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the-cat-and-the-birdie · 1 year ago

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Inca-Spider - Moche Huapaya - Earth-802

Pronounced 'Mo-Chae HWA-Pa-ya' (Also goes by Mochi) - 24 - She/Her - 4'11 - Yes, I ship her with Miguel. - From Incan Year 802 (or our 1992) ______________________________________________

Bitten and blessed by The Fanged Spider-God - Aia Paec, Moche is the wall-crawling protector of Cusco. Along with the likes of Pavitr and Spider-man Noir, she's a part of a small class of Spider-people blessed and empowered of Gods.

Moche Huapaya:

Moche is best described as warm and independent. She's autistic, and spent most of her childhood weaving alone, or roaming the mountainous plains around her village with her family's pack of llamas. But Moche loves people, and has always found much community in her village's temples, her Aunt Mayu a great curandera (healer). Moche takes after her aunt, always eager to help. And she was raised by her aunt and Uncle Huacan to always serve the community, but always find strength within herself. Advice that'd become very useful the night her village was attacked. At 15, after centuries of peace, the Spanish army invaded her country, armed with new vibranium-made weaponry. Chased into the wilderness by Spanish soldiers, and stranded - Moche unknowingly came across Huachuma* [Hwa-chu-ma], a sacred psychedelic cactus, and ate it to avoid starvation. As she began to consume the plant, a spider crawled from the root and bit her - And as she fell under a spell of Huachuma and venom, she was faced with Aia Paec, The Fanged Spider-God. She returned to her village as The Inca-Spider, the Avatar and vessel of Aia Paec. And she has the fangs to prove it. For 9 years, Inca-Spider has served as the nation's protector, defending them through the intensive and ongoing war with the Spanish. The summer after her college graduation, Moche returned from Lima to her family home Cusco. The day before returning to the city, Moche's village is faced with a strange man - almost 7 foot tall, and speaking Spanish. And to her, Miguel is the strangest person she's ever met. But above all else - Moche's still just a 24 year old in 1992 and she acts like it. Sarcastic but lighthearted, she likes Quechuan soap operas, Q-Pop (Quechua Pop), riding her motorcycle and surfing off the coast of Lima.

The Inca-Spider:

The Provider of Water and Protection - Aia Paec has protected the Quechua people for centuries. Considered the Decapitator, his fanged mask sits in every Inti temple. Victorious against the first Spanish invasion, Aia Paec fell dormant - relegated to a bringer of rain. And so did the Inca-Spider. But when there is a need, Aia Paec is of service. Compassionate but not merciful, Aia Paec submits to no one - but his community. And he considers all Quechua people as his children. The newest living incarnation - Moche is no different. She's the village Curandera (a indigenous healer), responsible for spiritual brews, divination, and ceremony - a tradition taught to her by Aunt Mayu. After her aunt's passing, she also went on to become a Mamacona (Sun-god Inti's temple attendant) As a Mamacona she now lives at the Inti temple with the other 'nuns', and despite her loss, she considers her sisters as her found family. And they ALL have an opinion on Miguel. (They call him AncaApu or 'Blue Mountain' for how tall he is.)

[WARNING: This post is LONG. VERY LONG. Like..my longest so far. And very detailed. Below are more details about Moche's Style & Design, Origin, Powers, & Other Quechua cultural details.

Plus her relationship with Miguel, her role in ATSV and her friendship with Hobie. [There are mentions of colonization in this post - as well as how joining the Society and learning about Spanish colonization affected her. * - There are also mentions of the ceremonial psychedelic Huachuma Cactus, which is a real and practiced Andean ceremony to this day. I personally have sat in ceremony and would love to share my experience/knowledge - for more information on these medicines - check the very bottom. Thanks!]

Style:

When Moche is in her home city of Cusco, she will often wear the traditional Quechuan style of dress - a red sweater, a black and decorated skirt, and a wide brim hat. One of the only remnants of the Spanish's attempt at colonization - Quechuans in Tawanti instead see their dress as something completely reclaimed, a reflection of their resilience and art.

And because she spends most of her time between there and Spider Society - it's almost everyday that you can find Moche in a petticoat and red sweater, made from the wool of village's llamas. She's worn a hat and black skirt from childhood to college, and when she's back home, she has no plans of stopping. Because of this Moche prefers skirts, and never wears pants if she can help it. Thought that became a problem walking upside down at HQ. So now she sews her own harem pants with tiered lace around them, to give the same fluffy illusion. But when it comes to skirts, she likes them any length, any fluffiness. Even black jean skirts. She's from 1992 after all. However while on HQ, Moche likes to wear her hair out of her braids, knowing the older women at the Inti Temple would have a heart attack over it. As gold is sacred to her people, it's VERY fashionable back home, and Moche tries to wear it as much as she can. Just the same, when not in her everyday-Quechua clothing, she'll usually be caught wearing a red-top/black-skirt combo and a hat of some sort. She feels naked without them or a little gold.

Her Suit:

Not being able to wear a skirt while swinging was one of the main thoughts Moche kept in her mind during the designing process, and the solution - lace bloomers and a waist-cape! But unlike most Spider-people, Moche didn't make her suit at all. Aia did. Much like Miguel's, Moche's suit is a layer that manifests over her body when her web-gauntlets are on. Aia Paec manifested the suit based on what he perceived to be Moche's needs and tastes. The foot straps were her idea though. Moche's head-dress is directly inspired by the traditional headdress of Warrior Priests - When Moche hangs upside down, her headdress and cape forms her home flag. And although Moche is ace - that's not a LGBTQ+ flag! It's the actual Flag of Cusco, Peru -

[Sometimes the Cusco flag is also shown without the gold emblem! And the original (Gilbert Baker) pride flag has extra colors - so how do you tell them apart? LGBTQ+ flags usually have an even number of stripes. Cusco is always odd. Good rule of thumb: LGBTQ+ = queer, but Cusco = odd.] Though she gets questions about it on campus A LOT. Moche also grew up wearing sandals all the time, so running around in her suit barefoot felt a little wrong to her. Instead she ties leather straps at her ankles - to help her grip when clinging to mountainsides or cliff faces.

Face Claim(s): Quechua-rapper Renata Flores

History & Origin:

Living in the Andean year 802 (1992 for us), Moche was raised in the mountains outside of Cusco, a historical, bustling city teeming with Inca culture and religion. Tawantinsuyu (the indigenous name for Peru, Chile, Boliva, Ecuador etc) - or just Tawanti has known peace for 400 years. But when Moche is 15, her village is attacked, thrown into chaos as the Spanish unleash another war, backed with new vibranium weaponry. Moche's Auntie Mayu urged her to flee to the mountains, taking her families herd of llamas with her. Chased into the wilderness by Spanish soldiers, Moche - once a clever navigator - found herself disoriented and stranded among the deserted hills and plains. Facing starvation, Moche collapsed at the foot of a Huachuma Cactus - unknowing of the sacred plant teacher inside. Begging for mercy and to live, Moche ate the cactus to survive - unknowing of the plant's ceremonial and psychedelic nature - or the spider inside. Moche was faced with 'Aia Paec - The Decapitator' - a fanged spider-god in her religion. The protector of The Inca, Aia Paec presented Moche with her first premonition: the potential destruction of her people. Aia then presented Moche with a choice: become the Avatar of the Spider-God - or refuse, having no recollection of the event afterwards. Either way, she'd live another day. Moche accepted the role of Avatar, earning her fangs and web gauntlets. And she returned to her village as the Inca-Spider. Although her Uncle Huacan died in the fight, Moche arrived in time to fend off the first of many Spanish attacks. With fangs of her own to prove her title of Avatar, she was accepted by her community with open arms, her identity as Inca-Spider open and known. However, they do not revere her, instead seeing Moche more as a public servant than an idol. Moche lived in her village outside of historic and sacred Cusco until she was 18, before attending college in the futuristic city of Lima - near the pacific coast. - During the 16 century, a mine of gold near the city was found laced with Vibranium, catapulting the nation into a Wakanda-like surge of advancement. There Moche attended the University of Lima on a musical scholarship, for her cultural flute playing. At 24, she graduated Cum Laude with a dual degree in Cultural Studies and Computer Science (she's technically still from 1992). During this time, she learned English and Spanish. [However she does not speak Spanish natively at all, and speaks it like any other person who learned it in college. Considering this, the history of her nation, and confusion around Spanish gendered nouns (as Quechua has none) she prefers to speak English]

Powers and Abilities:

Moche has all the usual Spider-Powers - including a pair of fangs to prove her title of avatar. However, unlike Miguel, Moche's are purely ornamental, and she'll only really flash them to other Quechua people to prove her status. They're unretractable and noticeably shorter than his.

The niece of a textile weaver, Moche is a Weaver spider - like Pavitr, she focuses on maneuvers and flips that allow her to create webs and tangles. Her web-shooters easily cocoon opponents, and Moche often uses webs as wings and gliders instead of swinging, which is more convenient in the Andean mountains. Up-keep: To maintain her abilities, Moche must follow a thorough moral code and spiritual regimen - including things such as divination, meditation, formal ceremony, and occasionally fasting. One time throughout the year, Moche loses her powers. During this time she enters a period of isolation, fasting, meditation, and spiritual rest. All the while, she can only access her powers if she or her community is in direct danger, in which she has to call upon Aia. Otherwise, during this time she reverts to an average human, and focuses on self-reflection, devotion, and mindfulness. Once she's recharged and proves to Aia her duty to her great responsibility, she regains her great powers. This cycle usually takes 3 weeks out of the year. Web-shooters: Moche's Web-shooters are not mechanical or organic, but something in between. The second mark of the Avatar is her gauntlets, two relics given to her by Aia Paec. They're magical, spawning unlimited golden webs. However, they act like organic webs - because they spawn whenever she needs them. Moche's gauntlets can't be stolen or lost. When legitimate danger strikes, her cuffs will appear within her reach or bag immediately. Once they are on, however, they can't be taken off until the threat is dealt with or gone. Aia Paec sees fleeing as dishonorable, and so for Moche it's not an option. The Machu Blade: A real-life blade found at Machu Pichu, Moche weilds a golden ceremonial blade used like the one below. Used to farm Huachuma in Tawanti, she mainly uses it for farm work. The blade spawning from her gauntlet, Moche often uses it like a machete in battle - but the white of her suit will never stain with blood and the blade itself cannot pierce her. She usually combines it with her webs, throwing it over her head or swinging it at opponents before lassoing it back. Ever seen the use of the tomahawk in the movie 'Prey'? She's doing that.

[POV: You're dishonorable and with be dealt with swiftly] Eye of the Spider - Every battle is made equal and honorable with this ability. Moche will get visions that help her even the field in battle. She can't see hits coming, but if the enemy is planning on doing something that is considered dishonorable in battle, Moche will get a vision in warning. Example: If Moche gets into a fight she believes is one-on-one, but the person has a third party in hiding to ambush her, Aia will give her a vision in warning. - If instead, the other person discloses the third party before the fight, Aia Paec would consider that an honorable move, and Moche wouldn't get a vision. This extends to things such as concealed weapons, hidden doors/rooms, acts of cheating/slight - and if you're bluffing at Poker, she can see your cards. She can't help it, and it's technically NOT cheating. According to her. Aia took some convincing. Still that trick got her through college. Intentional lies always go noticed by her as well. The Big Guy Upstairs Aia Paec is considered both a provider and warrior for the Andean people. Ruthless in battle, Aia Paec is the creator god responsible for all food, water, and triumph in war. He is about balance, honor, and respect above of things. Fortunately for Moche, he's more agreeable than say - Venom or Khonsu - and he doesn't care much for Moche's personal life or interests. Sure, he cares about her well-being. But not her soap-ops. However when it comes to The Inca-Spider, Aia Paec can be demanding, and he'll never let Moche walk away from a 'worthy' or justified battle. He cares little about things like pride, but if he feels like someones basic respect or rights are being encroached on, or someone is being threatened by another stronger than them, he WILL make Moche step in. Either by pestering her, or if necessary, assuming control and getting her into a fight before leaving Moche to get out of it. ('That wasn't me, I swear. God made me smack you.') After witnessing Miguel attack Miles and assault both Gwen and Diane (while sending Gwen home), Aia Paec declares Miguel as dishonorable and compels Moche to battle him. Despite her deep care for Miguel, Moche chose to follow her oath to Aia Paec and oblige.

Moche & The Spider Society: And the trauma of joining -

Recruitment:

The summer after her graduation, Moche returned home to her family home Cusco. The day before returning to the city, Moche's village is faced with a strange man - almost 7 foot tall, and speaking Spanish. Moche is immediately skeptical and very suspicious of the man named Miguel - and she almost doesn't believe his story, concerned he may be a Spanish spy. That is, until she realizes that he's marked with fangs, the same way she is. Still, he has to earn her trust. And getting her to join is no easy feat. First, she must test his honor. The test took three days, a trek to the mountains and a meeting with Huachuma cactus and Ayahuasca brew that changed Miguel's life. Miguel passed Aia Paec's test in the Astral Plain, and so - as she'd promised - Moche joined the Spider Society, with him as her mentor.

"Integration":

To be honest, Moche's first few weeks on campus could be considered outright traumatic. However, it wasn't the Society or technology she found jarring - but the loss of her culture. During her induction process, it had been Miguel's job to tell her about the colonization of her people - in almost all other universes. Until this point, Moche had no understanding of Latin America, because to her - America had never become latin. Up until this point, she had only a vague idea of why Miguel spoke Spanish and not Yucatec, but it was only then that she was explained the full extent of the damage. Quechua culture, people, and language are still VERY much alive today, with 8 million native speakers (it's actually the indigenous language in the Americas with the most speakers) - but that does not understate the massive destruction and slaughter they endured at the hands of the Spanish - even down to the murder of their last emperor - nearly 600 years before 2099. In the multiverse, much of the culture and history Moche has been taught over her lifetime doesn't exist - the massive developments made in the last half century completely lost. To her, the country of Peru was foreign, despite her being 'from there'. It was a very sharp shock to the senses, and Moche went through a deep period of mourning. Even moreso, she became terrified of collapsing her universe - and the only trace of her culture. Induction periods are usually spent in the dorms, and Moche spent most of her time there alone. During that time she between talking to the Lyla in her watch, and the two became close friends. To Miguel this hardship was completely unexpected - and unintentional. A majority of his time went to rectifying this and trying to comfort Moche. Determined to avoid the trauma towards recruits in the future, Moche and Miguel directly developed The Spider Society Adjustment Course together (- in which vulnerable recruits live in a separate wing and receive services like therapy and a mix of mental health and multiversal culture courses) It took Moche a long while to adjust - and she still is, mostly working at Society HQs in administrative roles rather than active missions. Those she is great in the field. But she still has a LOT of problems with people constantly misrepresenting her because of her indigenous ancestry and unique universe. "Oh! A Peruvian Spider! We love a latina queen!" "No. I'm not Latin." "Sorry, 'Hispanic', then?" "No, I learned Spanish in college." "So, then what are you? Not to be rude." "Inca." "Those still exist?? Or are you from like 1500 or something like Webslinger? OMG Are you from El Dorado or something?" "El Dorado is Spanish. Also, it doesn't exist. Also no. I'm from 1992." "That doesn't make much sense cause the Spanish-" *Moche looking at a nearby Lyla like she's on The Office*

['There's a talking piece of fucking plastic and a sentient car here what is so mystical about an indigenous person to these people???????'] -Moche ranting to Lyla later

Moche & Her Job @ The Society:

Overall, Moche is clearheaded but a total 'Type A' personality. She loves to stay busy, consistently the only person on campus who gets up before Miguel. She is known as a 'Class A - Weaver' Spider under Society Specifications, and is usually called for missions that include large crowds of civilians - as she's great at making cocoons and hammocks to catch people. Recruited and mentored by Miguel, she's a graduate of the Spider Society Educational Program - with a concentration in a Multiversal Sociology and Data Input - basically learning and tracking the cultures of the incoming recruits. After revolutionizing the Societies' computer systems with a computerized version of Quechua Quipus (an ancient information system made of strings), Moche was promoted to Third-in-command, after Miguel and Jessica.

[A Quipu for reference. Imagine the base canon event of being bit as the central string, and all other canon events/canonical paths being the outward strings. She did that but in Lyla if that makes sense.]

She also works as Miguel's '2nd assistant' - the person who does all the things Lyla can't. Like getting Miguel coffee. Or making sure he eats, reminding him to drink water. Fetching parts and physical files for him, and reminding him the details of every recruit before a meeting. If something is going down on campus - If it involves talking to people, It's her Miguel's sending.

Moche & Miguel:

Yes. I ship them. (Also I'll write more in another post but)

Moche and Miguel aren't necessarily boyfriend and girlfriend. If you ask, they'll say they're 'seeing one another'. And then they'll quickly change the conversation because talking about relationships in the workplace in unprofessional and they're professionals (and shy).

In fact, their relationship could even be described as Non-conventional because they're extremely conventional.

As in, Moche and Miguel operate like a pair of 1950's teenagers that are 'going steady'. If anything, their relationship is a lot closer to 'courting' than dating. Whereas Diane and Hobie hardly ever go on dates, Miguel and Moche go on dinner dates a LOT. Usually accompanied by flowers and Miguel having to drop her off at the temple after. (He has to bring something gentlemanly or else the older Mamaconas are NOT letting her out). The two of them had to build up to holding hands before they ever kissed - if that gives you a better idea of what I mean. Before she fully joined the society, Miguel was almost embarrassed when he walked in on her and for the first time she wasn't wearing her braids - as if that were an intimate thing to see. He apologized profusely. She apologized profusely, telling him it was okay. Aia Paec was annoyed with the both of them.

When it comes to pet names, neither use Spanish terms. Just cause. The first time he called her 'mi amor' Moche was probably caught off guard a little.

Instead, they may call each other 'Chata', 'Muna', and 'Wayllu' or any other number of shortened Quechua terms. They also usually say I love you in Quechua, which is simply 'Kuyayki.' [Chata -> Chatashka - Lover / Muna -> Munashka - Darling / Wayllu -> Wayllushka - Beloved] Miguel's most common name for her is 'Cuy' or Guinea, which Moche HATES. In Quechua, 'Cuy' means Guinea pig. The Spanish were known for bringing over beef and cattle, and as a result for her, beef is hardly eaten in Tawanti. Instead, eating and raising Guinea Pig is more common (as is common in Peru). Moche was raised eating cuy. Miguel has never eaten it in his life. Considering cuy LOOKS like a fried guinea pig, he can't really take the thought. But back at her village, Moche was raised breeding and taking care of the cuy. Miguel finds them kind of adorable, and what's even more adorable is Moche looking after them. And since she's fairly small compared to him - he calls her Cuy. To many people - on campus - this is cute. To Miguel it's like calling her bunny or mouse. But to the people in her village, and probably the whole country, it's hilarious. To them cuy are not pets - It's like calling your girlfriend a chicken or turkey and expecting it to be romantic. Which he does. Her telling him to stop usually results in him kissing the side of the head (and doing it again). She'll usually call him AncuApu in return.

With Miguel's past loss and Moche's traditional upbringing, the two enjoy taking it slow. Like really slow. And since both of them are A-spec (Moche ace and Miguel demi) their relationship is mostly to completely romantic and emotional.

Moche's only interest in sex is starting a family one day. And Miguel is fine with that. It wasn't something they really talked or thought about. UNTIL Mayday. Having her around campus, has given Moche baby fever. And even if she's not running to jump in bed, she can't stop saying how much she LOVES Mayday's chunky cheeks and little arms and curly hair and- So when Jess got pregnant - It's like, okay - when's the other baby shoe dropping? Jess is like 'We twinning? Just kidding..We twinning though???' Instead they spend their time eating in downtown Lima (they're foodies), watching Quechua soaps (she got him hooked), or organizing things for the Society. Although those sound like old people married couple stuff, they LOVE it. The two of them see each other as rocks in the other's lives, but more than that, the two of them are most focused on feeling each other out, learning each other, and hopefully starting a future together.

[Lol just wait till you get to the ATSV section - PAIN]

Oh - and while Miguel's test Moche met Gabby face to face while the two of them were in Ayahuasca ceremony - and she was able to deliver a message from her to Miguel. But that's a long story.

Schedule:

Moche still lives back home in her village in Tawantinsuyu, taking over a lot of the spiritual and mundane needs of the village. She wakes up at dawn, tending to the llamas and spiritual herbs in the morning before heading to campus. After, she'll spend her 8-10 hours on Society Campus before returning home to bring in the animals and watchover the community during the night. It's usual for the other Mamaconas (temple assistants) to wait for her portal in the yard, and start talking her ear off right away. But by now, it's normalized. So long as she's not late or anything.

Moche & ATSV:

Moche does not join in on the chase - being physically unable to. Aia Paec declares the act as dishonorable, restricting her movement and 'forcing' her to hang back. She instead heads to the control room to aid Margo and update her on the situation.

When the Go-Home Machine began to go 'haywire', her 'Eye of the Spider' ability allows her to see Miles as soon as he steps in the room. However, Moche chooses not to acknowledge him at Aia Paec's order. Aia Paec also restricts her vocal chords at the time, making it impossible for her to rat Miles out - though she wouldn't either way.

Watching as Miguel assaults Gwen - and then Diane, who comes to her defense - Moche is completely shocked. And although she tries to calm him down - Miguel refuses to hear it.

So Aia compelled her, and she agreed. But terrified of fighting Miguel, Moche made the decision to let Aia Paec assume complete control for the first time - total possession. As Miguel ordered the rest of the Society to scour the multiverse - Aia Paec openly challenged him, citing him as no longer honorable and worthy of the fanged title. And although he is in Moche's body, he will not allow Miguel to go unchecked.

However as the fight stretched on, Moche's emotional state - mixed with the fear of seeing Miguel aggressive beyond her understanding - renders her unable to maintain the connection, weakening Aia's efforts. And the fight ends with Miguel almost badly wounding Moche after Aia refuses to relent.

Aia releases Moche just in time, so she can see Miguel's abuse and dishonorable behavior for herself. Terrified, she comes to with Miguel standing over her, and for the first time Moche finds herself frozen in fear - and she begged him not to wound her further.

Finally coming to the weight of his actions, Miguel however, is horrified. But before he can attempt an apology, Aia Paec resumed control, using the chance to escape through a portal.

However, understanding that her watch would be disabled from this point on - instead of her home universe, a wounded Moche finds herself of the bow of a boat she's never seen.

Hobie's boathouse. Moche may not know him, or Diane, or even Gwen that well. But Aia Paec knows she'll be of use to them. So here she is.

RANDOM HEADCANONS about Moche: [We're almost done I PROMISE - not really lol]

When needed her suit can spawn a manta (called a Lliklla in Quechua).

It's a woven cloth worn over the shoulders to carry babies or literally anything else you need to. That's her 'suit purse'.

She will also carry children she rescued in her manta. Or just give them rides around Cusco.

Moche's best friend is Lyla - and she feels a little embarrassed by this. She has to keep telling herself that Lyla is real, she's just not human. Still, kinda weird being from 1992.

But they are very close and have discussed things about if Lyla is real or can feel and stuff - and to Moche it's very clear she can.

Moche is very hard to upset. She's rather calm, and usually expresses sadness more than anger. But for Spider-people that say Lyla isn't real or that she's not sentient -

Moche gets VERY upset very quickly. The both of them find it hurtful and Moche will not talk to you after if you say that. She will immediately leave the room to go be alone.

Being autistic, it can be daunting to make friends though Moche is friendly. She finds talking to Lyla a lot easier, plus Lyla is always in her watch.

Some of the chillest memories Moche has is hanging out with Miguel and Lyla in his office, listening to Spanish music and Q-pop and cracking jokes.

(Miguel can take a joke I promise and he's funny as hell. He tells the jokes that have you like 'damn he got my ass'.)

It usually turns into her and Miguel roasting each other playfully as Lyla keeps score.

Miguel doesn't understand how an AI HE MADE could like Moche MORE.

Because of this, losing access to her watch (and thus Lyla) after ATSV - combined with barely knowing anyone on the houseboat besides maybe Peter, Moche finds herself a bit lonely.

Mentioned by Miguel, Moche became a mentor herself.

She's Pavitr's mentor. When he joined, her and Aia were a large part of redesigning his suit to what it is today.

Since they share a swinging style, she trains him and he's her star pupil.

Pavitr can get really competitive though, and she often has to reel him in when he gets REALLY into it -

Like screaming at the top of his lungs during 4wallFootball or wanting to race people EVERYWHERE.

Pavi is also taller than her. She didn't notice until he brought it up because he's SO PROUD he's found 'someone to be short with'.

She prefers she/her when it's about her specifically - and they/them when referencing IncaSpider, as she considers her and Aia as two people, not one.

Another subtle mark of the Avatar, Moche's eyes glows gold/yellow in the darkness, similar to a cat's - a sign of her Spider-eyes and Aia's presence.

This feature also reduces the amount of glare Moche sees, a very needed thing in the sunny Andes mountains.

Because it can get so sunny and bright during the day, it's hell on earth for Miguel. Sunglasses all day.

But it's the altitude sickness that gets him. He's superhuman but still feels out of breath. And NO amount of chewing coca leaves is enough to help.

So now 4'11 Moche has to baby and look after this nauseous GIANT because she said 'I know a place' then started walking them up a mountain

Moche is a very talented musician and musician - exceptionally so - with a focus on indigenous music

She is a master pan-flute player - and currently one of the only women to reach such status.

Traditionally considered a 'man's instrument' - Moche was taught by her Uncle Huacan for her to aid in traditional ceremony.

As a Mamacona and Curandera she also knows traditional dance, and loves all other kinds of dancing too.

Moche was the first female flute player to be accepted into her universities Musical Program.

She also plays acoustic guitar (and the first time she saw Hobie swinging his she was like 'What's wrong with you??') and occasionally sings.

And she makes her own music - though it's not what most people expect.

Moche writes mainly Inca-rap and 'Runagae' - a blend of Runasimi (literally 'The people's language') and Reggae.

She's is from 1992 after all.

Runagae takes large influence from Reggae drums and rhythm, mixing it with traditional Andean instruments like flutes and percussion.

Like an indigenous version of Reggaeton and Rap.

Runagae is often in many languages, primarily Quechua, Aymara, and Yucatec - as well a indigenous languages from the Caribbean.

Miguel is a sleeper fan.

Don't ask what they're listening to - cause Miguel is gonna tell you some obscure ass Runagae rapper from Lake Titicaca

That's because Tawantisuyu is extremely multilingual.

Many because of the half dozen indigenous ethnic groups in the country.

Quechua and Aymara are the two primary languages - with Yucatec being a secondary language, and English an 'international' language.

Yucatec is usually taught in the place of what people usually take as Spanish. This is largely because of Tawanti's close ties to the Aztec Nation of Maya to the north.

Most people know in the cities know their local indigenous languages, as well as secondary Yucatec or English.

In fact less than 1% of people in Tawanti speak any kind of Spanish

Without colonization, Spanish lacks much of it's global influence and many people are surprised to hear Miguel speak it.

He gets questions about both parts of his name there.

Many Tawantins say his Spanish accent in Quechua is hard to understand, or 'unique'.

Miguel Quechua is good enough that he can probably get around without much help, but if he has to talk to someone more than five minutes he's gonna need Moche there.

'Excuse me, he said no pickles.'

One thing she loves just as much as music is her motorcycle.

You're not getting to the highlands with a sedan. Sorry. If you wanna make your way out of Cusco and to her village, you're better off with a bike.

And she rides hers from Lima back to Cusco every chance she gets - the ride shortened to only 6 hours.

The only thing-

Miguel looks ridiculous on the back of her bike. He's HUGE. Everytime he gets on the bike dips down.

And she goes "MI, YOU'RE HUGE."

The first time Miguel really thought she was gonna let him drive.

That might've been the first time in her life she's laughed in ANYONE'S face.

And considering their drastic height difference, she was looking UP and laughing in his face.

Though, as a motorcycle owner himself back in Neuva York, they just got Jess to teach them how to ride through portals.

The other Manaconas LOVE it when Miguel rides through on his bike. He gets a lot of squeals.

But not from Moche.

The two of love racing each other, or just riding together, and that's the biggest way they relieve stress. Just riding through the mountains and streets.

Their first kiss happened after a night of riding their cycles in Nueva York.

Moche kissed him (they were sitting next to each other - otherwise he's too tall)

And she immediately was like 'UH I HAVE TO GO. RIGHT NOW. I HAVE TO GO HOME.'

Considering she kissed a guy 8 years older than her AND HER BOSS

And of course Lyla was easedropping on all this.

To shocked to tell her it's alright, Moche takes off back to 802 before he can say anything.

As soon as she gets through the portal, Lyla is like 'OOOOOOHH, you've really done it now!' - 'Don't tell Jess.' - 'I already told Jess.' - 'Lyla, It JUST happened.' - 'She has her notifications on~'

MEANWHILE Lyla is talking to Miguel back at HQ and they're like 'Lyla, Did you se-' - 'I did.' - 'She-' - 'Uh-huh.' - '...' - 'Do you want me to play your 'too-many-emotions' playlist? - '...Yes.'

Miguel was the first to say I love you - story for another time

Prior to appearing on his boat, Moche had barely spoken to Hobie or Diane - though she knew who they were.

She honestly thought the two of them were literally crazy. She understands VERY little of what they do or how they act.

On one hand, Moche needs things to be very blunt, and is more fact minded. That's why her and Miguel get along.

On the other, Hobie is very cryptic and good at concealing things - everything he does having an extra layer of context.

Moche can't read that context AT ALL - and because Hobie isn't being dishonorable, only a weirdo, her power doesn't help.

But that combined with Hobie's accent, Moche can barely follow a conversation with him without saying "Elaborate." ten thousand times.

Or just flat out saying "What are you talking about?" - "Hobie, You're not making any sense." - or - "You're speaking gibberish right now."

His elaborations never help.

There's been many times in the past that Miguel and her have had conversations about his mysterious ways after he leaves the room.

'I swear, I'll never understand him.' - 'I've stopped trying.' - 'I don't think he wants to be understood.' - 'That's usually called being a pain in the ass.'

Though Hobie respects her on the whole 'Indigenous God Vessel' thing - but he's even more interested in Aia Paec.

He LOVES annoying him, knowing that Aia can't directly reply and that Moche is caught in between.

Sometimes though it gets to the point of Aia Paec consuming control to tell him some choice words.

Hobie loves this.

Though it isn't until Moche sees the workshop of his boathouse that her purpose with the team is revealed

Because of her work at The Society, her and Hobie work closely together on things like new watches and other multiverse technology.

After he realized that Moche had lost her best friend in Lyla, Hobie made it his mission to become her friend no matter what

And he finds they really grow through their love of music and composing. You might find it surprising, but Hobie doens't just play music - he KNOWS it

Scales, Majors & Minors, Tempo, the history behind classic composers, blues artists, everything

So even if they don't really listen to the same music, they talk about music like it's a science, how a key change can really give a song emotion, different kinds of singing the singer uses - etc

He's successful - and although they're basically opposites in every way, somehow Moche thinks he's an absolute goofball - plus he helps her get out of her shell more.

He's without a doubt her second best friend - after Lyla (Mayday is her third.)

Hobie completely understands why she may not get his jokes all the time and never looks him in the eye, he's super chill about it.

Eventually the two of them learn how to reactive her watch, and using the old parts, Hobie made Moche a new one with her own separate Lyla, with her old memories and all.

Their reunion was REALLY EMOTIONAL. They're literal bffs4ever.

Tawantins (citizens of Tawanti) don't call Moche Spider-woman

Instead, she's is usually called the AwaqMasi or simply Masi - Quechua for 'Weaver's Assistant'

In this case, Aia Paec is the Weaver - and Moche is considered the assistant.

Because of this, she's usually treated like a public servant - someone spiritual hired to do a job - rather than a 'chosen one'.

This extends to Miguel as well - if his fangs are showing. Which sucks, considering he's fairly clueless in her world.

Often, Tawantins who see his fangs will almost start ordering him around, expecting him to help. Like telling him to take the animals out, though he's never touched a llama in his life and doesn't know the difference from an alpaca.

Good thing his can retract and he can get out of it. Moche is very jealous.

Often for them to get in somewhere, like needing a place to sleep during travel, they'll be lengthy conversation in Quechua with someone before she turns to him and goes "Show the fangs."

Usually, that's enough.

People know Moche and Aia. They're not novel.

But when people see MIGUEL, a huge new fanged being, they treat him like he's a newborn on his first day home.

Moche often has to tell them he's 'empty-headed', as in he lacks a patron God.

Miguel always has to ask if she has to say it that way (she doesn't lol)

[LMAO I had to add a break here so tumblr wouldn't mess up the post formatting]

Now however, Tawantins know about Miguel, and 'Spider-man'.

Although the same way her people don't call her 'Spider-woman', they don't call Miguel 'Spider-man' either. In fact, they don't associate him with spiders at all.

Most Tawantins would identify him as a jaguar - a sacred animal in Andean culture

This is mainly because of the way Miguel's fangs, claws, the way he runs, and his long leaps.

Because of this, the hero 'Spider-man' is called Runa-utu-runcu, though they usually just say Runarun.

A 'Runa' is an indigenous person, and a 'UtuRuncu' is a jaguar - so the same way Moche & Aia are seen as a spirit and a human -

Most Twantins see Miguel as something akin to a werewolf. Or werecat rather.

They believe he is a man who turns into a spiritual 'panther' of sorts.

Which Moche finds hilarious. The head of Spider-Society getting called a cat? Genius.

When Jess told Moche that Gwen called Miguel 'Garfield' - another orange cat - she laughed until she was in tears.

Because of this, Moche will call him 'Runcu' as a way of calling him 'jaguar' - the same way MJ says 'tiger'.

She also calls him Garfield and makes cat jokes about him.

"His webs are red lasers so he can entertain himself like the housecat he is."

Tawanti is a communist nation - much of the culture based on the traditional Incan 'commune-like' village.

Miguel was astonished to find that if they flash people their fangs, they'll just - invite them in. They're happy to have them.

Because of the vibranium-laced gold found near Lima in the 1800's, the country is a large player in world politics and economy.

And citizens can enjoy things like basic income, rent-controlled housing, free university, and more.

Thanks to the vibranium, Lima is very 'Wakanda-like' in essence and New York in everything else.

The average Quechua woman is 5'0", and Moche is just under that at 4'11. Her and Miguel have a 22 inch height difference - almost 2 feet.

This she is fine with. What she ISN'T fine with us people making it out to be a HER thing.

'Awww you look so short next to him-' No, Moche INSISTS, she's average. He's just fucking gigantic.

He barely fits doorways in Tawanti. The village had to weave him new clothes cause nothing they had fit.

With Diane at 5'11" (6'4'' in skates) and Hobie at 6'5", Diane WISHES they had a height gap. And she hates it if you say they're the same height.

(Hobie always tells her they're the same height. No, we're not, She says while being almost exactly at eye level with him)

Meanwhile, Moche and Miguel are the opposite.

They'll look at you like it's bizarre you noticed, because well... It's not that they get anything out of it. Other than maybe neck pain.

It's not like Miguel finds her 'more cute' because she's 'small'. And if anything it's kinda annoying.

Especially when Moche is mad at him - so she makes him sit down during an argument so it's fair.

If you bring it up or say something like "Awww, he makes you look so tiny!'

She's likely to say "I know, he's a freak of nature isn't he?"

Or going further "He makes everyone look tiny. He's 6'9". Back home, you can see him from a block away. People crowd around him. Honestly it's kinda hard taking him in public-"

This is usually enough to get Miguel chuckling, as he loves a good roasting. Though he's the type to burst out laughing and then clear his throat, immediately try to hold it in.

They love roasting each other.

Just the same, Hobie towers over her as well - with an 18 inch height difference.

Moche speaks Spanish with a noticeable accent, and often drops certain parts of sentences on 'accident'.

Quechua doesn't have separate pronouns for genders - however both English and Spanish do. And in addition, Spanish genders objects as well. Which is very confusing for her.

She often leave out 'el' and 'la' in a sentence - but congregations are terrible for her, so she usually just switchs back to English.

However Miguel has spent enough time with her in Lima for her to mash Spanish and Quechua - usually for his sake and not hers.

Because of this, she prefers speaking English on campus.

Most of the time her and Miguel speak English to each other, or more recently, Quechua. But if they'd like their conversation private or are on a team with other Spanish-speaking Spider-people, then they'll use Spanish.

She still hangs with a lot of Latino community on campus, though she can't relate to a lot of cuisine, culture, or slang. And she's very close with all the Indigenous spiders.

When Aia Paec assumes control of Moche, a gold neon-like mask flashes dimmly over her face - in the emblem of Aia's face.

Because of her circumstance and her role as Avatar of The Decapitator, Moche is apart of the small number is Spider-people known to kill. She sees nothing wrong with this and finds it weird if someone does.

Aia's reasoning? He'd been killing long before the first Spider-man came to the first Earth, and he'll keep doing it after if need be.

Aia will immediately braid Moche's hair if it's unbraided and cover her head with a hat or cloth as soon as he gets the chance to - and this is a good indicator of when he's the one more present in the moment.

After work Miguel would often come to her universe, for Moche to teach him Quechua. He's almost conversational at it - thought they can't get through a lesson without the other Mamaconas whispering and giggling.

Her and Miguels favorite part-time though is slow dancing, which they usually talk during. It's relaxing and REALLY funny, considering Moche has to reach ALL THE WAY UP to even touch his shoulder. (4'11" and 6'9" is a sight to see)

They're the couple that always disappears to hang out together. Homebodies basically.

Miguel genuinely draws crowds in Tawanti. He's often a foot and a half taller than everyone - plus he's jacked. Seeing a mountain of a man who can't speak a lick of Quechua following their Protector around always gets stares.

In her country, people will often be outright shocked he speaks Spanish - often approaching him in Yucatec, the second largest language in Tawanti.

Moche's name comes from a culture that predates The Inca Empire - The Moche

Aia Paec (or Ai Apaec), the Fanged Spider-God is the Creator of The Moche people, so I saw it fit that Aia-Paec created my Moche - and IncaSpider as well

Moche - capital of the Moche people - is also a place in Peru to this day, in the province of Trujillo.

Because Andean art is typically related to pottery and textile, her universe is largely unstylized.

AIA PAEC ALMIGHTY WE MADE IT.

If you genuinely read this far THANK YOU SO MUCH. It genuinely does mean a lot to me. For me, I have never seen Quechua culture represented - anywhere. I've never seen a Quechua - or Incan - or Peruvian hero, so why not make one!

I hope I was able to share some of that culture with you and you found any of it interesting or new.

In this post I mentioned Huachuma Cactus (and Ayahuasca) and their ceremonial uses - and below is more information I'd like to offer for those curious. If not, no sweat!

THANK YOU SO MUCH AGAIN and as a Quechua-decedent and a follower of indigenous religion - I will always try my best to answer any questions.

Here's a picture of Miguel. You can imagine Moche standing in front of him - in this photo you would be able to see her anyway lol. (I checked)

Bye.

NOW LET'S GET INTO THE NERDY STUFF -

___________________________________

[ I am a Quechua decent as well as a follower of these practices. I personally have gone through ceremonies with plant medicines in the past and hope to dispel some misconceptions ]

DISCLAIMER: Huachuma and Ayahuasca are NOT closed practices - anyone can sit in ceremony regardless of religion or ancestry - as long as they are siting with the intention of spiritual growth or self help. And even today these plants are used in treatment of addiction, abuse, and mental illness.

These plants are NOT drugs. They are medicines are should be treated as such. Trust me. Huachuma and Ayahuasca trips aren't fun and they aren't supposed to be. They are made for healing.

ALSO - I am a practitioner of Andean Spirituality and Ancestor Worship. Although Aia Paec isn't apart of my practice - everything stated below IS. Please treat it with kindness, and do not call it things like a myth or cult or something.

These are sacred practices we are hoping to share with the world to promote mental healing. Please be respectful (ya'll always are) and thank you so much.

Huachuma Cactus / Ayahuasca & Plant Medicine:

[Hwa-Chew-Ma / Eye-ya-hwa-sca]

[Raw Huachuma Cactus and Ayahuasca Root]

Often called San Pedro Cactus - after the Spanish Saint - Huachuma Cactus is a vital part of Andean spirituality.

Huachuma & Ayahuasca are two of the most revered plant medicines - known for inducing extended psychedelic trips. However, these trips are not similar to LSD or Acid.

Used for literal centuries Huachuma Cactus & Ayahuasca Vine have been taken (separately or consecutively) through a bitter brew of medicinal plants.

[Ayahuasca above. Shit tastes GNARLY. Ayahuasca like coffee and licorice - Huachuma like Nickelodeon Slime. Huachuma is thicker and green.]

Huachuma & Ayahusaca is usually reserved for those within the practice - or those facing deep trauma, mental illness, or something to internally heal from. Huachuma and Ayahusaca are specifically used to bring buried emotions and memories to the surface - as well as a feeling of euphoric self-compassion - in a safe and sacred space in order to help the person grow mentally.

Huachuma & Ayahusaca trips are not pretty - and often involve sobbing, vomiting, and painful memories. Diarrhea too. These trips are not meant to be recreational, but psychological treatment.

These ceremonies require a large group of Curanderos - indigenous healers as well as trained mental health professionals. Many Plant Medicine ceremonies have a trained therapist or psychologist throughout the stay - and a long integration process to reflect and heal.

And while this might sound out there, recent science is showing the profound effects of Plant Medicine - and that Ayahuasca directly impacts many parts of the brain extremely positively.

Now, scientists have gleaned deep insights of their own by monitoring the brain on DMT, or dimethyltryptamine, the psychedelic compound found in Psychotria viridis, the flowering shrub that is mashed up and boiled in the Amazonian drink, ayahuasca. The recordings reveal a profound impact across the brain, particularly in areas that are highly evolved in humans and instrumental in planning, language, memory, complex decision-making and imagination. The regions from which we conjure reality become hyperconnected, with communication more chaotic, fluid and flexible.

[Source: The Guardian - also as for the first line in the article, people DO NOT have near-death experiences while in proper Ayahuasca ceremony - just listen to the medical stuff cause wtf]

Spirits & Plant Medicine:

[Left: Raw Huachuma Cactus - Right: A Curandero setting the Mesa (the red tablecloth in this case). You can see the jar of Huachuma (or Ayahuasca it looks like Aya in this case) in his right hand, as well as a cigarette. The smoke is blown into the brew to kinda 'wake up the spirits'. Being from the Andes - tobacco and coca leaves are traditionally used in ceremony a lot.

The table is covered with other offerings to the gods, stones to represent mountain spirits, and a number of other things used in the ceremony.]

I cannot stress this enough - In Andean practice, we believe each plant has a particular spirit associated with it. Like a fully-formed deity. And ceremony is often approached as if you were meeting someone you respected.

Often in ceremony, people may see and speak directly to these spirits. (Which is true in my experience but not everyone.)

Because Huachuma and Ayahuasca often go hand-in-hand, they are often referred to as the Grandfather (Huachuma) and the Grandmother (Ayahuasca - also called Mama Aya for short).

And we genuinely believe that the way you approach ceremony, your intentions, and your willingness to heal directly affects the way the Spirit will treat you or deal with you, but it is never in a malicious way.

The Grandfather - Huachuma is considered tamer, more milder - one of the reasons I chose Huachuma instead of Ayahuasca in this case.

Huachuma is centered on personal peace and emotion. While on it, your emotions are amplified, you feel a deeper connection to the Earth. But you also throw up too usually. The drink is grosss. (Sorry Grandpa)

Trips last 6-8 hours, but affects can linger for 14-18. Unlike Aya, Huachuma induces less visuals or 'trippiness', but a state of thoughtfulness - bordering joyful meditation. (As these do have neurological connections to the effects of long-term meditation.)

Huachuma can be consumed raw, or served as a drink. [I believe I was given a mixture of raw cactus, agave, and water. You're told to CHUG IT because it thickens a lot in like a minute and gets gross.]

That's largely why I chose Huachuma for Moche to experience first instead of Ayahuasca.

The Grandmother or Maya Aya is much more forthcoming and intense, and her work is centered more of personal healing and self reflection - and Ayahuasca is more akin to a 'trip'.

Typically, a trip lasts 8-12 hours and is taken overnight and sundown. Trips include things such as psychedelic visuals, flashbacks (and yeah, if I'm being honest, everyone I have sat in ceremony with regardless of religion reported a feeling of being close with the Source, God, family whathaveyou. So, the sensation of being elsewhere. In a way. I experienced this too and the feeling is very vivid. Of course what you experience is very personal to you.

While on Ayahuasca you may experience nausea, and the visuals, memories, and emotions make it useless to really move around. You're a lot more in it than Huachuma. Essentially you take it, you set your intentions, you sit in the dark, and let Mama Aya 'work on you'.

Which is why I chose to put Miguel through an Ayahuasca ceremony at their meeting. [Mwah haha Miguel You WILL heal]

Ayahuasca vine cannot be consumed raw, and is a lengthy brewing process with a number of plants known to Curanderos.

Plant Medicine & Ancestors:

Both plants are also associated by many with Ancestral (or divine) contact, and/or visuals of past lives. Which is what drove the inspiration to have Moche partake in a ceremony.

MY EXPERIENCE: - in short - just incase someone is curious -

I've personally sat in official ceremony three times, in which I meet with Mama Aya twice, before meeting the Grandfather the day after. (Basically I drank Ayahuasca for two night and Huachuma on the third day as apart of the integration process.)

The traditions were done in a ceremonial space with a Curandera & Curandero of Peruvian tradition - as well as multiple mental health professionals.

Preparation for ceremony often takes days or weeks - and one is expected to focus on mindfulness and self-kindness all that days leading up to it. (As much as possible, as many Non-Andeans who go into ceremony usually do so for addiction, depression, mental illness, or a number of things).

In my ceremonies - The ceremony and the people I connected with there are pivotal to my path and life so far. Despite meeting people from literally anywhere, it was also one of the most trans-affirming spaces I have ever been in - which is saying a lot as a New Yorker.

Each ceremony was hard, with the second night of Ayahuasca being the most emotionally and visually intense. This was amplified be the ceremonial music. Thankfully, however I didn't get too much physical side effects. I don't even think I barfed the second night. Big win!

In all Ayahuasca helped me have a way deeper understanding of myself and my wants and it helped me gain closure on a situation I'd been struggling with for years.

My experience with Huachuma was more milder and calmer, although my emotions were hyper-sensitive as were my senses - which is why it's VERY important to do ceremony in a container (a safe space with professionals on stand-by)

The Huachuma ceremony was conducted outside during the day. Because you are more lucid and emotionally calm while under Huachuma, it was encouraged for us to be present in nature and move and walk around.

In all Huachuma helped me to focus more on compassion and was able to form deep bonds with the people around me in a shorter time. I was more present and rather than psychedelic visions, my surroundings were more vibrant and intense but in a comfortable way.

Overall, Ayahuasca and Huachuma are deeply sacred, deeply interesting plant medicines that have shaped Andean spirituality for centuries.

They are not typical 'drugs'. They are medicines and should be treated as such. (aka As prescribed, while under the watch of someone trained and understanding.)

So uhhhh yeah. That's a lot that's a lot lol

But if you made it this far THANK YOU SO SO MUCH FOR YOUR TIME and giving me a chance to share this culture with others!! 💚

I hope you learned something from this little section here, as I genuinely hold the Grandparents dear and found my ceremonies exceptionally healing.

If you have any questions, let me know! Oh and if you really made it this far - uhhhhhhh QUESTION:

You can choose TWO people from ATSV to protect you - everyone else will try to jump you. Who you picking?

{I just wanna know if anyone got down here also the question is funny as hell - I'm picking Hobie and Miguel. But....they would bicker and probably get me killed. Oops. Maybe Hobie and Pavitr. Pavi has GREAT luck. So far. }

Bye.

258 notes · View notes

hh0320 · 2 years ago

Text

໑ — stars in the ceiling. pt I

pair. solo singer! felix x fem! reader (+ mentions of hyunjin)

genre. set in the 90’s, childhood friends to strangers, moving back, struggle with fame, angst, romance, smut.

warnings. profanity, smoking, alcohol/drug abuse, use of pet names, flawed characters, harsh language at times, dark themes, unprotected sex, oral sex, dirty talk, mental health issues.

word count. 6.2k

a/n. hi my loves! this is going to be a mini series, though i’m still not sure how many parts it will contain. nevertheless, pls treat this idea kindly, and don’t judge its characters too hard, they’ve gone through a lot. feedback and reblogs are always much appreciated and will be replied to! enjoy xx

‘Felix will be going back to Australia for a much needed break, sources close to him reveal. The twenty-three year old alt rock singer just concluded his second world tour, Doll, earlier this week in Los Angeles, with news of his breakup with supermodel Hwang Hyunjin coming out at the same time.

The two had been dating since the Aussie’s rise to fame in 1994.’

New South Wales had remained the same, despite the unshakeable change in Felix’s chest. Barina Road had the same houses standing, fifty-year-old trees stretching, widening into the sky, hiding his parent’s garage from view, the stairs leading up to the front door. He’d paid off the mortgage, bought them a new car.

The sun was beaming, February in full display. His manager greeted his mom, and introduced his assistant, explaining they would be staying at a hotel not too far from there. His father had a beard now, his sister looked taller, and wore glasses.

Your house was around the corner. He could see the rose bushes along the hill, the white shutters with the black outlines. Felix could close his eyes and go back to your room, 1992, the glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling, The Cure and The Smiths’ posters on pastel pink walls, lace trimming on your sheets, makeshift forts and flashlights at midnight, notebooks with hearts drawn on folded ends, his name and yours written next to each other, hand over hand. ‘Girl Afraid’ playing softly through a cassette in a beat down radio. Your dad’s homemade chocolate chip cookies, and the determination that rushed through Felix’s veins the moment he tasted them, the promise he’d made to himself to make those same cookies for you one day, to learn how.

He never did. His demo got picked up from a record label that would later refer him to the one he belongs to now, and he had to fly out to Melbourne right before your eighteenth birthday. From then on it’s been a shooting star.

He blinks to find his mother teary eyed, arms open. He doesn’t walk—he runs. Washed out silvery blonde locks long enough to be pulled in a ponytail, brown eyes the color of wild thyme honey, hands tired, heart broken. A boy coming home is a very old story, one that will never stop being written. And even though it feels strange to be back after five years of palm trees, everything and nothing—Hollywood, with its golden gates and trophies and nightmare people— it is exactly what he needed. It’s where he has to be.

“You look so tired, baby, so frail,” his mom sobs, pressing her mouth on his temple. “Did no one take care of you? Did no one care?”

Felix didn’t answer. He brought chocolates and clothes for his sisters, jewelry for his mother, Cuban cigars for his father, and his first ever Grammy for you, because none of this would’ve been possible if you hadn’t befriended him all those years ago in the playground. If your voice hadn’t guided him away from those swings and into the forest. If he hadn’t played hide and seek with the girl that wore ribbons in her hair, dark cherries for eyes. And what does he say knowing this?

I left behind the one person that did. That mattered that it did. And when I found something similar, I couldn’t hold it in my hands, I couldn’t get close to it no matter how much I tried.

“I missed you, mom,” he mumbles instead, and grinds his teeth to keep from crying. “I should’ve called more. I should’ve visited.”

The shorter woman sniffles and rubs her son’s back soothingly, shushing him only a mother knows how to. He breathes in her familiar scent, her cooking imprinted on her purple shirt, and smiles sadly. Hyunjin would’ve loved her; he wanted to meet her the most, wanted to hear all the stories when they were in bed together, what few times they were both sober, capable of adventure and conversation till the early hours of the next day. “I never had a mom,” he’d tell him, brown strands of hair escaping his staple bun. “Cherish your mom for me, Yongbokie. Love her terribly.”

“Come inside,” she tells him, waving away the rest. “Stay forever if you need to.”

“It means happiness,” he’d explained on that first meeting with the boy shining more brightly than the chandelier lighting the entire theater. “Yongbok.”

The boy had smiled and it’d made all the difference. His lips reminded Felix of black cherries, of the girl in the room with the window overlooking the trees. “I know what it means. It’s about time I met you.”

Time away from chaos felt empty. The hours passed by slowly, serenity made him paranoid, like it couldn’t possibly last, even there, in a different continent, across the globe. Getting on an airplane didn’t guarantee you’d get away, he realized soon enough. It wasn’t possible, because you can’t outrun yourself.

And it was that Felix was trying to escape. How known he’d become, how aware of his own shadow he was. At first, he’d thought of it as a mountain to climb, something to be achieved, and then something else. It was a ladder leading up, up, up and nowhere specific, but he climbed it anyway. The little prize in his hands was the ultimate show, that one last thing he had to do that would grant him access to more of the same everything and nothing everyone else seemed to be so desperately after. After he’d won it, the decision to leave it all behind became clearer than ever.

A lot of the people he admired had died. And it didn’t matter which way you looked, destruction came in the form of white powder, accompanied by a spoon or a syringe if you were brave enough and had much to lose. “Take your pick, there’s many ways to kill yourself,” a girl had told him once at an afterparty. Young and impressionable as he was he chose by what he saw and picked up the bottle of champagne in front of him. The least harmful, he’d thought. But the sneakiest one of all. And then he saw Hyunjin smoking cigarettes after one of his fashion shows, and thought to try that too. Then it felt like something they could share, so Felix kept smoking until the cough subsided and his fingers smelled of tobacco.

One thing the model never tried to do was shield him from the horrible ways of the industry, and the blonde still can’t find it in himself to castrate him for it. Now, so many thousands of miles away as he was, the habits seemed to follow, like supportive friends. The world is a fucked up place, but it doesn’t seem so bad from where he sits on the rooftop of his childhood house. He could drop the stick from his hand, or break the golden trophy and even deny the existence of evil altogether.

How easy, how vulnerable fame is. You could be no one in particular if you made all the right choices. Felix wasn’t sure why he seemed to do the opposite, walk the other way, the reason for his selective blindness. When something shiny has your name on it you hold it close to your chest and sing to it. It’s precious because it reflects light off it.

Until when?

Your light was on.

He looked for it, looked for a car coming up the hill, watched the sun set, the blending of colors, how majestic it can all get before it fades to black, but you showed up right in the blue of it. You still drove the same Jeep your dad had gifted you for graduation, but your hair was longer, you’d grown a bit. Felix saw how your white dress danced in the summer breeze, ran his eyes down your tanned legs as you walked from your driveway inside your house, and finally, about ten minutes after that, the light through your curtains.

His mother hadn’t mentioned he was back.

He smiles down at his burning cigarette. How would he ever face you with the way he left? He never called, only wrote to you on your birthday, and released a song about a starry girl that visited his dreams, knowing very well that girl waited for him for years to return, even if just for a little while. The guilt of never doing so, and instead loving someone else so all consumingly, while that same song went on to become his best selling single, the song he’d be known for for years to come? It crippled him.

He never wanted to see your face stare back at him. He would rather die, and he admits this to himself bravely. You were his first girl, his only girl. No one would ever come close to you, because you’re clean—you have his innocence, his first time, before he knew anything about anything, and how despite it, he loved you stupidly, earnestly, because it made sense, because it felt right.

“Starry girl, will you burn bright, for me tonight? Oh, will you stay a little while, darling girl…”

How hypocritical. If Chan was around he’d be calling him out, or pushing him down the fucking roof. Felix wouldn’t even mention the broken leg or the dislocated shoulder, because it’d serve him right. Perhaps he needs a solid reminder of his aliveness, of how doing wrong by someone and paying for it feels like. La La Land doesn’t have that, it couldn’t possibly understand that. There, people look up and never down. There, they would push, and keep pushing; they would climb over, step on your neck, tear you apart at the seams for a chance to just keep.looking.up. That climb is all there is.

It’s empty too, but you learn how to miss it.

Felix thinks he might’ve sold his fucking soul, somehow, because as he gets back in the house, his mind won’t stop screaming for him to run away from there as well.

Not a place that could hold someone that’s had everything and then more of it.

Chan hates his guts twice as much as you possibly ever could, but Felix calls him anyway.

“Hello?”

“Chris. It’s me.”

A long pause. The singer falters, thinks he’s made a mistake, curses himself for ever thinking anyone would want anything to do with him after—

“You’re a fucking cunt, Felix, and I hope you burn in Hell. Sincerely.” The blonde nods, his chest tight, his throat dry. “How are you?”

He smiles. “Terrible. Fucking awful, mate, thanks for asking.”

“Good.”

“I’m in Australia.”

“Son of a bitch.”

Your white dress flows in his dreams. It folds and stretches like the wings of a butterfly. The pages of his journal stare at him, his eyes heavy with sleep, but for once nothing pours out. He thinks he’s meant to keep that to himself, and perhaps that’s okay.

Instead he writes about a broken boy that smiles for the cameras but never for his love.

His older sister works as an intern for a law firm. He didn’t know that, because he never asked. The sting of it burns all the same.

She has a fiance, is preparing to buy a house, and tells him of his mom’s sickness at a private restaurant. He didn’t know that either, but in all fairness, as his sister pointed out, no one is supposed to know. At least not yet. It’s treatable, she quickly adds, but it’s been eating her from the inside out for a couple years now. She tells him this with a straight face, probably because she’s had time to sit with it, but also because Rachel is great at keeping her feelings in check, when she knows someone else isn’t—Felix definitely fucking isn’t.

What was the saying? The artist is haunted by his own heart? Day and night. There’s never an escape, it seems, from anything.

“Tell me what I need to do,” he pleads after he calms down. “Money is not a problem.”

The older sibling grimaces at that. “It’s not about that, Lix. She has medication, she never misses a doctor’s appointment. Her body is weak.”

“She’s not dying.”

“It’s not something we can exactly stop because we want to.”

Felix clenches his fists on the table, and looks at his sister straight on. “She’s not dying.”

Rachel wipes her mouth and sips from her wine, alerting the waiter for the check. People are starting to stare. No matter where they go, eyes follow her little brother incessantly, whichever measures they take. It’s a lifestyle she cannot comprehend.

Felix doesn’t seem to notice, or care. It’s a strange thing, like a zoo animal being at peace with its captivity, despite its true nature.

“Maybe not now,” she replies softly. “But we all must face this one impending doom sooner or later, Lix. Even you. Even our mom. Death is a natural thing.”

Most people run from the inevitable, because it’s scary. Somehow, it’s believed that the end, too, could be overturned if we stall it, or cheat it. Felix never thought he’d have to worry about it, because of the invisibility of youth, and money, and having everything else at his beck and call. It was only when Kurt Cobain and Jeff Buckley died that he was touched by the cruelty of it, the dark shadows and the claws attacking through them any moving thing, at any given time. Even legends passed, even history.

It was because life was so impossibly fleeting, water held with two hands, that he decided to knock on your door. In a single moment of liquid luck, he wished to see the stars in your ceiling again. To feel the warmth of your skin near his. Chan would shake his head and call him an idiot for it, but Felix never claimed to be reasonable. Or smart.

No other car was in your driveway.

God, his blood is rushing. You’d open the door and then what? What would he say?

He didn’t want his mom to die. He didn’t want you to hate him forever. He came back with a false sense of ego—no one gave a flying fuck if he was famous, or best friends with Hope Sandoval and Chris Cornell, hell, even Jesus Christ himself. None of it mattered outside of the bubble he’d created for himself in America. He’s not from there. These people would follow him nowhere.

He feels stranded and alone, and it’s entitled and pathetic, and he’s fucking terrified.

Who is he besides his name and his money? Why does it matter so much?

The door opens. He’s holding his breath.

You gape. Then blink.

Another moment passes. He has to say something. Goddamnit, anything!

“(Y/N).”

You seem to snap out of it, then. As if you realize it’s, indeed, not a dream. Felix is really standing right in front of you, blonde hair, round honey eyes, constellations on his cheeks as prominent as ever.

It’s confusion you feel more than anything else. Anger has long passed.

“How long have you been here?” is the first thing you ask him, and you’re still not allowing him inside.

He doesn’t expect you to.

“On your doorstep? An hour.”

You blink again, and lean forward, surprised. He thinks that must not be what you asked him. His ears burn. Your chest rises and falls deeply.

“In Australia, Lix,” you elaborate, but he focuses on the way your voice sounds like saying his childhood nickname, a silly little thing that stuck and makes him feel eight all over again.

You’d fallen in the rose bushes with your bike, the thorns pricking your arms, and you’d called out for him, crying. Lix, Lix, Lix… The sweetest sound, a person worthy to help you. A different time. He’d spent the rest of his afternoon picking thorns out of your skin and tending to your cuts with his mom. Afterwards, you watched Home Alone 2: Lost in New York and ate a bowl full of caramel popcorn. His dad dropped you off, and Felix had insisted on sticking his head out of his bedroom window to shout a final goodnight to you.

You’d done the same, laughing. His bestest friend in the whole world.

He didn’t feel like that person anymore. He didn’t feel like anything anymore. Just a name, just a body.

“Fourteen days,” he replies, and he’s ashamed of it, because it should’ve been easier to come to you. It should’ve never been difficult, not with you.

It was you, for fuck’s sake.

And then you ask him the one thing he has no answer to.

“Are you okay?”

You move for him to enter. It’s what he wanted, but his legs have no strength in them, he’s unable to lift them. He just stands in front of you, staring in those eyes he’s wanted to look into for so long, and it reminds him of all the times he laid in hotel beds trying to bring forward his memories of your features, writing them all down so he doesn’t forget. He wrote those songs to remember you, is what he wants to tell you, but he can’t, because it’d make him a coward, and he doesn’t think he can handle anymore truths tonight.

They call him an angel because of his face, but you’re the angelic one, you’ve always been, because there’s forgiveness in your tone. There’s warmth for him in you still, and it takes everything in him not to sweep you in his arms and cry out for you, for your heart.

He wants to tell you about Hyunjin, too, about his garden and his flowers. He wants to tell you he named one after you, the most beautiful. He kept that for himself as well.

Instead—

“I wanted to watch the stars on your ceiling.”

The possibility that you might’ve taken them down is devastating. He hopes inevitably.

His voice sounds rough, and the bags under his eyes are more pronounced than ever. You’ve never seen Felix like that, he looked so sickly. Paper thin, too. You wonder if that life over there caught up to him, if he allowed it to wash over everything you loved about him. He’s such a stripped down, quiet version of him right now, in front of you.

“I’ll make some milkshakes,” you nod towards the kitchen.

He finally lifts one leg, then the other. He enters, his heart dusting off, kickstarting.

They still taste the same. The furniture is the same, the pictures of him and you and your siblings are still on the wall. You haven’t erased him, you didn’t scorn him. It means everything to him.

It’s easier to find yourself if someone already knows who you are. If they’ve kept that image of you, and look at it from time to time. Felix never sees himself in photos, never actively seeks himself out. He just gives, and gives, and gives, hoping it’s enough, hoping that’s it, the one, we got it, thank you very much.

Perhaps it’s why he feels so drained nowadays. Perhaps that’s how Hyunjin felt.

“How are your parents?” he asks, hoping to make conversation, hoping to hear more of that voice he’s missed so fucking much.

You round the kitchen island, strawberry shake in hand, and sit right next to him, knee brushing his. Your legs are bare again, smooth. You’re wearing an olive green skirt and an oversized T-shirt. You look beautiful. You, the starry girl. You, the darling girl. You, the only version of girl he’s had in his mind since the dawn of time. Ring pop in the fifth grade, backyard wedding with a veil and all. His mother had cried, yours had baked the cake. His sister had married you.

There’s a question in your eyes now.

“They’re fine. Out celebrating their thirtieth anniversary or something crazy like that.”

It’s a wild thing, the laugh that escapes him. It stretches his face and curves his lips. It surprises both of you. He quickly looks at his chocolate milkshake, at the half eaten whipped cream at the top. He hears your soft exhale, the straw between your teeth.

“Good for them,” he says after a beat, and he means it.

“You…” Felix doesn’t dare look. He won’t. Your counter is marble, there are fresh lilies on top of it. “Are you staying a while?”

He nods. Struggles to swallow.

Then you sigh. The pretenses are down. He stiffens, wraps his fingers tighter around the glass. He braces, but he doesn’t know for what. Anything, he supposes. You could say anything, ask anything.

He just doesn’t know if he has any answers for you.

“Congrats on that Grammy,” you bump him with your elbow, your tone light. His eyes rise slightly to meet yours. You’re smiling.

He wants nothing more than to fall apart, right there. He doesn’t deserve any of it.

“It’s yours,” he mutters. “I was going to give it to you.”

“Me?” you ask incredulously. “It’s your song, Lix.”

He shakes his head once. “But it’s for you. I’d be nothing without you.”

The room goes silent. Felix thinks he’s done it, he’s said the wrong thing, pushed too much, you’re going to kick him out, once and for all, and he’s going to have to look at you from his rooftop for the rest of his stay, he’s going to have to live with himself, whatever’s left, whatever’s there, never to hear your voice, never a third chance—

“Do you usually say intense things like that?” You huff out a breath, and his own gets stuck in his throat. “I’m— No one’s ever said that to me before, Lix. Don’t just say stuff like that.”

Suddenly, six years have passed, and you’re both adults. Felix has had a whole other life, has met thousands and thousands of people, is a celebrity of great importance, a Grammy winner, a million seller, with more money than he will ever need, this unbelievable thing has happened to him, a dream, a fucking rainbow bubble, and you’ve stayed here.

You’re still the same. And you don’t think that’s worth mentioning. Worth praising. He wants to shake you awake, make you see why he’s dead inside, why he’s come back, why he’s lost his fucking mind.

“I’ve never lied to you,” he replies, his gaze meeting yours. “If I’d never met you, I would have never gone to America. I would’ve never left.”

Somehow, you’ve become a curse and a miracle.

“Let’s go see the stars, Felix.”

Your room is the exact same, too. Not a single damn thing moved, the lace on your bed, the pink all around, the fairy lights by your window, the pictures above your desk, and then finally, if he lifts his head—

The hundreds of tiny stars sprinkled on your entire ceiling. Your dad had stuck them up there for you, after you’d gone to their bed crying, afraid of the dark and the storm outside. Now, with the lights off, you didn’t seem afraid anymore, but more so melancholic. It felt unreal to stand in this room with you.

First time he’d made love to you was on that bed. First sleepover, first fort, first kiss, first song ever written.

He didn’t even realize he’d been crying, not until he felt your fingers wipe the wetness away, your hand slipping in his, pulling him towards the mattress. Before coming back, he didn’t have a bed of his own. Hotel’s have been temporary homes for him, the tour bus his sleepovers.

His chest hurt, his sadness so heavy it pulled him down. There was no fight left in him, no other reason not to fall on that bed with you, lay next to you just like all those years before.

They shone neon green, alien little stars where they didn’t belong. Like him. He blinked up at them and they greeted him every time. He held your hand tightly on his own, his vision blurry, shoulders touching yours. If it was hot, Felix couldn’t tell. His heartbeat was deafening, the magnitude of the moment swallowing him whole.

No matter what he did, what had happened, you took his hand and showed him the stars of his childhood. There’s no words to describe what that had felt like for someone like him, someone that had once been something entirely different, and had somehow reduced himself down to this, whatever it was.

Three versions of oneself is two versions too many. He hates himself for what he’s done.

“Are you okay, Lix?” you ask once more, nothing but a mere whisper, but he hears you.

He thinks he might even have an answer for you.

“I don’t think so, beautiful girl. I think I’ve made a mistake.”

“What do you mean?”

Felix sighs, puts an arm over his eyes. It’s enough, what he saw. It’s enough for a lifetime.

“Leaving you behind. Giving all of me away. Falling in love with a broken boy thinking I’ll be able to fix him. I can’t fix anyone, (Y/N). I can’t even fix my fucking self.”

You nuzzle your face in the crook of his neck. The connection is still there, the tension in his gut. He’d love nothing more than to get you naked and have you whisper his name back, over and over, until he gets some sort of sense of reality back. But it wouldn’t be fair to you. He doesn’t even know if you’re single.

“No one’s holding anything over your head, Lix. Forgive yourself before it’s too late,” you mumble against his skin, raising goosebumps all over. Then you continue, “I’d be lying if I said I don’t still hate you sometimes. You’re going to leave again, anyway. It doesn’t matter.”

He turns to that immediately. Places a palm over your cheek and makes you look at him.

“It does matter. I don’t want you to hate me. I fucked up and I’ll regret it my whole life. There’s no amount of sorry’s I can say to you, sweet girl, that’ll make it all better. I know that. But I don’t want you to hate me.”

Quiet. Your pulse against his thigh. “You left.”

“I did.”

“That hurt me. All of us.”

Felix nodded, again and again. One truth harsher than the other. “I know.”

“To go fuck some model in New York and sing your little heart out to people that’ll never know who you truly are and how much you matter.”

There it was. The sacrifice of it all. Has it been worth it? Yes and no. Mostly no.

His lips curved with bitterness. “Yes,” he rasped.

“But now your songs are out there. Your beautiful voice is recognized.”

“Thank you.”

You buried your face in the mattress, crying onto strawberry sheets. He turned his body towards you, fingers tangling in your hair.

“You sold your own name.”

Dying would be less painful than you speaking all of his fears and wrong decisions outloud, in the one place untouched by misery.

“And I pay for that every day.”

“You’re not happy.”

He smiles when you search for his eyes. There are crystals on your cheeks, the cosmos hanging from your lips. “Not particularly, starry girl,” he retorts sadly.

“I’m not happy, either. What’s the point, then?”

It tore at him to know this. He imagined you were when he was far away. That you’d put him behind you, and continued on with your life, shining just as brightly as you always had. Lies are always easier in the moment. Just enough to get you through to the next. But never long term.

“Come with me,” he whispers in your hair. “See for yourself.”

“And get lost, too?” you snap back.

He shut his eyes tight, bit his tongue to lessen the blow. “Three months. I want to take you with me.”

“To the City of Angels.” A lyric of his, coming from your mouth. His heart leaped, and blossomed. You listen to his music. The music he’s written for you.

“You’ll fit right in,” he finishes, leaning into you. “You’ll find many like you, none like you.”

He felt your hesitancy, the need to pull away. He would do it for you, if he wasn’t so completely under your spell, willing to do anything for one more taste of you. Years in a place where he’s had to learn to get his way, have made him somewhat persuasive, a trait he’s not proud of, like many others.

The only girl he’s ever truly wanted is you. Burn him alive, then.

“God, I’m about to make a mistake,” you mutter before his mouth takes yours.

Hyunjin had asked about you. He wanted to know who you were, why you still had such a hold on him. Hyunjin had been possessive and jealous and sensitive with Felix. He felt deeply, loved deeply, and was very stubborn. He loved getting his way. The blonde tried to love him, gave him all he had, obliged to his every request, but ultimately—

Whatever was wrong with him ran too deep. It was impossible to love someone like him, yet so easy to fall, so easy to lose yourself. They’d done some work together, traveled to Paris and visited art museums. Hyunjin was a magnificent artist, a lonely soul. Felix could recognize that in him and still admit it was scary to be around him, scary in the way a rope feels under your bare feet, no ground underneath, no sense of security.

They broke up on a bench outside Sacré-Cœur, the decision to go back to Australia for an indefinite amount of time being too much for the model. There was still love there, there’d always be. Hyunjin taught him about the life he’d entered, how to navigate through it, to get what you want, and how to love unconditionally, how to become a slave for love, to seek it and to breathe it, and to feel it deep in your gut, with everything in you.

But it shouldn’t feel like that. It shouldn’t be all encompassing, choking, tying. It should feel like freedom, and this much Felix knew, because he’d felt it before.

Undressing you right now felt like that, the pearly gates welcoming him, the wings growing in his back. A map outlined but not quite yet explored, though he plans to change that. If you accept. If you agree to his proposal. His hands caress, his mouth following the fabric leaving your body, your breast, down to your stomach, your navel, your hip bone.

He pulls your skirt down, revealing cotton, and lays you gently back down, his own body over yours, hiding you from view. Your fingers unzip and push, and Felix removes his shirt for you. He knows he’s not much to look at, but there’s lean muscle and a solid chest where you touch, making heat bloom right under your fingertips. He could write odes about how soft your skin is, how tender you’re treating him, as if he never left, as if he’s never done wrong by you, and for a minute he pretends.

Then your hand wraps around his cock and he loses all restrain.

“You can’t possibly be real, my girl, are you?” he mumbles against your cunt, before he hooks his arms underneath your legs and digs right into your wetness.

You moan and writhe, and he never complies. He holds you tighter, keeps you in place and has his way with you until you’re begging him to stop, crying for him to keep going, nails digging into his scalp, his shoulders, anywhere you can reach. Felix hasn’t eaten pussy in six months, hasn’t had yours in over five years, and he’s not about to give it up for anything in the fucking world.

His tongue laps, it fucks you slowly, it makes sure to get you proper wet for him, his lips slurping on your clit afterwards, finding a pattern you seem to enjoy, sucking to bring your orgasm forward and licking to settle you down, to tease you, until finally you have enough of it, and you come all over his mouth, breathlessly, your thighs trapping his head between your legs.

“Just for me, for me, for me…” he repeats peppering kisses all over you, his arms pushing him up towards your mouth, meeting you halfway for an open mouthed kiss. “Will you come?” he asks, pumping his cock in his fist, aligning it with your entrance. “My sweet fucking girl, will you come?”

“I have,” you say, hiding your face in embarrassment. “I did.”

“Let me look at you,” as he pushes in. “Let me see you, baby.”

His hips start moving, his cock reaching deep inside you, the stretch incredible. He needs you near, closer, so he lifts you up and repositions himself, having you sit on him, fucking yourself on him how you like. You find a rhythm as he wraps himself around you, kissing your breast, sucking on your nipples, tugging at the ends of your hair. Anything he can touch, all for you. Your voice breaks, his name cut in half, and he thinks he likes it best like that, not one thing but two, muttered by you, the death of him once and for all.

“Will you come with me to California?” he asks again, clearer this time. “Will you let me have you like this under their sun?”

“Lix…” you collapse as he takes charge, pistoling up into your soaking cunt, his cock so deep inside, so fucking good. “Fuck, please. Just please.”

“You need to tell me,” he groans. “I need to know. You need to tell me.”

He pushes you forward again, not once unsticking you from himself, and fucks you into the mattress, hard and fast. He’s after your high, he needs to see you, needs to witness you fall apart because of him, the same way he does for you, his muse, his girl, under your stars. You kiss him and hold him near, sharing his breath, his chest rapidly falling and rising, cock ready to burst, heart ready to explode, and you’re near too, he can feel it in his gut, he can see how your back arches, how your breath hitches, how your eyes open wide, head thrown back—

“That’s it, there it is, do it. Do it, beautiful, come for me, come on, let me feel you, God, fuck—I’ll bust, too, I’ll—”

“Inside,” you moan, shaking in his arms. “Inside me.”

Felix growls and does as you say, fingers digging into your waist, cock buried, and his head falls on your stomach. He’s pretty sure he’s having a heart attack, but nothing matters. You’re underneath him, naked. You still love him. You haven’t said it but you don’t have to; he can feel it, he can feel it like his own pulse.

He fucks you through the ripples of your orgasm, and then he pulls out, kissing your temple, your breast on his chest. Whatever dreams are made out of, he’s convinced you’re it. His dream, a girl just for him, a girl he could pick out blindfolded from a crowd of thousands. He would always come back to you, because there’s simply no beginning to him if you’re not part of it.

And no end if you don’t come with him.

“Don’t be afraid to tell me no,” he whispers into the dark, the stars staring back. “I’ll understand. I’ll make it work, there’s no question about it. Not anymore.”

You’re quiet for a long time, but your lips kiss his jaw, his neck, his ear. He holds onto sanity because of that. Because he’s lying through his teeth, for the first time. He won’t understand. If you don’t come, he’s not sure he’ll be able to carry on with this persona he’s built. It will destroy him, take him down under.

That he’s sure of.

But he thinks of your precious heart. What it would be like to leave it all behind.

“I’ll come,” you say incredibly small, almost inaudible. “I’ll come if you want me there.”

Felix closes his eyes, relief washing over him. No more suffering, endless tossing and turning. He could finally have a life, maybe buy some property, make a house out of you. With you. With you. It sounded unachievable. A wish unable to be granted. Merely anything.

You’re breathing it all back to him.

“I need you there, starry girl. I love you.”

He feels you nod, but you don’t say it back. It cuts through him, but he understands. He doesn’t need to hear it, despite how desperate he is for it. It pours out of you, it started when you opened the door, and it continues to pour out now, with his cum gushing out of your cunt, your arm hugging him tightly, afraid to let go.

“Three months,” you say. “Please don’t make me regret it, Lix.”

tags. @ughbehavior, @cb97percent, @streetlight-s, @j-0ne25.

#straykidsland #stray kids scenarios #skz scenarios #felix scenarios #felix smut #skz smut #stray kids smut #skz felix #stray kids felix #felix skz #stray kids #kpop scenarios #kpop smut #felix x reader #skz fanfic #skz imagines #stray kids imagines #hyunlix #mine.

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disco-cola · 1 month ago

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Ok I don’t know anybody in real life I can share this with but I need to drop the music lore that’s taking up all space in my brain SOMEWHERE so here I go it’s a sad story but I still love the full circle moment of learning that when andrew wood, who was the singer of early seattle grunge pioneers malfunkshun and mother love bone, died of an OD in spring 1990, his roommate was real upset and wrote two songs about him. that roommate was no other than chris cornell, who felt that the songs weren‘t really right to use for his band soundgarden though. yet he still didn‘t wanna discard them, so together with the drummer of soundgarden (matt cameron) plus the remaining guitarist and bassist (stone gossard and jeff ament) of mother love bone, they all decided to pay hommage to their lost friend and bandmate and just record those songs which then turned into a whole project which they eventually called temple of the dog. also stone gossard, the former guitarist, then reconnected with a childhood friend named mike mccready, who also was a guitarist, and invited him to join a new band he was planning on forming, which stones‘ former bandmate and bassist jeff also eventually joined. they produced a demo tape to hand out to find a potential singer and drummer, and one of those demo tapes happened to get into the hands of jack irons (who used to drum in the red hot chili peppers until 1988). the invitation to audition was originally for him but jack passed and instead handed the demo tape to a friend named eddie who liked the music and immediately became inspired to write lyrics to it, made a demo, sent it back to seattle - and shortly after became the lead singer. in the meantime they had also found a drummer and the lineup was complete. they eventually decided on pearl jam as their bandname. also alice in chain‘s jerry cantrell was a close friend of andrew wood and wrote a song about him which they released on their 1992 album, and it‘s fucking WOULD? And it doesn‘t stop there, because as I learned today, another song that I have loved a lot for a long time was actually written about Andrew, and it‘s Far Behind by Candlebox?! The lead singer kevin martin was a huge fan and friend of Andrew and his death affected him so much it resulted in the lyrics to that song. Initially, the lyrics in the first verse adressed him directly, saying „Andy, didn‘t mean to treat you oh so bad“ and „Andy, some would say your life was sad“ but the band then decided to change „Andy“ to „maybe“ instead when it was recorded.

So yeah even in death Andrew Wood was literally a huge catalyst and the 90s Seattle grunge would not be what we know it was today if it wasn‘t for him. If you haven‘t heard about him yet, Go listen to MALFUNKSHUN and MOTHER LOVE BONE right now!!

That‘s it for today my fellow music lovers

#andrew wood #chris cornell #eddie vedder #soundgarden #pearl jam #alice in chains #jerry cantrell

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camisoledadparis · 9 days ago

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THIS DAY IN GAY HISTORY

based on: The White Crane Institute's 'Gay Wisdom', Gay Birthdays, Gay For Today, Famous GLBT, glbt-Gay Encylopedia, Today in Gay History, Wikipedia, and more … December 29

570 B.C. – Polycrates, the Greek tyrant, was born on this date (d.522). By pirate raids and indiscriminate warfare, the tyrant of Samos dominated the East Aegean. He waged various wars and was, until the end of his life, victorious. His ruthlessness drove the philosopher Pythagorus from Samos, where Polycrates was generally despised. Eventually he was lured to Magnesia by one of his enemies, where he was crucified.

But even meanies can lose their hearts to the right guy, and Polycrates, tyrant though he was, was still a normal Greek. His special friend was Bathyllus, so beautiful that Polycrates dared to erect a statue in his honor in the temple of Hera, goddess of women. Polycrates may have thought it appropriate that beautiful Bathyllus have his place among women, but it was considered an act of arrogance nonetheless. Almost immediately thereafter he was crucified.

1879 – Died: Charley Parkhurst, born Charlotte Parkhurst (b.1812), also known as One-Eyed Charley or Six-Horse Charley, who was an American stagecoach driver, farmer and rancher in California. Born and reared as a girl in New England, mostly in an orphanage, Parkhurst ran away as a youth, taking the name Charley and living as a male. He started work as a stable hand and learned to handle horses, including to drive coaches drawn by multiple horses. He worked in Massachusetts and Rhode Island, traveling to Georgia for associated work.

In his late 30s, Parkhurst sailed to California following the Gold Rush in 1849; there he became a noted stagecoach driver. In 1868 he may have been the first female (though passing as a man) to vote in a presidential election in California. At his death, it was discovered that his gender assigned at birth was female.

After Parkhurst died in 1879, neighbors came to the cabin to lay out the body for burial and discovered that his body appeared to be female to them. Rheumatism and cancer of the tongue were listed as causes of death. In addition, the examining doctor established that Parkhurst had given birth at some time. A trunk in the house contained a baby's dress. "The discovery of her true gender became a local sensation." and was soon carried by national newspapers.

The fire station in Soquel, California, has a plaque reading:

"The first ballot by a woman in an American presidential election was cast on this site November 3, 1868, by Charlotte (Charlie) Parkhurst who masqueraded as a man for much of her life. She was a stagecoach driver in the mother lode country during the gold rush days and shot and killed at least one bandit. In her later years she drove a stagecoach in this area. She died in 1879. Not until then was she found to be a woman. She is buried in Watsonville at the pioneer cemetery."

1944 – Gilbert Adair (d.2011) was a Scottish novelist, poet, film critic and journalist. He was critically most famous for the "fiendish" translation of Georges Perec's postmodern novel A Void, in which the letter e is not used, but was more widely known for the films adapted from his novels, including Love and Death on Long Island (1997) and The Dreamers (2003).

Adair was born in Kilmarnock, but from 1968 to 1980 he lived in Paris. His early works of fiction included Alice Through the Needle's Eye (following Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass) and Peter Pan and the Only Children (following Peter and Wendy). He won the Author's Club First Novel Award in 1988 for his novel The Holy Innocents. From 1992 to 1996 he wrote the "Scrutiny" column for The Sunday Times. During 1998 and 1999 he was the chief film critic of The Independent on Sunday, where in 1999 he also wrote a year-long column called "The Guillotine".

In 1995 he won the Scott Moncrieff Translation Prize for his book A Void, which is a translation of the French book La Disparition by Georges Perec. The original book contains no instances of the letter e; Adair translated it with the same limitation.

The film Love and Death on Long Island (1997), a tale of homosexual obsession, directed by Richard Kwietniowski, was based on his 1990 novel of the same name. The film The Dreamers (2003) directed by Bernardo Bertolucci, with a script by Adair, was based on his book The Holy Innocents, which Adair revised and re-released under the same title as the film. Adair collaborated on the screenplays of several Raúl Ruiz films: The Territory (1981), Klimt (2006) and A Closed Book (2010).

Adair himself was homosexual, though he rarely talked about the matter, not wishing to be labelled. "Obviously there are gay themes in a lot of my novels," he said in an interview, "but I really wouldn't be happy to be thought of as a 'Gay Writer' ... Being gay hasn't defined my life." At the end of his life, he lived in London. Adair died from a brain haemorrhage, 13 months after suffering a stroke which blinded him. He was writing a stage version of Love and Death on Long Island, which is being developed by producers New Gods and Heroes, at the time of his death.

1950 – Jon Polito (d.2016) was an American actor and voice artist. In a film and television career spanning 35 years, he amassed over 220 credits. Notable television roles included Detective Steve Crosetti in the first two seasons of Homicide: Life on the Street and as Phil Bartoli on the first season of Crime Story.

Polito was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. He is known for working with the Coen Brothers, most notably in the major supporting role of Italian gangster Johnny Caspar in Miller's Crossing. Polito won an OBIE award in 1980 for his theater performances off Broadway and for his lifetime of work in film and television he received the Maverick Spirit Event Award at Cinequest Film Festival in 2005.

When Homicide began pre-production, Polito was asked to audition, and was initially reluctant – he didn't want move to Baltimore for the series, because he had just relocated from New York to Los Angeles. The script he received featured a dialogue scene between two detectives, one Polish American and the other Irish-American. Polito decided that the part he wanted was that of the Irishman, but he was told that he could not read for it. After reading for the part of the Polish-American detective, Polito added a message on his audition tape, saying that if the producers wanted to call him back, he would only be interested if he could take the part of the Irish detective. Series co-creators Barry Levinson and Tom Fontana did call him back, and they rewrote the character as an Italian, and cast him in the role. The other character, the Polish-American detective, was also rewritten, becoming Det. Meldrick Lewis, played by African-American actor Clark Johnson.

Polito was openly gay. He married fellow actor Darryl Armbruster on October 16, 2015, fifteen years after they first met.

He died from multiple myeloma on September 1, 2016, at the City of Hope Hospital, where he was being treated. Polito was 65 years old.

1960 – James Martin is an American Jesuit priest, writer, and editor-at-large of the Jesuit magazine America. In 2017, Pope Francis appointed Father Martin as a consultant to the Vatican's Secretariat for Communications. He is a New York Times Best Selling author and frequent commentator on the life and teachings of Jesus, and on Ignatian—inspired by the life and teachings of Saint Ignatius of Loyola—spirituality. Father Martin's outreach to the LGBT community in the aftermath of the 2016 Orlando nightclub shooting drew a strong backlash from conservative Catholics. He is the author of Building a Bridge: How the Catholic Church and the LGBT Community Can Enter into a Relationship of Respect, Compassion, and Sensitivity.

Martin first became involved in LGBT issues following the 2016 Orlando nightclub shooting, stating, he was "disappointed that more Catholic leaders did not offer support to the LGBT community" in the aftermath of the shooting, and started a series of lectures on how the Church could better minister to LGBT Catholics, which led to his book, Building a Bridge (2017).

While the book was hailed by several prelates, including Bishop Robert McElroy, Cardinals Kevin Farrell and Joseph Tobin, it received a backlash from conservative Catholics, who successfully lobbied for many of his lectures at Catholic venues to be cancelled. In a critique of the book, Cardinal Robert Sarah described Martin as "one of the most outspoken critics of the church’s message with regard to sexuality". In 2018, Cardinal Raymond Burke stated that Martin has "an 'open' and wrong position on homosexuality".

However, journalist Frank Bruni noted that Father Martin did not "explicitly reject Church teaching" but rather questioned the language in the Catechism of the Catholic Church that describes homosexual acts as "intrinsically disordered". In a column, Martin explained that he has never challenged the Church's teaching on homosexuality and never will. However, some critics have pointed out that nowhere in his book has Martin affirmed the Church's magisterial teaching to be true. Princeton professor Robert George argued that Catholics should accept that Martin believes in the Church's teaching on homosexuality.

In 2017, Archbishop Charles Chaput of Philadelphia described many of the attacks against Father Martin as "bitterness" that is "unjust and unwarranted," but called for "serious, legitimate criticism" of the book's "perceived ambiguities" and inadequacies. Chaput argued that dealing with the substantive issues frankly "is the only way an honest discussion can be had."

In 2019 Chaput again criticized the "bitter personal attacks" that have been made against Martin, calling them "inexcusable and unChristian." While stating that many of Martin's efforts to accompany and support people with same-sex attraction have been laudable, Chaput also criticized Martin for "a pattern of ambiguity in his teachings," which Chaput said undermined Martin's stated aims and alienated people from the "support they need for authentic human flourishing." Chaput stated: "The suggestion that the wisdom of the Church, rooted in the Word of God and centuries of human experience, is somehow cruel or misguided does grave harm to her mission." Martin replied that same-sex relations and same-sex marriage "are both impermissible (and immoral) under church teaching," and that the reason he doesn't focus on this "is that LGBT Catholics have heard this repeatedly."

Bishop Thomas Paprocki and Bishop Richard Sticka supported Chaput's column. Bishop Paprocki described Father Martin's attitude as "deeply scandalous in the sense of leading people to believe that wrongful behavior is not sinful."

1966 – Jason Gould is an American actor, writer and director. Gould was born in New York City, the son of singer/actress Barbra Streisand and actor Elliott Gould, who divorced July 9, 1971. He spent his formative years around major Hollywood players in Los Angeles, California.

Gould has appeared in Say Anything... (1989) and the Streisand-directed film The Prince of Tides (1991), but has since rarely appeared in front of the camera. In 1997 he made his West End debut in the play The Twilight of the Golds at the Arts Theatre in which he played the part of David, an opera designer. In 1997 he also wrote, produced and directed the short film Inside Out, playing Aaron in the humorous story of the child of two celebrities who is outed by the tabloids. His real life father, Elliott Gould, also played his father in the short film. His real half-brother Sam Gould played the part of his brother. The short was later combined with other features for Boys Life 3 (2000).

Around 1988, at the age of 21, Gould came out to his parents about being a homosexual. Around 1991, tabloids outed Gould as being gay. In an interview with The Advocate published August 17, 1999, Barbra Streisand said

I would never wish for my son to be anything but what he is. He is bright, kind, sensitive, caring, and a very conscientious and good person. He is a very gifted actor and filmmaker. What more could a parent ask for in their child? I have been truly blessed. Most parents feel that their child is particularly special, and I am no different. I have a wonderful son. My only wish for my son, Jason, is that he continues to experience a rich life of love, happiness, joy, and fulfillment, both creatively and personally. Nobody on this earth has the right to tell anyone that their love for another human being is morally wrong. I will never forget how it made me shudder to hear Pat Buchanan say that he stood "with George Bush against the immoral idea that gay and lesbian couples should have the same standing in law as married men and women." Who is Pat Buchanan to pronounce anyone's love invalid? How can he deny the profound love felt by one human being for another? ... Unfortunately, however, as long as people like Newt Gingrich and Pat Buchanan continue in public life, the fight to codify gay marriages will be a tough battle to win.

1971 – Wakefield Poole’s trend-setting Boys in the Sand premieres, prompting Variety to remark, “There are no more closets.” Shot on Fire Island, Poole’s slickly produced film marks a dramatic departure from the low-budget pornography previously available. Boys in the Sand had its theatrical debut on December 29, 1971, at the 55th Street Playhouse in New York City. It was the first gay porn film to include credits, to achieve crossover success, to be reviewed by Variety, and one of the earliest porn films, after 1969’s Blue Movie by Andy Warhol, to gain mainstream credibility, preceding 1972’s Deep Throat by nearly a year. It was promoted with an advertising campaign unprecedented for a pornographic feature, and was an immediate critical and commercial success. The film’s title is a parodic reference to the Mart Crowley play and film The Boys in the Band.

1990 – Richard Dunne, director of the Gay Men's Health Crisis from 1985-1989, died of complications from AIDS at age 46. During his time as director the annual budget increased from $800,000 to $11 million and the staff increased from 17 to 120.

1993 – Dalton Harris is a Jamaican singer. In 2010, he won Digicel Rising Star, and subsequently signed with VP Records. In 2018, he won the fifteenth season of The X Factor in the United Kingdom.

Harris was born in Clarendon, Jamaica, before moving to Kingston to pursue his music career. Harris recalled living a difficult life growing up in Jamaica with a large family with 22 siblings, being poor, and living on his own since the age of 15. He also talked about being physically and mentally abused in his early life. Harris attended Kingston College, where he passed six CSEC subjects. In October 2020, Harris stated that he is pansexual*.

In 2010, Harris became the youngest winner of the Jamaican singing competition Digicel Rising Stars where he won a cash prize of $1.5 million JMD. After his win, he began releasing music in Jamaica. He then traveled across the States for five years to widen his scope. He released many tracks like "I'm Numb", "Watch Over Me" and "That Wonderful Sound" in 2015, "All I Need", "Whisper in the Wind", "Unfaithful Chronicles" and "Dem Kinda Woman" in 2016 and "Perilous Time" in 2017.

In 2018, Harris entered season 15 of The X Factor in the United Kingdom. He auditioned for the series with "Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word" by Elton John. He received four yeses from the four judges. Competing in the category of "Boys", he was coached by Louis Tomlinson. Owing the success and increasing popularity of the Jamaican act, the British X Factor was broadcast in Jamaica after the local Television Jamaica (TVJ) bought the rights of broadcasting the programme live in Jamaica.

He reached the final of the contest on 1 December 2018 alongside Anthony Russell and Scarlett Lee. In the final, he sang "A Song for You" from Leon Russell, and dueted "Beneath Your Beautiful" with Emeli Sande. His winner's single was "The Power of Love", performed as a duet with James Arthur, who won the ninth series of The X Factor in 2012.

*Pansexuality is sexual, romantic or emotional attraction towards people regardless of their sex or gender identity. Pansexual people may refer to themselves as gender-blind, asserting that gender and sex are not determining factors in their romantic or sexual attraction to others. Because pansexual people are open to relationships with people who do not identify as strictly men or women, it is often considered a more inclusive term than bisexual.

2012 – Same-sex marriage takes effect in Maine with a voter approval of 53%-47%. Maryland and Washington State are the other states to win marriage equality by popular vote.

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wanttoseeyoucrybitch · 3 days ago

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#spotify #gothgirl #goth aesthetic #1cky princess #gothic #sisters of mercy #big tiddy goth gf #big tiddy goth girl

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theclairvoyage · 8 months ago

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Chapter 1: Boomer Sooner

Part of Bloody Knuckles series

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Pairing: Javier Peña x AUSA!f!reader

Javier's first day in OKC is nothing short of stressful-though that changes when he meets you.

Chapter warnings: alcohol consumption, smoking, adult language, mentions of violence, mentions of human trafficking, reader is able-bodied, has long hair and is roughly the same height as Javi (no other descriptors), Spanish usage (translations at the end)

WC: 3.2k

Fall 1992

Corpus Christi, Texas

Sweat drips from Javier’s forehead and temples as he pulls stubborn weeds from the dry dirt at his mother’s house in Corpus Christi. The air is heavy and humid, compressing his chest like a thick heated blanket. Mamá insisted she could do it herself, stubborn as the weeds. Mijo, puedo hacerlo. No necesito ayuda. He’d waved her off and stepped out the front door, Tecovas boots clomping the wooden steps.

The screen door flies open with a screech, and out comes his mother, pitcher of vibrant red agua fresca in tow, garnished with fresh spearmint and strawberries. In the fall, she loves to make Agua de Jamaica with the beautiful hibiscus flowers that bloom in late summer. Her backyard garden is a utopia compared to the disaster of a front yard, filled with a smorgasbord of gorgeous flowers, vegetables, fruits, and bird feeders.

“Tómate un descanso, Javier. Por favor,” she urges him. He nods, tearing the sweaty gardening gloves from his hands, and tossing them on the porch. He wipes his brow with the back of his dirt-covered forearm, no longer caring about how he looks or smells. Only a cold shower would resurrect this mess.

“Gracias, Mamá. Se parece muy bien,” he compliments her, relishing the sweet smile that stretches her freckled, weathered cheeks. Her long, silvery mane is curled into a tight bun, wispy baby hairs fallen prey to the humidity in Corpus Christi. She is a true Mexican mother—hardworking, resourceful, strong-willed, and unequivocally dedicated to her family. It’s nice to see the softer side of her once in a blue moon—a refreshing break from the wooden spoon or chancla.

She pours him a hefty glass of the hibiscus drink before returning to the house, ice cubes crashing into glass with little clinks. Javi plops himself on the old porch, sipping and observing the scene in front of him. Fuck, that’s good, he thinks, licking his lips to savor the taste and the liquid that has seeped up into his mustache. She knows this drink was his favorite, and boy, did she make it perfectly.

The yard, on the other hand, was not even close to perfection. Javier’s dad passed away a couple years ago, and with Javi posted in Colombia, she had limited assistance. Sure, family came around to help, and he knew she dabbled in some landscaping herself, but the weeds grew too quickly.

She was too proud to let any landscaping service come help her—he remembered the day a landscaping company tucked a pamphlet between her screen and front doors, and she called him enraged, smirking to himself at the memory. “¡Pendejos estúpidos, déjame sola!”

At least he had made decent progress. The weeds were plucked, but the grass was patchy and scarce. He’d need to find some grass seed and plant it or convince her to buy sod—fat chance. Chugging the last few gulps of his agua fresca, he stands and enters the house. His mother takes the glass from him, patting his shoulder affectionately.

“Mijo, algún hombre te llamó. No dio un nombre, solamente un número. Está aquí,” she says, pointing a wrinkled finger at an old utility bill envelope with a phone number scribbled in blue pen. The fuck, he thinks. Who the fuck has my mom’s home number? Better not be some girl.

“Gracias, Mamá. Perdóname, por favor,” he says, grabbing the envelope and returning to the front porch to punch in the number on his giant mobile phone. It rings twice before a male voice responds.

“About time, Peña. Ready to get back to work?” The voice echoes—cocky, smug.

“If this is DEA, you can go fuck yourself. Already gave y’all my letter of resignation,” Javi spits. The voice returns a few whoa, whoa, whoas, like he’s trying to rein in a wild horse.

“Got a great opportunity for you here in Oklahoma City. Need you here by next week. Already got an apartment and a desk saved for you.” Javi scratches his head in confusion.

“Opportunity for what?” Javi bites back, fucking irritated at this no-namer.

“FBI.”

“Goddammit.”

The next week, Javier finds himself squinting and cursing on the sidewalk of the FBI Building on West Memorial Road in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, wondering how the fuck he got here. He can’t remember the last time he craved a cigarette so badly. It felt sacrilege, living in Sooner country—he was an Aggie through and through. He pulls the rumpled utility bill envelope from his mother’s house out of his already-sweaty tan blazer pocket and re-reads the instructions for the 300th time.

-Enter parking lot via security gate and use code 584323, give them name

-Enter building on west side and go through security

-Someone will be waiting for me?

Shaking his head, he wipes sweat from his mustache and trudges toward the west entrance, straining to pull one of the doors open. The heavy metal doors threaten to shove him back into the outside world—something he would welcome, at this point.

Walking through a maze to get to the metal detectors, he gazes up at the highly vaulted atrium, observing the boring taupe-colored walls, and stopping at a black and white photo of J. Edgar Hoover. Two armored guards with solemn, stony faces wipe their gaze up and down Javier’s figure as he stops just before the metal detector.

“Come through,” one of them barks, beckoning to him to step through. He obliges, before the other stone soldier puts a palm up in Javier’s face. “Need ID.” Javi fishes his wallet out, instinctively reaching for his phantom DEA badge. The guard scans his Texas Driver’s License before handing it to the other guard.

“Any weapons?” One asks, as the other walks behind Javier.

“Nope,” Javi replies, assuming the familiar position of a search, hands posted up high and legs spread. The gruff men pat him down and excavate his pockets, finding nothing but his phone, keys, wallet, and the rumpled envelope with instructions.

“Come this way, Peña.” He follows one to the round front desk to a tall, blue suit, leaning against the counter with a smirk on his face. Javi doesn’t recognize him. Blue Suit stands and holds out a manicured hand to Javier.

“Nice to meet you, Peña,” Blue Suit croons. Javi recognizes the voice as the one that called his mother’s house in Corpus Christi. Javi clasps his hand and shakes it a few times, grunting in approval.

“I’m Eddie Penn, supervisory special agent. You’ll be with me for today—likely for a while,” he says with a grin. Javi raises one eyebrow at him, suspicious. Eddie trots toward some elevator doors, flashing ID at two more armored guards posted up next to them. Javi follows him into the elevator and watches him press a yellow-stained 3.

“How’s the apartment?” Eddie asks as the elevator ascends noisily. Javi shrugs.

“Honestly, I threw all my shit in there last night and haven’t had much of a chance to get any furniture,” he replies, studying the elevator inspection form above the floor number buttons. Eddie chuckles.

“Sorry about that—I was pretty limited on the timeframe and places we could put you. We’ll get you a car and help with furniture,” he apologizes, hands twitching in his pockets. Javi shakes his head, long hair swishing back and forth.

“No worries. I’m assuming this is important,” he says, turning to look at Eddie, eyes narrowing for a millisecond.

“Yes. We’ll discuss everything in my office—the Assistant Director is waiting on the phone for us,” he says as the elevator screeches to a halt, doors opening slowly. The two step out and Eddie leads Javi through a floor of gray cubicles, sounds of telephones ringing and keyboards clacking filling the air.

It’s not too different from DEA offices, Javi thinks. There are more people, more suits and skirts, but the blueprint is the same. Eddie nods his head at several people staring at the pair as they traverse the floor. Javi tries to keep his eyes from meeting anyone’s—he needs to know why he’s here before he starts familiarizing himself with these people.

Eddie opens the door to an office, contents invisible to the floor, save for a narrow window above the handle. There are two chairs facing a small wooden desk, with a giant computer monitor in one corner and a telephone in the other. There’s a small window behind the desk overlooking the city. Eddie gestures to one of the chairs as he steps behind the desk.

Javi sits into one of the stiff, unforgiving cushions as Eddie presses a few buttons and puts the phone on speaker. Javi drums his fingers on the arm of the chair as he stares out the window, somewhat covered by stray hairs of Eddie’s combover. Eddie clears his throat.

“Assistant Director, I’ve got Javier Peña here with me. Glad to have you on the phone.” Great, so Eddie’s a kiss-ass. A muffled, adenoidal voice replies on the other end.

“Thanks, Agent Penn. Javier—it’s great to have you. I read up on your work in Colombia—you’re somewhat of a hero here in the States. What made you leave the DEA?” The Assistant Director asks. Javi leans forward, elbows on his thighs and fingers smoothing his mustache hairs as he recounts his experience in South America.

“Well, sir—to be frank, it’s a shit ton of work trying to catch a drug lord. The time I put in was enough,” Javi says honestly. Eddie snaps his head up to glare at Javier—presumably for the cursing. The Assistant Director laughs, voice even more nasally than before.

“Well, I do appreciate the honesty. When I heard you’d quit DEA I jumped on the opportunity to have you join here,” the AD spouts. Javi raises an eyebrow as he listens.

“Might I ask why?” Javi tests, glancing at the carpeted ground as he waits for a response.

“There’s a large-scale intelligence task force here dedicated to stopping arms and human trafficking in Oklahoma—funny enough, we know Escobar has done some dealings here, but that won’t be your focus.” Javi raises the other eyebrow in surprise.

“In Oklahoma? Interesting—figured he was only invested in Miami and other coastal cities,” Javi ponders. The AD chuckles.

“He was—but he’s learned to be more discreet in his business operations. No thanks to the great work of the DEA.” Javi snorts.

“Anyway, Javier,” the AD continues, “Human trafficking in this part of the country has worsened in recent years. The DEA doesn’t have enough manpower to tackle a problem of this magnitude. So, the FBI has made it a priority.” Javi listens, eyes scanning the room. He leans back in the chair, crossing an ankle over his knee and pursing his lips.

“So, we are going to fast-track you to supervisory special agent, like Agent Penn here—we think your experience with the DEA has more than warranted that role, and your supervisor recommended you for this task force. Sounds like you’ve got some great leadership abilities, Peña. This job will pay well, a bit better than what you were making with the DEA,” the Assistant Director rambles, sounding impressed. Javi widens his eyes.

“Penn here will train you once you pass the field tests—marksmanship, physical, drug tests—you know the drill. Then you’ll hit the ground running with the task force. Any questions?” Javi furrows his brow, thinking.

“Don’t think so,” Javi replies. He knows he can’t back out of this one—it’s a great opportunity, a pay raise—even if it’s in shitty Oklahoma.

“Great. I’ll be in the Oklahoma Office in the next few weeks for a status report. Looking forward to monitoring your progress.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Javi replies. Eddie hangs up the phone and rummages through some manila case files on his desk, handing a thick one to Javi.

“This is what we’ve been working on as of late,” Eddie says. Javi flips open the case file and pulls out some large pictures from the front. Javi glances through photos of suspects, victims, crime scenes, and camera footage. Some are brutal—young girls with brandings and tattoos, bruises and scrapes—some deceased, some barely alive. Javi swallows loudly.

“Some fucking pieces of work that do this shit,” he seethes quietly, jaw ticking. Penn nods.

“It’s tough,” Eddie says, “But we’ve made some great strides here. Sadly, we can’t do everything.”

Javier continues flipping through the case files, now reading field reports. Some are from the Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs in Oklahoma, some from OKCPD and other neighboring police departments.

“I’m assuming we work mostly with local LEO departments?” Javi questions, snapping the case file shut. Eddie nods.

“Yep. We try to work cases in conjunction, whenever possible. We also work closely with an AUSA who has taken a liking to this task force.”

“Oh yeah? He tough on crime?” Javi questions, plopping the case file back on Penn’s desk.

“She is,” Eddie says, raising his eyebrows. “Real spitfire, that one. Smart as hell. And between you and me, she’s a sight for sore eyes.” Javi nods, rolling his eyes. He pictures a petite blonde in a pencil skirt. He’s had plenty of those.

“Interesting,” he says.

“You’ll meet her sometime this week, she’s here at least two to three times a week working on cases. Sometimes she’ll go out in the field with us, though she’s not supposed to,” Eddie says. Javi tilts his head at Eddie.

“Why’s that? Likes to keep tabs on the team?” Eddie shakes his head.

“Likes to talk to the victims, meet them, see everything firsthand. Wait ‘til you see her in the courtroom—it’s something else,” Eddie says, reminiscing your powerful opening and closing arguments and connection with members of the jury. Javi is unimpressed.

“Seen enough lawyers to know it’s all a show,” he scoffs. Eddie shrugs. Javi would be in for a real surprise when he finally gets the chance to meet you.

Later that evening, after filling out dozens of forms and answering questions, Javier finds himself at a local tavern, The Dark Horseman, a few minutes from his apartment. The inside lives up to the name—dark and hazy, filled with lots of dark-stained wooden walls, tables, and chairs, with random horse paraphernalia lining the walls.

He’s the only one sitting at the bar, slowly sipping a glass of some cheap whiskey the bartender poured. There’s an old, old jukebox adjacent to the bar blaring some sad Hank Williams ballad. Some people are playing pool at the other end, filling the space with the smacks of billiard balls and random cheers.

The bartender steps in front of Javier, nodding at his soon-to-be empty glass. Javi shakes his head.

“I’m good after this.” The bartender nods again and steps away to wipe down some tables. Javi sets the glass down and pinches the bridge of his nose, craving a cigarette. He’d been trying to quit—but the move and the stress of a new job he knew nothing about had forced him to capitulate in the last few days. He stands, letting the bartender know he’s going for a smoke. As he goes to push the bar door open, someone pulls it from the other side.

There you stand, frozen in place as Javier almost slams into you. Still holding the door, you step back a bit so he can leave. He stares at you for a moment, entranced.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” you apologize, small smile on your face. Javi’s eyes drop to your lips momentarily before hovering at your eyes.

“Not a problem, s’my bad. Excuse me,” he says, mirroring your smile. You’re taken aback at how handsome this stranger is—but you really need a drink after today. He steps out, pulling the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and smacking them against his hand as he watches you walk inside.

You’re tall, probably as tall as him, confident, and elegant, though you’re wearing ratty jeans and a tee shirt. Your eyes are what captivated him the most—beautiful, emotive, weary, yet still glowing. And your scent was unlike any he’d smelled before—earthy, musky, and slightly spicy. He shakes his head as he lights a cigarette, taking a long draw and leaning up against the wall of the tavern.

He doesn’t need to fuck a random stranger his first big day here. What he needs is some food, a shower, perhaps another cigarette, and a long night of tossing and turning. He finishes the cigarette and returns to the brooding bar, noticing you sitting a few chairs down from his glass of whiskey and his tab that the bartender slapped on the wood while he was smoking.

“Come here often?” he asks, almost involuntarily. He winces at how corny he sounds, and you probably think he’s hitting on you. He’s not trying to pick you up, but he is curious. You turn to him as you finish a sip of some amber liquid—whiskey, maybe?

“I try not to, unless I’ve had a bad day,” you say, smiling at him as you set your glass down. Fuck, you’re beautiful. His breath stalls in his lungs for a moment.

“So, if I see you in here again, it won’t be for a good reason,” he says, fighting the urge to wink at you as he signs his tab. He settles for a half smile, one side of his mustache twitching up.

You laugh and half-shrug. He likes the sound of it—breathy, melodious, somewhat subdued. You must be tired.

“There’s a good chance of that, though you look like you’re here for the same reason,” you say, studying him as he turns to you, stuffing his wallet in the pocket of his tan slacks. He snorts.

“Something like that,” he says, eyeing you. You turn to take another sip, and he takes the opportunity to study your features again.

“Well, it was nice to meet you, Stranger That Also Had a Bad Day,” you tell him, pulling a chortle from him. You’re witty—he likes that. He better leave before he sits in the chair next to you.

“Same to you. See you around?” he says, raising a brow at you.

“Good chance of that, too,” you say, giving him a close-lipped smile. He nods at you and exits the bar. He sure hopes so.

Spanish glossary:

Mijo, puedo hacerlo. No necesito ayuda. = My son, I can do it. I don’t need help.

Tómate un descanso, Javier. Por favor. = Take a break, Javier. Please.

Gracias, Mamá. Se parece muy bien. = Thank you, Mom. It looks great.

¡Pendejos estúpidos, déjame sola! = Stupid assholes, leave me alone!

Mijo, algún hombre te llamó. No dio un nombre, solamente un número. Está aquí. = My son, some man called for you. He didn’t give a name, just a number. It’s here.

Gracias, Mamá. Perdóname, por favor. = Thanks, Mom. Excuse me a minute, please.

Chapter 2 (coming soon-ETA 05/23/24)

Taglist: @burntheedges

#javier pena x f!reader #javier pena x you #javier pena smut #javier pena x reader #bloody knuckles

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