finished complaining it wasn’t to his liking. Normally your sassy manager would’ve made a new one, dump off ¾ then return the “new” drink just for the sheer rudeness given to you by the dude. However, with the crowd fighting for seats, line out the door, he just simply pat your back as a thank you for not losing it. 

The rest of the shift went by in a blur and soon enough, the golden hue blending away with the rose tone of leftover daylight signaling your shift had ended. You smile at your replacement, wishing her luck before shedding the sticky sweet stained black apron. Slumping onto the wooden bench, your fingers sluggishly pull the oversized flannel over your weary shoulders before slamming the old metal locker shut with a bang.  

It’s such a beautiful sunset, calm and graceful, unlike the rowdy suffocating atmosphere at work. Your feet begin pattering against the pavement once again leaving the bus stop you had been sitting at for the past 10 minutes. Evening like this shouldn’t be waste on watching the streams of taillights from your usual window seat. Hand clutching a snow ice milk shake bag, you watches as young couples emerge from random corner of life for a long awaited date night after a torturous week of work. 

“When will I meet that person…”

Even as anti-soulmate as you were, the thought of having someone the share all you secrets, all your worries, even just a simple meal, or a midnight snack with tingles your heart a bit. A soft smile unknowingly blooms on your lips as you watch the awkward interaction of a young couple, no doubt barely meeting each other not too many times before. How her cheeks flushes in a rosy hue whenever he smiles her way. How his smile wavers just a bit whenever she brushes her hand over his. How-

Your thought blanks out just as your vision. Suddenly all you could see was white then it was dark before you feel the radiating pain on your forehead just above your left brow. 

Shit.

You stand still, your bag of ice cream laid on the ground, its content sprawls messily across the border of the sidewalk and the grass. Hand holding your non existent bump on your head tightly, your face scrunches up in anger and before you know it, a scream lets out from your throat.

“YAH!”

Then there it was. You could feel cold sweat breaking all over and your throat clamps up. Thump. A single heartbeat so loud it wipes out every other noise in the entire block. Thump. A second heartbeat though not as loud, just as powerful as the first and there it was again. It feels like someone had reached their hand through your ribcage, grasping your heart then squeeze it with all their might. You could feel all the air getting forced out of your lungs from the sheer pain alone yet it felt so magnificent. Your eyes widen, hand moving from your forehead to your heart to feel not one beat but two, two for a brief moment before they both join together in a harmonious almost overexcited beat. Before you could start to wrap your still aching head around the situation, a soft voice speaks up that has your body tense. 

“You felt it too, didn’t you? Don’t lie, I can see it on your face.” A boy, well his face was childlike and playful despite a worry scowl prominent on his features, his stature however shame most men. He totters over, a hand shove in his pocket, the other mirroring the one you have over your heart. 

 “Are you the idiot that threw…” You glances around the ground, wondering just what it was that has your head aching. “This stupid glove at my head?” You groan as you bend over, reaching for the glove before… 

Goddamn it, not again. 

Your heart clenched again but that wasn’t the part that has you grumbling in frustration. 

 “Oh my God. I’m so sorry. I’m sooo sorry. Shit. I swear I’m not this clumsy all the time.” He speaks up again and your heart couldn’t help but elates. Your right hand still clutching the dirtied glove , the left on your forehead once more as the boy had knocked you on your ass quite literally with his forehead slammed roughly against yours as you both dove for the weapon of your heart destruction. 

“Are you okay, miss…” 

“It’s Y/n.” His voice trails off and you replace it with an almost annoyed grunt. 

“Y/n… wow…” You peer up to catch him repeating your name with almost a sense of admiration filling his twinkling eyes. 

“Ahem. I-I’m Chanwoo. Jung Chanwoo.” The boy snaps out of it the second he feels your eyes on him, straightening himself out but still stuttering a bit from nervousness. Honestly, you can’t help but giggle from how cute he is. His face handsome and physique top notch. He dressed simple in a grey pair of sweat and a giant white t-shirt that’s dirtied probably from dirt and sweat. His eyes train on you so intently it’s borderline rudeness but he couldn’t stop staring. You were just a foot away from him, hand still fidgeting with your forehead, face cringing slightly from the pain yet you look so lovely, better than any of the figment of his imagination he thought up pondering of what his other half would look like. 

“I’m really sorry about, you know… your head. That’s not how I imagine meeting my-” Near simultaneous, the wheels of both your brains begin churning vigorously at the realization of who the person sitting across the way was. 

“YOU’RE MY SOULMATE!!” 

You both yelp out loudly, earning a few strange stares from nearby park goers. He laughs in delight watching the way your cheeks turn a soft shade of pink matching the sky above, your hair glows in the last few drop of sunlight of the day, happy that on your lips too was a smile. He whispers a soft “wait for me” before running off to a group of boys that had been watching from afar this entire time. A minute later he returns, backpack slings over his shoulders as he shyly reaches out for your hand. You tilt your head in confusion before realizing your fingers wrapping tightly still around the brown worn out glove. You hand it back and he gladly accept until his brows furrow with worry. Glove hastily shove into his bag, his svelte fingers travel toward your face leaving you backing away out of instinct yet not even a second later, to his joy, you move forward into his touch. 

“Does it hurt a lot? I’m sorry, my hyung are idiots. They were messing around and threw my gloves. I told them not to...” His eyes glue to your forehead as his finger delicately pressing warmth to the redden area. 

 “I’m okay. It just sting a little bit.” You chuckle nervously, eyes hook onto his gorgeous brown ones scrunching up while he wincing at your barely there wound.

 “Can I take you to dinner? You know… make up for scratching up your beautif-“ Chanwoo feels his face bursting out with steam, throat closing quick. 

"What was that? Can I hear the rest of that sentence?” Smirk teasing on your lips as chanwoo pats his heated skin in embarrassment. 

 “Your, your… uh… your very beautiful face.” He stutter out, averting your gaze at all cost. “I can’t believe this. So embarrassing. I’m suppose to be all cool and stuff when I meet my soulmate but instead i hurt her then make a fool of myself.” He groans perhaps a bit louder than he wanted to, feeling another burst of steam puffing off from saying such ridiculous things. 

“You’re funny, Jung Chanwoo. Not to mention cute.” At your timid praise, his face perks up with excitement, leaving you drunk with his smile and the cute little dimple. “Just so happen I am free tonight. I guess I’ll take you up on that offer.” 

 Chanwoo waves to the group of boys that had been looking on from the far side of the green grass field of the park and you bow before heading off toward the darkening horizon with your fated man. In the short 15 minutes walk to the nearest cafe, you found out he was some sort of child actor and model. He worked random jobs before hitting the big break with the boys you had seen earlier. You felt bad, a young boy thrown into this crazy business of practicing till early morning only to get rush straight into voice lesson right after. Guilt ran through your veins watching his wide eyes then that slight awkward shuffle as you both stood there waiting for the crosswalk to turn green when you had confessed you didn't know who he was. You hastily explained you're not one to keep up with entertainment but that only turned from bad to worse, as if you’re just making up excuses. You’re sure he’s some big star, it’s just your lame ass could never bother enough with keeping up with insert-celebrity-name-here. 

“So you’re telling me you’ve never heard of iKon? WIN? Mix and Match?” Chanwoo muses as he pulls you away from the edge of the sidewalk, moving you inside while he ever so gentlemanly walks on the outside closer to the street. Man, this boy will be the death of you. Up to an hour ago, you thought the whole soulmate idea was stupid but this, if this isn’t romantic you don’t know what is.  You found yourself grinning like an idiot before snapping out of your dream world to answer his pestering. 

“Yea, I’m so sorry.” You hesitate for a second, watching how he’d react but he just keeps smiling, walking close to you. “But if you’re free, maybe you can show me? I’d love to spend more time with you, that is if you want... I know you’re an idol, super busy and all that... I’m just some averag-” 

“Don’t finish that sentence. I just met you and I may not know much but you are not average and I would love to get to know you more.” He stood there cheesing at you with the most innocent glint sparkling in his eyes. You might not know who he is but you feel a strange sense of comfort knowing he wants to get to know you just as much as you do him. There was no hidden intention behind those kind, playful eyes, just pure curiosity of who you might be.

By the time both your hands were heavy with food and drinks, the sky is already darken, dotting with a few barely visible stars and more than a few manmade ones. The thought of a sit down dinner cross his and your mind but ultimately both of you decided against it opting for a more “intimate” dinner at the nearby park. Settling down in the brightly lit picnic area, you watch as Chanwoo slowly pull the contents of your many bags out one by one, smiling as a couple kids run pass by in a tag game. 

“Before we eat, let me see that.” Chanwoo coos as he reaches forward once again, this time reaching for your cheek. You could feel the steam puffing out of your ears from the close proximity alone but now, his large hand cupping your cheek as he inches closer, lips mere centimeters away from yours... You could die this moment and still be the happiest woman in the world. His index quick to rub something wet over the small cut above your brow complete with a small bump you had acquired from the impact during the hour spent wandering under the street lamps with your new friend. 

“Keep still. It’s just antibiotic ointment. This will keep your skin from scarring.” He quips when you wince from the warmth of his finger contrasting to the cold of the ointment. With a firm press to the bandaid, he smiles contently before moving away admiring his neat job.

“You seem like a pro.”

“I hurt myself a lot playing sport... Gotta keep the money making face pristine, you know.” He jests leaving you shaking your head in disbelief.

“Alright, pretty boy. Thank you, my beautiful face appreciate your beautiful patch up job.” Lord knows what went through your mind but a sudden gush of bravery strike the match in your heart giving you the courage to do what you had been wanting too all night... You reach out to grasp his hand in yours. Chanwoo finches at your touch at first but then melting straight into it. For a split second, you feel your chest tighten when he pulls his hand away only to feel like cloud nine when he intertwines his fingers with yours. A strange sense of serenity washes over the both of you despite the screaming of kids and loud thuds of basketball hitting the hard paved courts. For a moment it was just you and him, hand in hand, barely know a thing about each other but you trust him and he does you. Suddenly the future doesn’t seem so bleak and distant anymore but bursting out with roses and sunshine. How could a stranger makes your heart flutter so. He raises all the hair on your body just with his voice. Your heart races just by glancing at those large eyes that seems to hold the universe. His lips so pillowy soft despite the way he constantly has it gnawed in between his perfect teeth leaving you mirroring the action, wondering what they’d taste like. His skin tan and smooth, exulting every trait of an athlete. Not only so but he seems to be such a wonderful man, someone you’d love to know more about. He’s so cheeky yet at the same time, a certain shyness is about in the way he speaks whenever you’d retort with something out of his prediction. Yet it also left you wondering, would he likes you if he really knows who you are. The life of an idol, must be exciting flying to Japan one day then America the next. You’re just a cafe worker...

“What’s wrong, Y/n? You got kinda quiet... Is it me? Did you not want to hold hand...” His voice laces with a touch of sadness, eyes fallen onto your joint hands, hoping you won’t pull away.

“NO, no.. it’s definitely not that. It’s... You know up to an hour ago, I though soulmate was bullshit. I thought soulmate is someone you have to work for to meet, not just some chance encounter and instantaneous intertwining of hearts.” You sigh dejectedly, confessing your worries.

“Oh... So you don’t want me then?” His voice sounds almost monotone, robotic for lacks of a better term. You didn’t want him to think that way, no you definitely would love for nothing more to be with him despite going against everything you believed in.

“Chanwoo, you’re perfect... maybe too perfect for me. I’m just a normal girl. i’m not even one of those girl that buys into the idea of a God given man just for me. You could do so much better. I’m sure you’ve meet tons of better girls in your line of work” You chuckle awkwardly, eyeing him for any reaction. When non given, you rest your head on his broad shoulder, hand squeezing tighter as if it’s the last night you’d get to be with him. “I’d understand if-”

You have never shut up faster before in your life. One moment you felt his hand leaving yours, no doubt making up his mind about leaving you. The next you were seeing stars and no longer did you wonder about how his lips taste. Chanwoo has both his hands around your cheeks holding you in place, thumbs caressing your redden skin gently before they move onto pulling you closer. He presses his lips onto yours hastily, doing his best to yank you away from your strange thoughts because he had never seen a more perfect girl, and all for him. You’re his soulmate and no force in this world was going to take you away from him, not even you. Sure there were cases of one sided soulmate, soulmates that ended in divorce, but this wasn’t one of those. He saw heaven when you appeared and he knew you felt it too. He’d be a fool to let you walk away because you somehow think he needs better. His hands trail away from your cheeks and tightening around your back, happy when your little hands travels to his waist holding him close. You let him work you into a stupor with the way his lips moulding against yours tasting like peppermint and sweat. He pulls away for a second but his hold on you remains strong as ever.

“You’re my soulmate and I don’t care what you think of this whole thing. I wholeheartedly believe soulmates are soulmates for a reason, call me old fashion. You, I don’t know why or how, I don’t even know that much about you yet but I can tell you this, I only need you. Even if you don’t buy into this whole thing, at least give me one chance. Yea? If you don’t believe in love at first sight then give me one chance to prove to you I am your soulmate. At least let me earn your love.” 

He presses another kiss onto your lips and feel the relief of the weight of the world being lift off his shoulder when you nod, lips still flush tight against his, matching smiles bloom on both your lips.

“What about me? What should I do to earn your love.” You mumble against his lips, still desperately pressing against yours as if he could live off of kissing you alone. You pull away slightly to just really look at the man sitting in front of you as you await his answer. It had been such a whirlwind of an evening that you hadn’t really just look at him and every with every second pass you could feel yourself getting further in him. Your finger tracing out the edges of his face, to those soft lips that had been drugging you, to those chubby soft cheeks of his. You place a lingering kiss on his left cheek and feel him giggle under your caring touches.

“Nothing. You already have mine.”

Chapter 2: The Boy in the Red Flannel.

[bernardhiking]

Bystré Saddle Loop

Date of hike: August 5, 2017

Country: Slovakia

Region: High Tatras

Trailhead: Strba Pleso (option starting from Solisko chair lift mountain station)

Hike Destination: Bystré Saddle

Distance: 20 km (13 miles)

Elevation difference: 1600 feet (550 meters) from Solisko chair lift

Difficulty: Moderate to advanced.

Having completed a long hike the previous day, we opted to get a little help for today’s hike by taking the chair lift from Strba Pleso up to Solisko, to save some energy for the long haul. 

From Solisko, we took the blue route which skirts the mountainside while descending a few hundred feet to rejoin the main (yellow) trail up to the Wahlenbergovo Lakes. Compared to the hike the previous day to Lake Hincovo, which had been rather crowded from the outset, this trail was less traveled, though we still encountered quite a few fellow hikers. We got the impression that Slovakians thoroughly enjoy hiking in the Tatras—most of the trails were well frequented, and some of them got almost uncomfortably busy with locals coming out in droves to enjoy what may well be the national pastime here.

There are two lakes on the way up to the Bystré Saddle, and our group of four made it together to the lower Wahlenbergovo Lake, which we reached after some serious upward slogging at noon. Here we enjoyed a simple picnic of fruit, cookies, and local sausage, while contemplating the lake and its surrounding rocky heights, dappled by a constantly moving pattern of passing cloud and sunshine. 

The geology of this part of the Tatras is mainly crystalline with some metamorphosed material as well. The Tatras are much older than, say, the Alps or the Himalaya, having been formed initially during the Paleozoic Age (500-250 million years ago). After such long periods of erosion, the peaks are heavily serrated, broken up, and fissured with hardly a smooth vertical rock wall left anywhere. The whole area resembles one vast debris field, strewn over and over with sharp-edged crystalline rocks of all shapes and sizes. 

So, hiking here means skipping and balancing from rock to rock to rock, a bit like on the Appalachian trail, a mountain range resembling the High Tatras in geology and age. It is really quite extreme how there is hardly a stretch of 100 yards at a time that constitutes smooth ground in these parts. You use a whole different hiking approach, constantly looking down at your feet and utilizing different muscles in order to balance and hop from rock to rock rather than stride on level ground.

After our lunch, we split into two groups: Lyra and I were going to see how far we could proceed up toward the pass with our soft tennis shoes, while Liang returned with our friend down to the valley. My goal was to cross over to the next valley and complete the loop, but given our flimsy shoe work, I had my doubts whether we would be able to complete the project; I was not going to take stupid risks just because we did not have room in our luggage to bring proper boots along with us.

Half an hour after leaving the lower lake, we reached the upper Wahlenbergovo Lake which resembled the first one like a twin: almost black water embedded in distinctively greenish boulder fields. The characteristic greenish hue that covers the landscape here comes from the lichen which grow profusely on the rocks all around. 

The lakes, or tarns, here are linked with streams, although one wonders where the water is coming from in the first place since there are barely any snow fields left at this time of year to provide meltwater, and all the surrounding consists of dry rocks.

After we skirted the second lake, the trail turned sharply upward toward the saddle, zig-zagging at an increasingly steep grade. 

Here the proverbial wheat was being separated from the chaff, as Lyra and I ascended at a steady pace, passing clumps of other hikers who were resting to catch their breath. Soon, we reached the steepest portion of the slope right underneath the saddle, and to my surprise we faced a fixed chain to haul ourselves up the last, steep portion of the route. 

This created a bit of a traffic jam, and I was reminded of Hillary Step on Mount Everest, that notorious bottle neck which holds up many climbers at a crucial stage of the climb in the “Death Zone” just underneath the summit. This jam in the Tatras merely meant an added quarter of an hour or so on the clock rather than life or death. But it nevertheless created some tension. One women coming down was gripped by a panic attack as she faced a drop of several meters, and I watched her beginning to hyperventilate. I quickly hauled myself up halfway toward her using the chain, then gained a foothold and reached my hand out to guide her down. 

Boy, I have not been gripped so hard by a woman’s hand since Liang gave birth to Lyra... This woman’s muscles were stiff with fear, but I managed to lower her down past the drop and onto the hiking path. Then, I quickly hauled myself up and took the next few chain segments in stride, only to realize that Lyra with her shorter legs did not have the extension necessary to take the last long stride upward, so I gave her my hand and pulled her up. 

Now we stood at the comb of the saddle, and the gap in the rock through which everybody had to squeeze was not wider than one person. 

Unexpectedly, the drop on the other side of the saddle was even steeper than the one we had just mastered, and there were fixed chains on that side too. When I saw folks climbing up toward me with mountaineering helmets, it hit me that wearing sneakers and city clothes in this location was a bit out of place. 

Quite a long line of people was cued up on the other side, waiting to ascend along the fixed chains. I was guilty of holding them up just a little longer since I had to look at the view that greeted us there. From the saddle, one could see past the first mountain range into further ranges receding into the distance, a sere vertical landscape overtopped by light blue sky and floating clouds. Down below embedded in the white-greenish rocky desert lay several opal tarns of intense blue-green-black hues. We stood still for a moment contemplating this stunning view, but hikers on both sides of the narrow gap were pressing forward, wanting to pass through the narrow gap, so we could only snap a quick picture before facing the descent. Fortunately, there were two chains next to each other here, so all hikers did not have to use the same chain to move up and down. The only problem on the way down was that scraping along the rock facing forward was not safe while wearing a backpack, so I strapped the backpack to my front, grabbed the chain, and stretched out my feet feeling for a foothold. I was a bit concerned about Lyra at this point, but she reassured me in calm tones that she was perfectly fine. What a relief! We more slithered than climbed down along the near-vertical track here, using whatever foothold we could find. After about 20 yards of this scrambling, we rejoined the trail and had now a better opportunity to enjoy the spectacular scenery while snapping some more pictures.

From here, we could see four opal tarns, lined up at the floor of Mlinicka Valley. The trail continued to be steep and rocky all the way down to the fourth lake, with only short stretches of flat ground now and then. At the fourth lake, we took a rest to drink water and munch on some sweets to supply a bit of instant energy. The sky was clearing up, and a soft late afternoon glow was spreading over the scene, creating a supremely peaceful atmosphere. 

After this, the trail turned into the Vodopak Skok section, which is named after the waterfall that cascades down the rocks at this point. 

Here we encountered another set of fixed chains for support, as the trail once again turned steeper than is considered normal for regular hiking. The bottom of the waterfall was quite crowded, as many hikers go only this far from the town of Strba Pleso to enjoy the waterfalls, and then turn around.

The last few miles of the hike were enjoyable for the wildflowers which grew abundantly in this part of the valley and for the changing scenery. 

At one point, we spotted some climbers suspended on a vertical cliff, their neon-colored jerseys contrasting sharply with the black rock. It was one of the few places where the rock had not been eroded and cracked into fragments, affording a solid enough surface for rock climbing. We arrived tired but satisfied at the start of the route in the late afternoon, some six hours after taking the chair lift from here. It would have been preferable to wear sturdier shoes on this relatively demanding, steep hike, but with proper care and experience, it had been just about OK to complete the loop with inferior footwork (and we were not the only ones to do so...). Of course, this was only possible because the path was not wet at any portion and because the trail was well maintained, with many of the steepest portions turned into a kind of natural stair by having rock slabs arranged to form steps. Given the heavy use that these trails get in this region, this is a very wise approach, and we were generally impressed by the signage and good maintenance of the hiking trails in this area—the very opposite of hiking trails in Sichuan.

One of the biggest attractions of the High Tatras is that many of the peaks are climbable. However, to go past the lakes and the occasional pass, as we did, and proceed up to the very summits of mountains, one definitely needs proper hiking boots, there is not two-ways about it. So, as far as this region is concerned, we have left something undone—climbing a peak or two (say Rysy or Krivan), and I would not mind at all to return at some future point with hiking boots in the luggage as well as hiking poles. In all, although devoid of glaciers and eternal snow and ice, the High Tatras are an attractive and rewarding hiking destination, despite being somewhat tiring given that all trails proceed over piles of jagged rocks; but the clear air, sweeping views, and opal lakes more than make up for the hardship of rock-hopping.

[douglassmiith]

Shows to Binge During the Pandemic That Arent Breaking Bad or Fleabag

If you feel like you’ve already seen everything, here are some under-the-radar TV options to tide you over as we weather coronavirus together.

Opinions expressed by Entrepreneur contributors are their own.

Being informed about the spread of COVID-19 and its devastating effects on the global community is critical. But we can all acknowledge that staying attuned to the news every waking hour has only heightened our collective anxiety and sense of foreboding. One of the few salves for those fortunate enough to have reliable WiFi and access to cable and streaming services has been the chance to catch up with TV shows that had previously passed us by and might offer momentary respite from the coronavirus and its attendant confinement. 

But before one more website or well-meaning friend reads you the riot act for having never seen Breaking Bad or The Wire, or parrots the popular thinking that Fleabag is comedy manna (not that it isn’t), we thought we’d recommend a handful of superlative, binge-able series that have been relatively neglected by the culture at large. And while living through fictional characters’ everyday circumstances might seem like a counterintuitive way to cope with a very real period of isolation, the five shows below might actually offer some useful perspective. (Click through each show title for access to it via Netflix, Amazon or Hulu.)

This little-seen, under-marketed Sundance TV gem from creator/writer Ray McKinnon has earned its share of critical praise and some cult appreciation thanks to Netflix but remains inexplicably sidelined from most popular conversation about great modern dramas. The premise — small-town Georgia man Daniel Holden (Aden Young) gets exonerated after years on death row for the murder of his high school girlfriend and attempts to reassimilate into normal life — might sound moribund. But Rectify abounds with soulful insights on guilt, innocence, love and loss. The cast (also including Abigail Spencer, Clayne Crawford and J. Smith-Cameron, etc.) are terrific in service of characters charting a hyper-realistic course toward solace and redemption against extraordinary odds. 

Related: 18 Movies Every Entrepreneur Should Watch

Kudos to Starz for giving creator/writer Mike O’Malley’s groundbreaking dramedy four seasons to spread its wings. Survivor’s Remorse is nominally about pro-basketball star Cam Calloway (Jesse Usher) and his adaptation to life as an A-list celebrity, but it’s ultimately a dysfunctional-family sitcom with the outlaw spirit of Curb Your Enthusiasm and heart of Schitt’s Creek. That it never benefited from the latter’s groundswell of support is a shame, but it’s not too late to make good and — if nothing else — bear witness to Tichina Arnold’s (Martin, Everybody Hates Chris) career-best turn as the take-no-prisoners, wildly profane Calloway matriarch Cassie.

Nothing can prepare you for how weird this comedy/drama/mystery-thriller buddy series gets in a hurry. The broad strokes of Hap and Leonard are that it’s based on a series of novels by Joe R. Lansdale, set in the 1980s, features first-flight actors including Michael Kenneth Williams (speaking of The Wire), James Purefoy and Mad Men‘s Christina Hendricks. Purefoy is Hap, a conscientious Vietnam objector and smart aleck who literally pulls no punches. Leonard is his best friend, still scarred from having fought in the war and dealing with day-to-day life as an openly gay black man in East Texas. Over the course of three seasons, they find themselves in the crosshairs of lovestruck sadists, child killers and politically embedded Klansmen. They’re kind of like the Dukes of Hazzard, just far more tender with one another and up against much graver life-or-death odds. It’s not hard to see how this one was a hard sell, but trust us that it’s worth buying in.

You’d be forgiven for being out of the loop about creepypastas, which are basically internet-user-generated campfire stories that seeped into mainstream consciousness via forums like Reddit. (The infamous Slender Man tale is a frequently cited pillar.) But they also served as a bedrock for the SyFy network’s Channe Zero anthology series. Each of the four installments — from 2016’s initial Candle Cove to ’18’s concluding Dream Door — creates a Twilight Zone of its own somewhere between lucid dreams and waking strange, searching for closure to open wounds. It’s eerie, artful and the closest thing to what Nightmare on Elm Street auteur Wes Craven might have concocted for the 21st-century disaffected set.

Related: Netflix Finally Adds Top 10 Lists for Its Most Popular Content

We know there’s a lot on TV at any one time. Still, how exactly has this Dave Holstein-created weekly half-hour (currently airing on Showtime) that’s executive produced (and often directed) by Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind visionary Michel Gondry and stars his muse, Jim Carrey, not caught fire? Carrey plays Jeff, who also happens to play a Mr. Rogers-like character named Mr. Pickles on public television. He’s good and he’s decent, but he’s also burdened by a personal tragedy, pining for his ex-wife Jill (the terrific Judy Greer) and dealing with his tyrannical father/boss Seb (a never-better Frank Langella), the sum total of which culminates in what could be described as personal awakening by way of total breakdown. Kidding is, as the title teases, very funny, but without the cringy-ness and ironic distance typical of modern cable comedies. Carrey is excellent, but the show is an ensemble feat and has only grown more confident in its, and Mr. Pickles’s, mission of bringing joy and jarring candor to the masses. 

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Shows to Binge During the Pandemic That Aren’t ‘Breaking Bad’ or ‘Fleabag’

If you feel like you’ve already seen everything, here are some under-the-radar TV options to tide you over as we weather coronavirus together.

Opinions expressed by Entrepreneur contributors are their own.

Being informed about the spread of COVID-19 and its devastating effects on the global community is critical. But we can all acknowledge that staying attuned to the news every waking hour has only heightened our collective anxiety and sense of foreboding. One of the few salves for those fortunate enough to have reliable WiFi and access to cable and streaming services has been the chance to catch up with TV shows that had previously passed us by and might offer momentary respite from the coronavirus and its attendant confinement. 

But before one more website or well-meaning friend reads you the riot act for having never seen Breaking Bad or The Wire, or parrots the popular thinking that Fleabag is comedy manna (not that it isn’t), we thought we’d recommend a handful of superlative, binge-able series that have been relatively neglected by the culture at large. And while living through fictional characters’ everyday circumstances might seem like a counterintuitive way to cope with a very real period of isolation, the five shows below might actually offer some useful perspective. (Click through each show title for access to it via Netflix, Amazon or Hulu.)

This little-seen, under-marketed Sundance TV gem from creator/writer Ray McKinnon has earned its share of critical praise and some cult appreciation thanks to Netflix but remains inexplicably sidelined from most popular conversation about great modern dramas. The premise — small-town Georgia man Daniel Holden (Aden Young) gets exonerated after years on death row for the murder of his high school girlfriend and attempts to reassimilate into normal life — might sound moribund. But Rectify abounds with soulful insights on guilt, innocence, love and loss. The cast (also including Abigail Spencer, Clayne Crawford and J. Smith-Cameron, etc.) are terrific in service of characters charting a hyper-realistic course toward solace and redemption against extraordinary odds. 

Related: 18 Movies Every Entrepreneur Should Watch

Kudos to Starz for giving creator/writer Mike O’Malley’s groundbreaking dramedy four seasons to spread its wings. Survivor’s Remorse is nominally about pro-basketball star Cam Calloway (Jesse Usher) and his adaptation to life as an A-list celebrity, but it’s ultimately a dysfunctional-family sitcom with the outlaw spirit of Curb Your Enthusiasm and heart of Schitt’s Creek. That it never benefited from the latter’s groundswell of support is a shame, but it’s not too late to make good and — if nothing else — bear witness to Tichina Arnold’s (Martin, Everybody Hates Chris) career-best turn as the take-no-prisoners, wildly profane Calloway matriarch Cassie.

Nothing can prepare you for how weird this comedy/drama/mystery-thriller buddy series gets in a hurry. The broad strokes of Hap and Leonard are that it’s based on a series of novels by Joe R. Lansdale, set in the 1980s, features first-flight actors including Michael Kenneth Williams (speaking of The Wire), James Purefoy and Mad Men‘s Christina Hendricks. Purefoy is Hap, a conscientious Vietnam objector and smart aleck who literally pulls no punches. Leonard is his best friend, still scarred from having fought in the war and dealing with day-to-day life as an openly gay black man in East Texas. Over the course of three seasons, they find themselves in the crosshairs of lovestruck sadists, child killers and politically embedded Klansmen. They’re kind of like the Dukes of Hazzard, just far more tender with one another and up against much graver life-or-death odds. It’s not hard to see how this one was a hard sell, but trust us that it’s worth buying in.

You’d be forgiven for being out of the loop about creepypastas, which are basically internet-user-generated campfire stories that seeped into mainstream consciousness via forums like Reddit. (The infamous Slender Man tale is a frequently cited pillar.) But they also served as a bedrock for the SyFy network’s Channe Zero anthology series. Each of the four installments — from 2016’s initial Candle Cove to ’18’s concluding Dream Door — creates a Twilight Zone of its own somewhere between lucid dreams and waking strange, searching for closure to open wounds. It’s eerie, artful and the closest thing to what Nightmare on Elm Street auteur Wes Craven might have concocted for the 21st-century disaffected set.

Related: Netflix Finally Adds Top 10 Lists for Its Most Popular Content

We know there’s a lot on TV at any one time. Still, how exactly has this Dave Holstein-created weekly half-hour (currently airing on Showtime) that’s executive produced (and often directed) by Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind visionary Michel Gondry and stars his muse, Jim Carrey, not caught fire? Carrey plays Jeff, who also happens to play a Mr. Rogers-like character named Mr. Pickles on public television. He’s good and he’s decent, but he’s also burdened by a personal tragedy, pining for his ex-wife Jill (the terrific Judy Greer) and dealing with his tyrannical father/boss Seb (a never-better Frank Langella), the sum total of which culminates in what could be described as personal awakening by way of total breakdown. Kidding is, as the title teases, very funny, but without the cringy-ness and ironic distance typical of modern cable comedies. Carrey is excellent, but the show is an ensemble feat and has only grown more confident in its, and Mr. Pickles’s, mission of bringing joy and jarring candor to the masses. 

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[riichardwilson]

Shows to Binge During the Pandemic That Aren’t ‘Breaking Bad’ or ‘Fleabag’

If you feel like you’ve already seen everything, here are some under-the-radar TV options to tide you over as we weather coronavirus together.

Opinions expressed by Entrepreneur contributors are their own.

Being informed about the spread of COVID-19 and its devastating effects on the global community is critical. But we can all acknowledge that staying attuned to the news every waking hour has only heightened our collective anxiety and sense of foreboding. One of the few salves for those fortunate enough to have reliable WiFi and access to cable and streaming services has been the chance to catch up with TV shows that had previously passed us by and might offer momentary respite from the coronavirus and its attendant confinement. 

But before one more website or well-meaning friend reads you the riot act for having never seen Breaking Bad or The Wire, or parrots the popular thinking that Fleabag is comedy manna (not that it isn’t), we thought we’d recommend a handful of superlative, binge-able series that have been relatively neglected by the culture at large. And while living through fictional characters’ everyday circumstances might seem like a counterintuitive way to cope with a very real period of isolation, the five shows below might actually offer some useful perspective. (Click through each show title for access to it via Netflix, Amazon or Hulu.)

This little-seen, under-marketed Sundance TV gem from creator/writer Ray McKinnon has earned its share of critical praise and some cult appreciation thanks to Netflix but remains inexplicably sidelined from most popular conversation about great modern dramas. The premise — small-town Georgia man Daniel Holden (Aden Young) gets exonerated after years on death row for the murder of his high school girlfriend and attempts to reassimilate into normal life — might sound moribund. But Rectify abounds with soulful insights on guilt, innocence, love and loss. The cast (also including Abigail Spencer, Clayne Crawford and J. Smith-Cameron, etc.) are terrific in service of characters charting a hyper-realistic course toward solace and redemption against extraordinary odds. 

Related: 18 Movies Every Entrepreneur Should Watch

Kudos to Starz for giving creator/writer Mike O’Malley’s groundbreaking dramedy four seasons to spread its wings. Survivor’s Remorse is nominally about pro-basketball star Cam Calloway (Jesse Usher) and his adaptation to life as an A-list celebrity, but it’s ultimately a dysfunctional-family sitcom with the outlaw spirit of Curb Your Enthusiasm and heart of Schitt’s Creek. That it never benefited from the latter’s groundswell of support is a shame, but it’s not too late to make good and — if nothing else — bear witness to Tichina Arnold’s (Martin, Everybody Hates Chris) career-best turn as the take-no-prisoners, wildly profane Calloway matriarch Cassie.

Nothing can prepare you for how weird this comedy/drama/mystery-thriller buddy series gets in a hurry. The broad strokes of Hap and Leonard are that it’s based on a series of novels by Joe R. Lansdale, set in the 1980s, features first-flight actors including Michael Kenneth Williams (speaking of The Wire), James Purefoy and Mad Men‘s Christina Hendricks. Purefoy is Hap, a conscientious Vietnam objector and smart aleck who literally pulls no punches. Leonard is his best friend, still scarred from having fought in the war and dealing with day-to-day life as an openly gay black man in East Texas. Over the course of three seasons, they find themselves in the crosshairs of lovestruck sadists, child killers and politically embedded Klansmen. They’re kind of like the Dukes of Hazzard, just far more tender with one another and up against much graver life-or-death odds. It’s not hard to see how this one was a hard sell, but trust us that it’s worth buying in.

You’d be forgiven for being out of the loop about creepypastas, which are basically internet-user-generated campfire stories that seeped into mainstream consciousness via forums like Reddit. (The infamous Slender Man tale is a frequently cited pillar.) But they also served as a bedrock for the SyFy network’s Channe Zero anthology series. Each of the four installments — from 2016’s initial Candle Cove to ’18’s concluding Dream Door — creates a Twilight Zone of its own somewhere between lucid dreams and waking strange, searching for closure to open wounds. It’s eerie, artful and the closest thing to what Nightmare on Elm Street auteur Wes Craven might have concocted for the 21st-century disaffected set.

Related: Netflix Finally Adds Top 10 Lists for Its Most Popular Content

We know there’s a lot on TV at any one time. Still, how exactly has this Dave Holstein-created weekly half-hour (currently airing on Showtime) that’s executive produced (and often directed) by Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind visionary Michel Gondry and stars his muse, Jim Carrey, not caught fire? Carrey plays Jeff, who also happens to play a Mr. Rogers-like character named Mr. Pickles on public television. He’s good and he’s decent, but he’s also burdened by a personal tragedy, pining for his ex-wife Jill (the terrific Judy Greer) and dealing with his tyrannical father/boss Seb (a never-better Frank Langella), the sum total of which culminates in what could be described as personal awakening by way of total breakdown. Kidding is, as the title teases, very funny, but without the cringy-ness and ironic distance typical of modern cable comedies. Carrey is excellent, but the show is an ensemble feat and has only grown more confident in its, and Mr. Pickles’s, mission of bringing joy and jarring candor to the masses. 

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source http://www.scpie.org/shows-to-binge-during-the-pandemic-that-arent-breaking-bad-or-fleabag/ source https://scpie.tumblr.com/post/613310620687810560

[scpie]

Shows to Binge During the Pandemic That Aren’t ‘Breaking Bad’ or ‘Fleabag’

If you feel like you’ve already seen everything, here are some under-the-radar TV options to tide you over as we weather coronavirus together.

Opinions expressed by Entrepreneur contributors are their own.

Being informed about the spread of COVID-19 and its devastating effects on the global community is critical. But we can all acknowledge that staying attuned to the news every waking hour has only heightened our collective anxiety and sense of foreboding. One of the few salves for those fortunate enough to have reliable WiFi and access to cable and streaming services has been the chance to catch up with TV shows that had previously passed us by and might offer momentary respite from the coronavirus and its attendant confinement. 

But before one more website or well-meaning friend reads you the riot act for having never seen Breaking Bad or The Wire, or parrots the popular thinking that Fleabag is comedy manna (not that it isn’t), we thought we’d recommend a handful of superlative, binge-able series that have been relatively neglected by the culture at large. And while living through fictional characters’ everyday circumstances might seem like a counterintuitive way to cope with a very real period of isolation, the five shows below might actually offer some useful perspective. (Click through each show title for access to it via Netflix, Amazon or Hulu.)

This little-seen, under-marketed Sundance TV gem from creator/writer Ray McKinnon has earned its share of critical praise and some cult appreciation thanks to Netflix but remains inexplicably sidelined from most popular conversation about great modern dramas. The premise — small-town Georgia man Daniel Holden (Aden Young) gets exonerated after years on death row for the murder of his high school girlfriend and attempts to reassimilate into normal life — might sound moribund. But Rectify abounds with soulful insights on guilt, innocence, love and loss. The cast (also including Abigail Spencer, Clayne Crawford and J. Smith-Cameron, etc.) are terrific in service of characters charting a hyper-realistic course toward solace and redemption against extraordinary odds. 

Related: 18 Movies Every Entrepreneur Should Watch

Kudos to Starz for giving creator/writer Mike O’Malley’s groundbreaking dramedy four seasons to spread its wings. Survivor’s Remorse is nominally about pro-basketball star Cam Calloway (Jesse Usher) and his adaptation to life as an A-list celebrity, but it’s ultimately a dysfunctional-family sitcom with the outlaw spirit of Curb Your Enthusiasm and heart of Schitt’s Creek. That it never benefited from the latter’s groundswell of support is a shame, but it’s not too late to make good and — if nothing else — bear witness to Tichina Arnold’s (Martin, Everybody Hates Chris) career-best turn as the take-no-prisoners, wildly profane Calloway matriarch Cassie.

Nothing can prepare you for how weird this comedy/drama/mystery-thriller buddy series gets in a hurry. The broad strokes of Hap and Leonard are that it’s based on a series of novels by Joe R. Lansdale, set in the 1980s, features first-flight actors including Michael Kenneth Williams (speaking of The Wire), James Purefoy and Mad Men‘s Christina Hendricks. Purefoy is Hap, a conscientious Vietnam objector and smart aleck who literally pulls no punches. Leonard is his best friend, still scarred from having fought in the war and dealing with day-to-day life as an openly gay black man in East Texas. Over the course of three seasons, they find themselves in the crosshairs of lovestruck sadists, child killers and politically embedded Klansmen. They’re kind of like the Dukes of Hazzard, just far more tender with one another and up against much graver life-or-death odds. It’s not hard to see how this one was a hard sell, but trust us that it’s worth buying in.

You’d be forgiven for being out of the loop about creepypastas, which are basically internet-user-generated campfire stories that seeped into mainstream consciousness via forums like Reddit. (The infamous Slender Man tale is a frequently cited pillar.) But they also served as a bedrock for the SyFy network’s Channe Zero anthology series. Each of the four installments — from 2016’s initial Candle Cove to ’18’s concluding Dream Door — creates a Twilight Zone of its own somewhere between lucid dreams and waking strange, searching for closure to open wounds. It’s eerie, artful and the closest thing to what Nightmare on Elm Street auteur Wes Craven might have concocted for the 21st-century disaffected set.

Related: Netflix Finally Adds Top 10 Lists for Its Most Popular Content

We know there’s a lot on TV at any one time. Still, how exactly has this Dave Holstein-created weekly half-hour (currently airing on Showtime) that’s executive produced (and often directed) by Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind visionary Michel Gondry and stars his muse, Jim Carrey, not caught fire? Carrey plays Jeff, who also happens to play a Mr. Rogers-like character named Mr. Pickles on public television. He’s good and he’s decent, but he’s also burdened by a personal tragedy, pining for his ex-wife Jill (the terrific Judy Greer) and dealing with his tyrannical father/boss Seb (a never-better Frank Langella), the sum total of which culminates in what could be described as personal awakening by way of total breakdown. Kidding is, as the title teases, very funny, but without the cringy-ness and ironic distance typical of modern cable comedies. Carrey is excellent, but the show is an ensemble feat and has only grown more confident in its, and Mr. Pickles’s, mission of bringing joy and jarring candor to the masses. 

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source http://www.scpie.org/shows-to-binge-during-the-pandemic-that-arent-breaking-bad-or-fleabag/

[sportsandfitnessinfo]

New Post has been published on http://fitnessandhealthpros.com/beauty/jealousy-is-such-an-energy-suck-10-ways-to-rise-above/

Jealousy Is Such An Energy Suck. 10 Ways to Rise Above

A version of this article previously appeared on Conscious Living TV.

We’ve all been there. Maybe it was the popular cheerleader in high school who seemed to have it all: perfect hair, teeth, and her hunky boyfriend made you wonder if you’d ever outgrow your awkward stage. Or maybe it was the rising star at work who beat you out for the plum promotion you wanted without seeming to break a sweat. Perhaps it’s your facebook ‘friend’ who is chased by a never-ending stream of “Amazing!” selfie-narrated experiences.

Whatever your source of envy, the green monster is no fun companion. Jealousy can not only debilitate your relationships with others, it can also wreak serious havoc on your health.  According to Donna Fremon-Powell, certified Guided Imagery Therapist in La Habra, California, emotions like anger, jealousy, hate, and resentment produce a chemical that’s very similar to arsenic. “Simply put, your negative emotions are poisonous.”

Catch a whiff of mystery musk on your lover’s jacket and your stomach drops as if it’s in free fall. Hear a competitor’s gloating acceptance speech and your heart pounds. Watch a confident pal steal your crush and your hands may suddenly begin to tremble. When it comes to your health, jealousy is no joke. Here are some of the effects this poisonous emotion can have on different parts of the body:

Your Brain. Imagine your partner in bed with a new lover or compare your resume to that of a longtime rival and your amygdala, insula, and anterior cingulate cortex–the neural nodes of fear, anger, and disgust–swing into high gear, explains neuroscientist Hidehiko Takahashi of Kyoto University. Courtesy of the anterior cingulate cortex, the social pain of jealousy is experienced in much the same way as physical pain.

Your Stomach. Overhear your boss praise the company’s new wunderkind and your lunch looks a whole lot less delicious. The threat of a challenger who could leave you jobless–or single–activates a fear reaction in the amygdala, triggering the fight-or-flight response that ramps up production of adrenaline and noradrenaline, explains Frank John Ninivaggi, a psychiatrist at Yale’s Child Study Center. The result? Lack of appetite and nausea.

Your Eyes. Worried your spouse might be unfaithful? If so, you’re likely to find yourself staring down potential rivals–especially attractive ones. According to recent research in the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, people who are consistently jealous of a possibly philandering partner pay closer attention to good-looking members of their own sex and form stronger memories of what they look like than those who are not.

Your Heart. According to Jonathan Dvash, a neuroscientist at the University of Haifa, the sympathetic nervous system buckles under the stress of jealousy, quickening the heart and spiking blood pressure. Left unchecked over time, this could lead to hypertension and heart disease.

Holding onto jealousy isn’t worth heart failure. By managing your emotions more consciously, you can work to overcome envy and step into a more empowered, amazing you. Here’s how:

Start Living Your Dream. Each one of us is put on this earth to fulfill a special purpose, big or small. Some call this dharma, or sacred duty: a unique, divinely appointed gift you were born to share with the world. If you don’t know your purpose or aren’t willing to risk taking the journey to find out, it can be emotionally debilitating to witness someone else fulfill theirs. Instead, do the work to start building your own special dream. Start by taking any step in the right direction, and you’ll soon find yourself too busy pursuing your unique talents, passions, and interests to keep score of anyone else’s.

Be Authentic. Being fake is a sure sign you might be suppressing your best self, which can trigger a desire to suppress others’ success, confidence or good fortune. By becoming more aware of your authentic thoughts, feelings, and attitudes in the moment, and giving yourself permission to honestly express them  – even if unpopular – you’ll free yourself to let your own light shine.

Practice Self-Care. The saying goes: if you don’t love yourself, it’s impossible to love someone else. Self-care includes anything that nurtures your mind, body, and spirit. For me, yoga, meditation, and aromatherapeutic baths make me feel happier, grounded and secure. For you, it may be cooking, gardening, finger painting or going on long walks in the woods. Self-destructive behavior, like getting drunk or high or spending time with negative people, doesn’t count. Do what truly nourishes you and you’ll find yourself feeling too happy to hate on someone else.

Surround Yourself with Positive People. Experts agree that you become an average of the five people you spend the most time with, so if you’re not happy with any part of your life, it’s time to take a closer look at your social circle. Be honest: how many are positive, life-affirming individuals who want nothing more than to see you reach your fullest potential? How many are chronically unhappy, gossiping, haters? If you find yourself surrounded by negative Nancy’s, it’s time to press the refresh button on your social circle.

Keep a Gratitude Journal. It may sound hokey, but each day it’s important to schedule time to write down at least ten things in your life you’re grateful for. Maybe it’s your health, your family, the sunshine, or just being able to get out of bed another day. For extra credit, list 10 things about yourself that you appreciate. Practicing gratitude makes it easier to focus on what you have, instead of what you don’t.

Stop Comparing Yourself to Others. We live on a planet with over 7 billion other human beings, so statistically, it’s likely there will always be someone smarter, skinnier, richer, cuter, more spiritual and more “fabulous” than you. But this is simply how they appear on the outside. No one’s life is as perfect as it seems on the surface – or on facebook. Behind the scenes, their life could be a total mess, so why compare your insides to someone else’s outsides?

Let Go of Entitlement. As infants, we’re taught that the world revolves around us: all we have to do is frown or cry and our needs are met without having to lift a finger. While this lazy worldview works wonders as a baby, it can be disastrous as an adult. No one is entitled to anything they didn’t work for. If you want something, be willing to sacrifice, be disciplined, take the risk and work hard to get it, or you will inevitably begrudge someone else who has. Behind every jealous person is someone fundamentally angry at themselves for falling short of their own personal best.

Practice Detachment. There’s nothing wrong with having desires, but attachment to them creates suffering. Unhealthy attachments to people, places, and things cause us to live in a constant state of false control and fear that we might lose the object of our desire. This creates a perfect breeding ground for envious thoughts and behaviors, like keeping score with others. By moving through life freely, detached to the outcome of our actions, we remain free, unencumbered and at peace.

Give Props.  Instead of secretly sinking into the miry clay whenever you meet someone with blessings you wish were yours, get it off your chest. Don’t hate, congratulate! Tell them exactly why you admire them. It’s your ego, not your divine Self, that wants to withhold affirming another’s goodness. Stop hoarding the love! Give someone deserving their props. Being honest and getting these feelings off your chest will prevent them from festering into resentment and envy, freeing up the energy you will need to create great things in your own life. 

Meditate. Going inward with even a brief daily meditation practice will help you get in touch with some of the deeper issues that may be weighing on your heart more than Mr./Miss Perfect or having more money or fame. By focusing on your Spirit – the eternal part of you that transcends personality, your resumé, outer success and failures – you’ll be less drawn to look outside for external, short-lived validation that will always fall short of satisfying the deepest yearnings of your soul.

How do you overcome the green monster?

Also by Bianca: Mentally Blocked? 10 Ways To Raise Your Vibes & Fuel Your Creative Spirit

How I Learned To Love My Nappy Roots After Years of Chemical Relaxers

Related: How Your Social Media Identity Hurts Your Real Self

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Photo: Pexels, Conscious Living TV

Bianca Alexander is the host and creative director of Conscious Living, a broadcast TV program showcasing inspiring news in natural health, spirituality and the yoga lifestyle. The show now airs in 60+ markets across the U.S. and via the web on AoL, HuffPo and other conscious platforms. Follow Bianca on Instagram @consciouslivingtv .

Originally at :Peaceful Dumpling Written By : Bianca Alexander

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