#task: gabriela

[chaosandcrimson]

Gabriela Dantes: Character Inspirations

Diana Morales from A Chorus Line Mia Dolan from La La Land Mary-Jane Watson from Marvel

[jolalibrary]

in my room

javier peña x f!reader | masterlist

summary: Because it’s an exchange, a two-way thing. He doesn’t tell you he likes your hair and you don’t tell him you fuck him so you don’t think.

wordcount: 6.2k (im so sorry, this was meant to be short)

warnings: explicit. smut + angst. colleagues who fuck for stress relief. grumpy-ish javi. file room shenanigans. unprotected p in v. oral!f receiving, mention of m!receiving. javi’s hand being a necklace. cum eating (by Javi), mild rough sex? mentions of grief (due to canon-compliant death), season two compliant/spoilers for season two. javi has a filthy mouth. joetics (jo and her poetic nature, credit to @/goodwithcheese for the name), no use of y/n but javi calls you princesa/baby.

an: dedicated to javi-edit-anon, hope you're doing okay.

It begins swarmed in grief.

A chest full of conflicting emotions, fingers itching for another smoke. It is all put into motion by the same person who became the catalyst—the match to the flame, the cause of the inferno.

He doesn’t usually wander around the building. But, today was a lot of firsts. Jaw clenched. Fingers digging into his palm at the memory, the realisation—the fucking play-by-play—of how he’d been played, fucked over, used.

Now, he’s left riddled with the knowledge that he’d lost a friend a few hours ago because of something he did. The understanding of it rusting in his stomach, right next door to the place disgrace is building a home where his gut had been.

He’s not thinking, not seeking—a desperation to run and hide, yet has nowhere to go.

And then he comes across you.

Finds you in the hallway like you were sent to save him. To pull him out of the water, pump the liquid from his lungs and smother the flames from burning his skin.

The two of you having stopped, paused in your travels.

Just two isolated shadows in the middle of the corridor—an invisible line being drawn, a noticeable white mark—backlit by sorrow and emptiness.

You don’t tear your eyes from him. Stubborn, even on your loss. Purposefully, intentionally, holding his gaze across the empty corridor.

Usually, you're so put together he feels contempt at how you seem unfazed at being surrounded by the shit they all have to do daily. But now, you look every bit as undone as him—shirt untucked, sadness stitched into your usually tight, rigid frame.

The only thing similar is the way you look at him, just like you did when the hours ticked on during those late nights you were forced to work together.

Files opened, documents scoured. Two eyes fairing better than one in their search. The toe of your shoe tapping against his desk, your fingers circling the rim of your mug full of coffee (never liquor, only coffee), pen clicking and clicking—

It had been Carrillo who had paired the two of you. Handing him a task, a surname—one Javi hadn’t heard—and the option of an extra pair of hands: you’ll see she’s good, and we don’t want her poached.

Then, he’d laid eyes on you.

You who’d he’d seen around, but never the chance to talk to. Had no reason to. You forever moved in any direction but the one he was heading in whenever he came into sight. That had been well over a month ago, weeks now.

In that time, he learnt your snark, your laugh—the way you take your coffee and your petulance for sugar after 8 pm—all proper in how you handle yourself, like royalty.

It’s then he learned that you hated being called princesa. Lips curling when it dripped from his lips, back straightening—all close to fracturing, snapping. So naturally, he called it you more.

It became—like the rest of it—a habit. He dropped the name as easily as he began pushing some of his shit to the side for you, so you had a space, a small corner of his desk you could commandeer when you joined him.

It didn’t mean anything. A thing be recited, thought to himself as he buried himself inside Gabriela—who looked nothing like you.

Then, a week ago, you were already there before he got back. The soles of his shoes had come to a standstill at the top of the steps, staring at the back of you—taking you in.

There was no need to see your face, Javi knew that you knew he was there. Not saying a thing when he seated himself down, the same way he didn’t with each tap of your shoes’ toe against the metal frame and you bit the end of your pen. He’d decided weeks ago, when you wore a shirt you felt the need to undo two buttons off, that if you weren’t paired with him to torture him, he wasn’t sure what else you were sitting next to him to test him for. But he’d find out, work it out.

Then you cracked it—found it, the anomaly, the name, a connection. A semblance of something in a sea of shit. A straw to grasp, to pull—your lips, likely stained from coffee and ink, twisting into a grin, one he couldn’t help but admire.

“¿Cómo?”

Pulling a face, he had only shrugged, feeling you watch him, answering with a, “You’re good.”

“You just realised? You just notice I got tits, too?”

Leaning back in his chair, he shifts his jaw to the side. Watching you stack papers before holding his stare, letting you see him flick his eyes from yours to your lips. Suddenly all unsure how to even begin telling you that he’d noticed you—had done so since they were all forced into this fucking building.

But you’d caught him, snapped him in plain sight with those beautiful eyes of yours. “Resorting to kissing colleagues now. Fucking whores not doing it for you, Peña?”

He had smirked, wider, but it had been tough. Leaning forward, he traced his bottom lip with his thumb. “You heard about that.”

Nodding, you’d smiled—cockily, full of something other than kindness. “Half the women will be lining up if they think you have free time.”

“But not you?”

Then, you’d stood, head tilted, files in the neatest pile compared to the rest of his desk, as you rolled your lips. “No. Not me. Goodnight, Peña.”

That exchange had been before things had gone to shit.

Before his cock had undone it all, left several people dead and the person who’d paired you together, gone. Taken—leaving a widow and children without a father.

Snorting, he focuses on clearing his throat as he replays it all. How much of a fever dream it all feels, his other hand pinching his thigh as he stares at you studying him, not scurrying off like he half expects.

And the fact you don’t makes his fingers itch at his side.

A part of him, suddenly stronger than all other parts, battles to move closer to you—like he needs to see what your mouth feels like on his. Like he’s been without his fill. It’s why even as much as he wants you to close the gap, he doesn’t move. Wants you to have an out—an escape.

A chance to choose whether you want to wake up with regret. Because even he knows sleeping with him ends in two ways, and shame is usually one of them.

“You should go inside your room.”

But of course you don’t. Instead, it’s the soles of your shoes on the floor that get louder, closer.

“Do you want me to, Peña?”

It’s building, rising. His eyes trailing up and down you, mouth chewing his tongue as he gets another taste of liquor, as he finally lets his gaze land back on yours.

“You want me to walk away from you?”

No. It’s final. Gruff. More spat out than said—laced with failure and remorse—but you hear him. Loud and fucking clear.

So much so, your lips twist up, smirking more devilish than he knows what to do with. “Good.”

It’s quick—you’re quick. Yanking him close as he forces you flush against him. His mouth crashes, steals and takes as his lips sear themselves to yours. And he learns, quickly, you’re not soft, but biting.

You are all jagged sweetness that throws a curve ball in how he knows how to handle this. You. Your lips taste of sadness, tears and liquor, all cheap—so very unlike what he imagines for you—and you make a knot tighten in his core as your palm flattens over his hardening cock in his jeans.

“You tested?” he asks, hand cupping your jaw, tilting your eyes up, pulse racing against his wrist—skin warm, scorching.

“Are you!?” you spit, and he almost snorts until your fingers knot in the base of his hair, pulling, likely hoping it hurts.

And it does.

Makes him groan—but he’s quick to smother it in the back of his throat. Flatten it, hide and conceal. Getting his answer for an exchange of your own.

“We should go inside my room,” you say in response to him, pulling down on him, Javi finding he bends with far too much ease as his ear finds itself close to your lips, “I’m not quiet when I’m enjoying myself.”

Twisting you, he flattens your back to his chest, rough, hearing you breathlessly laugh. “You know what you’re doing, baby, huh?”

And you’re silent, brain whirring as he begins walking you, till your chest is almost against your door.

Open it, he whispers, watching your hand dig for the key, his mouth latching to your neck, swirling a circle on your skin, tasting lingering perfume and sweat as he grips your waist.

“Last chance.”

He hears you laugh, low, buried somewhere in your throat just as the door unlocks, all loud, cutting through the silence other than both of your racing breaths. It’s why, he supposes, his words echo in his stare as you turn your head. Rolling your lips. It's all so reminiscent of the stare you gave him at the foot of his desk—but this time, you collide your mouth with his.

Not leaving—not doing anything except turning in the space between your door and him. Those nails, the ones that tapped now scrape across his hair, burying, carding, as you lightly pull on strands—forcing a groan to bury itself in your throat, find a new home, live there.

It's quick, practically animalistic the way he sheds your layers—baring you, finding (unsurprising) that even in misery you still match. His fingers run over it on your hip, rolling his lips, the tip of his tongue swiping across as he admires, as he steals a second to commit you to his mind.

Because he’s not sure if he’ll ever get to again.

“Last chance,” you echo.

Repeating his words, using them against him. Flicking the fabric against your skin, he snorts and he flips you. Sharply telling you to get on your bed, all-fours—bend over, hermosa.

“This how you pictured it at your desk?”

He barely registers your words until he’s behind you, bare, hand sliding between your thighs as he smirks at the noise you make. How you take him, all the way up to his knuckles—his free hand stroking himself to the in and out his other hand sets, desperation mixing with a need to forget—for a moment peace from thinking, existing, being.

And you’re drenched. Practically desperate. Hips moving with his movements and strokes, the air tinged with the littlest whimpers before replacing his fingers with the head of his cock, dragging it, skating it spitefully over your slick folds.

That’s when it meets his ears, those distinct words—ones he doesn’t know will haunt him just yet—I want to feel you inside me, Peña.

It unlocks something—floods him. Taking in a breath before he glides in, burying himself in you, right to the hilt, going deep.

He revels in your tightness. The way you gasp at the feel of him—fingers digging, scrunching them into your sheets, before he wrenches you up off your hands, needing your back flush with his—a move he realises, painstakingly, he’s done before.

Softening his palm anchored on your hip, lips pressing to your jaw—the other hand busy feeling, enjoying, basking in how you swallow against his palm on your neck.

“You like that, princesa?”

You moan as his hips snap, taking him so well, so perfectly—a thing he tells you, a rush of good girl, good princesa taking me like this. And he expects a bite, a flurry of insults—an exchange that would mean this would shift from stress relief to hate fucking.

But it never arrives. Instead, it’s a barrage of chants, all yes, please, yes, painting the shitty room—giving the crumbling paint something to be disgusted at, other than its own despair. The metal legs of the bed squeal against the floor, the headboard hammering, and cluttering, leaving a mess of years of repainting along the cheap flooring.

“Take me so well. Y’know that?”

Fingers just above your collarbone, pressing, feeling your head resting on his shoulder, eyes seeking his, determined to locate them and take something from him for it. He lets you. Briefly, just enough.

“Harder, Peña,” you hiss, shoving it out through clenched teeth, blinking, breaking the eye line.

“Javi,” he hisses deep into your ear, hand sliding down between your thighs—above where the two of you are joined.

Thumb expertly swirling, tracing the letters of his name against your throbbing clit—the sound of his cock fucking into you growing louder, sloppier. Arm thrown around your waist, feeling the way your skin is sheened in sweat, practically a mess from head to fucking toe, all because of him. Crown slid, shattered in a thousand parts across the floor, because of him.

A realisation that almost nears him to the edge, to bursting, to emptying inside your perfect fucking pussy and stuffing you full of him.

Teeth gritted together, jaw tight as he peers at the place your bodies join—watching, in admiration, as you take him, suck him in, barely let him able to leave your tight pussy as your heart hammers against his forearm.

“When I’m doing this to you,” he grunts, teeth pinching at your ear, your hand gripping his wrist—thumb still swirling, the A and V being a favourite from the way you clench around him tighter, and tighter, “You call me Javi.”

It undoes you. It ripples and then bursts through you—clenching all around him, tightening, squeezing him until his vision blurs and your name curls somewhere on his tongue, all set to be spat, spoken, even fucking whispered. Somehow able to swallow it when it unfurls through him, when it shoots up his spine and surges through every nerve and muscle.

The two of you collapsing against the shitty mattress, the squealing bed, as you turn in his grasp—lips finding his, burying words against him, only soft murmurs finding his ears.

He’s hard to avoid.

More so, when a part of you wishes to be a puzzle—a thing he cannot crack. Something that would take time to understand and figure out. Because then you’d be interesting, layered, something that could matter.

All of which, you suspect he knows when he kisses you after having his face buried before your thighs, tongue saturated in you, now licking into your mouth.

There’s something truthful in it, in the way his palm cups your entire jaw and chin, holding you, keeping you rooted for a few moments before you taste yourself on his tongue and can take note of what he’s done to you. For you.

Except, you don’t meet his eyes. Somehow fearful the space between your thighs has spilled all your secrets to him. Because he’s a connoisseur, likely gifted in being able to decipher the text on your inner walls. Hooked nose dragging along your slick core before coming up for air and seeing how ordinary you were, how boring, how average. He’s likely traced the pads of his fingers over the etchings of all the things that haunt your mind, the things that thrum and go bump in the fucking night.

But he comes back. Again, and again.

And you can't understand why.

You don’t ask either. Instead, you bury any of that against his tongue, and when it’s desperate to come out, a wish to ask him, you instead choose with fluttering lashes and parted lips if you can suck his cock. If he can fuck your throat, if he can stuff you full in one end before the other—

Words can’t escape if your tongue is occupied.

A thing harder to do in the day-to-day. As things around the place return to normal—other priorities sweep over and make people forget their sadness.

It’s why you’re not avoiding him, but you haven’t sought him out.

Too afraid of what you’ll confess when you’re not on your knees. A simple softening of his brown eyes almost forces words to rip up your throat and colour the air.

It won’t do any good. No words will. Not after waking again entangled in an empty sheet. All evidence of his presence gone except the littering of bruises on your hips and thighs and the mess between your legs.

It’s easier, less complicated to keep it like this—a thing you tell yourself as you brush your teeth and wash the leftover tang of him from your mouth.

Stress release, an undoing, an antidote to sadness and a bandage that allows you a moment to heal. You don’t judge him, because he doesn’t judge you either—not the first time, the second or the tenth. Because like recognises like—eyes deciphering how you’re not that different from him.

On the surface, you may pretend to be. Layer secrets and annoyances on top of the other, until it slips into something perfect—a mask, one that any of them can’t peer through and see that you see them all. Because working here is more than hard, it’s more than difficult and often rough.

It’s mornings with your forehead resting on your door wondering if you have it in you and moments alone in dark corners silently wiping away tears.

Most people don’t see your brain, your skills all too quickly forgotten, discarded on the same bit of paper the rest of your history lived when you approached for the role.

You reckon he sees you.

Not because you hoped for it—or because of some teenage fantasy. But, because of the way he looked that night at his desk. Not surprised, but confused as to why you were mainly pushing paper, why you weren’t based where he was, doing what he does. All questions you’ve asked yourself late at night, when your mind doesn’t stop ticking, stop whirring.

You suspect he ticks too. Another thing in common.

While he may have begun his dalliances to gain words, secrets, and stories, you have come to recognise it’s more than that. You know he knows all the names of them—likely lingers in their room. Offering them more than a good time and some money, but something he seeks from them too—companionship, a moment where he’s not DEA and rather something akin to a lover.

From the way he holds himself, Javi doesn’t think he shares that information. But it rolls from him in constant waves when he lights another smoke and drowns his throat in whatever is in his mug. He likes to think he’s effortless and austere, all too weighed down, while being complex, brilliant and wonderful.

It’s why you had wanted to fuck him. Why you had fucked him.

Because, objectively, he is beautiful. All soft in places and firm in others; he has scorching eyes and can offer searing touches. But, under all of that is what made heat blossom up your spine and commanded your thighs to press together for relief.

The way he thinks. The way he shifts his jaw from side to side and traces his finger down the length of his nose. It’s the way he holds himself when he doesn’t have to hold himself at all that makes you want him.

As it makes you feel less alone.

Less like an oddity in how you need to carve your nails into something. Your palm, other people’s flesh; wood, your sheets. All of it just so you become grounded, so there was pain, so there were feelings, so you didn’t float off or drown in a sea of mistakes, regrets and guilt.

It was a combination of both that floating and drowning as to why it happened that first time.

It had been a simultaneous tangling of limbs, a battle, a war both of you attempted to claim—a fight with your mouths, thighs, hands, tongues and bodies. Only stopped when you were both slick with sweat, the tops of your thighs coated with him and your breaths laboured. Your ear to his chest, hearing it—the way he beats, the way he lives. How blood rushes through him, all alive, real, not a fabrication.

Now, though, it’s different.

The grief is lessoned, yet you still find yourself pretending it's as rife as that first night.

A compromise, an opportunity to pretend that’s the reason the two of you do this. When in truth, the reason you don’t judge him, is because you too use sex to feel something. Needed it to claim something, prove something to yourself—that you’re desirable, attractive and fucking wanted. That you’re more than a sharp tongue and a brilliant mind, more than compliments through your way that never land—

That you’re worthy of being fucked to the point you cannot walk straight.

And, he does that so well, twists you, bends you—makes your ears ring with how attractive you are, how good you are, how perfect. A sin that rages a storm in his dreams and a thought he can’t silence.

So you avoid him. Fearful that you no longer wish to feel worthy of being fucked, but be worthy of being fucked by him.

And then he finds you instead.

Palm shoving open the file room door, all loud, like an announcement, before he lets it click into place. Allowing the air to tighten, to squeeze—all so thickening—before he’s charging, so much so the breath is knocked from your lungs with far too much ease when he flattens your back to the wall. The dust blowing from the shelves next to you from the sudden movement, the room quaking, shaking and fucking trembling as his brown eyes flick from one eye to the next.

As though he’s seeking something out.

Some truth, perhaps? A reason, a rhyme.

He splays his fingers across your hip, a hiss trying to escape from your pursed lips as your body threatens to betray you—wishing to curl into him, feel him flush, all warm and easy to escape to. Then, the other finds a home on the wall beside your head, no place to move to, to go—not that you fucking want to.

“I don’t fuck in file rooms, Peña.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. All well-versed, practically a library of quick retorts. “Where do you fuck then? Just your room?”

Surrounded by him, in all the ways that could torture. Nose smothered in the scent that is unabashedly him; eyes unable to look anywhere but him. Slowly, bothersomely, he begins to easily unpick the carefully placed resolve, practically cracking through like it was made of paper and not woven each night as you attempt to stop thinking about him.

Sometimes, it’s easier to think about him.

To snake your hand inside your underwear and ride your fingers with how much you loathe how good he feels. His name is both a curse and a fucking blessing on the tip of your tongue when you come—heat licking up your spine, washing you in something you suspect should be a shame.

But it never is.

Because it’s an exchange, a two-way thing. He doesn’t tell you he likes your hair and you don’t tell him you fuck him so you don’t think.

Instead, you leave that, fold it up, and make it as small as it can be, before you undress for him. Then you fixate on his eyes, on the darkness, the way his pupils swallow the colour you know all the flecks off. You stare, because you hope to see yourself in them—an outline, a shadow, evidence of living, remaining, not chipped away until you’re just stiff work attire and coffee. Something, anything—

Especially when you’re bare. When he stares at you like you’ve been carved for him, by him. When he makes you feel weightless and also like you are never allowed to be anywhere but right here.

It’s an illusion though. A trick of your mind—a delusion where want, need and hope all blend into a concoction that is sold in pink bottles and smells like fruit.

Lifting your chin, you want to chill your eyes and harden your expression. Neither happens.

You’re thrown from your axis, deep brown managing to shroud you, make your mind empty, clear.

“We don’t have to fuck,” he continues, letting it slide from his tongue—slither out, practically hissing. “There’s plenty of ways I can make you moan.”

“I’m sure there is. You’ve paid for the practice, after all.”

His chuckle does nothing to stem the fire—the one out of control somewhere in the pit of your stomach. Clothes suddenly uncomfortable on your skin, your earlier standpoint waning, thinning to the point of transparency.

“Yeah, but I bet you’ve been getting off to thoughts of me—us. How fucking good we are,” he retorts.

Your face blanks, and you hope it’s unreadable.

Because you already have witnessed how skilful he is. Had the unfortunate pleasure of seeing him hold his desk phone since, how he grips his gun, marvelling at the memory of how his fingers feel inside of you, both long and thick. How they engulf yours, practically able to grasp both your wrists in his one hand if he wishes.

But, from the glint in his eye, he’s seen you. Already solved you—cracked you.

“You only had to ask, princesa. Would never leave you wanting.”

You snarl. And it’s that which forces your lips to crash against his, steal more lines from his tongue and tease his mind. Ridding him for once, shaking him empty as your hands clutch the sides of his cheeks. Thankful, more than you care to fucking admit, that his tongue slides past your lips, moves past the back of your teeth—accompanied, and wrapped with it, a groan that vibrates down to your oesophagus.

Bodies pressed together, his mouth slanting over yours as though he’s been wishing to do this for as long as you have. Dizzying, heart-stopping—that’s what kissing him feels like. That’s what indulging feels like.

“I don’t like you.”

Smirking, he runs it over your swollen lips, traces his confidence over your mouth. “Your pussy does though.”

His hand moves, snakes between the two of you—fingers proficient, unwavering from their mission—undoing your trousers, zip sliding down, cutting between the silence as your mouths part, lips ghosting, breaths twisting together in the small gap.

The space is filled with a moan when his hand slides inside your underwear, fingers brushing the delicate nerves that make his name illuminate in your head like it’s been spelt out in light—in candles.

“See? Soaked. Drenched, aren’t you, princesa?”

Your head spins, legs weaken. Body betraying you as it rocks against his movements, curling, craving—desperate and hungry. Because you knew it would be good, that he’d be good. There’s no smoke without fire, and there’d be no discussion over shitty baked cake and decent coffee about his skills if he weren’t best-in-class.

“So fuckin’ needy for me, aren’t you?”

It’s there, ebbing on your tongue, yes, yes yes.

And fuck, you didn’t have him down to be like this. To have you at his mercy, practically dumbfounded, his name and a yes the only things you know, think or say. It falls, rolling from your tongue before his lips busy yours. Kissing you as if he’s starved, as if he wishes to coat his tongue in the way you moan against him—his hand getting slicker, coated in your faux hatred and practised indifference that holds no weight now.

Because you want him. Would gladly let him spin you around and, press your face against a case file box and kick your legs apart. You’d beg for it, want him to hold your hands behind your back as he spears his cock in and out of you, not giving a single fuck that someone could come in—

“Stop thinkin’ about what I could do to you, and more what I am doing to you.”

His eyes on you, blown, full of lust and shimmering with a desire that embeds into your skin until it reaches a whole new temperature. Your tongue is heavy and thick, as your throat struggles to swallow.

If anything, it proves he can listen—just to what he wants. And apparently, that is you. Making it flicker, it suddenly impending, slamming itself onto the track with a focus on its station.

“Think y'like being naughty and letting me do this here.”

Your nerves ablaze, legs quaking as your trousers slide a little further past your knee, pooling at your ankles—his breath dancing across your neck and little hairs.

In vengeance, you nip at his lips, charming kisses that leave him chasing—breaths tangling, teeth biting your bottom lip as you tilt your head. But, he’s resilient, unwavering, hand all but burning inside your underwear, fingers rough, middle and trigger finger calloused and pressed against your swollen nerves as you dig your toes into your shoes so you don’t unravel.

So he doesn’t get to have this so easily.

He knows.

You know he does. Likely knows your brain is firing, tension building, muscles all but quaking in faux-determination. Just barely present to hear what he whispers, but you know it pushes you over.

Gently guides you over the edge as your hips still, throat hoarse as it whispers moans, falling, descending from you as you quickly lose control. He makes you feel alive, full of electricity—blood pumping in your ears as he tastes the way you moan his name. Waves hammering against you, suddenly needing to crash, and they do, they do—

“Fuck, I love making you come.”

His chest rising and falling, pebbled sweat on his brow as he retracts his hand, offers a finger to you—finding you wrap your mouth around it, basking in how he says you’re his good girl.

You suppose that’s why he ends up at your base door past midnight—a silent exchange, a non-verbal promise.

Him and you. You and him.

A brown bag in hand; corruption and a need to not sleep present in his eyes. Drinking you in, lingering his eyes up and down your frame—a sheet clutched against your chest.

You suspect he knows that under this thin fabric, its lace, all ready to be snapped, thrown into some corner, the places they sat covering replaced by the wet expanse of his mouth.

It’s why you let him in, mouth conjoining to his, hearing the door slam behind him as you ruck the leather from his shoulders, down his arms, floor.

“He estado pensando en ti toda la noche.”

A part of you knew he’d come—sensing it. Dressing for the occasion, sliding the lace into place.

Because you know him as much as he understands you.

It’s why you smile, if only to yourself, when he spreads your thighs, coats his cock in your want, and sinks deep into you, rectifying all that is wrong, groaning into your neck as you feel thankful for being full again.

He shouldn’t think you’re a vision, but he does.

Javi learned it quickly, but ignored it at a speed faster than that. Not wanting to be in awe, not wanting to allow himself the chance to think of himself worthy of it.

Except, he’s forever salivating for more of you—desperate for another chance to taste, to hear how your whimpers sound, feel the way your fingers card through his hair, gripping, twisting, pulling.

If someone asked him, he’d confess it on his knees that it’s all he’s thought about. The way your nails feel, how your skin feels. The noises—fuck, the noises you make—and the way your eyes glisten, shimmer, bloom and explode with fucking desire.

“Javier…”

I know, he soothes. The sheet ripped from between the of you, discarded, removed from play as your fingers work his buttons open—more and more skin appearing until he can feel the warmth of your body, your tits against him, nipples peaked as the back of your legs meets the bed.

He’s surprised at the ease you fold for him. Dragging him down, and then you’re under him. Obedient, waiting, needy. He knows it. You know it.

Just like it’s probably obvious that you make him want. That he’s ticking, watching you, unable to tear his eyes away, more so since the other night. Your face close, eyes on the file, cogs turning, brain firing on all cylinders—and when you’d slid your eyes over, he hadn’t been able to not drop his sight to your lips.

The same way he suspects you hadn’t been able to fight doing the same yourself.

It’s why he fucks you with an increased pace, skin slapping, moans more deranged than usual. The drenched fabric between your legs pushed to the side as he drags moan from your lips, wringing them out, stuffing them into some cabinet in his mind that he only opens when he can’t have this, you, writhing, squirming as he fills you to the brim, stuffs you.

“Gotta taste you.” His tongue slides a line down your breastbone, eyes on you, fixated, waiting. “Can I?”

He’s fucking grateful that you nod. Moving, sinking to his knees on the hard floor of your base room—cock hard, dripping, all but throbbing and practically fucking angry. Fingers teasing the fabric, his mouth latching, lace and the taste of him and your desire singeing on his tongue.

And you’re heavenly—a rolling thought which appears as he licks, hearing you react, capturing it all, pocketing it.

Waiting, and waiting, until he feels it—you carding your nails through his hair, tracing lines you likely already suspect others have walked themselves. He wonders if you’re thinking it must be nothing new, nothing out of the ordinary for him, except it was, is.

Because it’s you, they were your fingers—your nails. The ones that type up his reports these days because he can’t type for shit, now typing a story into his scalp, leaving a tale for him to decipher when he tried to sleep later.

He doesn’t look up, too fearful of the sight that he’ll find and never be able to rid of. He keeps his head buried between your thighs, focused, panties still hooked on one thigh, hanging there, pointless and occasionally catching on his palm as he grasps and squeezes your leg. All focused, moving his tongue, working it on you, in you, as though attempting to sort out a kink in the chain—attempting to unravel you in the same way he has done others.

Except, Javi learns, you’re not like them. You’re not something linear, you’re not easy to understand, and there’s no transaction at the end. You’re more than a concept, more than a thing he can undo and figure out just with his tongue, but fuck, he’s sure you would let him try—or at least, he hoped you would.

Right now, he’s enamoured with a task that he finds more rewarding than asking: making you come.

Tongue sinking in, tasting you, coating all of his mouth that he can with you as your hips buck into his face. Nails all perfectly manicured and in a lighter shade than when it was wrapped around his cock last week, drag through his hair. The air punctured with his name—all Javi and Javier’s, not Peña’s and Putas.

He wonders as he spells it on your bundle of nerves, whether you feel it too. This thing—this pulsating, breathing, existing thing that is there all on its own.

A click of his jaw when you laugh at someone else; a flex of his fingers when he finds you in the heart of danger.

Javi reflects—thinks.

But then it goes, fades from mind like dust when you tug on him to move closer, so close your thighs are trembling—likely dangling on the edge of release.

“Need your cock, Javi.”

He doesn’t think about feelings, emotions or the flame he carries for you again—not until you’ve left, leaving him alone, sated, the memory and scent of you being all he has.

The base of his palm presses against his forehead, kneading, cigarette billowing in his other hand because it’s all a fucking mess. From the fact that the fantasy has turned into a reality; the dream has coloured itself until it has become true.

He knew this was real, not concocted by some blackened part of his imagination looking for an escape because you say his name more sweetly than you do in his reverie.

It’s a secret—not known, a thing kept unseen. His walls and sheets know, but not a living soul. And he suddenly wants to change that. Says so much as he moans that you’re mine.

Eyes widening as they stare down at him, hands poised on his chest, hips steadying as you remain seated—filled with him, tits slowly not bouncing.

So he repeats it, “You’re mine.”

No question, no ask.

Watching you swallow, painted in yellow-light which makes the sweat shimmer like glitter.

Rolling your hips, you hold his gaze, consider it, likely question your own goddamn sanity. But then you say it:

“Yours, Peña. I’m yours.”

And he knows he liked it. More than he’ll ever admit. Coming so hard and so quick inside of you once your mouth has twisted into an O and your nails have branded lines into his chest. Hearing it, over and over as he spills into you, relishes in it.

It’s only after, when Javi runs his knuckles along the underside of his jaw, thoughts populating, appearing and popping like balloons, he realises he doesn’t just like it.

It’s more than that.

And that’s why, more than he likely should, he wished he’d asked you to stay. To remain beside him. Let him hold you and make your morning a little better.

Javi could ask. Could half-dress and hammer his fist on your door.

But he doesn’t.

There’s always next time, though.

an: grins wickedly, thought i'd try something new.

[samuelsdean]

You'll Always Have Me

pairing: javier peña x reader

summary: something about peña unsettles you. he has embedded into you so deeply that even though you keep saying his business isn’t your business, you end up following him. wherever he strays, you follow.

genre: fluff (& angst if you squint real hard)

word count: 1.3k

author's notes: hello! this is my first time writing for somebody else aside from spencer reid so i'm pretty excited about it. also, there's a taylor swift reference which i couldn’t help but add lol. anyway, i hope you'll love reading this!

YOU'D LIKE TO THINK YOU WERE IMMUNE FROM WORRYING OVER YOUR PERPETUALLY DEVIL-MAY-CARE PARTNER, JAVIER PEÑA. But, despite the countless bickering and borderline immature back-and-forth pranks between the two of you, you do care about the man, as much as you hate to admit it.

Unfortunately for you, Murphy, your other partner, knows that fact even though you've never said anything regarding the issue. It was as if being in a happy marriage gave the man a sixth sense or something. He knew that despite the disagreements, a part of you felt for Javier.

And so when Peña was rushing to get his leather jacket on and placing his gun in its holster, claiming another informant had vital information regarding the cartel, Murphy was quick to shoot you a look. The look saying, "Are you gonna let that impulsive dumbass meet with a sketchy informant alone?"

You groaned inwardly. You hate Murphy and his sixth sense. You decided right then and there, that you'd give him a piece of your mind once you're done making sure Javier wasn't endangering himself.

You headed to the parking area as soon as you could, knowing Javier he'd be off to God knows where in a minute. It seemed to be your lucky day because Javier hadn't left the area yet, preoccupied with a call, you deduced. Meticulously, you tiptoed toward the passenger side opened the door as gently as you could, and buckled the seatbelt before Javier finished whatever call he was on.

"Jesus, fuck!" Javier exclaimed. "What the fuck are you doing here? Get out!"

You merely raised one perfectly made brow at the man. "For a DEA agent, you scare real easy, Peña," You mocked. "You sure this is the right job for you?"

At this, Javier rolled his eyes and sighed. "I don't have time for your bullshit, Cariño," He emphasized the endearment, knowing you hated it especially when it came out of his mouth. "I have an informant waiting for me. Now, get out."

"No."

"What?" Javier scowled. "What do you mean no? Get out! I don't have time for this."

"No, I'm not getting out," You matched the scowl adorning his face. "I'm coming with, and besides, knowing you? You're probably meeting with an informant." You stressed the last word.

You hate using that card because it wasn't like it was any of your business whom Javier was sleeping with. It wasn't but you can't help it. It's not like it should matter to you even if Javier was taking an informant to bed. Because despite his reputation, Peña gets the job done. You need to get the upper hand if you want Javier to take you with him.

“Fine,” He conceded, tired of arguing with you. “And for your information, I wasn’t meeting Gabriela. If I ever did meet with someone I slept with, it wouldn’t be during office hours. I’m not that depraved.”

You merely scoffed, blatantly ignoring the small twitch you felt deep inside hearing another woman’s name come out of his mouth. You don’t care. You never did.

Javier buckled in and started backing out of his parking spot, one hand placed behind your headrest. You glanced at the man beside you who was focused on his task. You get why women would flock over Javier. He was attractive. He had dark locks that slightly curl at the ends, a crooked nose that shouldn’t look as pretty as it does but it makes sense on his face, full, pink lips, and golden skin. Calling him beautiful would be selling him short. Javier Peña was beautiful, so to speak. Distracted by the thoughts of your partner’s pretty face, you didn’t notice he was now driving on the street, looking concerned at you spaced out.

“If you keep looking at me like that, sweetheart,” Javier broke the silence. “I’d start thinking you’re in love with me or something.” The man chuckled at his quip to which you responded with an eye roll.

“I’d rather shoot myself in the leg than be in love with you, Peña.” You uttered sarcastically while Javier only chuckled. “I honestly don’t understand why women fall at your feet. You’re average.”

This seemed to offend Peña who raised one brow. “Right. Keep telling yourself that, laughed. “Anyway, it’s usually Murphy who’s up my ass bothering me. Why are you here?”

“Technically, I’m also your partner,” You replied. “I can accompany you whenever I want.”

Javier frowned, unconvinced by your proclamation. It was true what he said though. Despite being partners with him, you made it your job to avoid him at all costs unless necessary. He was a magnet for trouble and you were a stickler for rules—or that’s what you’d like to think. Going after narcoterrorists have pushed you and everyone else chasing after them to do something you never thought of doing when you first signed up for this job.

But it is what it is.

However, something about Peña unsettles you. For some reason, he gets under your skin as no one has ever done—no matter what you do, you just can’t shake him off. He has embedded into you so deeply that even though you keep saying his business isn’t your business, you end up following him. Wherever he strays, you follow.

“Okay, fine,” You gave up, kind of.

He won’t know if you’re lying, right? It’s not like he’d go up to your boss and ask her about her “orders”. Right?

“Messina told me to go with you. You keep getting yourself into some shit that you can’t pull yourself out of on your own. Plus, if it was Murphy who came with you, he’d get dragged in. Messina thinks I’m the only one stubborn enough to go against you.”

It was both the truth and a lie. Messina would most definitely say something like that as Javier and Steve were like two peas in a pod. But it was also a lie. You’d go after Javier, you just pretend you wouldn’t.

“Right,” He mumbled.

You stared out the window.

A few minutes later, it seemed you had arrived where Javier was meeting up with this informant. Unbuckling your seatbelt, you were about to step out of the vehicle when Javier held your wrist.

"Stay here," He instructed. "He might get aggressive. I never told him I was bringing someone with me."

"I can take care of myself just fine."

Javier rolled his eyes and sighed. "I know that, but please. Stay here."

"Fine!" You raised your hands in surrender. "But the moment I feel something's wrong, I'm following you. Got it?"

Javier stared at you wordlessly.

"Why'd you always have to be everywhere I am?" He queried. "It's like no matter where I look, you're always there tagging along."

You gulped as Javier raised his brow at you.

"Well, someone's gotta save your ass," You stated, crossing your arms to appear assertive. "You always get into so much trouble. Someone has to save you if something goes wrong."

"And that someone's you?"

"Yeah, that's me," You murmured. "You'll always have me. I-I mean I'll always have your back 'cause we're partners. That's what partners do. I'm your partner."

You looked out the window, avoiding his stare. You were certain Javier was smirking at you now.

"I know that partner," Javier retorted. "You'll always have me too."

You turned to look at him in shock, a pink hue dusting your cheek. Javier simply laughed at your blatant show of bashfulness and flicked your nose.

"You're cute," He chuckled as you gasped, ready to deny what he just said. "But I gotta go. Stay here. I'll call you when I need your help."

He quickly shut the door and ran toward where he was meeting his informant to avoid your scolding.

"Get back here in one piece, Peña!" You screeched at him. "I have so much to yell at you, you prick!"

Javier merely saluted at you mockingly and winked.

The nerve!

[catdotjpeg]

LOOK: Multisectoral groups marched along Commonwealth Avenue earlier today as President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. delivered his third State of the Nation Address (SONA) at the Batasang Pambansa to assail his failed promise of a Bagong Pilipinas [trans. New Philippines]. For the groups, Marcos’s Bagong Pilipinas is a grand sham. Amid promises of better living conditions, 46 percent of Filipinos rated their families as food poor—the highest since 2008—according to the latest survey of Social Weather Stations. “[H]inaharap [ng ating mga kababayan] ang realidad na mataas ang presyo ng mga bilihin, lalo na ng pagkain—lalo’t higit, ng bigas,” said Marcos in his speech earlier, affirming bleak realities on the ground. On top of a cost of living crisis are poverty wages that fail to meet the family living wage of P1,190, as estimated by economic think tank IBON Foundation, the P35 wage hike in the National Capital Region (NCR) enacted last week was dismissed as an “insult to minimum wage workers” by Leticia Castillo of human rights alliance Defend NCR. Such wage hike is far from the P150 raise being lobbied in Congress by labor groups under the National Wage Coalition. Castillo also decried the persistence of red-tagging and vilification of activists perpetrated by the National Task Force to End Local Communist Armed Conflict. From July 2022 to June 2024, 3,419,044 cases of threat, harassment, and intimidation were recorded by human rights group Karapatan. The number of political prisoners also climbed to 755 as of last month. These human rights violations run contrary to Marcos’s establishment of a Special Committee on Human Rights, which was labeled “toothless” by Human Rights Watch. Marcos’s claim of a bloodless drug war is also inconsistent with the 359 drug-related killings—34.3 percent of which were committed by state agents—recorded during his second year in office by research project Dahas. Moreover, despite claims of an independent foreign policy, the Philippines under Marcos remains dependent on the US and its unequal treaties, said Liza Maza of MAKABAYAN. Last year, Marcos announced the creation of four new US military bases in the country under the Enhanced Defense Cooperation Agreement with the US. Such treaties with the US have been criticized for intensifying tensions with China and the broader Indo-Pacific region. Clarice Palce of Gabriela and Ronnel Arambulo of Pamalakaya raised their worries of the Philippines being dragged into a stand off between two global superpowers which will only worsen the poor living conditions of Filipinos. The program ended with a symbolic destruction of the effigies of Marcos and Vice President Sara Duterte. The broken UniTeam will be challenged by the Makabayan Coalition which will field a complete senatorial slate including ACT Teachers Party-list Representative France Castro and Gabriela Women’s Party Representative Arlene Brosas in the 2025 midterm elections. Photos by AJ Dela Cruz, Marcus Azcarraga, Audrey Sanchez, and Sarah Gates

-- Philippine Collegian, 22 Jul 2024 9:45pm PHT

[lamamasjamas]

Butterfly

Summary: Miguel hates Venn Diagrams.

A/n: Uhm...the butterfly effect or whatever, I don't know. So, basically... Miguel is a selfish bootyhole in every universe.

Parásitos Masterlist

Warnings for the series: Dead Dove Do Not Eat!, angst, smut (dub-con), breeding kink for sure, Miguel is delulu, heavy topics such as death, gore, children dying/being tested on and more, allusions to comic origins and story, Dark Fic!!

The papers scattered around the table were horrific. Images of cancerous tumors under skin of test subjects, oftentimes causing the body to deform, bones to shift out of place and flesh to tear.

His hands start to tremble. The number of files and reports, lab notes and tests. It was too much, it made him nauseous, his stomach twisting unpleasantly.

Your Miguel was no saint, even you knew that.

But he knew he didn't tell you about this, you might have no idea what he really does at work.

That's where realities diverge. He stopped the experiments, those done by him anyway. His employer poisoned his body, getting him hooked on Rapture.

He became Spider-Man, not by the kindness of his heart but because he was finding a way out of addiction.

He assumes all Miguel's are as selfish as him. Yours continued the experiments, he was brought fame, the streets were 'safer', at least those in uptown, he was in good standing with his boss.

Xina, out of state. Dana, left him. Gabriel...

Gabriel doesn't answer his calls in this universe, neither does his mother. He thought he was better off, too consumed in his own success to care. Too consumed in building a new life and family with you to notice.

You and Gabriela were the only things left in this Miguel's world, apart from his astounding research developments.

But by God he was a prick to anyone else but his wife and child. Miguel, feeling ever so unprepared for stepping into the role of his counterpart, was greeted by side glances, glares and at times fearful looks from interns and assistants.

Asking a simple question made some stutter out. They were shaking in anxiety as he smiled awkwardly to calm their nerves.

Once alone, inside his office, Lyla manifested, her eyes wandering around the room, staring intensely at him and waiting. She was quiet, she was different.

Another thing, this universe's Lyla was flat. Snarky but clearly programmed to be sassy in the most surface level way possible. She didn't have a personalized wardrobe or the hair that she had begged him to have. She was standard.

His Lyla took over quickly, able to glitch the inferior version of herself out of existence. A virus of some kind was embedded into her programming, causing her to crash.

He assumed Xina didn't stick around long enough to give her much of a personality... or security.

It almost made him... sad.

...

He came home, knowing you had come from picking up Gabriela from school an hour before.

"How'd you give her a coat and sunglasses?"

Your voice made him tense.

Your head was directed at the stove, eyes glancing as he turned the corner. Your gaze was stuck on his jacket, now particularly tighter around his shoulders, a faint uncomfortable creased line appearing as he placed his bag on the kitchen island.

He follows your line of sight, your eyes flickering to the overstuffed case. His hand finds your waist, the other pushing in the papers, the faint crinkle of it making you wince slightly.

"Hm?"

You eye him, continuing your task despite the suspicion building in your gut. You turn with an unimpressed look. His silence made your hands fidget with the dish towel.

Both of your heads turned sharply.

Gabriela's shouts of laughter startled you both, her footsteps becoming louder as she ran into the kitchen, her socked feet slipping on the freshly cleaned marble floors.

Lyla, the new Lyla you weren't accustomed to, was following behind her, playing a game.

Your eyes widened, you could feel the shot of anxiety accumulate in the pit of your stomach and go up to your throat in a shout as Gabriela's head was diving straight for the kitchen island's sharp corner.

Miguel's arm shot out, his hand blocking the edge, ultimately leading her to slam her forehead against his soft palm.

Your limbs were too slow, having barely reached her shoulder by the time the impact was supposed to have taken place.

A sharp inhale and narrowed eyes made Miguel chuckle and Gabriela freeze.

"Niña!"

As you reprimanded and scolded, he folded his arms, nodding along. Lyla stood sheepish in the corner of the room, apologetic in having partaken in Gabriela's accidental slip.

You shake your head and glare, Lyla's increased playfulness now irritating, especially since her secondary purpose was to watch over Gabi at all times.

Lyla, the one that was left, wasn't programmed that way anymore. Her priority was Miguel, if anything else, the multiverse and its varying realities.

Gabriela sat on your lap, your hands searching through her scalp for any bumps and bruises. Something didn't feel right, deep down it felt as if she really had managed to slam her head into the table.

You still felt the panic and anxiety. Despite what you saw, the feeling that something was wrong was still present in your gut.

"Bring me a flashlight," you call out gently.

Lyla's eyes flicker to the table, her face falling and her eyes widening. She looked to Miguel in worry. His smile fades, he looks down.

The corner of the table was blurred, the particles around it shifting in bright hues of green, black and white. Like TV static, it felt fuzzy, as if he could feel the electrons bouncing and rearranging the closer he got to it.

It quickly faded into the normal marble stone, pristine, sharp, not a chip in sight.

You stare at him from the living room, concerned at the way his chest started to heave and his eyes flickered all over the room as if he were looking for something.

"Miguel..."

He hears your voice overlap Lyla's. Your tone worried and impatient, confused by his sudden somber expression. Lyla's voice was right next to his ear, he could detect something akin to pity, like a mother attempting to pull a child away from a toy store.

These toys weren't for him. He was bound to break them.

You stared after him, watching as he stormed his way to his home office after handing you the light haphazardly.

...

"It was going to be dulled. The tabletop was supposed to be removed because Gabriela got a couple stitches..."

He doesn't listen. Pages were scattered over his desk, his body hunched over as he attempted to read through experiments, what felt like hundreds of them.

They all had his name credited, either by morbid inspiration or because he partook in the data collection. Deaths were called failures, those that lived but could barely function were "taken care of".

"They were going to move out, back to Downtown to live with her parents..."

Alchemax used the research and results to make a new type of human, stronger, smarter, deadlier. The power the company held over the country had tightened, Downtown took the brunt of the less than savory effects.

He couldn't imagine you both living there, the infrastructure had somehow worsened in Downtown, at least his universe stood a chance, at least they had a... Spider-Man.

Miguel glances up from the latest experiment's lab notes, now focused on embryonic and infant development. This Miguel was testing on babies now. things were "safer", results weren't as horrendous as those earlier experiments, but still... they varied.

One wrong line of code and a child could grow an extra limb or worse... turn into monsters.

"Gabriela was supposed to have a scar, right above her eyebrow."

He glares at her, his brow twitching in irritation. Why does he need to know this? He doesn't want to, and he doesn't need to worry about it.

He'd make sure you both got the lives you deserved, Gabriella would never have scars, she would be happy, she would have a normal childhood and you... you wouldn't live with the fact that your husband's face was unrecognizable because of a gun shot into the side of his jaw.

"These events were supposed to happen, after he died... and you're just stopping them, like a roadblock."

She nods as he starts to shake his head, her hands coming up together to cover her mouth. She steps closer sympathetically, it only frustrates him more. He didn't like feeling like his options were limited.

He refused to believe he couldn't be happy.

"We're not supposed to be here-"

His anger was palpable at that. For the first time in a long time, he shut her off, he went into her memory bank and wiped what she saw in the kitchen.

You open the door to the room; his mind was forced to clear instantly.

"Ey..." you speak softly, not giving him a chance to gather himself further as you tiptoed your way to him.

He attempted to cover up the files, but it was too late. He noticed your blank look, the soft sigh and the soft hand at his shoulder.

"I know it's hard..."

He tenses. You look away from the photographs, the images making you feel something painful in your chest.

"You're saving lives, Miguel, you're helping these children, see..."

You point to the after picture then to the before picture. Oh. You thought-

His face shifts to mortification. Fuck, fuck, fuck. What do you know? What do you know for certain?

You kiss his cheek softly, leaning your head against his shoulder as you bend your knees to his level from where he sits stiffly at his desk.

"Look how happy they are now."

You take a picture and lift it to your face to inspect closer, a before picture of a sleeping infant, waddled in soft blankets and eyes slightly open and full of life. You didn't notice the mother's look of dread, her hollowed cheeks or her thin hair.

You were too focused on the baby, the child, the test subject, to think of why so many of the mothers looked so defeated, as if they haven't had proper clothes or meals in what seemed like months.

A promise was made to them, based on the notes his other self had taken. A healthier baby that can survive the harshness of their situation.

If not, food, clothes, luxuries they didn't have in downtown would be given in exchange for...

The babies always were the cutest things before testing started.

...

"M-Miguel..."

Your hands squeeze onto his shoulders tightly, the bed creaking from each rise and fall of your hips against his. His hand was at the small of your back, ensuring the thick throbbing tip of his cock stayed within your cunt.

He closes his eyes, feeling your thighs shake and tense next to his hips. He savors the moment, his thumb swirling over your clit lazily as he buries his head on your shoulder.

You catch your breath, hands running over his skin, soft mumbles of pleasure escaping between your lips as he involuntarily thrusted up into you.

He was colder now, something you've noted but ignored since that night. A stark contrast to the heat beneath your skin. His hands were squeezing you closer, his bicep flexing as if he were holding himself back from moving you against his body himself.

His body was different, and you could feel it. He hums as you press your palms over his shoulder blades, the pads of your fingers pressing lightly against the muscles of his back.

Your eyes flicker all over his face, his lips now skimming over your breasts, tongue peaking to taste the hardened pebbles of your buds.

You close your eyes as he groans, so desperate and breathy. Unlike him. A crease forms between your brow and you wince.

He was bigger, it took longer to adjust to his cock. Maybe he was pent up, you thought. Little did you know he really was. This Miguel hasn't fucked in a while, he's sure his alter had his way with you frequently. From what he's seen and analyzed and tries to replicate in this moment, he pleased you greatly.

He's sure he could do better though, he feels the way your pussy clamps onto him, frantically squeezing and letting go as if something was breaching into you, a foreign object that wasn't supposed to be reaching into you and forcing you to spread.

He smells the hint of iron and pennies. He opens his eyes briefly to the sight of the base of his cock, a string of red, your slick and his pre-cum coating up to his lower stomach.

A pleasant chill runs up and down his spine. You were his now. He broke you in, he was taking you as if it was your first time. In his mind, he took your virginity, you were finally getting fucked by a real man, making love to your real man.

It was your first time together.

His larger hand cups the back of your head, trapping you between his neck and shoulder.

You died. In his universe you were a casualty, vulture, venom... he's not sure anymore. All he knew- all he wanted to remember was that your car was derailed, and you had been trapped under rubble for a couple of hours, the area around you evacuated, Spider-Man was fighting the villain and was too occupied to hear the screams and pleas of a woman who was slowly losing oxygen.

You had a job interview that day. You wanted to get out of downtown and thrive.

He doesn't remember you; you've never met but he almost wishes he could have heard your voice, choked and broken, gargled and filled with desperation.

He fantasized about it, finding you in the rubble, carrying you out to safety, touching you, loving you, marrying you, fucking you, making you his in every possible way.

He hears your broken gasps and moans underneath him now, your legs spreading wider, your cunt gushing over him and your lips glistening as you attempt to quiet down your sounds of pleasure.

Your Miguel got lucky. You had a child, a beautiful, well-rounded child. He wanted it, he needed it. And he took it, easily.

His cum leaks out of you, your arm covering half of your face as you attempt to catch your breath. You wince as he traces over your lips, pushing the swirl of white and red back into you.

His hand traces over your soft stomach, your huff of laughter making his skin pucker. He wanted to feel it. He wanted to see it. The small swell of life, the sweet smell of your milk.

He could see the traces of your pregnancy, the marks of age on your body. You wear the necklace he had given you, the other him. It falls between your breasts, and it nudges against his nose as he traces small pecks to your skin up to your lips.

It was gold, something you never had to take off. Two butterflies with a small caterpillar near the middle.

He wanted it for himself, to feel it for himself. He lifts himself up with his forearms, keeping you below him, his cock hardening between your swollen cunt's lips, making you gasp and wince lightly.

"I want a baby."

-----------

A/n: I'll have another short one soon. Be at the ready guys because I don't work on the weekends for once :)

[fromoblitushq]

Congratulations !! Our first round of acceptances has been completed, the accepted characters can be found below !! Please, as you set up your accounts familiarise yourself further with our GUIDELINES, and our CHECKLIST !! We kindly ask you send in your accounts within 24h, or message us if you need more time !! We will provide you with a link to our discord server, and once all the accounts are in, we will post a fun writing task to get things started. It's completely optional, but we feel like it'll really help with developing your character further and give insight to who they are in Oblitus !! We want to thank you all once again for joining us and cannot wait to start writing with you !! So without further ado...

ACCEPTED NEWCOMERS

Kang Bitna (Han Sohee) Rabia Aydin (Derya Pinar Ak) Charlotte ‘Charlie’ Hale (Milly Alcock) Ares Valentin De Leon (Manu Rios) Siddharth Varma (Dev Patel) Park Sangjoon (Lee Dongmin) Yasin Celik (Enes Koncak) Prudence 'Prue' McKay (Kiana Madeira) Chavi Herrera (Lizeth Selene) Bianca Mauricio (Camila Queiroz)

ACCEPTED RESIDENTS

Bruna Maria Silva Ribeiro (Julia Dalavia) Adam Bennett (Jacob Elordi) Rafael Chavez (Gabriel Luna) Choi Hyejin (Go Minsi) Lee Ba-Rom (Lee Dong-Wook) Aria Yang (Havana Rose Liu) Kang Daehyun (Rowoon) Ellington ‘Elle’ Taylor (Emma D’Arcy) Amhle Andell (Laura Harrier) Ryousei Tekeshita (Mackenyu) Talia Balfour (Hannah Dodd) Charles Wood (Kiowa Gordon) Gabriela Sanchez (Melissa Barrera) Colton ‘Cole’ Black (Cody Christian) Carrington West (Madelyn Cline) Cameron West (Boyd Hollbrook) Silas Castillo (Manny Jacinto) Rory Osbourne (Olivia Cooke) Zackary Ghostkeeper (Ryan Gosling) Eduardo ‘Eddy’ Alvarez (Danny Ramirez) Hiraya Del Rosario (Jane De Leon) Rebecca Marlowe (Katheryn Winnick) Bo Garrison (Owen Teague) Hanuel ‘Hans’ Ryu (Yoo Teo) Amelia 'Mia' Ortiz (Ana De Armas) Gwen Bouchard (Morgan Holstorm) Natalia 'Talia' Ross (Kathryn Newton) Kasem 'Kas' Eisen (Chai Hansen) Maria Helena Silva (Isis Valverde) Elm Mossbach (Taylor Russel) Charity 'Cherry' Cannon (Mia Goth) Heath 'Shep' Shepard (Mike Faist) Keemeone 'Kina' Canowicakte (Tanaya Beatty) Santiago Ochoa (Carlos Miranda)

[iknowthvnd]

open starter ⊹₊ ⋆ after mini plot drop @inaducursehqstarters muses ⊹₊ ⋆ gabriela chavez location ⊹₊ ⋆ lakeview shore plots ⊹₊ ⋆ utp

there was a fog that refused to lift, gabriela had tried everything possible to not let her anger and frustration burst. sitting on a rock near the shore, her knees pressed tightly to her chest. anything to provide comfort to her overgrowing worries. raymis was back, managed to kidnap and torture her daughter. to make matters worse raymis also got kaya to use her demonic powers, something that gabi had hoped to do. because it opens the floodgates and raymis was not the person to help with the task.

he took everything from her, hopes that her family could find happiness in all the chaos. fears only swirled, like how there was so much more at stake all because she wanted to have a true family. there was still so much she didn't know, how her husband had also been killed and sired to a hope or how kaya wasn't even in this realm anymore. tears filled their eyes as they finally allowed it all to come out, the sorrow, the anger, the grief.

the demon had never been this vulnerable in public, but there really is a first time for everything.

[pannaginip]

Gabriela Women's Party on Facebook: Gabriela Partylist cries for justice in the cold-blooded killing of Kal Peralta, condemns AFP's violation of International Humanitarian Law

We vehemently condemn the Armed Forces of the Philippines (AFP) for its brutal killing of Kaliska "Kal" Peralta, a 33-year-old revolutionary fighter, in a village in Maramag, Bukidnon. The extrajudicial killing of Peralta, as reported by witnesses, highlights the ruthless tactics employed by the military against unarmed individuals.

The military's claim of an "encounter" on April 11 is contradicted by the death certificate, confirming Peralta's death on April 10. Moreover, the absence of an autopsy to determine the cause of death is evidence that the AFP sought to conceal the truth, particularly the marks of torture and abuse on Peralta's body. This conduct represents a grave violation of human rights and the International Humanitarian Law.

The International Humanitarian Law clearly dictates the treatment of unarmed adversaries in war, emphasizing the protection of prisoners-of-war and prohibiting harm to unarmed individuals. The AFP's actions in this case constitute a blatant violation of these principles and must be met with swift accountability.

The AFP handed Kal Peralta's body to her family in a plastic bag, showing a profound disregard for basic human dignity. Such callous treatment is a clear sign of their inhumane tactics, and proof that they are more like ruthless butchers than protectors of justice.

Contrary to the statement of the National Task Force to End Local Communist Armed Conflict, Kal Peralta is not a terrorist but a woman who chose a revolutionary path due to the harsh realities and social injustices she had witnessed in our society.

Peralta did not deserve such inhumane treatment. We demand that those responsible within the ranks of the Armed Forces of the Philippines for the killing of Kaliska Peralta be held accountable to the fullest extent of the law. Moreover, the Marcos Jr. administration must honor the Comprehensive Agreement on Respect for Human Rights and International Humanitarian Law (CARHRIHL) signed by the government in 1998. Peace talks with the National Democratic Front must be pursued to tackle the underlying causes of armed conflict.

2024 Apr. 17

[yukippe]

just to keep, just to have

for mae @maeples for @d20exchange! mae it was so so fun getting to write this for you!! | word count: 3k, read on ao3

1 - esther’s family

     Ricky’s nervous about meeting her family. Esther notices as he stands next to her, one hand in hers and the other holding two bouquets for her mom and grandma. She’d asked if he wanted to let go of her hand to be able to hold the flowers better, but he’d refused. Ricky’s a big hand holder, which wasn’t much of a surprise but it was still a pleasant discovery. Now, his hand has started to grow sweaty as Esther knocks on her mom’s apartment door. 

     Technically, he’s already met them. More than once, even. Given, they were both in harpy mode at that point in time and while Ricky might’ve been someone she knew she could fall for given half a chance, she’d worked really hard not to mess up. And then she had - and now she’s here. 

     Esther turns to take Ricky in. He doesn’t get nervous, that’s not in the Mr. March m-o. He’s more than Mr. March, though, which she’s been learning bit by bit. Apparently, he does get nervous when the task at hand is meeting the in-laws. She’s already told him that her mom and grandma love him. It makes a good first impression to be found to be pure of heart by the Furies of Tompkins Square Park. She’s about to say something when her grandmother opens the door and pulls them inside, Ricky quickly wrangled onto Patricia’s arm. 

     “Oh Ricky, it’s so good Esther’s finally brought you by,” Patricia says. “And flowers too - oh you’re charming aren’t you?”

     “Well,” Ricky says, slipping off his shoes which earns him a smile from her grandmother. “Thank you for having me in your home, Esther’s wonderful.”

     Esther’s grandmother pats his shoulder, “Now Esther hasn’t brought anyone home before, but I’m sure if she had they wouldn’t have been as nice as you. Now in, in, let's let Gabriella get a look at you.”

     Esther can feel herself smiling as she unlaces her boots and catches up after them, Ricky looks back at her for approval and she winks back. His head whips back, but she catches the first proper smile from him for the past hour and she counts that as a win. 

     Her mom is in the kitchen cooking. She had promised it would be small and simple, so of course she filled the entire table with food. Ricky beelines it to Gabriela’s side, offering to help right away. Esther knows better by now than to try to stop him, Ricky’s calling is to help others in all ways and at all times. She steps in when she needs to because no matter what Ricky says he can’t and shouldn’t do it all. But with the nervous energy that had been coming off him in waves, a task was probably exactly what he needed. 

     “I like him,” Her grandmother says, her voice full of approval. “We’re very happy you’ve finally given in to us and brought him by.”

     “Don’t scare him off?” Esther asks. Her grandmother just smiles before walking over to her mom in the kitchen. 

     “Gabriela, look what Esther’s nice young man brought for us,” Patricia says, her voice full of delight as she puts the flowers in vases. Esther finds a vase back in her hands to be placed on the table as her mom and grandma coo some more over Ricky. It’s still strange, she thinks as she moves a dish to the side to make room for the flowers, to come home to the two of them and enter a space full of emotion. 

     It’s a different apartment than the one she lived in when she was a kid with her mom. That feels like forever ago, and in a way it was. That apartment, that apartment never had her grandmother. This whole experience has meant getting to know her grandmother for the first time as more than just a Fury of despair. That apartment always felt empty, she and her mom were always very aware of the tight latch they needed to have on their reactions and their feelings. Her dad tried his best to fill up the rest of the space, but it was too much for one person to carry. 

     Here, her mom and her grandma can fight over the stove without worrying about Gabriela losing it all. Here, Esther can remember what it was like growing up and can feel herself start to cry without needing to clamp it all down. Ricky pauses and comes over, pulling one of the tissues he keeps in his pockets for her out. She cries a lot now, Ricky never seems to mind, only ever being prepared to support her when she needs it. Esther grabs his hand and laughs. 

     “All good?” He asks her, his voice quiet as Patricia and Gabriela debate whether or not there’s enough food. 

     “I should be asking you that,” Esther says. “What do you think?”

     Ricky shrugs, “Am I doing okay?”

     Esther smiles and nods. Kisses his cheek. “Baby, you’re great. C’mon, let's get them to sit down and eat.”

     She gets between her mom and grandmother, and with help from Ricky’s dazzling smile, they bring the last of the food over and sit down. There’s lots of shuffling and fussing as her mom and grandmother insist she and Ricky both add more to their plates. Esther gets the not eating enough spiel, and Ricky gets the oh you run around so much spiel. Ricky takes to it with ease and even asks for seconds after he finishes which makes her grandmother light up. 

      This wasn’t something any of them thought they would ever get. Esther’s so so grateful that she has, as Patricia and Gabriela start asking Ricky about his job, his parents - and Esther quickly redirects when they ask what he thinks of kids. By the time they finish eating, Ricky’s even been invited to temple by Patricia.

     When they’re walking to the subway after, Esther tells him he doesn’t have to go. “We didn’t even go that often growing up - with, well everything, but they’ve been going more often since everything.”

     Ricky shrugs, “I want to go, though. I liked coming over. I like being a part of your life.”

     And, well, there’s nothing she can do but slide her arm around him and squeeze his side. Ricky kisses the top of her head and Esther doesn’t even mind being gross and sappy in public with him. 

2 - ricky’s family

     Ricky has way more family than she realized, is what she notices as they walk over to the bleachers behind the baseball diamond where a bunch of nine-year-olds are warming up for their little league game. Esther hadn’t even known he had a whole set of little cousins until he’d invited her to the game earlier in the week. She’d been half asleep as he was getting ready for work in the morning after sleeping over the night before, his invite casual and her agreement a quiet mhm as she burrowed under the covers, just her eyes uncovered to watch Ricky as he left, his laughing at her drowsiness on his way out.

     This, more young kids in one space than Esther has ever had to be around since she was that size, is not what she realized she had signed herself up for. She’s met Ricky’s sister, Emiko, and has said hi to his parents when he’s facetimed them in the evening if she’s over at his or he’s over at hers, but now she’s meeting everyone. All at once. At a little league game. 

     “Hey,” Ricky says, squeezing her hand. She turns to look at him, sure she’s full deer-in headlights and he’s just smiling, fondly, back. “You’re a badass wizard, my family’s not gonna know what hit them.”

     “See,” Esther replies. “What if they hate me?”

     Ricky shakes his head, “Not possible, if I love you, they’ll love you.” 

     And that catches her off guard, the same way it always does. How Ricky’s always so giving with his love, it comes so easy to him. Esther just wants to give as much of it back as she can, which is why she lets herself let Ricky guide her to where a group of older women are gathered around fold-out chairs and a cooler. A kid runs by and is caught by one of them who makes him touch up his sunscreen and he looks a little bit like Ricky as he scrunches his nose and tries to wriggle out of the women's arms. 

     “Hey, is this what it was like for you growing up?” Esther asks, quietly as they approach. 

     Ricky’s beaming, “Yeah, awesome, right?”

     It’s a lot. It does seem kind of great. It’s perfect for Ricky. 

     One of the women turns around, and Esther recognizes her. It’s Ricky’s mom. 

    “Ricky! And Esther - I’m so glad you both made it, come, come,” Ricky’s mom absorbs them both, checking over Ricky as if to confirm he’s all in one piece, before passing him over to the other woman. And then she’s hugging Esther and fussing over her too, as if she’s already decided that Esther’s welcome. The amount of love here is a little overwhelming. 

     Ricky squirms back to her side, still smiling wide, as he introduces aunt after aunt. Esther tries and fails to get all the names down and mostly smiles and nods and for the most part seems to find common ground with all of Ricky’s aunties over Ricky being the loveliest person on earth. Ricky’s mom makes her take a drink, and one of Ricky’s aunties tries to give her food and they sit her down in one of the folding chairs. 

     “Oh Esther, you need to eat more,” Ricky’s mom tells her. 

     “Mrs. Matsui I eat plenty!”

     “Most of us are Mrs. Matsui - call me Hana.”

      Esther nods, even though she knows she will not be doing that any time soon. 

     “How did you and Ricky meet again?” One of his aunts asks. 

     “Oh,” Esther says. She’s still not used to the meeting the family thing, even after the trial run with Emiko. And at least she’d run into Emiko a time or two when she’d stopped into the hospital to see Kingston before. “Well, he rescued me.”

     The aunties coo, “Rescued you?”

     Ricky’s smile looks so big that his face is going to split in two as he sets himself up next to her, “Her work caught on fire, and I was lucky enough to be on duty. And Esther’s saved me plenty of times since.”

     “Okay, okay, that’s enough quizzing them.”

     Esther turns around and there’s Emiko, a baseball cap on and a tote slung over her shoulder. 

     “Sorry I’m late,” Emiko says, she and Ricky have the same smile. “Shift ran late but - here!” Emiko pulls something out of her bag and tosses it at Ricky, who plucks it out of the air perfectly. Esther leans over to see a baseball mitt. 

     Ricky leaps up, pulling Esther with him and Emiko says her hellos to everyone before shooing them farther back to the grass. Emiko pats her back as she slides on her mitt, “How are you holding up, meeting everyone?”

     “There are so many of you,” is all Esther’s got.

     Emiko and Ricky both laugh. 

     “There are way more of us,” Emiko says, “This is just parents and a handful of the eight-to-nine-year-olds.”

     “Pretty great, isn’t it?” Ricky says. “Always enough of us for a pickup game of anything.”

     And that’s how Ricky and Emiko start teaching her how to throw a baseball. Most people assume she’s somewhat familiar with the sport, Esther’s been told before that she has major softball lesbian vibes. The thing is though, her preferred forms of exercise have always been solitary like going for a run and, recently, taking Ox for a walk. 

      Esther isn’t very good. Ricky and Emiko have no hesitation in diving or running back and jumping when Esther throws it too short or too long, and Esther ends up spending plenty of time jogging back for the ball when she fails to catch it, but they both seem to be having fun coaching her along. She was just starting to get a little bit better at the whole thing when one of the kids that had been running around Ricky and Emiko’s aunties came up and started tugging at Ricky’s arm. 

      Ricky squats down, talking quietly to the kid as Esther walks over with the ball after fetching it again. He looks up as she heads over, “Esther, this is my cousin Mariko. Mariko, this is my girlfriend Esther.” 

     Mariko hides behind Ricky but pokes her head out to flash a hesitant, toothy smile. Esther smiles back, “Hi Mariko, nice to meet you.” She offers Mariko her hand, and Mariko shakes it carefully. 

     “You’re really pretty to be dating Ricky,” Mariko tells her. “Now can I steal him? I want to practice.”

     Esther laughs, “Yeah of course, just don’t forget to return him.” 

     Mariko nods very seriously and then she and Ricky are setting up to throw a ball back and forth. Esther shuffles over to Emiko’s side as they watch. “She’s way better than me,” Esther tells Emiko. 

     “Don’t compare yourself to Mariko,” Emiko tells her. “She’s playing an age group up she’s so good.”

     Eventually, they end up on the bleachers as the game starts. All of Ricky’s family cheers loudly every time one of the three Matsui’s - two boys and one girl - on the team fields the ball or steps up to bat. Mariko’s a pitcher and she’s an absolute rockstar, just like Emiko said she was. Esther cheers along with all of them and this…it makes so much sense that this is where Ricky came from.

     He hops up next to her, passing her an ice pop. Esther raises an eyebrow. “It’s a baseball classic,” Ricky says. Esther takes it as is as she leans against him, Ricky doesn’t miss a beat as he wraps his arm around her shoulders. 

     "Selfie?" Ricky asks. Esther laughs and smiles for his selfie. 

3 - their family

     Ricky’s situated on the couch as she opens the door to let in her mom and grandmother. Patricia and Gabriela both have their arms full of food and little gifts as they try to peek over Esther’s shoulder to catch a glimpse. Esther waves them off as she takes things from them, “Be patient, I’m not keeping you from them. We invited you over to see her.”

     Gabriela sighs, slipping her shoes off and past Esther, making her way straight to Ricky. “Esther, baby, I love you but you should know better than to keep a grandmother from this beautiful baby girl.” Patricia laughs and helps Esther carry everything over. 

     “You’re mother’s right, you know,” Patricia says. “You and Ricky make a beautiful baby.”

     Esther blinks. “Sure, we aren’t making anymore anytime soon though. Alejandra’s just perfect.”

     “Can’t argue with that,” Her grandmother says, smiling warmly. 

     The bell rings again just as her mom and grandmother get settled on either side of Ricky, both eager to hold Alejandra. Esther can’t blame them, next to Ricky with Alejandra in her arms has quickly become Esther’s favourite state of being. 

     When she gets to the door Ricky’s parents and Emiko are waiting with more food and gifts. Esther tells them it’s too much and they ignore her. Ricky’s mom is quick to get her to sit down and insists she eats as Ricky’s dad and Esther’s mom start trying to compete for favourite grandparent. 

     “Do you think they realize Alejandra is too young for favourites?” Esther asks Emiko, who’s sitting in the chair next to her. 

     “You got to start early,” Emiko tells her. “For example, I’m ready to be the favourite aunt.”

     Esther laughs and Alejandra laughs with her. Alejandra loves to laugh and smile, and its everything Esther never let herself dream for. She’s the happiest baby Esther’s ever met, even if the only other babies she knows are Cat and Langston and Ricky’s cousins' kids. 

     All she hopes is that Alejandra is always this happy. Ricky looks up at her from where he’d been smiling over at Alejandra in his dad’s arms and she can tell he’s thinking the same thing. 

     Everyone gets a turn with the baby, and Emiko gets Ricky to pose with her and Alejandra in the matching baseball caps she brought the two of them. 

     “You make a beautiful baby,” Ricky’s mom tells her when she gets a chance to hold Alejandra, echoing what her grandmother had said earlier. 

     Esther can’t stop smiling. They really do. 

     Esther’s exhausted on the couch as Ricky collapses next to her after everyone leaves.  She happily hands off their beautiful baby girl into her arms and lets herself slide into Ricky’s side. 

     “I love you,” Ricky says. 

     “Me or the baby?”

     “Both, so much,” Ricky says. He turns his head and she leans up to meet him in a kiss before sliding back into his arm. 

     “Love you too, baby.” Esther says. “Pass Alejandra?”

     Ricky hands Alejandra over and they watch her, quietly. They’ve spent an insane amount of time since they came home with her just sitting and watching her. She’s sleeping, exhausted from all her visitors. Alejandra is so little, Esther can hardly believe it. She’s in a little dinosaur jumper that Ricky’s mom Hana got them when they told her they were expecting. And she has a little knit hat that Esther’s grandmother Patricia learned how to knit just to make her. 

     “How’d we get this?” Ricky asks, his voice coloured with awe. 

     “Magic?” Esther guesses. 

     “Sounds about right,” Ricky says. 

     Alejandra blows bubbles in her sleep and Esther pulls her even closer to her. She doesn’t ever want to let go, and neither does Ricky seem to want to as he pulls them both towards him. Esther lets her eyes close as she rests her head back against his chest and syncs her breath up with his. 

[hellgirl-ix]

Gabriela está tentando ensinar Shelby a pegar a bola e parece que não será uma tarefa fácil.

____________________________________________

Gabriela is trying to teach Shelby how to catch the ball and it looks like it won't be an easy task.

[pahrak-the-sinnoh-slizer]

Rivers Branching (draft part c)

Ash wriggled slightly in Marisol’s grip, cherishing the feeling of her rough palms, weathered from her years of loving toil in the garden.  “Bah, alright.  Where do we start?”

“You want to go after the Codex, don’t you?”

His first instinct was to avoid the issue, but Zoe tugged his thoughts back on-course.  “Yeah.  I do.”

Her grip tightened just a bit.  “Have you thought this through?”

“I was planning to get around to that sometime today.”

“Wasn’t I just saying I don’t want you pulling any more stupid stunts?”

“I don’t think it’s a stupid stunt!  It’ll be an organized operation, with other people there backing me up.  Completely safe!”

Marisol paused and stared—giving him a chance to reconsider, he realized.

“…Comparatively safe!”

“It sounds like right now your only ‘backup’ is a certain person I have ample reason to doubt has your best interests at heart.  You really want to be stuck in imperial territory with only him for company?”

Ash looked up at the ceiling, watching one of the lights flicker.  “No, I think I’d rather saw my pinky toe off with a toothpick, but the difference between the two is that this hellish task leads to destroying the empire.”

Just for a moment, lines of tiny thorns poked out down the length of Gabriela’s vines.  “You’re taking what he says at face value.  The Commander didn’t seem all that convinced.”

“But Okagami sure did!  Doesn’t that count for something?”

“Not enough on its own!”

Zoe’s leaves rustled as Ash huffed.  “Alright, then let’s see what else dear old Dad comes up with.”

“Ash…”  Marisol sighed, and Gabriela shook her petals before folding them up.  “Why are you so eager to believe him?”

“Because I want the empire gone!”

“And?”

“What do you mean ‘and’?”

“I mean I don’t think that’s all there is to it.”

“Yeah, well…”  Ash half-turned and looked at Zoe: she had already slinked out of the pool of UV light to sit behind the lamp, peeking out at him with her blossom hanging low.  “Maybe I just gotta know.”

Marisol followed his gaze.  Switching off the lamp, she asked, “Know what?”

“I need to know if this book is all it’s hyped up to be.  It’s the reason Dad left, it’s the reason Oren died—I have to see for myself whether or not it was really worth it all!”

She clenched her teeth.  “It’s not.  Of course it’s not!”  Vines covered in thorns began to sprout from Gabriela’s stem.  “There’s never a good reason to abandon your children!”  Noticing the vines, she pressed a hand against their base, stopping their growth.  She then glared in the direction of the door.

A part of Ash felt frustrated, but Zoe pushed back against it and encouraged him to take a deep breath.  “Sorry…maybe that wasn’t the best way to put it.”  He took a few seconds to think.  “It’s like…this is the only way I can really understand why everything happened the way it did.  It’s like closure, I guess.  Do you get what I mean, Mari?”

Marisol kept glaring.  Soon, Gabriela’s vines began to slowly recede.  “Slipping ‘Mari’ in there isn’t fair.”

Ash gave a short laugh.  “Sorry.  I’ll review the terms of engagement again.”

Marisol fidgeted for a moment before getting up to return the lamp to its cabinet.  Zoe went back to Ash’s wrist, angling her half-closed blossom up toward him.  He smirked and blew lightly to shake her petals open; she shivered, made a little flourish with her leaves, and then shrank rapidly and disappeared into his arm.  Before Marisol sat back down, Ash noticed the envelope she had left on the console.

“What’s that?”

“Hm?  Oh, something Okagami gave me.  Not sure exactly, he was rather cryptic about it.”

Ash stroked his chin.  “You gonna open it?”

“He suggested I wait until I was alone.”

“I can step outside for a minute.”

Marisol chuckled and took up the letter.  The wax seal bore an emblem in the shape of an eight-pointed star, with the point that extended straight down enlarged to turn the other seven into something like a crown atop it.  She broke it gently, unfolded the paper within, and then began to read.  Her eyes nearly doubled in size.

“Uh…you alright…?”

She gestured for him to wait.  Eventually, she lowered the letter and covered her mouth with her free hand, staring forward at nothing in particular.  Ash was just about to ask again when she said, “It’s from the Duchess of the South.”

Ash’s spine went rigid.  “The Duchess?  But she doesn’t…I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of her doing anything.  At all.  Why now?  Did she finally get sick of us meddling with the Earl’s operations?”

“No, nothing like that.”  She looked back at the letter.  “She, uh…invited me to work on a project with an imperial scientist.”

Disbelief stunned them both into an extremely long silence.  Ash finally leaned forward and said, “Sorry, what?”

“It says ‘To the esteemed caretaker of the scorch-wither primroses: Salutations and’…well, there’s a long stretch of formalities, actually.  After that, ‘Having heard stories of what your magnificent primroses are capable of, it occurs to us that they may possess a most fascinating potential: could their water-absorbing abilities be implemented on a grander scale, they may provide a method of lowering the overbearing sea level brought about by our horribly-misaligned climate.  Since such an outcome would prove most desirable to both kappa and humans, we wish to propose a collaboration between our two species to explore the viability of this solution.  Expertise with these primroses is something only humans possess, and should you be willing to lend it to this cause, we are prepared to make arrangements for you to work alongside one of the empire’s brightest minds.  Of course, we understand that this proposal may incite an excess of caution, and expect due negotiations to be conducted to create an environment in which both parties involved feel truly safe.  Our scientist has similarly been informed of the potential risks and has accepted them.  Provided no harm is inflicted upon him, you have our most sacred word that you shall also not come to any harm as a result of this collaboration.  Should this be acceptable, or should there be further questions you wish answered, it is requested that a reply be delivered via The Honorable Former Burgrave Okagami Urataki.  With most sincere regards: Her Grace The Most Noble The Duchess of The South.’”

Ash scratched his head.  “The sea level?  Why the hell would the kappa want to lower the sea level—it’s one of their biggest advantages!”

“No, it makes sense,” Marisol said.  “Kappa originally thrived in freshwater—it was only because of the rising oceans that they underwent mutations that included adaptation to saltwater.  It’s not that strange to think some of them might have a preference.”

He grimaced and crossed his arms.  “Okay, but I still don’t buy it.  It’s a trap.  There’s no way this is not a trap.”

Marisol shook her head, tapping the letter.  “She gave her word no harm would come to me.  You know how kappa are about their word.”

“Sure, but…!”  Ash sighed, wondering not for the first time if Marisol trusted kappa more than humans.  “Okay.  Assuming it’s somehow not a trap…what are you thinking?”

Her gaze wandered upward.  “Hard to say, I guess.  My first reaction is just pure shock.”  She tapped her fingers.  “I’ve sat in on some of Doc’s ideas about lowering the sea level, and I have wondered if there was a way the primroses could help.  It didn’t get very far due to the issue of scale, but with imperial resources…yeah.  That just might make it possible—make it worth looking into, at least.”

A smile came to Marisol’s lips.  Gabriela fanned out her petals, and the line of ferns nearby swayed gently, the motion flowing down the line like a wave.  Ash’s stomach twisted.

“This is…actually a huge opportunity!  This is a chance to enact real, meaningful change that could benefit the whole planet!  This is great!”

Light was practically bursting from her, it seemed to him.  He couldn’t remember the last time he saw her so excited.  His heart began to ache.

“Ash, I…”  Her light dimmed as she laid eyes on his expression.  “Come on, Ash, I’ll be fine!  There’s no need to worry.”

“How can I not worry about the idea of you going to live and work with imperial kappa for who-knows-how-long?  That’s one of the most easily justifiable sources of worry that could possibly exist.”

“My safety has been promised.”

“But you’re…!”  He stumbled over the irony of their current exchange.  “You’re taking what she says at face value.”

Marisol cocked her head a moment.  “I see it more as an educated assessment.  It’ll be comparatively safe.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’ll make sure things are safe when we negotiate the specifics.  And if things do get ugly, Gabriela and I can handle ourselves.”

“Yeah, of course, but…”  He reached out, gently brushing aside her hair.  “I can’t shake this bad feeling.  There’s no way to be completely sure of what’ll happen if you do this.”

She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek against his palm.  “Yeah.  I know that feeling pretty well.”

He basked in her beauty as he tried to find the words he needed.  Leaning forward, he pressed their foreheads together and said, “I don’t know.  I feel like I should do everything I can to stop you, but I know better than to try to make decisions for you.  I just want you to be safe, Mari…I…”

His throat ran dry.  It happened every time he tried to tell her, not that he understood why.  Marisol gently pushed him back, leaving her hands on his shoulders, and kissed him.  “We’ve both got a lot to think about.  For now, maybe it’s best if we just shelve it.  I will if you will?”

He hesitated, but then he nodded.  “Sure…we should have some time, at least.”

“Right.  And you should be spending it resting—give your shoulder a chance to finish healing.  Off to bed.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright.”  His stomach growled.  “But first, I need to eat something.  Photosynthesis might help but it just isn’t the same.  Care to join me?”

Marisol’s stomach growled back.  “Um…yes.  I think I will.”

Ash stood and offered his arm to Marisol, grinning with his teeth.  She rolled her eyes, but took it nonetheless.

[hwspirilovebot]

any hcs on piri's name?

Gabriel Maliksi "Boy Kidlat" Magbanua y Bautista

I knowww. It's too on the nose to name him after women revolutionaries: Gabriela Silang and Teresa Magbanua, or to give him Bautista as a (former) surname, because he was baptized.

Now, Maliksi means speedy or agile. It's more common as a surname than a first name, I believe. Since I headcanon Piri to be born in the 1200s or 1300s, the other ethnolinguistic groups within the PH archipelago we know today just aren't sure what group he's supposed to represent (until 1521) and soon took him under their care, as a "messenger" of some sorts. One guardian would task him to deliver a message to another guardian about a war or conflict, and he delivers fast! Maliksi then became his name.

Antonio baptized him as Gabriel Bautista, and Gabriel is also the archangel who delivers messages. He takes Magbanua and adds Maliksi in his official papers upon his independence. He also had a comic and superhero phase with Alfred, and so he gave himself the nickname "Boy Kidlat" (or Lightning Boy). The older PH ethnolinguistic groups still call him Maliksi, and everyone else who can't pronounce his name goes with Gabriel or "Gabbie".

He's technically Gabriel Maliksi B. Magbanua now, but sometimes, he claims that the B stands for Boy Kidlat instead of Bautista.

Now, fem! Philippines would obviously be Gabriela Luningning "Neneng" Magbanua y Bautista, and Piri would tease her because of that song Neneng B (that's not very feminist of you, Piri)

((I would very much love to hear other Filipinos' thoughts on this!))

[jasperjv]

For donating an eSim to Gaza, I got back a sketch from Gabriela Epstein with their take on the main character for the graphic novel I've been working on. I really had needed the help, as character design and illustration is my weak point right now. Worn down on the hem of the trench coat shit dawg why didn't I think of that lmao! PLEASE DONATE, TOO:

[halobirthdays]

Happy birthday to Spartan Owen-B096!

Today is his -507th birthday!

Owen was orphaned after the Covenant glassed his home planet of Jericho VII. ONI found him in the countryside alone, eating bugs. He "volunteered" for the Spartan-III program a short time later, and was trained on Onyx as part of Beta Company.

Owen was separated from his team during a deployment to Meridian to fend off a Covenant invasion. He discovered that the Covenant was setting up in the coastal town of Brume-sur-Mer. During his investigation into the activities on Brume-sur-Mer, he discovered a group of civilian teenagers who had taken shelter in the town's dense jungle. He attempted to get them to a UNSC shelter to no avail, and realized that he would have to train them to get them to safety. Owen began their training, and the teens were able to use their local knowledge of the terrain to their advantage. With their help, Owen freed the town's evacuees, who were trapped in the flooding safety shelters.

Later, he sent the teens on a recon mission where they discovered an old insurrectionist outpost containing a functional Prowler and picked up UNSC intel which suggested that there was a Forerunner relic under Brume-sur-Mer. After escaping off-planet and receiving official training, the teenagers rejoined Owen on Meridian to keep the artifact out of Covenant hands. Although there was some tension between Owen and the teenagers regarding how much intel he shared with them, they formed a trusting rapport before he was reassigned.

Owen would later be tasked with escorting the AI Gabriela to Earth, where she would become the custodian of the mobile educational and recruitment facility called Outpost Discovery. He is now attached to the outpost, traveling with it and interacting with its visitors.

In canon (~2560), he is turning 30!

[demonicangelics-world]

Redamancy - Zestial x Angel!OC

Chapter Eleven: Nevermind, everything's ok

Synopsis: In the shadowy realms of Hell and the celestial heights of Heaven, two souls grapple with the ache of unrequited love. Zestial, the formidable demon overlord, commands respect and fear. His past has forged a reputation that isolates him. Resigned to a life of power and isolation, he yearned for companionship and understanding, knowing that his intimidating demeanor made such connections seemingly impossible. Gabriela, once a radiant angel, admired the archangel Michael from afar, her heart swelling with unspoken affection for his divine strength and kindness. Casted into Hell on a mission, she now struggles to survive in a world where danger lurks at every corner, her angelic essence buried beneath a demonic exterior. Amidst the chaos of Hell and the secrets of Heaven, a profound and forbidden love ignites between them, challenging the very core of their beliefs and values.

Chapter Eleven: Nevermind, everything's ok Chapter Twelve: Monsters

Word Count: 4,105

Music for chapter: Nevermind, everything's ok

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The training grounds were filled with the sounds of grunts, clashes of weapons, and the steady rhythm of drills. Michael’s trainees moved with a mix of determination and trepidation, aware that today was different. Michael, usually a demanding but fair mentor, seemed particularly harsh and relentless.

“Can you believe this?” one of the guardians whispered, his voice barely audible over the clamor. “He’s like a drill sergeant from Hell today.”

Another angel, wiping sweat from her brow, muttered, “He must’ve woken up on the wrong side of Heaven. I thought training under him was tough before, but this is just brutal.”

“Maybe someone stole his halo,” a third guardian snarked, prompting a few suppressed snickers from the group.

Michael, his back turned to them as he demonstrated a complex maneuver, heard every word. His keen senses, honed over millennia, missed nothing. He didn’t turn around, didn’t give any indication that he’d heard, but an eye twitch suggested their comments had registered.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, signaling the end of the afternoon, Michael finally called the training to a halt. “That’s enough for today,” he announced.

A collective sigh of relief passed through the trainees. But just as they began to relax, Michael’s next words dashed their hopes of respite. “You’ve all been assigned tasks on Earth starting tomorrow. Report to your respective coordinators at dawn.”

Groans and murmurs of dismay rippled through the group. Michael’s expression remained stern, unyielding. “Dismissed.”

The trainees dispersed, their wings unfurling as they took to the skies, their earlier complaints now mixed with exhaustion and dread about their impending assignments.

As the last trainee flew away, Michael stood alone. His thoughts drifted back to the source of his irritability. The confrontation with Sera had been unexpected and infuriating. Gabriela had been sent away without his notice, a move that not only undermined his authority but also unsettled him deeply.

The act of undermining his authority triggered a torrent of suppressed emotions. He had always prided himself on being in control, on having a clear path and direction. But Sera's duplicity had shaken that foundation. It wasn't just about the immediate situation with Gabriela; it was a blow to his very core, a challenge to his leadership and competence.

Michael's chest tightened as the confrontation resurfaced. Sera's dismissive tone, the casual yet firm way she had dismissed his concerns, and the infuriating decision she and elders took without his notice – it all gnawed at him. 

His wings twitched with a restless energy, a physical manifestation of the turmoil inside him. Michael clenched his fists, feeling a wave of anger and frustration that he had kept bottled up. His jaw tightened, and he could feel the heat rising to his face.

Their actions had cut deeper than he cared to admit. They brought back memories of early past slights, moments where he felt overlooked and underestimated. As the archangel of war, he was supposed to be strong, unyielding, but even he had limits. And those limits had been tested.

His trainees bore the brunt of his inner turmoil. Each command he barked, each grueling exercise he demanded, was a way to channel his frustration. Yet, it was a temporary relief, a distraction from the real issue gnawing at his core. He knew it, and in the quiet of the now-empty training grounds, it was impossible to ignore.

A profound silence settled over the training grounds. The emptiness brought a wave of depression crashing over Michael, replacing his anger. The solitude intensified his feelings of hopelessness, his thoughts drifting inevitably back to Gabriela.

The angel who brought light back to his life, was now condemned to the depths of Hell. The thought of her in that infernal place filled him with a hopelessness he couldn't shake. He had tried to be careful, to hide any signs of his affection for Gabriela, but it seemed his efforts were in vain. Sera had seen through his facade, and now Gabriela was paying the price for his failure.

Michael knew all too well that Gabriela didn't need to descend into Hell to ascend to the rank of archangel. It was a hollow excuse, a cover for an act of what? Unspoken feelings? 

The weight of her absence pressed down on him, making every breath feel like a struggle. Her laughter, her wisdom, her very essence had been a balm to his weary spirit. Now, she was gone, and the void she left behind was almost unbearable.

Michael believed that Gabriela felt the same for him, but out of code and respect, they hadn’t voiced their feelings for each other. It was an unspoken agreement, a mutual understanding that their roles demanded sacrifice. He had seen the fleeting glances, the shared moments of unspoken connection, but they had both adhered to their duty with unwavering commitment.

But what tore at his core, what truly gnawed at the deepest part of his being, was that Sera had been right. Both he and Gabriela knew the truth. They existed to serve, bound by duty and responsibility, leaving no room or exception to pursue their personal interests. They were warriors, guardians, servants of the higher purpose, and their own desires were insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

And now, there was the issue of the exterminations. How would Gabriela react? She would know too much. And what would happen to her then? He knew Sera wouldn't let her off the hook too easily. Sera’s ruthless pragmatism was legendary, and Michael shuddered at the thought of what could befall. 

And then there was the issue of the overlords. Michael knew Gabriela was capable of handling herself. But that was on Earth, with his supervision, not in Hell, surrounded by demonic overlords who played by their own brutal rules. Gabriela was a guardian angel with combating abilities, not an intelligence gatherer. This could go wrong in so many ways.

His mind spun with the possibilities. What if her combat prowess fails her? What if the overlords saw her as a threat? What if she fell into one of their traps? What if her presence, alone, drew unwanted attention?

Michael's head began to spin, a crushing weight of worry pressing down on him. 

The quiet of the training grounds seemed to amplify his anxiety. He needed to clear his mind, and with a powerful beat of his wings, he took to the skies.

The vast expanse of Heaven stretched out below him, its serene beauty a stark contrast to the turmoil within him. He needed to ground himself, to find solace in something familiar. 

His thoughts drifted to his two youngest brothers, Chamuel and Jophiel, as they were most likely unoccupied by now. Jophiel, with his ever-present sketchbook, capturing the ethereal beauty of Heaven, and Chamuel, always ready with a listening ear.

They had been infant angels during Lucifer’s rebellion, too young to remember those times. Their innocence and fresh perspective had always been a source of comfort for Michael, a reminder of the purity that still existed in their world.

Jophiel, the Archangel of love and beauty, was known for his artistic spirit and loving nature. Jophiel's realm was one of creativity and inspiration, helping mortals see the beauty in the world and guiding them along their spiritual paths. 

And there was Chamuel, the Archangel of relationships. He had an uncanny knack for calming even the most agitated of angels and was the go-to confidant for many. His easy going personality and aversion to violence made him a beacon of tranquility. 

As Michael continued to fly, he thought of Uriel and Raphael—his other brothers, closer in both age and wisdom. Uriel, with his keen insight and unwavering knowledge, was always a steady presence in the council chambers. Raphael, the healer and protector, tended to the wounded and guided lost souls with a gentle hand.

Uriel and Raphael were young adults during the exile of their brother, Lucifer, their memories intertwined with the tumultuous events that had shaped Heaven's history. Their shared experience of those times forged a bond of understanding between Michael, Uriel, and Raphael that went beyond mere brotherhood.

They had stood together in the face of Lucifer's rebellion, each playing their part in defending Heaven's gates and guiding its inhabitants, while dealing with the painful aftermath of losing Lucifer. Uriel's sharp intellect and strategic acumen had been instrumental in devising defensive tactics, while Raphael's healing hands had tended to the wounded and comforted the grieving.

In those dark days, their unity had been a beacon of hope amidst the chaos. It was this shared history that made their rare moments of togetherness all the more precious. They understood each other's burdens and responsibilities, finding strength in their mutual support and camaraderie. Yet, their duties often kept them apart, their rare gatherings reserved for council meetings or special occasions.

Lastly, there was Azrael, the so-called middle child of their celestial family, who occupied a unique place among his siblings. 

As the Archangel of Death, Azrael's responsibilities extended beyond the boundaries of Heaven, often keeping him distant from their gatherings. His presence was felt most keenly on Earth, where he walks among mortals with his guardians, guiding souls to their afterlife with compassion and grace, in a sense taking the role of “grim reaper.”

Despite his solemn duty, Azrael was anything but conventional. A free-spirited soul, he danced to the rhythm of his own celestial drum. His approach to life and death is marked by a wisdom that contrasted his youthful yet dark appearance.

Azrael's upbringing had instilled in him a streak of opportunism and a penchant for survival that sometimes clashed with the more straightforward ideals of Michael. He was known for his cunning nature, often using tricks and unconventional methods to navigate the complexities of his role, and outside his role, to Michael’s irritation.

Michael couldn't help but notice how Azrael's personality echoed that of Lucifer in many ways. Like their fallen brother, Azrael possessed an eccentric charm and a rebellious spirit that set him apart from the more traditional brothers. 

He was in his preadolescence before Lucifer’s exile and had shared a deep bond with Lucifer due to their similar personalities, leaving the loss of their brother an unspoken wound that lingered within Azrael.

He had looked up to Lucifer, admired his boldness and defiance, traits that Azrael sometimes emulated in his own way. This bond of admiration and rebellion added a complex layer to their relationship, one fraught with both understanding and discord.  

Despite the clashes from their contrasting personalities, Michael still cared for Azrael. 

He admired his brother's resilience and admired the unique perspective he brought to their celestial family. In moments of unity, when they set aside their disagreements and embraced their shared purpose, Michael found strength in Azrael's unwavering commitment to his duty and his boundless compassion for the souls in his care.

As Michael soared higher into the celestial realm, the memories of his brothers—each with their own strengths, quirks, and challenges—filled him with gratitude that slowly replaced his sadness. They were a family forged not just by blood but by shared experiences, united in their eternal devotion to Heaven and their Father. 

The landscape gradually changed, becoming more vibrant and filled with artistic wonders that reflected Jophiel's touch. Splashes of color adorned the skies, swirling in patterns that mirrored the beauty of Heaven itself.

In the distance, Michael spotted Jophiel and Chamuel with Emily, their beloved seraphim companion who, though not their sister by blood, was treated as such by all the brothers. Emily was the embodiment of puppies and rainbows— pure joy and innocence, a constant source of enduring love and light in their celestial home.

Emily, like Jophiel and Chamuel, had also been an infant during the turbulent times of Lucifer's rebellion. The three were often together due to their shared age and gentle personalities. Now, he could see them engaged in a game of volleyball, Jophiel and Chamuel playfully challenging Emily in a game of two against one.

With a graceful descent, Michael joined them on the celestial sands. "Mind if I join?" he called out with a playful smile.

Emily beamed, her eyes sparkling with happiness at him. She drops the ball and runs to hug him. “Michael!” she squeaked. 

“Hey, that’s not fair! You're twice our size, Michael!" Chamuel proclaimed, glancing mischievously at Jophiel.

Michael grinned. "Well, Chamuel, it's three against two now. I guess I'll just have to handicap myself by using only one wing!" he quipped, a playful glint in his eyes.

Jophiel chuckled, adjusting the celestial net with a flick of his wrist. "Oh, come on, Michael. Don't you remember the last time you played against us? You nearly sent the ball into orbit!"

Chamuel nodded in agreement, his serene demeanor masking a hint of competitiveness. "Let's give Emily a fighting chance, brother. Maybe this time, we'll let her win," he added with a wink.

Emily puffed out her chest, a determined look on her face. "Hey, I can defend my score just fine! With Michael on my team, you two don't stand a chance!"

Michael patted her head affectionately. "That's the spirit, Emily. Let's show them what we're made of!"

The game resumed with renewed energy. Michael served the ball with a powerful yet controlled hit, sending it soaring over the net. Jophiel darted to the side, barely managing to deflect it back. Chamuel moved with graceful precision, setting up a perfect shot for Jophiel, who spiked it towards Emily.

Emily leapt into the air, her wings giving her an extra boost, and hit the ball back with surprising force. Michael positioned himself perfectly, using just one wing to keep his promise, and sent the ball flying past Chamuel's outstretched hands.

"Point for us!" Emily cheered, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

"Not bad, not bad," Jophiel admitted, a competitive grin spreading across his face. "But we're just getting started."

The game continued with fierce yet friendly competition, laughter and playful banter filling the air. Michael and Emily worked in perfect harmony, their coordination a testament to their skills. Michael's powerful yet precise hits and Emily's agile movements created a formidable team.

Despite their best efforts, Jophiel and Chamuel found themselves on the losing side. Michael's strategic plays and Emily's relentless enthusiasm proved too much for them.

As the final point was scored, Michael and Emily high-fived, their victory secured. "Looks like we beat you fair and square," Michael teased, a triumphant smile on his face.

Jophiel and Chamuel exchanged amused glances, their competitive spirits undiminished. "Alright, you win this round," Chamuel conceded, a good-natured grin spreading across his face. "But next time, we won't go easy on you."

Emily laughed, the sound echoing through the celestial realm. "I'll be looking forward to it. But for now, let's celebrate our victory with a well-deserved break."

The four of them settled onto the sands, basking in the warmth of their companionship. At that moment, the weight of Michael’s responsibilities and anxieties seemed to lift, leaving only the pure joy of being in the presence of his brothers and Emily. 

Jophiel, leaning back on his elbows, glanced at Michael with a playful smirk. "So, brother dearest, what brings you here to grace us with your presence?"

Michael grinned, reaching over to ruffle Jophiel's hair, messing it up. "What, I can't come to see my baby brothers?"

Both Jophiel and Chamuel simultaneously protested, "We're not babies!"

Michael laughed, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. "Oh, you'll always be babies in my eyes," he teased, earning groans of annoyance from his younger brothers.

Emily giggled, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "You know, Michael, it's true. They still pout like babies when they lose a game," she said playfully, sticking out her tongue at Jophiel and Chamuel.

Jophiel rolled his eyes, but a smile tugged at his lips. "Oh, come on, Emily. You're just saying that because you had Michael on your team."

Chamuel nodded in agreement, his serene demeanor masking his competitive spirit. "Yeah, next time, we'll make sure to even the odds."

Emily grinned, her laughter infectious. "Alright, alright. But just remember, even babies can grow up to be pretty awesome," she added with a wink, earning more good-natured groans from Jophiel and Chamuel.

Chamuel chuckled, shaking his head. "It's been a while, big brother."

"Yeah, work's been a lot lately," Michael replied with a sigh, though his tone remained light.

Chamuel's expression softened, his usual calm demeanor radiating warmth. "If you want to talk about it, I'm here for you, brother."

Michael waved off his brother's concern with a playful brush of his hand. "Maybe later, Chamuel. Right now, I'm just enjoying the break."

Turning to Emily, Michael's eyes lit up with genuine admiration. "By the way, Emily, your light show at the banquet was spectacular."

Jophiel and Chamuel chimed in with their praise, each recalling their favorite parts of the display. Emily's face lit up with pride and joy as she listened to their compliments.

As the four conversed, in the distance, Sera was watching the four of them. She saw that once they had finished playing the ball game and sat down, Sera set her wings to fly to them. She flew down gracefully, her wings shimmering in the celestial light, and approached them.

The moment Sera came into view, Emily, Jophiel, and Chamuel brightened, greeting her warmly. "Sera!" Emily exclaimed, stood up and ran to give her a hug.

However, Michael's mood instantly soured at the sight of her. He forced a smile, trying to keep the peace.

Sera greeted them all, her eyes lingering on Michael. "Hello, everyone. Michael, I need to speak with you."

Michael nodded, his expression neutral. "Of course, Sera." He got up and turned to his siblings and Emily, offering a reassuring smile. "I'll be back soon."

With that, Michael and Sera walked away, putting some distance between themselves and the others to talk in private.

The tension between them was palpable. The celestial light bathed them in a soft glow, but it did little to ease Michael’s wariness. Once they were out of earshot, Sera turned to him, her expression unexpectedly remorseful.

"Michael," she began, her voice softer than he had anticipated. "I owe you an apology."

Michael's eyes widened in surprise. He had expected a reprimand for his outspokenness at the CCC, not an apology. His skepticism was evident as he studied her face, waiting for the catch.

Sera, sensing his skepticism, continued, "I realized what I did was not right, sending Gabriela away. But it was all for the best interest of Heaven. For you and your brothers."

Michael's jaw tightened. Choosing his words carefully, he replied, "It wasn't necessary for Gabriela to descend to Hell to become an archangel. My brothers and I are okay; we don't need more help."

Sera cut in, her tone firm but not unkind. "Michael, you don't understand. The balance between Heaven and Hell is becoming delicate. We need all the help and power we can muster to be prepared."

Michael sighed, sensing that their discussion was about to go in circles again. "Like you said before, Sera. What's done is done. But I wish you would have at least consulted with me first."

Sera nodded, a hint of regret in her eyes. "I know, but you and I both know that you wouldn't have agreed if you had known beforehand."

Michael had no response to that. 

In the distance, he saw Emily, Chamuel, and Jophiel building a sandcastle, their laughter and joy in stark contrast to their serious and gloomy conversation.

Sera followed his gaze and continued, "Everything we do, Michael, the decisions we make, the actions we take, it's for the greater good of Heaven. It's us against them," she said. "We do it to protect those we love." Her eyes softened as she watched Emily, Chamuel, and Jophiel.

Michael felt a conflict rising within him again. Sera was right. He loved his brothers and did everything in his power to protect them. Lucifer, though once cherished, had made his choice. Michael had to be there for his brothers in Heaven.

Sera, sensing his turmoil, added, "And that's why I believe it is only right if you're the one to guide Gabriela."

Michael turned to Sera, his eyes searching hers for any hint of deceit. She conjured a small, ornate compact mirror and held it out to him.

"This is what you will use to communicate with her. She will reach out to you." she explained. "You're Gabriela's mentor and know her best."

Michael carefully took the mirror into his hands, feeling the weight of it both physically and emotionally.

"My mercy is plentiful and I trust that you will do the right thing," Sera continued, "But my stance is clear. You will have boundaries with Gabriela and you’re still not allowed to go to Hell.”

Michael sensed there was something much larger at play but decided not to question it. At least he had something that tied him to Gabriela for now, some way to ensure her safety, even if indirectly. 

"Thank you, Sera," he said, his voice heavy with unspoken words.

Sera nodded, her eyes softening. "Guide her well, Michael. And remember, everything we do is for them” as she turned her gaze again at Emily, Chamuel, and Jophiel, in their own bubble of happiness.

With that, she turned and flew away. Michael stood there for a moment, the mirror clutched in his hand, feeling a mix of hope and despair. He took a deep breath, then walked back to join his siblings and Emily. 

Michael stood there for a moment, the mirror clutched in his hand, feeling a mix of hope and despair. He took a deep breath, then walked back to join his brothers and Emily.

As he approached, Chamuel noticed the mixed expression on Michael's face and asked, "Michael, is everything okay?"

Michael, with the small compact mirror hidden in his hand, gave a reassuring smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

The weight of the mirror felt disproportionate to its size, a tangible reminder of the responsibility he now carried. Within its small frame lay a lifeline to Gabriela, the angel who meant more to him than he dared to admit. His heart was a maelstrom of conflicting emotions: hope that he could guide her, despair at the thought of her losing, and a gnawing uncertainty about what lay ahead.

The mirror, though delicate and beautiful, felt like a heavy burden. It was a fragile connection to Gabriela in the harsh, unforgiving realm of Hell. The thought of her alone in that place, facing unknown dangers, twisted his insides. The hope that he could help her, be a source of strength and guidance, was the only thing keeping him from being completely overwhelmed by despair.

He lost Lucifer and he wouldn’t lose Gabriela. 

Michael's mind raced with possibilities, each more harrowing than the last. He forced himself to focus on the present, to be the steadfast leader his siblings believed him to be. He couldn't afford to let his own fears show, not when they looked to him for reassurance and strength.

"Nevermind, everything’s ok.” 

Chamuel nodded, his easy going nature always bringing a sense of calm. "If you say so, brother. Just remember, we're here if you need us."

Michael placed a hand on Chamuel's shoulder, appreciating his brother's concern. "I know, Chamuel. Thank you."

He then turned to Jophiel and Emily, who were still engrossed in their sandcastle. "Take care, you two. I'll see you soon."

Jophiel looked up and smiled. "Don't worry about us, Michael. We'll be here, keeping things beautiful and peaceful."

Emily ran over and hugged Michael tightly. "Be safe, Michael."

He returned the hug, feeling a warmth in his heart despite the turmoil within. "I will, Emily. I promise."

With that, Michael spread his wings and took to the skies, the compact mirror securely in his grasp. As he soared higher, he focused on the task ahead, mentally preparing himself for when Gabriela would reach out. 

Flying through the celestial expanse, Michael's thoughts centered on Gabriela. He felt a renewed sense of resolve, a determination to support her despite the distance and danger. 

As he approached his destination, Michael's mind cleared, and a steely resolve settled in his heart. No matter the challenges ahead, he would be there for Gabriela, ready to guide and protect her. With a final deep breath, he landed softly, ready to wait for her call and fulfill his duty as her mentor and guardian. 

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Thank you reading!

Story also available on AO3

Chapter Twelve: Monsters

[nade2308]

Summary: Just as planned, Sli put him into the team that were going to get Ice out of the car, and he worked just as he would any other day, devoted to getting the person out, and putting his feelings in a box until the job was done.

Notes:

Hello, again. I am coming with the Fire Country AU this time which was a large part of how my July went (fooled around with this idea, wrote a bit in the AU, established some of the characters and whatnot).

Anyway, the main idea started few months ago while I was watching a Fire Country ep on TV. I was trying to imagine how it would look like if Ice and Mav were in this situation, and this little AU was born.

In case you are not familiar with the show, it deals with a bunch of prisoners that work at a camp that helps firefighters to reduce their ssntence and to be able to get out on parole.

A lot has happened in season 1, but that shall be explained more and written about in the story when I get to it. For now consider this a little teaser.

On that note, I am putting some explanation about the characters.

Characters:

Pete 'Maverick' Mitchell - Bode Leone (a prisoner in the Tree Rock camp, former drug addict and the adoptive son of Mike and Mary, uses his actual given name so he is not connected to them)

Tom 'Iceman' Kazansky - Gabriela Perez (Ice is already an established firefighter in this AU, the son of a Cal Fire Captain. Without Gabriela's background)

Mike 'Viper' Metcalf - Vince Leone (Cal Fire Batallion Chief, he blamed Mav for the death of his biological son)

Mary Metcalf - Sharon Leone (Cal Fire Division Chief)

Slider - Eve Edwards (Firefighter in the Cal Fire Department)

Nick 'Goose' Bradshaw - Freddie Mills (Goose is one of the prisoners. He met Mav in prison and immediately got protective of him, they became best friends. Nicknamed Goose because he got scared of a goose thinking it was a bear during one of the first tasks he had as a firefighter)

Carole Bradshaw - Cookie (she is Goose's wife, pregnant with Bradley at the start of the story)

Bill 'Cougar' Cortell (Metcalf for this story) - Riley Donovan (Mike's and Mary's biological son, died in a car crash)

Sam 'Merlin' Wells - Jake Crawford (Firefighter in Cal Fire)

Ice's father - Manny Perez (Ice's father is the Captain in Cal Fire, and in charge of the Tree Rock camp)

Jester - Luke Leone (Jester is close to Viper, they are like brothers)

I took the liberty to putting Carole as one of the paramedics, as well as Sarah, who is Ice's sister in this. I also headcanoned some of the flyboys as well as some of the TGM crew as firefighters or probies, and because I love that, I added some of the daggers' mothers as firefighters. Hopefully it will all make sense when I get to write the whole story eventually.

Of course, none of this would have happened without @thethistlegirl enabling. Thank you so much for that and for loving this AU just as much as I do.