#this post is brought to you by me still up at 1 am bc my new meds make me shake and i don't like it

[epilepsyculture-is]

Epilepsy culture is spending an extra hour+ before bed panicking because you think you might have a seizure (for various reasons)

[bunniocs]

yeaaa sasha and levi have a complicated relationship ⚰️ novel incoming so im sorry lmao

so when they were in middle school sasha (and teddy) figuratively saved levis life. yeah he physically fought the bullies to the point of getting into trouble himself but he also became something for levi who was new in town and extremely sensitive and felt all his emotions at 150% to lean on (and for a long time hide behind), and sasha who had lived his whole life just letting everything happen to him would have an active role in someones life.

levis situation made it so they spent a lot of time together and they actually got on well, esp because they all did (at this point different) sports. and from day 1 levi thought sasha was so. cool. (and at this point sasha was taller too). hed follow him anywhere. listen to the same music. wear the same clothes etc. and it was so good for sasha to make a friend other than his sister and teddy. and soon levi was able to express his loud personality (hyper competitive, confident, overly sensitive, no filter, you know right) and the three became inseparable

in time their dynamic as this "savior" and the "saved" gave them a lot of codependency, but they didnt see it like that. it was natural and they loved each other. they started dating in like the transition from middle school to high school and it was Serious like when uni started theyd been dating for over 4 years and they were like this is who im spending my life with/if it ever becomes legal then this IS the guy im going to marry

so bc levi was so happy during those years he was able to thrive when it came to his ambitions like he was working hard with volleyball and getting 10s after 10s in his studies and prep for med school and he does get accepted. so then uni starts and whoa? levi has to leave bc the only med school in the country is on the other side of it. uh oh....

they both dont know how to function without the other at this point but sasha doesnt voice any of his feelings (bc hes developing intensifying insecurities abt how he feels hes failing at... well, life, bc of the developments of both of their lives) and they say good bye with a promise that theyll call and visit as much as possible.

and levi struggles HARD in the beginning. the studies are hard, balancing volleyball with them is hard, and hes new in town again and his security is gone. but, he IS a different person from 7 years ago. he started gaining his independence quickly and adjusting to life in the capital and when he visited on christmas everything was already clear. sasha felt like he was slipping away from him bc he himself had no other things and no other futures he was working towards other than this relationship. levi didnt need him anymore and in fact he was becoming a doctor and hed be the one having to take care of sasha. even though they were finally together again sasha felt like they were worlds apart. even the way levi spoke was changing and becoming literally hard to understand.

so when levi returned to school it all started Actually going bad. bc sasha had let passivity poison his entire being instead of confronting his issues he started to withdraw and levi alone couldnt keep them going. eventually theyd only ever fight and levi for the first time let his meaner qualities target sasha. and it hurt him even more that no matter how awful he was sasha rlly didnt care enough abt him anymore to get angry back?

it WAS gradual though and this went on for SO. LONG. bc neither knew how to let go until finally at the end of their second year levi said enough to the limbo and once and for all ended their relationship. time passed and now levi after fighting so hard made team captain. and he hears sasha is also his teams captain and levi feels even more resentment bc he has had to crawl through blood and tears since middle school but sasha whos never aspired to anything can just become captain bc ????? (he has no idea). also sasha feels some type of way abt levi getting into a new relationship so "fast" and with the guy he knows became his roommate in their 2nd year... even tho he rlly has no business to lmaooo

so to finally answer the question in the post: levi feels so bitter and resentful and sasha is just swallowed up in his self loathing and rlly just doesnt want to see him again

which oc currently has a complicated relationship with an ex?

[f1byjessie]

A PICTURE IS WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS ━━ LN4.

sometimes the right words are hard to come across, and sometimes everything you need to say can be captured in an image.

( lando norris x photographer!reader )

━━ part nine.

INSTAGRAM.

liked by yourusername, oscarpiastri, and 714,148 others

tagged: yourusername

mclaren As we get closer and closer to the start of the 2024 season, we thought we���d take the time to introduce new fans to the team that works behind the scenes! Starting us off, we have Y/N L/N, our personal paddock photographer! Y/N has been here with us at McLaren since 2019, and is the genius mind behind many of the photos we’ve posted throughout the years. She’s an important part of our community and helps tremendously in not only capturing our drivers in action, but also in getting the other behind the scenes members of our team the recognition they deserve. We’re glad to have her back here with us in Bahrain, and we can’t wait to see what beautiful concoctions she comes up with this year! 🧡

view all 9,147 comments

user if there is 100 y/n fans, i am one of them. if there is one y/n fan, it is me. if there are no y/n fans, i have died.

user love love LOVE that mclaren takes the time to recognize the hard work of everyone who supports the drivers

↳ user i feel like f1 promotes the racers, team principals, and pit crew so much and forgets about everyone else that makes sure these teams are able to function so seamlessly

user CAN WE GET A MEET THE ADMIN POST TOO??? 👀👀👀

user i bumped into y/n back in silverstone 2021, like literally bumped into her, and she was so sweet!!

user she’s my photography inspo 🤩

user her dedication to the mclaren team is so apparent when you think about the fact that she DOESN’T get the same recognition as the drivers, but she has chosen to work for them for what will be 6 years as of this season. she could have easily move to a different formula 1 team or even another sport entirely, but she still comes back and that’s a dedicated artist

↳ user the fact that she did a little stint over at manchester city fc and STILL chose to come back to mclaren even tho i imagine f1 has a much harsher and stricter schedule with the intercontinental travel than football does

user this is who we have to thank for all those beautiful shots of lando??? cuz if so, bless her omg 🙏🙏🙏

user in this household we appreciate the crew that works tirelessly to keep us entertained

user so tired of seeing ppl disregard her skill as a photographer just bc of who she’s dating

↳ user OMG SAME

yourusername glad to be here, can’t wait to travel the world with these amazing people 🧡

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yourusername locked in and ready 😎

view all 1,514 comments

oscarpiastri so glad you’ve gotten over your temporary obsession with blue 😁

↳ yourusername so glad you haven’t lost your ability to get on my last nerve 😁

↳ oscarpiastri so glad you’re still insufferable even on your best days 😁

↳ yourusername now that’s a comeback i can be proud of 🥹

user MISSED THESE LADS OH MY DAYS

user ONE DAY UNTIL TESTING GUYS

user oscar looking fine asf these days 😩 that winter break treated him well

mclaren The boys are back in town!

↳ yourusername dare i say my milkshake brought them to the yard?

↳ mclaren It certainly called us 😍

↳ yourusername you flatter me mclaren admin 😌

↳ mclaren Only the best for our best 😘

user that’s some pretty intense eye contact from lando in the last image…

↳ user he ain’t even looking at the camera

↳ user nah bruv is def looking at y/n 👀👀

↳ user I NEED THEM TO GET OVER WHATEVER HAPPENED AND GO BACK TO BEING FRIENDS CUZ I MISS THE BANTER IN THE COMMENTS

↳ user i think we should probably respect their privacy and understand that something happened (presumably in the off season) that we weren’t privy to. so long as they can both maintain professionalism around one another, they don’t have to do or “get over” anything. does it suck to see two very close friends no longer get along in the way they used to? absolutely. but we don’t know what happened or if anything even did happen. in the event that something did, we don’t know who’s involved or who, if anyone, is at fault. they’re both justified in choosing to end a friendship due to a falling out, or even if they just grew distant. but even as i say all of this, it’s still speculation.

↳ user we don’t actually know if they aren’t friends any longer or if they’ve just moved their friendship off of online platforms. it should be noted that y/n is very publicly dating someone, and idk about you, but i know firsthand how delusional fans can be. her bf’s fans could easily attack her over banter with another man, and lando’s fans could just as easily start reading into that same banter which runs the very real possibility of putting all three of them in an awkward situation where y/n is being shipped with a man that ISN’T her bf.

↳ user what about the banter she has with the mclaren admin? 🤔

↳ user context is super important here. the flirting between y/n and the mclaren admin is very obviously fake. it has been from the beginning, and when ppl “ship” the two of them together it’s for the bit and to play along with their fake bromance. lando and y/n have both been legitimately shipped together since they both started working with mclaren, which changes the undertone of the shipping comments bc ppl often genuinely misconstrue their banter as REAL flirting.

user why do comment sections related to y/n always turn into debate sessions

↳ user REAL like ain’t no way i’m reading all that

user oscar’s hair sticking up in every picture is my roman empire

user I’VE BEEN MISSING THE ORANGE I’M SO GLAD IT’S BACK 🧡🧡🧡

user wait i didn’t even realize until now that this is the first post in like a month that’s actually had public comments turned on

↳ user probably bc her bf’s loser fans have finally stopped harassing her

jackgrealish must be nice having all that sun 😒

↳ yourusername it really is, bet you’re jealous

Testing goes fine, until it doesn’t.

“A drain cover?” Lando’s voice echoes across the garage. “Another fucking drain cover?”

You purse your lips.

Yesterday, he’d been upset on Oscar’s behalf when they’d cancelled the remainder of the morning session after only a couple hours to solve the problem of the track’s dislodged pieces. He’d complained and cussed out the incompetence, and then reassured Oscar that things would be better for the third day.

But the third day is here now, and he’s even more upset now being told to pit after a measly thirty minutes for the same issue.

“This is the second fucking time━” he cuts himself off with an angry huff and runs his hands roughly through the curls of his hair, letting his fingers catch on the tangles and yanking through them in his frustration. Sweat glistens on his furrowed brow. His cheeks are still flushed from the heat of the car.

It’s the most emotion you’ve seen from him since you’ve come back.

The time you’ve already spent in Bahrain has been stilted at best. Lando continues to stick with his attempts at avoiding you, but it’s harder to do so here when your hotel rooms are on the same floor and you’re limited to the confines of the garage for most of the day. Even when he isn’t in the car, there’s not a lot to do wandering around the paddock and even if there was they’ve encouraged him to stay where he can easily be reached.

You’re trying not to be smug about it, but every time you glance over your shoulder and catch him watching you━ catch him quickly looking away when your eyes meet and he realizes he’s been caught━ you feel pleased.

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Lando, it’s that he’s always got a limit.

If you wait long enough, stand your ground and prove that you really have no intentions whatsoever of giving in and breaking the ice between the two of you, eventually he’ll cave. When he realizes he won’t get what he wants, that he’ll have to actually put in the effort to repair what he’s broken rather than having it magically fix itself, he’ll have no other choice but to do so.

“They might not cancel the session,” Oscar chimes in, attempting to placate his aggravated teammate. “Since they already had to yesterday, I doubt they’ll do it again today.”

Unfortunately, that doesn’t actually calm Lando down at all. If anything, it just reminds him again of the fact that this is the second time this same complication has happened which has him huffing angrily again and running his hands through his tangled curls even rougher.

You wince at that.

Andrea, McLaren’s team principal, steps forward. “Take a breath,” he orders, resting a heavy hand on Lando’s shoulder. “Go walk a lap around the garage or something, whatever, but I need you to calm down.”

You’re prepared for that to be the end of it, but then Andrea looks over and catches your eye. “Y/N,” he says, nodding his head towards Lando. “You go with him. Keep him out of trouble.”

Well.

You like to think you do a much better job at keeping your emotions off of your face than Lando, which isn’t hard when his features scrunch up into a pained scowl at Andrea’s words, but you can feel the pinch of your own eyebrows furrowing and the smile you send towards the team principal probably looks more like a grimace if Oscar pursed lips in your peripherals is anything to go by.

Lando storms out and you follow reluctantly after him.

He can’t really go very far, not if he wants to be within a reasonable distance when━ if━ they call him back to continue the morning testing session. So he paces back and forth and back and forth just outside the garage’s exit out into the paddock.

Your phone tells you that ten minutes pass like this. It’s the longest you’ve been alone with him in a while and his distraction lets you focus on the finer details that you’ve missed when he’s going out of his way to avoid you.

There are deep, dark, bruise-like circles that hang heavily beneath his eyes. His skin is sun-kissed and tanned from his time out catching rays during his travels, but there’s a pale pallor beneath the added color that makes him look sick. Despite his current anger and the tension coiled in his muscles just waiting to lash out and strike, his shoulders seem to droop beneath the invisible weight of whatever he’s carrying with him.

He looks small.

Lando’s always been on the shorter side, but he’s never before looked small. Not like this. Never like this.

The longer you watch, the more the back and forth pacing starts to transform into the anxious stride of a cornered animal.

You aren’t arrogant enough to assume he’s like this because of you entirely, but it does occur to you that maybe he’s having just as rough of a time as you are with the newfound distance between yourselves.

You watch him silently, for a little while longer, observing the way his stride hitches every few steps and he just barely manages to stop himself from stumbling over his own feet. He’s still running his hands through his hair. By the seventh time he practically claws his fingers through his curls you heave a sigh.

“Quit that,” you snap.

“Quit what?” He fires back with just as much bite.

You roll your eyes. “You’re gonna rip your hair out if you keep pulling on it like that.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he stops in his tracks and turns on his heel to face you with a sneer. His words drip with sarcasm. “I forgot you must be used to Grealish now, right? And I bet he’s got at least a ten-step hair care routine. I wonder, does he use unicorn sweat and essence of rainbow to keep it that smooth and bright? There’s no other possible way!”

“You’re being an asshole, Lando.”

“My sincerest apologies,” he says. “How could I ever think Grealish would use unicorn sweat of all things? He uses pixies tears, my mistake.”

You’re not sure how a few words managed to turn into this━ you’d just wanted him to stop pulling at his hair. It looked painful and he’s always been a bit tender headed. Now, instead, you can feel the anger bubbling up inside you and it seems like Lando’s frustrations about the testing delay, and your friendship with Jack apparently, have made things worse.

Like throwing gasoline onto a flame.

You scowl, “Seriously. You’re being a fucking prick.”

He throws his arms up into the air, “Why not just run off to Grealish then? Since he seems to be your new best friend and you tell him everything.”

If your life were a movie, this is the moment in time when the stars would align and fate would force everything to position itself perfect in place. Like the pieces of a puzzle, it would all work out and you’d calmly explain to Lando what happened back in January with Garrett and Manchester City, and he’d understand immediately and apologize, and you’d hug it out and then both return to the garage just in time for them to announce the testing session would re-commence.

But your life isn’t a movie, and reality feels significantly different to the scripted perfection of fiction.

The precarious security of the perch you’ve settled yourself upon comes crashing down, and the tentative balance you’ve managed to maintain since the start of February when you were back in papaya again shatters with it. Something inside you snaps. The dam has burst and everything held back comes rushing to the front like a torrential wave.

“At least he was there for me when some prick blackmailed me into a relationship at the threat of my livelihood,” you snarl.

Lando pauses for a moment. He makes a couple different faces before settling on a mix between pissed off and confused, and his arms cross over his chest. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I didn’t want to be in a relationship with Garrett Ward, Lando!” You exclaim. “He threatened that if I didn’t pretend to be his girlfriend, he’d fake some misconduct rumor and ruin my career and I was too afraid to say no because this is all I have!”

This isn’t how you’d wanted it all to go down. You’d always imagined you’d get the satisfaction of an apology, and that Lando would get drunk on cheap wine with you like old times, and you’d explain what all happened with the confidence of being a little tipsy and you wouldn’t feel ashamed because Lando’s your best friend and he’d reassure you that you did what you had to, and then you’d listen to him shit talk Garrett for the rest of the night. In the morning, he’d have some idea of how to fix it all without ruining your career, and then you’d be able to put it all behind you and go back to how things were before the winter off-season ever started.

This is far from that, but there’s a sense of relief that comes nonetheless from getting it all off your chest to Lando━ to the person you’ve wanted to talk to from the very beginning

You feel tears burning your eyes, blurring your vision. “I can barely pay my rent as is, and I’m only actually living there for a few dumb months out of the year anyway. Do you know how much worse it would be if I got kicked from McLaren too? Nobody else in the country would hire me if he followed through with what he was threatening.”

“Well,” Lando shrugs his shoulders, looking properly chastised. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I fucking tried, you muppet!” You throw your arms up in exasperation and then wipe at your eyes in frustration when the tears start to roll down your cheeks. “I called you every day for a week and you ignored me! I sent you text after text after fucking text━” your voice breaks, “━and you didn’t even read them! Did you know I locked myself in the bathroom and cried every single day I had to work there?”

You glare at him.

“The only thing that made it better was Jack fucking Grealish coming into my office and telling me I could at least go to him if I ever needed anything,” you snap. “So fuck off with this whole holier than thou bullshit. You left me, and Jack took your place because I was drowning!”

“Y/N…”

Crying hadn’t been a part of your plan, but the tears won’t stop now that they’re going. It’s embarrassing. You’re already worried about just how many people heard you shouting, and now you’re even more worried about someone coming back to look for you both and finding you sobbing your eyes out.

“I’m sorry━”

Lando’s arms wrap around you, warm and strong and sure.

━━ tags: @maih23 @urfavnoirette @leclercsluv @f1luvur @formulaal @a-disturbing-self-reflection @starlightpierre @chezmardybum @marshmummy @405rry @sideboobrry11 @d3kstar @mcmuppet @happylittlereader @casperlikej @5starl1ght @bellezaycafe @whentheautumnleavesfall @mess-is-my-aesthetic @ssprayberrythings @landosgirlxoxo @lifelessfan @81ja @wcnorris @a-disturbing-self-reflection (CLOSED).

━━ a/n: and there we have it folks. lando is finally back in the picture! this part was a lot of fun to write, because i've been waiting for this moment since the initial fallout in the beginning. on that note, i finished getting it all whipped up this morning while watching the qualis, so if there are any mistakes that i haven't caught that's why. i was a bit distracted, so please pretend they aren't there haha!

[lu-is-not-ok]

Hello! Just wanted to say that I've been reading your posts and analyses for awhile now, and I really enjoy them! So, I also thought of sharing a sort of theory of mine, bc I'm very interested in hearing what you might think about it.

For starters, these lines from Jia Xichun are very intriguing:

«No amount of pain could wake it from... whatever this dazed state it's in. As you can see...»

«... it must've been long driven mad from pain. Reminds you of the tricks from back home that could induce such an effect, doesn't it? Big brother.»

For two reasons. 1. This is the first time (iirc) in the story where Hong Lu doesn't reply and stays silent and seemingly uneasy; 2. The fact that this "dazed state" as it is described actually kind of reminds of Hong Lu's usual behavior a bit?

To elaborate, after her lines the attention was drawn back to the Priest, and his face was described as "serene". And who's facial expression was also described in a similar manner, precisely, with a literal synonym? Of course, Hong Lu, during the TKT Intervallo:

«The culprit wasn't the only one who suddenly began to behave strangely. Hong Lu did, too.»

«His face relaxed into a tranquil look, as though he was ready to let something go.

... Or perhaps... that was an express of liberation.»

And also to mention how the Priest started reminiscing similarly to how Hong Lu tells stories about his family (but idk, I'm afraid I am starting to reach even harder for this😭)

All in all, my theory, if you can call it that, is that perhaps those "tricks from back home" where actually performed on Hong Lu. This could potentially explain his constant aloofness, his reaction to Xichun's words (she brought up some of his traumatic memories?), and why exactly he has one of the most deranged IDs — because he has already been long driven mad from pain.

I really hope I worded this well enough, and I don't know if I sound like a lunatic or if I actually cooked something when I was thinking abt this at 2 am. And well, I'm also probably not the first one to think of this. But anyways, still thought this is worth bringing up!

Well, I hope you enjoy the Xichun Sin Analysis I just posted earlier then! That being said, there is something interesting I want to bring up with regards to this theory you pose, as it's tangentially related to the bits you reference and also it's been sitting in my head for a while now.

First point - I definitely agree that when Xichun brings up the "tricks" that can leave people in a similar state to the Priest, it's something Hong Lu has experienced himself.

We see Hong Lu has a tendency to avoid topics that bother him at all cost, like how he actively tries to redirect conversations in Hell's Chicken when he's being questioned regarding what he thinks could lead him into Distorting and when he senses Meursault is about to verbally lay into him. It's a tactic he employs very often as a distraction from the weirder things he says.

Interestingly enough, I believe Canto 7 is the first time we see Hong Lu avoid topics not through redirection, but through shutting down. That interaction you brought up isn't the first time in the Canto that he's rendered speechless either. In part 1, he's shown to respond with silence when both Rodya and Sinclair comment on their dislike of Xichun, being seemingly uncomfortable with the way they're talking about her.

And then there's a scene even earlier on in Part 1 that left a really, really major impression on me. Which. I can talk about now!

This, I believe, is the first time in Canto 7 where we see Hong Lu properly shut down in response to something. Something about what Xichun has said made him completely stop what he was doing earlier. His entire approach to the conversation changes in this moment. Earlier on he was excitedly asking questions, trying to give advice and gather information, but after this moment, Hong Lu is rendered completely passive, his lines being reduced to only responding to Xichun is saying in a very... honestly weird way.

It's not obvious in the transcript by itself, but his tone is... odd, compared to the way he was speaking earlier. In addition to that, every expression Hong Lu has during this conversation after this point are ones that actively have him not looking at Xichun, either using his closed eyes sprite or looking to the side sprite.

This moment struck me very, very heavily the first time I got to it in my plathrough. Part of it is because of the weird unnatural shift Hong Lu's behavior takes in this moment that I wasn't even consciously noticing until a reread. The other part is that the exact words Xichun says to Hong Lu that triggers this are ones that reminded me of something very specific in Dream of the Red Chamber.

There is a chapter fairly early on in Hong Lu's source novel that I can only describe as Bao-yu being verbally and emotionally abused by his father for the entire chapter. His father takes Bao-yu along as he shows off his garden to his acquaintances, and every time Bao-yu speaks up, whether by being prompted to or on his own, his father chastises him excessively. I don't remember the exact words, but the framing is pretty clear about the fact that Bao-yu's father sees his son's behavior as being a source of embarassment to himself in front of his acquaintances.

The kind of abuse shown in that chapter is downright stomach-churning in how realistically it is potrayed. It's genuinely upsetting and one of the main reasons I was unable to continue reading much further past that point.

I don't think it's a coincidence that Project Moon decided the thing that made Hong Lu have a shift in his behavior was being told him being himself is a cause of embarassment for someone else in his family. ...And I think Xichun's immediate reaction shows she realizes what is happening as well. It's very telling she doesn't bring up Hong Lu 'not getting better since the last time they've met' until this moment.

Because I don't think the thing he hasn't gotten better from is his upbeat, naive attitude. I believe it's his trauma response he's exhibiting right here. To become passive, downright submissive, and simply take everything that's being dealt to him without objections.

...Which segues nicely into the second point! Because the 'serene daze' shown on the Priest? The tranquility and peace Hong Lu exhibits in TKT, which is outright called out as strange by Dante? I believe it's the exact same as the trauma response I highlighted earlier. It's the immediate instinct to just lay down and take the pain because trying to fight back would only prolong the suffering.

The line about that expression being potentially "an express of liberation" is very telling. On the one hand, this Canto only further cements the fact that Hong Lu is just as passively suicidal as Yi Sang was before going through Canto 4. On the other, it directly ties back to Hong Lu potentially believing that the less resistance he shows, the sooner he'll be freed from suffering.

I already briefly went insane over the following line in a seperate post, but it feels extremely important to bring it up in here as well.

This line. This. Fucking. Line. Directly creates parallels between Oblivion and Naivete, drawing parallels between Donqui/Sancho and Hong Lu. And it's not that hard to see why.

We see that Donqui/Sancho's choice to embrace Oblivion, to completely try and erase her former identity and fall into a dream is motivated by her wishing to escape her reality, to stop thinking about the bloodshed and violence.

This line, and what we see of how Hong Lu acts throughout this Canto, is making it clear that Hong Lu's naive attitude, his constant willingness to assume the best of everyone around him, is just another part of his trauma response I've pointed out earlier.

It's how he escapes the violence he's been subjected to, the reality he's been living in. After all, the explanation he gives for why he wasn't afraid when the Time Killer tried to kill him... is because he understands why people want to hurt him. He didn't fight back when his siblings tried to kill him, because he knew why they would want to do that.

Because he tries to assume the best of everyone, tries to understand the reasons they do what they do, tries to be naively innocent, he's able to accept the pain and let it happen. Because if he can't, if he's forced to face none of what was done to him was justified... Well...

...This is where I would like to jump off and go on a tangent about my own theory. You see, you bring up the story the Priest starts telling to compare it to how Hong Lu acts with his anecdotes, but I think there's something much deeper going on with that story. Look at how the Priest begins it.

It's very clear the story he's telling is him directly comparing someone among the Sinners to Lorenzo, the Bloodfiend he's talking about. Dante's narration doesn't specify who the Priest means, as they only mentioned that "He looked at us", but it's clear from his words that he means a Single Specific Person here.

On my initial readthrough I assumed this was about Donqui, as this is her Canto after all, but... I no longer believe that's the case. In fact, I believe that the Sinner being used as a parallel to Lorenzo here is Hong Lu.

Let me give my evidence first.

One - We know the Priest, even in his daze, still recognizes Donqui as Sancho. The way he ends off his story says as much.

It's clear from his words and his actions that he's actively blaming Sancho for what happened to Lorenzo, and what he believes has happened to Cassetti as well. This would align with the feelings all of the named Kindreds we mett express towards her. So, to me at least, it's clear that the Priest wouldn't compare Sancho to Lorenzo in a way he has here.

Two - The framing of the scene and what follows later puts a lot of focus on Hong Lu.

Hong Lu is extremely present during this scene. Not only is the Priest compelled to share the story right after we see Hong Lu shut down at what Xichun has said, but the CG that follows his story inexplicably includes Hong Lu in it, listening intently.

And not only that, but soon after the Priest is taken away and Sansón tells another story, we get the moment of Donqui telling Dante she thinks it's Hong Lu's turn in the Golden Bough horrors.

If this were a game made by anyone else, I would take this as a self-aware joke pointing fun at how much focus Hong Lu has gotten in a Canto that's not his and move on. But this isn't anyone else.

This is Project Moon, who have a very Notable Track Record of hiding extremely important reveals and foreshadowing in one-off lines during comedic moments, especially in Limbus. See Canto 2 and Hell's Chicken. I genuinely believe the reason this joke exists here is to draw our attention not only to the parallels between Donqui/Sancho and Hong Lu, but also to the moments where Hong Lu is already the focus.

Three - The phrasing the Priest uses to refer to whoever he's comparing to Lorenzo.

The way he addresses this person and the rest of the group is very interesting, as there's emphasis put on his choice of the word "friends" to describe them. This feels important, as earlier on, in Part 1, Hong Lu himself denies Xichun's assessment that the Sinners are his faction, deliberately calling them his friends. Just like here the Priest calls the people accompanying the one he's directing the story at their friends.

So... what does that all mean for Hong Lu to be directly compared to Lorenzo? Well, let's take a quick look at what Lorenzo's story is.

Lorenzo is initially described as a Bloodfiend filled with positivity, to the point that the Priest thinks he didn't have anything to actually confess for. We see him think the way he's able to eat so many hemobars in one sitting as impressive, seeming completely oblivious to the the fact it's a clear sign the hemobars do nothing for Bloodfiends nutritionally.

This attitude completely changes however after Lorenzo tastes blood for the first time. He completely loses himself to obsession, spending hours licking a syringe just to be able to taste it. He completely loses his hope in the hemobars, having the drastic realization they do nothing, and lamenting how much longer he has to keep on living like this.

The story ends with the Priest remarking that after that shift, the only time he had seen Lorenzo genuinely happy was when he was about to be buried alive, when his head and brain were already completely decimated to the point he should be dead.

This... is already a lot.

Lorenzo's initial attitude, his positivity and naive belief that the hemobars are good despite the evidence to the contrary, are extremely close to how Hong Lu is right now. Upbeat, oblivious, always assuming the best of others. Hong Lu's passively suicidal tendencies could also track to Lorenzo's ending, how it's clear that Hong Lu is extremely willing to accept his own death.

...And then there's the whole middle of that story. There's a lot of different things this could be foreshadowing for Hong Lu's arc, but one thing is clear - he's not going to stay his upbeat self forever.

Every hint we've had about Hong Lu thus far. The implication he knows there's something that could make him distort all the way back in Hell's Chicken. The way we're told this Canto that Hong Lu's eye is dimming right after he comments how Donqui's twinkling eyes show she's "lucid", or living completely detached from reality. And then this, him being directly compared to a story of a Bloodfiend who upon finally being hit with reality begins to spiral and completely lose all his hope.

It all points to the idea that Hong lu will be forced to face his reality. To understand that his hemobars do jack shit and always have, that perhaps his family have never truly cared for him. And that realization could very well be the thing that finally breaks him.

I mean, his IDs already point to it, no? After all, Fanghunt Lu, possibly the most violent and deranged Hong Lu ID released thus far, one released alongside this part mind you, is shown to be actively thinking about and doubting the nature of family. "What even is a real family, I wonder?"

I'm just saying, if there's any Sinner who deserves to go utterly apeshit in their Canto, it would be Hong Lu. Let. My guy. Break Everything.

[4lydsmarie]

sweater weather .. dallas winston x reader

fem!reader x toxic!dallas winston "it's too cold for you here.."

warning(s): toxic relationship! dallas keeps trying to push reader away but she won't budge, and he's js like "?? why r u still here" because he's TERRIFIED of love or commitment. things change toward the end though(?).

a/n: i have woken again to post for you guys 🥰 this is true dedication bc i started this at 1:03am and it's now 2:50 at the time of officially uploading this (with this a/n cause it's an edit). first i was gonna talk ab how dilf matt dillon is, then i was gonna make matt hcs, THEN i was gonna do dally hcs, and FINALLY i decided on writing this because toxic dallas is stuck in my headdd😣. i am a FIRM believer that dallas winston is EITHER loverboy softboy around reader OR cold toxic bf that is afraid of commitment and love because of his past in new york. NO OTHER WAY TO PUT IT!

dating dallas, you knew whaat would come with it. no, not just the constant "gettin' it in with the fuzz" or his repetitive fights at buck's on a thursday night, but the laid back "ya know i don't love anythin'" motto he always has going on. you and dallas had probably broken up 5 or 6 times in the past month. either he'd be out with another broad, or he'd be dismissing your feelings again and telling you "i mean i like ya, doll. that's close enough to what you're talkin' about, right? i mean what's love anyways? don't say things you don't understand.."

you'd recently just gotten back together with dallas. you'd broken up with him because you found out he was hitting on another girl, this time a soc named cherry valance.

well, in due time another argument would come up. so here you are, arguing with dallas again because you told him you loved him again and finally snapped at his unbothered, half-assed response.

"dallas i don't understand!" you yelled. "all i try to do is get you to love me because that's what a relationship is all about! i do everything for you and give you chance aftter chance. but no, you just HAVE to keep it up like you care about nothing i do for you!! what's the point dallas? why knock my heart around just 'cause you can't commit to anything?" by now tears welled up in your eyes, but your anger overshadowed the embarrassment you might have crying in front of dallas.

"i don't have to keep nothin' up doll, that's just me. man i thought this love problem you got goin' on in your head was a one time thing. if i knew you were always gonna be so emotional and stuck on tryin' to get love all the time then maybe i wouldn't have dated you at all!" dallas yelled back. you scoffed as you walked up to him, even angrier than before.

"god i hate you dallas! you're not fucking cool, and one day i hope you wake up and see that! the world isn't all bad you just make it out to be that way so you can have a reason to be miserable. i hate it all, and the thing i hate the most is that you just can't love me after all i do!" you gave dallas a little push at the last part. at this point, you couldn't stop the tears from flowing as you grabbed your stuff and walked home. not to mention, the whole argument was in front of the curtis' house. who needed tv when you had your weekly dallas and yn drama, huh?

seemingly on queue, rain started to pour, drenching you in water. you let out a huff in annoyance as you finally made it to your house, slamming your front door behind you.

meanwhile dallas stood in front of the curtis house still, watching you walk away. he tried to act like he didn't care, but deep down he knew he did. "did she get home safe? is she alright? man, i messed up. god, im a jerk. do i love her?" were the questions racing through his mind. he didn't know wether he should run to your house or keep going about his day like nothing happened.

the sound of the curtis' screen door closing brought back dallas' attention as darry walked up to him, trying to give whatever advice he could. "hey dal, maybe you guys should call it quits or somethin', i mean-"

"hey man how 'bout you shutup, alright? mind your own." dallas clapped back, interrupting darry. darry seemingly understood his defeat as he raised his hands in surrender and backed up into the house. all the guys asked what was going on, and as a response he just sighed and shook his head.

..

about an hour later you heard a knock on your door. assuming it was your best friend marcia, since you'd called her a couple minutes before to sleep over, you opened the door without checking who it was. to your surprise, you were met with dallas.

in his hand he had a rose, definitely stolen, some soda (i say pop where im from but whatever..), and a box of milk duds, also probably stolen.

you scoff out of shock before finally speaking. "dally? what's this?" you asked. dallas just rolled his eyes and responded "just let me in the house, man i wouldn't even be caught dead doin' this for anyone.." you couldn't help but grin as you let him in, closing the door behind him. yeah you guys had previously argued but, it felt good to be in dally's presence again..

you both took a seat on your bed, sitting in silence for a bit. finally, you decided you'd had enough of the tension. "so, you gonna explain where all this came from" you asked, pointing towards the items he'd brought you. "just thought i'd do somethin' nice man, that's it." he leaned back onto your bed a bit. "oh, sure okay." you responded dryly.

dallas sat back up and scooted towards you. "yn.." he said, making you look up and respond with a simple 'hm?'. "listen, i care about you alright? but you gotta stop with the saying you love me. i'm not a good guy and i don't do right all the time. you gotta love someone who ain't like me, alright?" you frowned at his words. "dallas, the way you see yourself is totally different than how i do. i know you've been through a lot that you'll probably never tell me about, but that doesn't mean anything in my eyes. i do love you and i won't stop saying it cause i know one day you'll say it back. sometimes you're a little cold, sometimes it's too cold for me here...but i'll keep tryin' anyways dally." you turned away from dallas as you spoke, tears filling up your eyes yet again.

dallas sighed and stayed quiet for a bit, seemingly thinking about what to say. finally, he replied "yeah, alright. hey ask me again in the future. maybe my world'll be different and i'll think about it, huh?" you told yourself "at least it was a start" as you nodded in response to dallas' words.

finally, you'd decided to move onto dallas' lap. he grinned as he leaned in to kiss you. and you guys kissed for a while too. dallas didn't need to say it, but you knew he loved you deep down.

and he knew it too.

yet still, you both awaited the next argument to come. after all, he's still (somewhat) the same old dally. only difference is you both knew he cared about you a bit (and sorta loved you too).

[thelastofhyde]

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

pairing. narcos!javier peña x fem!reader

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

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

word count. 14.3k

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

if you see any typos, no you didn't 🫣

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

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

The year moves too fast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He’s a show-off, that boy.”

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

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

“Hmm?”

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

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

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

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

He’s fast, agile, stealthy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ve made worse attempts in the past.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It happens when you’re finally being served.

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

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

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

Friendly.

Too friendly.

Till it crosses the border into flirty.

You’re not interested.

At all.

But it’s flattering, to feel wanted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gasps fill the air.

Half the crowd boos.

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

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

Turning on your heal, the scene unfolds.

The ball, abandoned on the ground.

The players, scrambling to grab it before one another.

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

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

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

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

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

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

If you don’t love me, What was April?

You’ve always been organised.

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

You compartmentalise.

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

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

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

Caution tape holds the lid shut.

Fragile stickers cover every corner.

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

A late night.

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

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

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

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

Go still.

Worry you’ve woken him.

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

He’s tired. Exhausted.

Work was getting to him as of late.

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

You know him. You can read him.

Can tell in the way he moved slower against you.

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

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

Unlike other nights, you’re trapped awake.

Something feels off, makes you queasy.

There’s something nagging at your mind.

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

You just know its absence is wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not fair, you think.

Sleep is usually where you see him at his calmest.

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

His grip loosens, though slightly.

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

So you do your best to slip out his hold.

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

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

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

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

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

Then, you open the tap.

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

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

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

Your hair frames your face, though messy.

Your eyes are bloodshot, yet carry less bags.

Your cheeks are rounder, fuller.

You look different.

You feel it too.

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

Has he noticed a change?

Is he the reason for it?

Does he feel different, too?

Your stomach flips.

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

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

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

You don’t remember.

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

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

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

The stir in your stomach becomes more intense.

Eyes refocusing, you find yourself in the mirror again.

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach.

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

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

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

It feels like you’re suffocating.

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

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

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

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

There’s a soothing motion over your skin.

Up, down, up, down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He calls your own name back to you.

“I’m late.”

You await the sharp inhale.

And the unwinding of arms.

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

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

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

Then he’ll turn the blame to you.

That’s what men do, right?

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

None of it arrives.

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

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

He dries you off, delicate drags over your skin.

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

Only, this time you’re wide awake.

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

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

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

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

After all, the blame is yours, surely.

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

“But I-”

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

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

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

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

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

Lips press against your own, soft and subtle.

A quiet greeting, a wordless goodmorning.

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

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

You don’t want him to leave this bed.

Or this apartment.

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

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

Eventually, he peels himself away from you.

You watch him dress.

Tell him which tie to wear.

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

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

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

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

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

He presses a kiss between them, hums in enjoyment.

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

“Good,” you reply.

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

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

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

Leans down, brushes his lips against it.

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

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

He keeps his word.

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

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

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

The thought has you pressing a hand against your womb.

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

With a grimace, you admit you haven’t.

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

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

“I’ll probably just have toast.”

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

The call goes on a little longer.

It’s mostly him talking.

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

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

“I’ll be home soon, okay?”

That sounds nice coming from Javi.

Home.

Not his home, just home.

A place he feels his soul at rest.

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

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

He keeps his word, again.

Comes home barely three hours later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod, then audibly reply.

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

The drive is quiet.

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

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

You welcome it, covering it with your own.

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

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

He’s right.

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

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

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

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

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

You smile, and thread your fingers between his own.

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

The clinic is bright.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A confused sound leaves Javier.

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

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

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

“You hoping for a boy or a girl?”

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

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

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

But you don’t want to ruin the moment.

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

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

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

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

Javi’s still not correcting him.

It makes you nauseous for a whole new reason.

“Mr. Miller?” A voice calls out.

A nurse, you imagine.

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

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

He takes a few steps, till Javi interrupts him.

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

“A girl.”

Eventually, it’s your turn.

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

Shuffled into some room, reluctantly separating from Javi.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re not pregnant.

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

This time, the drive is silent.

Not quiet.

Silent.

You watch him drive past the turning into your street.

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

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

Over your empty womb.

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

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

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

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

You played a game But I run the table

You’re avoiding your dad’s calls.

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

See, you know why he’s calling.

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

He’s hosting another poker night.

He wants you there, as always.

Some baseless theory of you being his good luck charm.

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

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

“Fill in for me, will ya, kiddo?”

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

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

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

He turns out to be no threat.

None of the officer’s are, really.

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

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

But, taking from Javi?

That’s something else, entirely.

Each time you win, he gets more agitated.

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

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

And intoxication.

And something else.

Something you know all too well on Javier.

Lust.

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

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

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

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

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

He’s on the younger side.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe, he’ll offer you a sip.

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

He asks about college.

You ask about working with your dad.

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

He tells you about a new bar, downtown.

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

It’s light, it’s easy, it’s friendly.

You’re enjoying his company.

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

His hands grip his sides.

You’re clutching your chest.

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

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

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

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

You both gather some decorum.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then two steps, which you also match.

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

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

It’s alarmingly gentle for his stoic features.

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

“What’s going on with you, huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s worked up, frustrated, angry.

And it’s hot. A turn-on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wonder what positions he put them in.

How many rounds he lasted with them.

How often he made them cum.

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

That single action changes the game, entirely.

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

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

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

The grip tightens.

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

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

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

Every ounce of feminism evaporates within you.

Who could deny such a tentative offer?

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

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

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

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

Your panties, soaked.

His jeans, tight.

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

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

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

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

“C’mon, don’t be shy.”

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

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

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

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

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

He has his mother’s eyes, you notice.

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

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

A picture of Javi, and you.

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

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

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

There was no point risking your father ever finding it.

But this picture, this one you do not remember.

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

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

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

He does good to bring you back into the room.

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

They sit in the sink, growing wet.

And you are too, frozen on the spot.

You glance down, count over the different bills.

Five dollars.

Twenty dollars.

Hundred dollars.

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

In the mirror, he’s watching.

Not the sink bowl, no.

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

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

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

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

The card is plucked out your hand.

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

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

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

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

Desirable.

And attractive.

And pretty.

And smart.

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

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

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

Javi hisses, muttering something to himself.

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

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

A few seconds pass. 

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

You feel the air tickle your skin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Smack!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hear a cheer.

From the basement.

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

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

If you can hear them, they could hear you.

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

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

It’s not a pleasurable act, in itself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For him, you can do it.

“Fitting big things in your little pussies?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The unbuckling of a belt.

The unzipping of teeth.

The shucking down of-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A hand, reaching up to cup your cheek.

A kiss, gentle and longing against your mouth.

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

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

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

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

“I’m a very patient man, corazón.”

You scoff.

“Just not when it comes to you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You feel lightheaded.

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

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

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

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

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

He consumes you, mind, body and soul.

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

There’s just Javi.

Beautiful, gorgeous, deserving Javi.

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

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

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

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

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

Hands hurry off your waist, slipping between your thighs. 

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

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

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

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

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

He’d catch you, if you fell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You both crash and burn, together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damn Javi and all the memories he haunts you with.

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

Days grow colder.

Nights grow longer.

You change your bedsheets, stuff a comforter back inside.

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

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

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

Lights, baubles, action.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is this some tactic of yours?”

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

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

“Some what?”

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

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

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

Bare legs, messed hair, smudged lipstick.

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

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

“You weren’t complaining earlier.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When he offers the cigarette your way, you hesitate.

Picture your father, disappointed to see you smoke.

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

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

You and Javi were never meant to happen.

Sure, the line had already been crossed weeks ago.

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

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

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

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

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

Until tonight.

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

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

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

He’d offered to take you home.

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

He squeezed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which brings you here, fifteen minutes later.

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

“Huh?”

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

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

“Is that what you want?”

He shrugs.

Pulls in another breath of his cigarette.

Stubs it out on the arm of the chair.

And says nothing.

You assume it’s a yes.

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

Silence falls upon you both.

You twist in his lap.

He tightens his hold.

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

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

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

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

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

Each year, it’s the same.

The station, decked out in decorations.

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

It’s not just Christmas.

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

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

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

Their spouse, their mothers.

Anyone, and everyone, is welcome.

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

It’s the part you look forward to most.

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

Fishing out a pen, some paper.

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

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

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

This year, there was none of that.

No list of pros and cons for each gift option.

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

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

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

Hinted at it, slightly.

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

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

Hold it up to his ear, shake it.

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

The whole room stops.

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

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

Fades to grey.

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

He knows.

Of course he knows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next time you see Javi is hours later.

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

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

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

You say you’re tired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Javi plays it cool.

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

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

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

Well, better than anyone but you.

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

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

Your dad stares at you.

Your mum stares at you.

Javi stares at you.

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh! Yeah, I- Sorry, I meant that I-”

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

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

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

At least that’s the reason you give yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your hands, brushing.

Your eyes, meeting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it isn’t, and you’re not.

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

His lips brush your cheek like an autumn breeze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You and Javi don’t spend time alone anymore.

You and Javi do not exist together anymore.

Maybe you never did.

“It’s okay, I already called a cab.”

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

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

For a second, he just looks at you.

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

“Get home safe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

First, just a little extra weight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One more glance in the box.

There’s a note, tucked at the bottom.

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

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

[kyri45]

Hoi there!

You are so talented and creative. I love your art so much, the style is adorable ^^

I do have a few questions, as one creator to another. I don't post at the moment, but I do love making art, especially for my fanfic/original projects.

Can you tell me how you do it? Like how can you stay motivated and be able to post almost every day?

Any tips maybe on how to deal with artblocks and burnouts?

How do you pratice certain art styles and be able to do them accurately?

1. It’s because I really really REALLY like what I’m drawing right now. (gay monkies). Plus I have- an endgame lets say. I have a clear ending for my comics and reaching that point is what keeps me going, but I also ONLY draw what I want to draw, not EVERYTHING that needs to be shown for the endgame. This actually helped me go throught my ISAT AU comic.

It’s like- narrating a roadtrip. The ending is your destination, you can’t wait to arrive there, but first you know there’s a long road ahead. But you don’t actually need to describe/draw every single town / city / landscape to go there. Not every single kilometer of a roadtrip is a mouth-dropping view.

That’s why you can just-skip it. Stay 4 chapter at one diner if you like the set, focus a chapter on the protagonists looking at the stars, start a scene somewhere completely different, completely skip 30% of the road. As long as you can imply with details what was in between, you don’t need to show/write it in details if you feel it would be hard to make interesting, or just not your thing.

Also if you start to grow an audience and people ask you to draw/write certain things that you don’t feel like to, or just feel like they are extras, don’t do it.

Not because you can’t, but the MOMENT something that you create starts to feel like you are doing it for the audience, then you are not actually doing something yours, and from then on it’s gonna be harder and harder to do things. Like, I have hundreds of fanarts that I did on my IG that were mostly directed to my audience, and not something that I just did because of fun.

All of this is also- answering to your second question - for not burning out. All of this is for keeping your passion up. I’m not talking about mental or physical energy. You could be dead tired (like I am many times) but still be fueled do draw for hours. Because you’re drawing only exactly what you want.

It took me 4 years to understand. I used to do this in high school. Draw something just for the hell of it. It was harder back then, because drawing was hard. I arrived to a point where drawing is much easier (also cause I draw almost everyday for 6/8 hours.) and after I was healed from my broken arm this july, it became my drug. I understood I can’t live without drawing what’s in my head, and that (unless it’s specifically for work) I don’t wanna draw something that’s not only what I want.

I want you to arrive to the point that your drawings / fanfictions are so much exactly what you envisioned /wanted that you fangirl about them. That you read/watch them and squeak in delight. Because even if no one likes them, you must be crazy about them.

(I’ll make a post about this in the future, because it literally changed how I draw after years and it brought back my passion for art after 10 years, but rn it’s a little late and I wanna draw my LMK au so I’ll stop now)

3. I keep some reference to look at every now and then. I also draw a L O T. ( a ton shit of things that I draw are not posted anywhere bc of work)

[itsrlymine]

Heyyyy I've been following you for a while and I love your page and that fact that you're Nigerian too is saur cool!!

Anyways, I just wanted to share a few recent success stories with you because you really helped me understand how easy it is to manifest anything and how powerful and limitless I am 🫶🏼🫶🏼

#1. My parents forgetting that I dropped a class in uni (that I didn't even need but they still wanted me to do all that work 😒) they told me not to drop it but I dropped it anyway lolll. Me and my dad even had a whole hour long argument about it, but I just said that they don't even remember that it happened and we never even had that conversation. It was never brought up again 😌

#2. My mom not bothering me because I wanted to sleep 😭 I said she literally wouldn't talk to me until after a certain time and she literally did exactly that lmaoooo

#3. Manifesting seeing a certain snack in an international food store that they usually never have by the time I got to the store I didn't even want it anymore lmaoooo but it was there tho!

#4. Manifesting Toyota Rav 4s everywhere lmaoooo this wasn't even on purpose but everytime I would see one I would be like "whoa I see these literally everywhere" and now they're everywhere in my area when I never used to see them ever (this also might be because it's the car I want (have 🤭) so I'd be like "omg now that I have my car everyone wants to be a copycat omggg 🙄" and i think that alo had something to do with it)

#5. Being cool in a hot ass room cause I was too lazy to get up and turn off the heater. Like randomly from somewhere I just started feeling cold air and it was in like under a minute like I'm so powerful omg

I know these aren't a lot but these are the main ones that I really remember. I've been manifesting so much but those other ones are more like spur of the moment and not memorable.

But yeah so now I'm manifesting a whole list of things (cause I'm literally god and what I say goes). One of them being going back to 2023 cause I want to redo my freshman year of uni cause I'm also manifesting other things that would actually help me enjoy college fr (an apartment, car, friend grp, full ride, hella money, etc. Cause the whole thing is like 122 bullets 😋) and I'm manifesting it all at one time which lowkey sounds like what shifting is so that's what I've been calling it but yeah. And now that I know that I want it, I have it already!

I'm sorry if this is really long but I have a tendency to yap about stuff but yeah I'm just really excited to share this with you cause you helped me a lot and now I just effortlessly manifest when I've been so unsure of my ability to shift/manifest for like 4yrs now lmaooo I've been suffering 😭 but now I'm locked in and I'm getting whatever the fuck I want 🤭

Also I read your previous post about getting your visa approved for your trip. I hope you have fun!! 🩷🩷🩷

Omg hello my fellow Naija babe!!! I'm so happy you like my page, thank you so much for being here!

First of all, you absolutely ate down with these manifestations you now that right??! I'm excited asf bc these are so great and i can't wait to hear the ones you come back and share babe omggg! You can definitely just make a list and decide it's all done bc it's all done now anyways soooo!

You are getting whatever the fuck you want bc that's what's supposed to happen!!!! Awe babe I'm glad my page has helped in some way but you are the real superstar!!!

Thank you I am so excited for my trip!!! Thank you so much for sharing my love!

[bbrissonn]

𝐬𝐨 𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐧 - 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐

✩°｡⋆˚⁺ the door's open

✩°｡⋆˚⁺ social media + real life

✩°｡⋆˚⁺ gabe perreault x camila yanez

✩°｡⋆˚⁺ au masterlist

✩°｡⋆˚⁺ this is kinda short and bad, just wanted to slowly groove back into things :)

‎‧₊˚✧[ SEPTEMBER 21, 2023 ]✧˚₊‧

➻❥ camila_yanez has posted on instagram !

camila_yanez

liked by val_guerrero, gabeperreault44 and others

camila_yanez cruisin' by 😎

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rebeca.peralta miss you stargirl ⭐️

camila_yanez @/rebeca.peralta i miss you moreeee

nolesoccer 😎😎

danielerida THATS MY GIRL

val_guerrero @/danieleride our girl, BUT YES danielerida @/val_guerrero 🙄

ryan.leno4 @/gabeperreault44 i see u buddy

user773 she could run me over and i'd thank her

teammatesuser oh hey, i know you !

camila_yanez @/teammatesuser oh hey, i know you too !

jacob_fowler24 @/gabeperreault44

user947 omg the bc guys are back 😭

_willsmith2 @/gabeperreault44

cuttergauthier_ @/gabeperreault44

teammatesuser our queen 👑

camila_yanez @/teammatesuser muah 💋

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―┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆―

➻❥ gabeperreault44 has posted on instagram !

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gabeperreault44 Take 1 📚

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_willsmith2 🔥🔥

jacob_folwer24 très bien

ryan.leno4 dudeeee

user639 future of the rangers right here !!

cuttergauthier_ oh yeahhh gabo

user294 GP34 🔥

danielerida @/camila_yanez he's kinda cute... 🤭

rebeca.peralta @/danielerida kinda??? girlllll 🤭 val_guerrero @/danielerida @/rebeca.peralta you guys realize others can see this right?? 😭 ryan.leno4 @/gabeperreault DUDEEEEE

user349 am i missing something 😭 ^

user043 @/user349 check out @/camila_yanez comments, girl its crazy in there

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―┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆―

➻❥ chestnut hill, mass

"what are you guys laughing about?" one of the upperclassman asked as a small group of freshman walked into the locker room. they were all either chuckling or laughing, while gabe's face was beat red as he stared at the ground.

"nothin'." the boy in question answered quickly as he made his way over to his stall.

"gabo's fat crush on some girl he doesn't even know." ryan exclaimed, his laugh roaring through the room. gabe's small little crush had quickly spread around the locker room, thanks to ryan big mouth. he had now became a target of endless teasing and small remarks about a girl who didn't even know he existed.

"you're still on that, dude?" someone laughed, but gabe's eyes stayed glued to the ground, trying his best to ignore all the comments being made.

"we've got progess. her friends are all up in his comments." will said, making some of the guys look over the perreault boy. will was probably one of the only one who didn't tease him endlessly about it, mainly because he was with gabe when they watched that first game, and he too was quick curious about the girl.

"should we start planning the wedding?"

"i call being bear boy!"

"you guys are so dramatic. i just think she's cute, that's all." gabe was quick to interrupt his friends, making all of them look over at him and stop laughing.

"that's not what drunk gabe said last week."

"yeah? well he's an idiot, who's drunk, so forget it." gabe's words came out harsher than he had intended to, leaving the room quiet afterwards. some of the guys slowly started falling into small convos between themselves, none of them brining up the girl.

and she wasn't brought up until will and gabe made it to their dorm after practice, ryan and jacob following closely behind them.

"does it actually annoy you? the teasing?"

"no. but you guys are making it a bigger deal than it actually is." the boy shurgged as ryan and jacob waved them goodbye and continued to their dorm, the two boys now entering their room. "and it's annoying because you also think she's cute, but no one gives you shit about it!"

"yeah, because i didn't spend a whole rambling about her, gabe." the blond boy explained as he moved around their room, cleaning up the mess a bit.

"that was like forever ago."

"actually it's been three times now. literally the first party we went to, then again a week later, and last week, dude. and the only reason their acting this way is because you're not doing anything about it."

"yeah, 'cause i don't know the girl, will."

"then get to know her? look, clearly this isn't just some silly crush you have just because she's cute, gabo. plus, if her friends know who you are, she has to know too by now. and clearly she has to be somewhat interested because for some reason she hasn't blocked any of us. the door's open, you just have to go through it, dude." will said, stopping in his tracks and looking over the boy, who was now sitting on the edge of his bed.

"when'd you get to good at giving advice?"

"think it's the college affect. don't worry i'm sure it'll hit you at some point." the blond boy joked, making the two chuckle slightly.

for the rest of the evening, the two didn't talk about it, although will's words were on repeat in gabe's head. 'the door's open, you just have to go through it', if only it were that is for him to do.

[bluestarjay]

Oooh I am so tired of the twinkification of haikyuu characterssss Istg if I see one more fanart of Ushijima where he looks like the love interest of a shoujou anime, and is lean/skinny I'm gonna actually scream wth guys he's beefy he's MUSCULAR he is a professional athlete and is like 6"4 I keep seeing fanarts where he has more of Tendou's physique and it bothers me sm like I always see fanart of him and I don't recognize its him cause he's so skinny and I'm like "Who is that? He's wearing the Shiratori- Oh my God, that's not Ushijima, is it????" And then I check the tags, and it is, and I'm like ???? Like, I'm all for drawing characters according to your headcanons, but Ushijima??? Lean??? And I'll go on Pinterest to get ship stuff bc it's less organized and lowkey easier to find stuff since it's just pictures, yk? But I'll look at it, and it's all that weird ass 2000s-2010s artstyle. Take Tsukihina, for example, and Hinata looks like a child. Like Tsukishima is HUGE, and Hinata is TINY!! Their height difference is not that big. And I feel like a lot of it is from comics or doujinshi, and the style just looks like it's from something R rated ykwim???? Like all of it is just helpless baby Hinata 🥺🥺 and his huge tall 'alpha' bf Tsukishima who hates everybody but him. Like they just take random characters and twinkify them; they make them overtly feminine for no reason and it makes me sooo madddd I am sick of fuckin Thumbelina Hinata and Levi Ackerman Ushijima make it stop!!!! OR THE OPPOSITE WHERE THEY MAKE RANDOM CHARACTERS SUPER DOMINANT AND SEXY AND WEIRD BC 1 THEY ALWAYS USE THE HIGH SCHOOL VERSIONS OF THEM AND 2 THEY ARE FUCKING LOSERS AND NERDS THEYRE NOT CALLING A GODDAMN SOUL "BABYGIRL 🫦😩" THEY ARE CALLING EACH OTHER MORONS AND INSULTINF THEIR HAIRCUTS **edit, I just wanted to add that all the fanarts I see of the popular characters, e.g ushijima, atsumu/osamu, oikawa, etc, all have the same exact face toooo, And I actually HATE the kind of art where people make them *so* buff they look like a Jojo or DBZ character,, someone who reblogged brought that up a bit and REALLL I hate it. And this is kinda irrelevant, but I think people also forget that people's body types change over time. Changing a characters body type (at least according to the character/source) should be fine, as that's what happens as you age. A character from an apocalypse show probably isn't gonna be super buff, but rather lean bc yes they are technically working out in the fact that they are traveling a lot and idk like killing zombies or whatever the basis for the show is, but there's also gonna be a loss of food yk, so they'd still be rather skinny. And that'd be the case for any body type. A high schooler isn't gonna have the same body as an adult, and people don't usually account for that, which is fine, I'm not saying anybody has to because it's such a small thing usually, but it's just a small pet peeve of mine. (I want a muscular post time skip Osamu with some chubbiness so bad he loves to eat, but he does still like working out. I just know that man has some chub on his stomach and I want it 😩😩)

[pleasantspark]

To make it abundantly clear. I do see @chaifootsteps as a friend. A close associate. But it doesn't mean spreading false allegations. Just like the pitchforked. I don't like Proshippers or Zoophiles but I don't obsess over calling Chai out 447744747 times over blatantly disproven claims. And thanks to @doodler16 Chai had delivered on concerns that brought up.

I'm a victim of CSA, Grooming and a plethora of false allegations. To have people freak out about the drawing of a chibi character (I don't really understand the difference between the two. Because Cub is child like and chibi is just miniature. People mistake the two a lot.)

"These came from credible SOURCES!!!!"

The screenshots you are referencing and the anti-chai crowd are getting it from DaniDraws and other problematic Twitter users. The same people who exclusively defended against the things YOU claim CHAI did.

They accused Chai of shit that seems to be out of nowhere. Going off assumptions rather then actual logic. Because the crash outs I see is really fucking telling. You can claim someone is a Murderer for wanting to kill a fictional character and the person accusing them of it would be attacked but THE AUDICITY WHEN I A GROWN WOMAN LIKES CELL, A BUG!!!1! INCECTAPHILLA! YOU'RE A ZOOPHILE!

If you're this butthurt about people TRYING to change maybe I don't know? Ignore them. This drama all started because people genuinely can't take a hint and solve this shit in private. And no it's not because "Ohhh I couldn't contact them bc their DMs are private" its really dumb af because this person could've asked someone else to help them contact them, which shows you DIDN'T want to handle it.

I'm sorry if I am laying Heavy on this person but I am sick and tired of false allegations that were proven by the accusee of being false or warped or even worse misconstrued being used around. If you have a problem with someone, go to them. Refusing to confront them but rather call them out as the various people (Newsflash some people who are criticizing them in your Anon Box/Reblogs are on the side of the Stans so they will OF COURSE overexaggerate claims.) who I see are COWARDS who can't even leave a message or go to me to sort an arrangement out, FOR THE LOVE OF SATAN HIMSELF, I have a server where you can sort this shit out.

Some of you are what? in your 20s? Adults? Functioning members of society but you cannot handle talking to people or hiring someone to middleman it? I am genuinely embarrassed of you guys, perpetrating false allegations and pushing the guilty by association just for PEOPLE trying to educate you? No, none of you should be critics at all if you're gonna act like stans, if you disagree and still believe Chai is guilty after his clarifications, then fine by me. No one's gonna change your mind. I just find it time consuming and all in all stupid to continue to focus on shit NO ONE really cares about or just finding more reasons to hate.

Sounds like stans amiright? So whenever you cross a post that has some allegations, don't go get the pitchforks, consider it as false before proven. You are not helping the case, and Tumblr is going to become the next coming of Twitter if we all don't treat allegations as skepticism. Goodnight, and this is my final message.

[cemeterygirlie]

top 10 reasons me and @mareggie are the mary anta + reginald tetra ever!!!!????!! (this post is for fun btw you don’t have to see us as this!!!)

a lot of this is me rambling about our relationship too bc it’s related to the post but yk

1 - our dynamic!!!!!!!! i’m very kind yet sort of introverted and anxious at times:P i love spooky and cute stuff as well!!! halloween is the best holiday I WILL STAND BY THAT FOREVER!!! him on the other hand, he’s not rude per se, he’s uhhh… honest? he can be rude DEFINITELY and he gets really heated when it comes to me specifically. but he is polite and gentlemanly! he showed up to a casual date in a tuxedo before..!!! i felt so underdressed..:,)) especially since that was the one date of ours i didn’t wear a dress to!!! he would do anything for me as well… and i would do a lot for him!!! we love eachother very much, no matter what life throws at us!!! no matter how much we’re separated, he always manages to come right back to me. i don’t know how! i never asked him to do this, he just kinda does that..!! :,)) (i love him for it though..)

2 - i have short hair and he has long hair!!!!! and we both have very nice thick hair. he loves to play with my hair a lot!!!:))

3 - people often are sick of how lovey dovey we are… i don’t understand it at all:((

4 - we are very much doomed by the narrative. mostly him most of the time. he never catches a break, my poor guy:(( i will not elaborate on much of this for personal reasons and for his comfort, but things have happened that really messed him up and he had to claw his way out of it. he’s still going, and i sooo admire him for that!!!:D

5 - we are both ASEXUAL!!!!!!!

6 - he is taller than me :,))

7 - im a little devil and he’s my angel:D

8 - we are both FISH!!!!

9 - we love eachother so muuchhhhh mwah mwah IT IS SICKENING!!!! AHHHHHH!!!!!!! I LOVE HIM RAHHGGGGGHHH😢😢😢💗💗💗💗

10 - he somehow always knows where i am smh. this guy brought me boba tea at work once i didn’t even tell him i was there. WHAT!!!

[astro-vision-au]

Was it answered where Cardinal came from? I got the idea where hes kinda like Mr.Park- right? I might have gotten that wrong sorry if so

And - sorry if bothering by asking if the answer is lit right in front of me in a link or something. Me when i read over your lore again but then lose track of where i am bc i get distracted

Nah nah you're good! Ngl, I'm really bad at organizing and blurt out random lore bits, so it's kinda everywhere. I really need to update the Outline in my pinned post ,which is where you can find most of the lore for the story, but I don't think Cardinal is in there yet? I'll probably take it down here soon so i can work on it, lol.

But yes! Like Mr. Park Cardinal was made by Sag5 on accident. Sag5 was having a nightmare about Mr. Puzzles [to be specific, it was a nightmare about the memory of Puzzles pulling then into the Smg4 world during the end of part 1] and they accidentally used their guardian power in their sleep and made PC. [This happens some time in the beginning of pt 2]

PC would be captured and stored in a high security facility after causing the death of several agents [including injuring Swag and Chris] for several years. Eventually, some time in pt 4, Screen would merge the Unify Army [or what is left of it] with the government facility and become leader of Chris and Swags sect, which was holding PC. PC would end up escaping, and while he was escaping, he came across the yellow core, which was brought to the facility by Screen to be held there.

When he touched the Yellow core, he became its new host. However, instead of yellow completely taking him over, they created a synchronized third personality, which would call itself Cardinal.

Both PC and Yellow are still conscious and can act independently if they want to. However, because they are so in sync with one another, most time they act as one, aka Cardinal.

[domtheforestgnome]

Moments my heart sequentially broke for Wilhelm in season 2 part 2

Hello! It's me again with another post about moments my heart sequentially broke for Wilhelm in season 2 of Young Royals. Here's part 1. And also there are Part 1 and Part 2 for Simon.

What's noticeable - based on these posts - till this moment Wilhelm has suffered mostly because of being rejected by Simon, whereas Simon is being hit from different directions (being in the destructive relationship with Marcus and hearing not nice stuff from him, being erased by Royal Court publicly, having hard time with his "long lost" sister, still being bullied by other students in Hillerska for his non-royal backgrounds)...

Yeah, that's my observation, feel free to make your conclusions based on it. Anyway my heart broke this season for Wilhelm when...

Simon agreed Wille's position actually IS problematic for him when it comes to their relationship. I mean, I really want to cry every time I see it.

I know the feeling, kiddo. I know the feeling sooo well. I wanted to hug him, and I really was disappointed he and Felice didn't go together to the ball, even though I got that she wasn't a fan of fueling the rumors with it.

On the other hand, watching Wilhelm like that is not entirely bad for him and feeling all those feelings. I imagine him trying to live the normal life, partying and all of that, and that could be also just to feel something, forcing and pushing things to extreme level - but the pain of being punch probably felt pretty real.

And here he wasn't in control and still felt something really strong and difficult. And in my opinion even though heartbreak is never easy, it was actually good for him to experience that as a... prince.

Do I even have to say anything? This scene is a masterpiece. Also it reminds me of the one in season 1. The one after Wilhelm learns that his mom knew about August's deeds and tried to excuse it with acknowledging Erik's legacy. Back then, I could really feel that he's so lonely and not gonna lie, I was really worried about his mental health in that moment - like "Please, Wilhelm, don't do anything bad to yourself, pleaseee". Though, this time he's not alone. At least he's got Felice, Boris, and even Nils to talk about it.

Yeah, I'd rather Wille and Felice went together for that ball. He was so lost. And Simon brought Marcus, not really making things easy for Wille.

Look how tired he was! Seeing him literally on the verge of exhaustion after putting all his energy to talk politely to Marcus and respectfully informing Simon, he surrenders. I'm so done!

Kissing Simon and still being very careful. Like, it all was still so fragile like glass in that moment.

When Wille made breakfast for Simon and the boy didn't want it, suddenly being very reserved towards Wille. The change in the mood after their kiss at the ball must be confusing.

Ugh... "all the things he said, all the things he said, running through my head" moment. Like Simon said lots of hurtful (still true) things to Wilhelm, and I am sorry for the kid bc it can hurt two times more when you really believe you doing things with a good will... I was watching that moment with sympathy for the kid. He believed he was doing the right thing and he really tried to administer justice towards August.

Him panicking and getting totally none of a response to it by Jan Olof and the other man. Like "you don't have to be sorry" would be nice to hear in this situation.

When he learnt August is his back-up.

I am proud of his reaction though - breathing and dealing with the news. Like before, kind of similar situation to that one in season 1 episode 6, but the reaction and also Kristina's emphasis on being in this together as a mother-son family, made it really different. They can do it. I believe it.

But later on I'm watching this scene and now as I am thinking about that...I might got manipulated just as Wilhelm. The way he said that his Mom is counting on him and therefore he should be doing all those things, the Royal Court want him to do, and yet it's so difficult for him. I mean I see a 16yo boy, but at the same time he talks and looks way more younger child. You can see that he loves his family so much too and cares for them, but the official role part is really messing ways of showing that.

When he was harsh for himself, being annoyed with the characters choices in the "Kris".

When everything started to collapse bc Simon didn't change his mind about going to police.

This whole sequence.

Oh, the longing. His thrive for the touch.

They shouldn't be scared!!! They're still children!!! I can't.

Yeah, I mean... Somehow my heart is even more broken for Wille here than for Simon, probably bc he's not stopping himself anymore from being that close to another boy. I know that Young Royals is not exactly about that (internal) struggle, but thinking about him in season 1 - all the pushing and pressure to have it in control, not let himself kiss Simon then kissing him, not wanting to be more than friends, then liking him too much for that, then all the video thing. He really wanted to be close to Simon, and here he finally was without stopping himself!!! And all their future was so unknown and scary. God!

...

Ok, I need a brake. That's all for now.

Take care!

Now with Part 3

[utilitycaster]

you getting push back on that post is crazy to me isn't it enough to watch and get invested in something for what it is currently rather than what it will be? I have so many unfinished projects in my own life it'd be crazy to demand polished completion from everything I watch/read. my unfinished sketches and embroidery and abandoned dnd campaigns still brought joy and growth without having a polished thing to present at the end

So what's funny to me is like. I have referenced this before here and elsewhere but like, as a child, I was SO bad at ambiguous and sad endings and my mother was like, not unkind about this, but neither did she coddle it, and I think that laid a groundwork that was really necessary.

My tags, which got lost bc I did NOT expect that post to break containment, do actually touch on how Netflix and other streaming services canceling things to avoid paying people a fair wage fucking suck but yeah here's a list of creative endeavors I participated in or watched/listened to/read that do not as of this posting have endings and I still liked, and many of them aren't even directly attributable to capitalism because this is just a fact of life and art.

As mentioned, both A Song of Ice and Fire and the Kingkiller Chronicles.

Multiple D&D campaigns for sure (I actually don't make D&D characters without a game in mind and find it weird that people do and so I'm like why am I the one arguing for the beauty of the incomplete).

Multiple fics, both mine and others.

King Falls AM, a podcast I binged in like 2018-2019 and despite being a mystery never actually completed bc the creators couldn't agree.

I think Battlestar Galactica 2003 is one of the most brilliant shows of its era and also the finale, which happened when the creators intended it to, is really dumb, and that doesn't undo the fact that I loved everything else.

How I Met Your Mother ends really poorly in a way that arguably undercuts the whole series, but like, I still liked that too.

Ditto for Chuck, which also struggles in that it was on the chopping block most seasons so they kept ending in ways that probably weren't true to whatever the original vision may have been.

I saw Firefly on DVD after it had already been canceled, I think Serenity is good but I don't love all the choices, and Joss Whedon has since been revealed to be a dick but like, I enjoyed myself greatly while watching it.

As mentioned, Heroes. I didn't watch much TV until my teens anyway because we didn't have cable and our reception sucked and we were very much a book household, and this was one of the first series I recall watching from season 1 and it's also the first TV series where I was like yeah I don't care anymore, and it went on for 4 seasons and I think I gave up either late S2 or early S3.

I didn't watch Supernatural, Game of Thrones, nor Grey's Anatomy but all of those are famous for outstaying their welcome, sometimes it's better to burn out than fade away, etc.

I had already long outgrown Harry Potter and started to see its limitations by the time Rowling's transphobia became public but like, now it's not something I would ever recommend to my friends' kids or anything, and that doesn't undo the fact that I did greatly enjoy it as a child and teenager; it was indirectly the reason why I was introduced to the superior fantasy of Diana Wynne Jones, which I do still reread from time to time. (I think the "well I never liked it" mentality about works from artists who end up being terrible people is tied into the "I can't get invested in anything that might end in an unsatisfying manner." Tumblr University's media studies grads are not the brightest stars in the firmament, that's for sure.)

Like, cancellation (let alone cancellation specifically because of the unique shittiness of streaming services) is just one of the many reason things might end in a way you dislike or become difficult for you to enjoy at a later date, and that's just talking about television. Are you really going to deny yourself the joy of anticipation and watching a story unfold in real-time because the thought of something not satisfying you at every single turn is so unfathomable?

(oh, and because this is, as we know, a CR blog much of the time, I should add that this mentality is really pervasive which is wild because your average 3-season canceled Netflix show is probably the equivalent of maybe 9-10 CR episodes; thinking about how many people who now claim C2 is terrible watched 141 episodes and also the person who is iconic to me who unironically asked me what the point was in getting invested in characters who will die re: Chetney)

[farfromdaylight]

hello! here is a crosspost of my usual post about the new patch. all details hidden behind the readmore.

covers both patch msq and alliance raid!

overall i really liked this patch! it was chill for 90% of it, which is pretty typical for .1 patches; it's a lot of closing up plot threads from .0 and starting some new ones.

really liked the focus on family from different perspectives. i think it was very convenient that the one guy who happens to know what happened to Koana's parents was around, but eh, it closes that thread nicely so I can't really complain. I did very much enjoy the entire Shaaloani section, it was nice to focus in on the culture of the people and the importance of the rroneek, since it's so obviously modeled after Native American traditions and it really wasn't part of 7.0.

as for the gulool ja stuff:

THE DUNGEON WAS FANTASTIC? great great GREAT atmosphere, i had a BLAST. absolutely resident evil type shit, it was a DELIGHT. the notes were also so fun to read through.

ALSO, PROTO CARBUNCLE MODEL? FUCK ME UP WHY DON'T YOU. i did die once in that fight (i did it in duty support) but that was bc i didn't see the aoe go mid; i would have been fine otherwise. i did fuck up misdirection on the midboss but i managed to survive.

i know a lot of people were like "did zoraal ja get pregnant or what" in a tongue-in-cheek way, but i actually really enjoyed getting to see some backstory there. i still think zoraal ja is a bit too thin, and the concept of "the one female mamool ja around really wanted to fuck him" is a bit stupid, but i had fun with it.

and then we get back to s9 and...

WHAT THE FUCK.

SERIOUSLY, I WAS NOT EXPECTING SPHENE TO COME BACK, PERIOD. WHAT A FUCKING TWIST. i can't wait to find out what the FUCK is going on there, it was so unexpected to me. PLUS SHE'S ALSO LIKE? ALIVE? IN LIVING MEMORY??? WHAT IS HAPPENING.

i actually went into this patch with pretty low expectations, not because i disliked dawntrail (i quite enjoyed it, it's just not a 10/10 story to me) but because i wasn't sure i was going to be interested in what came next. but i'm in, now! this is NEAT. i want to see some fucked up shit.

anyway, good patch! looking forward to the next for sure. deeply funny that this sphene reveal comes in the same patch as her EX though. that's like if emet-selch showed back up at the end of 5.1 lmao. A WILD TWIST.

alliance raid time:

BRO I'M SO HAPPY THEY BROUGHT SAREEL JA BACK. he was absolutely underutilized in msq and this is so fun. the whole concept of this is pretty silly but it's a delight all the same. i may not have any context for the FF11 stuff but i still had a great time with all of this. love to hang out with bakool ja ja of all people.

my suspicion is that axaal is a stand-in for the player character of FF11, but this is just a guess; for all i know he's a canon guy, lol.

ALSO, WOW, THOSE BOSS FIGHTS. prishe handed my ass to me. fafnir did too. the third boss i had a better time with but it was much more engaging (FIVE BOSSES? WE LOVE TO SEE IT). the last boss also fucked me up, but wasn't that hard to get a hang of? i just got boned by using surecast too early on some of the knockbacks, lmao...

also i rolled a 95 on the minion and didn't get it. JUST ALLIANCE RAID THINGS. i wish i liked any of the glamour but i...... Do Not. maybe some of it will be tolerable dyed, i guess we'll see. i don't need any of it for gear (my ilvl is 730 and i'm only missing my m4s weapon for bis) so i am less motivated to farm it than usual, tbh. for once i don't have a fucked spell speed i need to fix.

anyway, alliance was fun! it was reasonably accessible for a non-fan, which i appreciated because some of the other tie-ins have decidedly Not been that way. looking forward to running it again with friends soon.