#who just WHO has been praying on my downfall..

[yjmsite]

yall im going to tasmania tmrw with these 2 other kids and theri fmilies + my family and my friends family but MY FRIEND ISNT COMING. WTF?!?!?!??!?

[pha55ed]

All I Want For Christmas || F1/F2

type :: fluff

tw/cw :: sexual jokes

contains :: carlos, charles, lando, oscar, ollie, paul, pepe

summary :: they hard launch you on insta! yay!

xmas celly here! || f1 masterlist || f2 masterlist

Carlos Sainz | 55

carlossainz55 : my most expensive gift to myself! love you forever @.yourusername

→ user 01: Con😭grad😭u😭lations

⎯→ user 02: we never had a chance... 😭😭

→ yourusername: mwah <3 love you forever

⎯→ user 03: what about me :(

⎯→ user 04: let her go bro... she's gone 😭

→ alexandrasaintmleux: so cute! 🩷

⎯→ yourusername: not as cute as you 😉

⎯→ user 05: the prettiest wags ever

Charles Leclerc | 16

charles_leclerc : my biggest win yet @.yourusername

→ user 01: GAWWDAAAMNN how does he find the most gorgeous women ever

⎯→ yn_hater: she doesn't compare to alex tho :/

⎯→ yn_biggest_fan: 43°44′5″N 7°25′14″E and you still live with ur mom 🤣

→ yourusername: no need to lie in ur caption but thank you love

⎯→ user 02: i would never lie to u, just saying. (I'm 6'3)

→ oscarpiastri: welcome to the fam 👏

⎯→ yourusername: gonna be an evil step mom to u >:D

⎯→ oscarpiastri: but you're my real mom

⎯→ yourusername: andddd now i feel bad 😭

Lando Norris | 04

landonorris : how i sleep knowing @.yourusername is protecting me

→ user 01: once again a beautiful girl with an ugly man

⎯→ user 02: a beautiful girl with a funny* rich* talented* and hot* man

→ maxfewtrell: so this is how i find out i'm being cheated on

⎯→ yourusername: 🫵🤣 LOL

⎯→ user 03: the girls are fightinggggg

→ user 04: lando is confirmed a pillow princess???

⎯→ yourusername: only the best for him

Oscar Piastri | 81

oscarpiastri: just a chill guy with a not very chill girl @.yourusername

→ user 01: why would u post the 3rd photo 😭😭

⎯→ user 02: i think thats her crying after he won in baku??

⎯→ user 03: but why is the photo taken in her house then???

⎯→ yourusername: can't a girl be proud (i was crying for 3 hours still)

→ user 04: literally the nonchalant x chalant trope

→ charles_leclerc: congrats to you both! ❤️

⎯→ user 05: AWW OMG this is so cute

→ yourusername: when i come home i want u oiled up on my bed

⎯→ user 06: OH...!

⎯→ user 07: no one will match her freak

Oliver Bearman | 87

olliebearman: yes the pizza is armed... jk love you @.yourusername

→ user 01: Ollie if you hurt her....

⎯→ user 02: I think we should be worried FOR him

→ yourusername: who are you...

⎯→ user 03: ikrrrrr hes sooo weirddddd, come home to me instead!!!!

→ kimi.antonelli: congrats mate! blink twice for help!

⎯→ yourusername: I know where you live.

→ user 04: I love beautiful crazy girls <3 she's so valid

Paul Aron | 17

paularon_: my biggest inspiration and supporter @.yourusername

→ yourusername: can't wait to boost the estonian population with you <3

⎯→ user 01: mind you, it's 8am when i opened my phone

→ user 02: they're so fucking beautiful, i can't even blame (y/n) for being horny

⎯→ user 03: their kids will be the prettiest ever

→ user 04: I KNEW THEY WERE DATING OMFGGGG I KNEW IT

→ dinobeganovic: GET A ROOM U FREAKS!!! (happy for you both!)

⎯→ pepemartiofficial: AGREED! (congrats mate!)

⎯→ yourusername: FUCK YOU GUYS!!!! (thanks guys)

Pepe Marti | 21

pepemartiofficial: BREAKING: proud to anounce that i will be with extending my contract with (y/n) for another year @.yourusername

→ yourusername: only a one year extension??? fake asf

⎯→ chirstian.mansell: cause he's transferring to me after one year

⎯→ yourusername: enjoy my sloppy seconds

⎯→ gabyprentice_: its okay bby u can come with me

→ user 01: praying on their downfall purely so i can have a shot with (y/n)

→ user 02: yet another tall lanky awkward man with a beautiful girlfriend

⎯→ user 03: (y/n) has always been into awkward men, not a surprise

→ user 04: Can't wait to see her face in the paddock, her face card is LETHAL

[earthtooz]

x : BANDAGED HEART :*+ﾟ

in which: blade finds out you're injured and can't contain his anger.

warnings: gn!reader x protective!blade, fluff, mentions of blood and injuries, 'who did this to you?' trope with blade LOL, slight manhandling, did i mention that he's protective?

a/n: blade debut, omg? this sucks btw but this was inspired by this comic that i saw the other day :> it just reminded me that the 'who did this to you' trope existed and i went YES and took my own spin onto it so, i hope you enjoy!

the smell of antiseptic wafts heavily through the air, bandages sit tightly rolled beside you, and you hiss at the sting of the antibacterial ointment slathered over the open wound on your arm. 

it hurts. 

blinking the tears away and gritting your teeth to bear with the pain, you reach for the unused roll, clumsily unravelling them with shaking hands and a blurring vision.

“oi.” a raspy voice from behind catches you off guard and you turn around from where you’ve seated yourself in the corner of the medical wing, having helped yourself to a supply of ointment and bandages. 

a familiar swordsman and fellow coworker towers above you, glowering at you through the streaks of his bangs. maybe if you weren’t on the verge of fainting, you’d have the energy to fear him.

“oh, it’s just you,” you mutter, “can i help you?”

his eyes glance you up and down, as if scanning you for any indication of misadventure. feeling uneasy under the intensity of his gaze, you return to trying to rip the bandages with bare hands since you had not brought scissors or even a blade with you in your haste. 

feeling the blood from your wound drip down your arm and onto the floor beneath you, you cringe, hurrying up so you don’t make a mess. this whole patching-yourself-up-thing should have been easy, but without something sharp and half your strength evaporated after a gruesome mission, it was much harder than usual. 

the growing frustration you were feeling was not offering much aid either, and with blade practically towering over you, you try not to let your fluctuating anger overwhelm you. 

aeons, it was as if you were sent on this mission with elio praying for your downfall. you’re lucky that you managed to get out with only a scratch on your arm and a missing weapon. it’s going to be hard finding a replacement for it, but when you just looked death in the face, you can’t say you have much to complain about that a weapon was the only thing you lost. 

suddenly, two hands sneak underneath your arms to lift you up, breaking your train of thought with a tight, unforgiving grip as you’re effortlessly placed onto a hospital bed right beside you. meeting the ruby eyes of the swordsman, your breath lodges uncomfortably in your throat, and you have to rip your gaze away from him; the intensity would paralyse you otherwise. 

“where are you hurt?” he asks, sounding more like a demand than a question. 

“i can do it myself,” you grumble. blade takes the bandage out of your hands, holding back your wrist that instinctively reached out to grab it back. the glare he shoots you from the corner of his eye placates any complaint you have.

“show me.”

reluctantly, you present your injured arm. he mutters a very quick and quiet ‘stay here’ before stalking off. a faucet is turned on, water begins running from a nearby sink, and blade returns with a wet cloth. 

grabbing your wounded arm, he cleans around the area, rubbing the blood that has trickled down your arm as well. he’s scarily gentle with you, attentive to your every wince and hiss, halting momentarily every time you let a noise slip. 

he makes quick work of patching you up, flawless and effortless in his technique. makes sense, you suppose, since he is covered in these. 

you wonder how many times he’s had to do this on himself. a small part of your heart aches thinking about it.

“thank you,” you whisper when he’s done, gratitude silently swirling inside you. grabbing the bandages and cloth, you slide off onto your feet. “i’ll put these away.” 

stepping in front of you, his body intercepts your path and you’re pressed against the bed, frozen under him. there’s an indescribable look of fury in his eyes, his red eyes seeming even angrier than usual. 

“what happened?” he asks.

you have hold yourself up, suddenly weak in the knees. “just a typical mission, it’s nothing you should worry about.”

the fellow stellaron hunter does not look satisfied with your response. “what do you mean ‘nothing you should worry about’? who did this to you?” he asks, punctuating each word with a dark expression. 

“blade- please, can we not talk about this right now?” you mutter, “i’m tired and i just want to sleep.”

he narrows his eyes. “who. hurt. you?”

“why? what can you do about it now?”

“kill them.”

you scoff. “yeah, right.”

blade wedges a leg between yours, hindering your escape even further by leaning himself closer to you. “i’m serious.”

“so am i. if you’re thinking about hunting them down, then please, don’t bother. let it go.” you mutter.

“but you got hurt.” 

“i get hurt all the time.”

his brows scrunch together, a small indication of the dangerous protectiveness growing within him. you interrupt his train of thoughts, placing a brave hand on his chest; right over his heart. ‘i’m fine. you don’t need to worry about me.”

“i’m not worried,” he grumbles lowly. 

“oh. i see.”

he grabs your hand and takes it away from his chest, holding you gently. “i’m angry that you got hurt.”

you’re speechless, blinking at the swordsman who raises your hand to his lips, placing a kiss on the back of it. it feels like a promise- not that you know what said promise is, but with that look in his eyes, you know it’s not a peaceful one. 

“so why don’t you tell me the truth? who did this to you?”

the answer slips past your lips before you can help it and when the words are spilled, a creeping guilt invades you. whatever he’s planning, you know that bloodshed will follow.

“see, that wasn’t so hard.”

in a blink of an eye, blade is gone, taking the intense pressure with him. he left so quickly that you wonder if he was ever here to begin with. the lingering brush of his lips is the only indication that he was not a figment of your half-aware conscious.  

© EARTHTOOZ 2023, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

[sapphicdib]

I am sure you are all aware of the current state of the fandom. I have done my best to avoid all of the controversy, but seeing how others have voiced their concerns I would like to as well.

I, as an artist, do not feel safe in the Rain World fandom.

I have expressed this in the past, but I have been the victim of false pedophile and grooming allegations with the use of manipulated and doctored screenshots. I do not have the words to articulate just how psychologically damaging it is to have an entire fandom turn on you in an instant. To have your social life destroyed. To have hundreds or even thousands of people celebrate your downfall, simply because you annoyed them, because now they have a "reason" to. Watching this fandom gleefully parade around shaky evidence and happily participate in this type of behavior is sickening to me. It makes me worry that someday, I will annoy someone enough to have another false allegation made against me, and I will have to go through that again. There is a part of me that believes I would not survive such a thing. I am not trying to be dramatic when I say that, but people need to realize that "internet drama" can cause serious harm your mental health. I still have PTSD nightmares related to the callout post made about me from 3 years ago. This is not something you can just “get over”.

People need to remember fanartists are not paragons of grace, nor are they perfect. The fact that the internet has allowed people to dehumanize artists into "content machines" that must never slip up rather than human beings who are messy and awkward and can fuck up at times is sickening. I do not feel comfortable in a fandom that jumps at the opportunity to harass someone over a mistake, that stirs up a witchunt over what boils down to miscommunications. A fandom that treats every situation as black and white and doesn't wait for all the evidence to come out.

I believe nyuuronfly put it best in their post:

"It is not inspiring to sit around and get attention in an atmosphere where the more attention you get the more you know many of the eyes that are looking toward you are searching for a weak point to go after."

I understand revealing a lot of my trauma in this post is a potentially stupid decision, but I believe my story can help make people realize the genuine harm callout posts cause. It is not fun having to deal with constant paranoia that hundreds of people are praying on your downfall. I have considered not posting about, or simply deleting my rot au many times because of worry that someone will think it's too “dark” or “problematic” and decide I am the fandom's #1 punching bag for months.

As of now, I will not be deleting, nor will I stop posting art. But I have considered it many times, and this behavior as of late brought me the closest I've ever been to doing so. I love rain world and frankly, I don't want to feel this way about the fandom! I want this place to be positive, I want better for this game. I'm not mad, just disappointed.

TL;DR:

PLEASE for the LOVE OF GOD stop reblogging callout posts.

Fanartists are PEOPLE. They are giving you FREE art. Treat them better.

You are not immune to false screenshots, mob mentality, and black and white thinking.

Rain world is a gorgeous, creative, and deeply moving game. Please, let's work to make this community reflect that.

[n0cturnalp1g]

The Dragon, The Bitch, and the Sheer Audacity

Summary: Prince Daemon Targaryen was in a familiar predicament/ But this time aroundit wasn't him that was avoiding his wife, it was his wife doing everything she could to avoid him. Characters: Daemon Targaryen x Female!Reader!Hightower. Gwayne Higtower Word Count: 1,040 Chapter Warnings: Not Edited. Just got inspired to write a short chapter because of @just-some-random-blogger Thank you for the commentary, really made my day when i read it!

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Prince Daemon Targaryen was cursed with the consequence of his own actions. He stared at the empty bed of his marital chambers. Yesterday he had married you and forcefully made you his wife, but he wasn’t much of a monster to force himself onto you–once again he finds himself not consummating his second marriage.

“Where is she?” Daemon had questioned the servant trying to busy themselves with cleaning the mess in the room.

“She is with her sister, the Queen, your Grace.” The mousy servant spoke, fear all the more evident in her eyes–he remembers her to be one of the servants helping with tending to his new wife last night, the verbal lashing they’ve found themselves into and cups and daggers being thrown at one another after. “They are praying in the Septs.”

Daemon couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the notion of the Sevens. Of the devout faith his new wife had because of your own family. One of the few flaws he was willing to overlook at this moment. But he couldn’t help but wonder if it would have been better if you had married in the tradition of his house, he could already imagine Otto and his spawns frothing at the mouth at the possibility.

“Tell the dragonkeepers to prepare Caraxes for flight, and ensure that the saddle will be big enough for myself and my wife.”

The eyes of the servant widened but did not voice her reaction out loud as she bowed and left Daemon to his own thoughts–a dangerous thing to do at this moment. It didn’t take long for him to also order to have his wife be brought  to the dragonpit, maybe a semblance of the reality of your new life would do you some good.

His eyes lingered on the mess that still remained in the room. His eyes zoning in on the familiar cloth that was stained in blood–blood cut from his own hand instead of what everyone perceived to be your maiden blood. It was better that way, for everyone to believe a consummation that has already transpired than an avoidance that was all too certain that came between them.

He sighed, slouching his head in frustration.

But somehow, anything that has to do with his own wife means he will no longer know peace. Chaos was now a constant for the Rogue Prince when it comes to his Wretched wife.

“Your Grace.” A guard has interrupted the momentary peace of his chambers.

“What?”

“Your Lady wife has been requested to return to Oldtown to assist Lord Hightower.”

“Of course she was.” He muttered under his breath already knowing the mess his day would be with his wife and everyone that involved the Hightower name.

All your life you had always believed yourself that there was no such thing as a God, and even more so multiple one that would ever place you in such a predicament. But here you were. Newly married, unconsummated and much preferring the presence of your younger sister than your new dragon husband–until her brother had requested her to return back to Oldtown.

“How easy it is for our Uncle to kick me out of Oldtown and demand me right back because of his own incompetence.”

Gwayne spoke your name gently but there was an evident warning in his tone. With nothing but the clothes on your back, you had joined your brother as you were demanded to return back to Oldtown as you were the only one capable of dealing with report reviewing–who knew your insistence of studying more than what was required of you would end with you in this predicament.

The pride of a lord is his ultimate downfall. You know all too well and made good use of it in your time under your Uncle’s ward. You’ve nearly burned down his tower as he tried to prove a point and failed to do so.

One of the only things that brought you immense pleasure was the small little fact that you made sure not to inform your husband of your departure. It brought a glimpse of satisfaction knowing that you were able to one up him and insist upon yourself that you still had control on yourself and your own autonomy.

“I’m afraid of asking why you are smiling, so I will not ask.”

“Nothing that needs your concern at the moment, brother.” You reassured, galloping your horse further.

The sooner you arrive in Oldtown, the sooner you are ensured that you will be further away from your tyrant of a husband.

For the next few days, you and your younger brother travelled by horse from King’s Landing to Oldtown. The presence of your younger brother brought a momentary peace, away from the judgement of your father and sister and away from the control that was not bestowed upon your husband since your marriage to him.

“I’m actually surprised your husband allowed you to travel away from King’s Landing, just a day after your marriage.”

You said nothing as soon as your eyes lingered onto the tower you had known all your life. As many memories of pain and turbulence you’ve endured here, it was a home that you always wanted instead of King’s Landing. You wanted this, the peace and tranquility away from the politics of the throne.

Now you were smack dab in the middle of it all.

“Home sweet home.” You muttered under your breath welcomed with the cautious eyes of the numerous guards lingering at the gate.

But neither you nor your brother could have ever expected that instead of your Uncle Ormund waiting with contempt for you, the sight of a large ugly dragon and equally large and abhorrent rider would come waiting for them both in Oldtown.

“Do you expect you can leave the Keep without informing your Lord Husband, My Dear wife?” Daemon Targaryen smirked, the swagger of a man that was constantly given what he wanted.

Behind him was his dragon, the vicious Blood Wyrm that brought fear and power to his family–and this sense of entitlement that knows no bounds in this day and age.

“And just a day after you wed me, you’re already running away, Dear Wife?”

[icyg4l]

PAC: July 2024 Predictions

Hello beautiful people! This is my last week posting/sending readings out for a while! I will be back, but I just need a moment to focus on real life. So if you would like to book a reading with me, don’t hesitate to message me privately! Anyway, tonight I will be talking about your July 2024. So please, without further ado, please select the pile that resonates with you!

Top Left-to-Bottom Right: (1-3)

Pile One: I heard "weighing out your options". I think you may be in the middle of figuring out your taste in love. However, you may be making a risky decision. Remember this everything that feels good ain't always good for you. This month, you will learn to be stingier with your love. Also, there may be someone around you that is negligent. There is no reason to take the high road with them, you need to figure out what goes on and come up with a resolution to prevent this from going on any further. I feel like you will be cutting ties with someone who has been embarrassing you. It will be sad and hard to do, but you only have one life. I also heard "count your blessings". You need to see the light in today. Act like you care about what's going on around you. There is someone who has been picking with you, it's time to cut them off! I see you feeling relieved by the end of the month (only because Leo season aka the best season has startedddd) Overall, this month seems like a good month to start over. Reignite the passion in your life and start today!

Pile Two: "Plagued with confusion" is what I just heard. I feel like this July will be kind of hard for you, Pile Two. There is something that will feel off about this month. Get your mind out the gutter, for one. But also, there is something that is feeding on your energy. It feels vampiric. A person who treats you like a baby or has a newborn baby could be significant. You are your own person. You show up as yourself and get the job done! But you have to stop letting people take advantage of your innocence. I'm watching this anime called Nana. Nana K is the very innocent, perky, loving friend who wouldn't hurt a fly. That's you, Pile Two. But just because you wouldn't hurt a fly, doesn't mean the fly won't hurt you. It seems as though you will be on a quest for independence. Trying to find your way while also trying to see what's your niche. You are young and you will figure it out. Don't let anyone tell you thank you can't. If you really want it that bad, then it can be achieved. This is cliche to say, but just believe! "Wish Upon A Star!" could be a relevant movie to you.

Pile Three: You could be taking a trip out of the country. Barcelona comes to mind. I see you also being receptive to food requests as well. You may be a picky eater, but this month you won't be, lol. Some of you are in summer school, trying to bring a grade up/trying to make the next school year easier. You should try to receive counseling as much as you can. It will ease your mind and in return, your grades will be much better. I heard the word proficient. During this time, you could find yourself doing a lot of backpacking. This is very specific but if you have been praying on someone's downfall, they will receiving their rightfully deserved karma. I am hearing a leprechaun laugh. This is someone's abusive ex or manipulative ex-bestie. I think that you will try to keep your calm this month. You should repeat mantras to yourself, everyday. Maybe you should listen to some more Jhene Aiko. I heard Kevin Gates??? LOL! You will be in touch with your feminine energy during this month so try not to be so active. Be ready for anything, beloved. And lastly, some of you will try out for a sports team. You'll get in because of your connection to the coach or one of the primetime players. Also, some of you could be going to a sports game for free because of one of the players/coaches.

[landhoe-norris]

I know people aren't gonna read this but I need to get all of this off my chest.

So today is the day that marks the moment when Lando's hopes for the WDC officially end.

It’s sad and heartbreaking, yes—but it’s also so much more than that. To me, this season has been nothing short of extraordinary. Championships are won and lost in numbers, and Max has the experience. He had the start of the season and then the talent and composure to see it through, no doubt about it. But Lando? Lando has something just as important, something that numbers don’t always capture—the fire, the resilience, and the unshakable will to push forward.

He’s shown it time and time again this season. Whether it was clawing his way up through the field, delivering masterful performances in changing conditions, or simply showing up with that signature smile and focus even on the toughest days, Lando has proven that he’s here to stay and will be back fighting next year.

There’s something remarkable about the way he’s carried himself this season. He never gave up, even when things seemed impossible and even when it seemed like his team was actively working against him. He's matured when it comes to the noise outside the track, deleting his social media instead of leaning into the insane amount of hatred that has been focused his way from F1 fans and media alike.

What we know, and what others need to realize, is that he’s not the problem. The problem is the people who have been sending him DMs telling him to kill himself; the problem is the people in the IG comments of McLarens, F1s, and his own social media begging for him to crash and burn; the problem is the media who have sensationalized and misrepresented him time and time again; the problem is the 1164481 fans who make fake screenshots, take his interviews and twist them, and weaponize their own narratives to tear him down.

He's been the team leader we all knew he could and would be, and we can all be proud of him. The fact that he was in contention for a championship in the same year he won his first race is incredible. This is someone who has been driving midfield cars since he came into the sport, praying for scraps when the cars ahead DNF'd, had bad pitstops or fucked up their strategy. He's someone who routinely got the fourth-best car onto podiums, someone who has, since Carlos left, never lost out to their teammate, although people have been praying for his downfall since 2021.

They will have to pray harder because Lando Norris doesn't play like that. What he does do, after every single season, is put his head down and become a better driver. He takes his faults, works on them and then comes back ready for more.

I couldn’t be prouder of him—not just as a driver but as a person who’s shown grace, determination, and heart every step of the way. This season wasn’t the end of a dream; it was the start of something bigger. I know he’ll take everything he’s learned and come back stronger, hungrier, and more determined than ever.

[lionheartedmusings]

sorry but my mind is whirling, obligatory all q! from this point onward, but man... phil's kidnapping has a lot to dissect regarding the extreme they went to, but what it really did to me (a noted bad connoisseur) is really showcase just how differently bad is treated by the federation. like, to a point where i don't know how no one's noticed yet in the island.

cellbit made an iron farm right after he got there to try and talk to cucurucho, and he got tortured with a chainsaw. he infiltrated them and they keep playing with him, mentally and emotionally. they've been toying with cellbit from the start.

pac and mike have gotten arrested and kidnapped, and pac got drugged for? being nuisances? causing issues against the feds? sure, they've put their nose where it doesn't belong, but it feels extreme.

god knows where aypierre's wine storyline is going so we'll refrain from commenting, but it's sus.

tubbo just got here and cucurucho has made it perfectly clear that he'll learn to behave, or he'll be made to behave by force. man's on a countdown.

phil, who literally sits at home and takes care of his eggs, lavacast one building and he got emotionally tortured and trapped in a birdhouse.

max... max is just fucked up, everyone on that island is praying for his downfall, but cucurucho has quite clearly taken pleasure in toying with him.

forever lost his shit and they literally forcefully drugged him into compliance.

and then there's bad.

bad, who has been vocally against the federation... from the start. a founder of theorybros, who has done many things to get their attention, both positive and negative.

bad, who has broken into just about every federation building imaginable with... not a warning? or very very light ones? requests to not?

bad, who has been a fucking nuisance and yet when foolish asks cucurucho if he can arrest him, the response is not to say "oh sure" but to hit foolish and say no.

bad, who grieved the fuck out of spawn with no admonishment, who directly threatened federation workers AND GOT REPORTED, and who not only kidnapped one but has had them trapped in his base for days. a base that the feds can break into, because they have before.

there hasn't been ONE threat against bad, just playful gunshots in friendly moments. he has gotten no reprimand or repercussion.

we joke about "special guest bad" but it's so fucking obvious that they refuse to touch him, and it's at a point where i need someone to say something.

[lemedstudent2021]

yahya sinwar

went through the tag and im disgusted by the sheer number of zionist scumbags on there. never blocked mfs so fast in my life

to the idiots out there who think theyve 'won' you couldnt be any further from the truth. interestingly enough the same news circulated in september. God alone knows whos dead and alive in palestine.

to the dumbfuck who celebrated sinwars to be confirmed martyrdom saying 'bring back the hostages and end the war', the only way to break this to you is by smashing your skull with a rock because holy fuck how stupid do you have to be to think he was in the way of the negotiations? really? killing one single man is going to end the war?

this didnt start with hamas and for all i know it might not even end by their hands (though i pray for all of them the honour of doing so). the reason being that this all started way before hamas came into existence, and the resistance will continue to grow and fight for freedom regardless of who leads. regardless of the name they bear. because they represent their people. and the people will be freed.

israels war on gaza (and by extension the sanctity of life of humanity as a whole) wont end because the they simply dont care. it is not in israels best interests to stop fighting. they couldnt care less about the hostages, they couldnt care less about the millions of lives across the region (its own citizens included) its stolen and ruined.. and the white house is more than happy to oblige.

knowing them, theyll boast about it for years to come. how they defeated the 'mastermind' behind october 7th. theyll turn it into a national holiday. they will milk it far more than its worth because they have been fighting a losing battle for a over 76 years now. and they know it. theyre all literally hanging on by a thread.

theyve illusioned themselves and the world into thinking that this will all be over as soon as they kill those they fear above all. what they fail to realise is that they were vessels for the power that is and has always been with the people. if anything morale is higher

they were public figures and politicians and fighters on the front lines and beloved members of their communities, but you have to be beyond every conceiveable definition of stupid to think that killing a leader would lead to the dissolution of the movement.

sinwar, may God have mercy on his soul and that of every martyr everywhere on this earth, was always going to die. israel didnt accomplish anything but accelerate its downfall.

(headline in arabic quotes the israeli army announcing the assassination)

theres a slight difference in the headlines across platforms and outlets and nothing has been 100% confirmed as of writing

but you get the idea. im just surprised people are so brain dead as to think that this is the end? but thats on me for assuming they had brains to begin with

from the river to the sea palestine will be free 🍉

[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.

[diorsluv]

feather , part 35

“ i’m up, where i’m at ”

series m. list previous chapter

slightly (ish) suggestive again, nothing extremely explicit (kind of)

( socialmedia!au )

yourusername

liked by lhughes_06, trevorzegras, rutgermcgroarty, and 300,190 others

yourusername i love my boyfriend and his silly little friends

tagged: lhughes_06, markestapa, edwards.73, mackie.samo, dylanduke25, jackhughes, _quinnhughes, trevorzegras, adamfantilli, rutgermcgroarty

view all comments

lhughes_06 why does trevor get his own picture when I’M your boyfriend

→ yourusername it’s because he’s secretly the favorite but don’t tell him i said that

→ lhughes_06 but it makes it look like you’re dating him and not me ☹️

→ yourusername lukey no it doesn’t dw

→ trevorzegras I KNEW I WAS THE FAVORITE

lhughes_06 also you’re so sappy and i love you more

→ yourusername ☺️

rutgermcgroarty “silly little friends” is crazy but we sorta love you too so we’ll let it slide

→ yourusername quit acting like you’re so indifferent to me 🙄

→ rutgermcgroarty luke would beat us up if we professed our love to you

→ lhughes_06 very true

username20 i’ve been waiting MONTHS for this to happen

username9 my cuties

adamfantilli you suck at basketball

→ yourusername it was a 3v1. you’re like 6’2. you’re all men.

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→ mackie.samo is that a dig against my sisters

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username77 there seems to be a recurring trend with the shopping carts..

→ username43 they just love the shopping carts

_quinnhughes burger king??

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→ lhughes_06 she wanted a milkshake

→ _quinnhughes so if she wanted to drive your car into a tree would you let her

→ yourusername WHAT no why would he ever let me do that

→ lhughes_06 yes i would and then i’d just buy another car

→ yourusername LUKE NO

mackie.samo you know what would be really funny

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→ mackie.samo 🫢

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luca.fantilli what the flippity flapjacks i’m not in the post

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→ markestapa what the fuck

username10 NO RESTRICTED COMMENTS THE DAY HAS FINALLY COME

edwards.73 i heard your back break when we all piled on top of you

→ yourusername i’m actually in the hospital rn because of your ass

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username62 tell me why that first pic is so fucking obx coded

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dylanduke25 i’m so hot

→ yourusername yes you are duker 🫶🫶

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→ dylanduke25 you’re so whiny luke YOU’RE LITERALLY DATING HER

colecaufield the leafs hoodie..

→ yourusername i won’t name drop but i think you can tell who it is 😰

→ rutgermcgroarty 🫢

→ markestapa 😱

→ lhughes_06 😟

→ trevorzegras 😥

→ adamfantilli 😧

→ colecaufield WHICH ONE OF YOU WAS IT

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jackhughes i think my heels touched the back of my head

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→ jackhughes you wish you were a jj maybank dupe lhughes_06

→ lhughes_06 you’re not even blond 🙄

username17 how does it feel to LIVE MY DREAM luke 😔

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markestapa posting me shirtless while dating my best friend?? scandalous 😱

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username98 too cute 💗

elblue6 you two never change 💖💖

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→ lhughes_06 mom i lost a sock

_alexturcotte crazy how i’m not in ANY of the pictures 😊😊😊

→ yourusername all you boys are so needy

lhughes_06

liked by yourusername, jamie.drysdale, jackhughes, and 310,102 others

lhughes_06 my favorite dates with my girl 💘

tagged: yourusername

view all comments

yourusername stop it you’re making me blush 🤬

→ lhughes_06 that was the point baby

msamoskevich this is so unaesthetic

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→ msamoskevich i could actually

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→ lhughes_06 should i be scared

→ msamoskevich be terrified 😍

username86 they’re actually so in love that it physically pains me

username20 horrible taste in froyo but it’s okay they’re cute together

markestapa pottery..???

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→ yourusername yay

edwards.73 GO KARTS

→ lhughes_06 ik u wanna be us so bad

→ edwards.73 I DO

→ yourusername fanboy type shit

_quinnhughes you guys are always teaming up against all of us

→ lhughes_06 and???

→ yourusername you got a problem with it??

→ _quinnhughes yes i do actually

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→ yourusername walk it off

username4 i need someone to take me on a date like luke does with our lil drizz

username31 those toppings…

trevorzegras 🤮

→ lhughes_06 😑

→ yourusername ☹️

→ jackhughes 🤮

→ _quinnhughes 🤮

→ rutgermcgroarty 🤮

→ markestapa 🤮

→ _alexturcotte 🤮

→ jamie.drysdale 🤮

→ luca.fantilli 🤮

→ mackie.samo 🤮

→ adamfantilli 🤮

→ dylanduke25 🤮

→ edwards.73 🤮

→ colecaufield 🤮

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adamfantilli god i hate you both

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→ lhughes_06 it’s okay 😁

username22 MY CUTIES

username15 gross yuck barf vomit (oh my god he’s so in love)

username49 buy the ring rn luke.

rutgermcgroarty if you don’t stop posting about each other holy shit

→ lhughes_06 me and my girl at your service 🫡

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dylanduke25 you should see our dms

→ lhughes_06 oh god

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→ dylanduke25 yeah except you complain to me every time he breathes in a girl’s direction

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→ yourusername NO

→ lhughes_06 it’s okay to be a little jealous sometimes i know it’s hard

→ yourusername SHUT UP I DONT GET JEALOUS

luca.fantilli WE GET IT UR DATING

→ lhughes_06 WE GET IT UR JEALOUS

→ luca.fantilli 🖕

username57 pop quiz who hates dryshughes the most

→ lhughes_06 trick question they all hate us equally

jamie.drysdale my sister won’t stop talking about you MAKE HER SHUT UP

→ lhughes_06 i have a lot of ways i can shut her up

→ jamie.drysdale OH GOD EW NO GROSS

→ yourusername LUKE

→ _quinnhughes LUKE

→ jackhughes LUKE

→ lhughes_06 WHAT ITS NOT LIKE IM LYING

mackie.samo IS THAT GO KARTING DATE THE REASON SHE SKIPPED OUR WEEKLY SPONGEBOB MARATHON

→ lhughes_06 ……….no……?

→ mackie.samo LUKE WARREN HUGHES

→ lhughes_06 THERES NO NEED FOR THE GOVERNMENT NAME

colecaufield aw you two are adorable

→ lhughes_06 you’re like the uncle no one invited to the family reunion

→ colecaufield absolutely uncalled for

→ yourusername LUKEY WHAT

→ lhughes_06 that was a bit mean i apologize

→ colecaufield just a bit huh???

jackhughes apparently mom shows dad every single post you make about lil drizz

→ lhughes_06 i know he keeps texting me about it

→ _quinnhughes he has like 20 burner accounts so he can like all your posts

→ lhughes_06 wait WHAT

→ lhughes_06 is that who keeps liking my posts like a second after i post them

username83 remember the song quoting era yall were so cute trying to be slick

username50 wondering when luke will finally start sharing his gf

→ lhughes_06 never

_alexturcotte so you’re like her uber driver

→ lhughes_06 i guess so

→ _alexturcotte you guess so?? 😭

→ lhughes_06 i mean i’m also like her golfer

→ _alexturcotte golfer????

→ lhughes_06 i fill her holes up pretty good too

this reply has been deleted

→ yourusername LUKE WHAT THE FUCK

→ jackhughes bro we all saw that

→ markestapa THERES NO POINT IN DELETING IT CUZ TURCS SENT A SS IN THE GC

→ trevorzegras YOU’RE NOT FUCKING SLICK MY DUDE

→ lhughes_06 maybe i’m not but she is fs trevorzegras

→ rutgermcgroarty UR JUST MAKING IT WORSE MAN

→ jamie.drysdale GOOD FUCKING LORD THATS MY SISTER

→ adamfantilli WHAT THE HELLLLL 🗣️

series m. list notes ) so TECHNICALLY this is the epilogue and the last chapter of the feather au (it doesn’t really feel like it is) but i mean i’m ofc going to be open to you guys sending requests and thoughts about my dryshughes babies because we all love them too much and i might also add more bonus chapters like later on and stuff but yeah!! i guess this is the end… for now 😈

tags: @aliaology @hockeyboysarehot @absolutelyhugh3s @jackquinnswife @freds-slut @love4ldr @blueeyedbesson @43hughes @v1olentdelights @dancerbailey3 @random-human02 @ho3forfakeguys@loveforaugust@cstads-blog@h0e4fictionalme-n@bunting58

[leafington]

𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙞 𝙙𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙠 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙞𝙣, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧 𝙢𝙮 𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝙜𝙚𝙩. - kento n.

content warning !! - enemies to lovers w nanami (i caved), blackfem!reader, ngh modelceo!reader, ceo!nanami, me putting my business and entrepreneurship knowledge to use, light intoxication, suggestiveness at the end

a/n - IM BACK YALL WOOOOOO, sorry for making u wait @jellicatty 🙁

For years, Nanami has held himself to competition with you and your company. If he had a tier-list of all the people he hated, you were a close second to Gojo. To say he hated your guts was an understatement, some thought he just had some sort of lingering grudge, others assumed you two just got off the wrong foot but they couldn't be far from wrong. That man practically wanted you dead, and that's a hard call to make from someone who was raised well.

His mother was nothing short of a good woman, she taught his son to do great things—respect elders, women, and children alike, offer up his seat to those who needed it more than him, never pray upon someone's downfall no matter how hard they made his life. Each and every time he comes across your presence, he closes his eyes and mentally apologizes to his mother.

Your being insinuates such hatred within him. The way you arose to popularity out of nowhere due to what? Daddy's money? Your looks that earned you sexiest woman alive four years in a row? He wasn't accepting that 'model starting their own company' bullshit, not that he didn't believe one couldn't, just not you.

He recalls the very first moment he met you, three years ago when you made his life hell. 'Japan's Top Model, L/n Y/n, announces her official clothing line.' Who knew a simple headline could turn his future upside down? At the time, he'd only heard of you once or twice over a news article or a random scandal that just so happened to sneak into his algorithm. But this was different, it effected him in every way possible.

Suddenly, he has competition. 'LVS' stocks had reached a pinnacle point within just a few weeks of launching, he'd never seen those abbreviations before, the next, his own business was constantly being compared to by this new threatening company. All things after that basically consisted of Nanami fighting for his top spot. You can't even describe how upset he was when he first met you. A beautiful woman, buttering up the chairman into letting you attend the business meetings that he [Nanami] went to, pretty tits bouncing when introducing yourself to the other members of the council, and that gleam of something in your eye when you finally met with Nanami.

"So you're the one hogging No. 1?"

He doesn't give a damn how many of the other pervs fell for your charm, to him, you were the devil in disguise.

Nanami Kento despised you with every fibre of his person. Even at this formal event.

"Sexiest woman alive"? Damn right you were. He can see how easily the others fell for you, if he didn't have his head screwed on tight, he would've been the next one to take you in the office.

That black sleeveless maxi dress kept him on his toes the entire night, curves and assets prominent. The way you held your glass of sparkling rosé, chatting it up with whoever that unfortunate soul was that thought they would get you in their bed after this was all over. Nanami held his own drink, a good amount of scotch that'd get him through the remainder of the event without bashing someone's head in. He's trying to listen to his colleague brag about his latest product of his work that's been selling well, but you being in his line of sight smiling and giggling seemed way more appealing.

In no way is Nanami a man who occupied himself with women, until he found a good place to settle and retire, a relationship didn't have any room in his life. To the best of his abilities, he ignores the now reciprocated exchange of stares, only sipping from the modern glass whenever he felt he needed the extra loosening.

And loose he was.

You look good. Too good. He turned his head to avoid indulging, not with the woman who's downfall he's prayed upon. Though it's far too late because that scotch is getting it's moneys worth having already downed three glasses and bringing him closer and closer to the woman he claimed he loathed.

His compliments were unlike anything he's ever thought of you. "You look stunning tonight." "Your stylist did an amazing job." "The pictures do you no justice." Drunk words are sober thoughts as they say. His eyes were telling more than his words, he wanted you bad.

Compared to any other elderly male he knew what to say to have you feel won over, even if you were well aware of his hatred towards you. So.. though it was just for a night, you returned the favor. Addressing his compliments with your own, insisting that the media makes such false claims about his person, feeling him up, and eventually dragging him to the bathroom to show him exactly how you shot to the top.

"You minx." He hisses as your kisses trail lower from his jaw. "Oh? What happened to all that talk you were doing?" You effortlessly tug his tie off, allowing it to hang from his neck. "Do you do this with every man you want to surpass?" He grits, fighting his natural urges to give in. "Very few, only the ones that act uppity and look good in a suit."

"Fuck... I hate you so much."

©2024 leafington dont steal please!! :)

[xxsabitoxx]

Never Mine | Geto x Reader Imagine +18

I've been thinking so heavily of Geto Suguru I'm not going to lie. I just love me some fucked up men who don't know how to ask for help and destroy themselves mentally until they destroy themselves physically too. Therefore, my brain has been conjuring up this idea for such a broken man.

The idea of knowing him since high school, watching as he slowly turns in on himself when he realizes how strong Satoru is getting. How he feels the need to consume more and more even though his body is steadily beginning to reject it. Thinking nobody else notices his steady downfall until you're knocking on his door one night.

He opens the door only because you threaten to break it down if he doesn't. Knowing you the way he does, he knows there is a promise behind your threat, and getting a new door would genuinely be such an inconvenient hassle. So he stands before you, no time to try and put up his façade of being fine as he looks at you with his long hair disheveled and eyebags that are so prominent it makes you gasp.

Suguru is alarmed as your hands immediately move to hold his face, your eyes scanning him with nothing but concern. He expected some sort of pity, the very reason he's tried to hide his struggles for so long. But when he sees your eyes well, nothing but sadness and concern in them, he finds himself breaking down as well. The silence speaks for itself as you let yourself in, shutting his door with a soft click and locking it because of Satoru's habit of barging in.

Suguru sitting on the edge of his bed as you kneel before him, his head feels far too heavy to hold up at that point in time. So you kneel on the floor before him, looking up at him and whispering softly. "Why have you been burdening yourself like this, Suguru?" He doesn't have an answer for you, his lack of response makes you stand up straight and reach for his face again. This time, you hold his head up for him, thumb gingerly brushing the tears he didn't even know he had begun to shed. "Suguru..." your tone is heartbreakingly soft.

You yourself don't quite know how to approach the situation, but you know you need to be there with him. It's a risky move, one that could go horribly wrong given the circumstances but you press your lips to his, praying your kiss conveys what you are trying to say. To your shock, it seems to work. Suguru's arms are snaking around your waist, pulling you closer so you can't move away. The kiss grows in intensity, his hands sneaking under your shirt to further convey what he desires most. You give it to him, both shedding your clothes until there is nothing left to keep you apart.

He's pliant under your touch, letting you straddle his hips and touch him however you please. His hips grow relentless as your lips suction to his neck and leave various bruises. His hands wander where ever he can reach, caressing your skin until you do something that earns a strangled moan. Dull nails digging into your skin and leaving scratches as you dissolve him into a puddle of mush. The physical act of love eases his pain for a while. The warm embrace of your body fills him with heat, stretching all the way to his broken soul.

For the first time in a long time, Suguru can think clearly as you lay beside him. His chest rising and falling in rhythm with yours, the sheets are a crumpled mess piled at the bottom of the bed, it nearly kills him to sit up and grab them, draping them over your naked bodies as you settle into a quiet peace. It solved nothing, but at least for that night, he can forget about some of his struggles and feel the love you had been trying to hard to convey to him.

In the end, you know he is a man that cannot be saved. No matter how strong your love is, no matter how dutifully you stand by him, his soul was not meant to be yours. It would get away from you, no matter how fast you chased it. It would leave you, no matter how desperately you clung to it. Geto Suguru was never and would never be yours, no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself he was.

[sunboki]

You and Han Jisung are the ultimate best friends. While he’s busy nerding away, you’re filling him in on the latest and greatest drama. That’s until he brings up crushes. And I mean, what’re you supposed to say when he asks you that? It’s not like Jisung’s your crush… right?

📓 » Han Jisung x f. reader

GENRE┊non idol au, friends to lovers, (kinda) enemies to lovers, two idiots being oblivious, fake relationship au, highschool au, angst, fluff, slowburn

WORD COUNT┊5.1k words

PLAYLIST

WARNINGS┊profanity, lack of communication, childish pettiness, stupidity at insane levels

AUG’S NOTES┊valentine’s day with ji :(( take this as my tribute to hurting my own feelings with this fic 😭

THE BOYFRIEND STATUS TAGLIST — CLOSED

The first night of your downfall all started in mid-January.

All was well and had been going well, until it wasn’t.

.

.

.

You’ve known Han Jisung since second grade, starting with having to apologize for knocking over his castle and him proceeding to cry even louder in the sandbox, snotty in his red and white striped shirt.

You swear that shirt is still in his closet.

And when he was wimping away in a corner, you were the one that got him out of his shell. To this day you’re convinced you’re the first person to ever witness the true Han Jisung, who starts slapping things when he laughs really hard, who gets overly competitive during board games, who keeps hundreds of mind-blowing tracks he’s produced to himself, and who (you wouldn’t admit it) has one of the prettiest smiles in the world.

Freshman year of high school you met Jisung again in your Geography class.

Initially, it took you a moment to recognize his face, having changed quite a bit over the years. And certainly not a bad kind of change. Although, his nerdy personality was all the assurance you needed to figure out it was him, apart from that he switched to contacts, grew his hair out more, and looked, y’know, “older.”

Older as in: what happened to you? ..Why are you so attractive?

But you won’t get too far into that.

Through the years he tutored you. Jisung had a knack for studying since day one, and despite occasionally looking like he could pass as a dropout (usually the week before finals), no one else could maintain better grades than him.

So, on a night both you and Jisung were slouched over your desk, procrastinating school work by rating people at school from most to least kissable, he turns to you, face halfway illuminated by your lamp.

“Do you like anyone?” Your boba-eyed friend asks while you aimlessly scroll through your camera roll in search of the photo you’d been talking about, mumbling a quiet “of course” in response.

Jisung makes an unconvinced noise and clasps his hands together, leaning forward.

“No like, like like anybody.”

Finally escaping your ‘rating people’s kissing-capabilities’ headspace and now entering into your ‘is this the question i think it is?’ one, you wipe your sweaty palms on your jeans.

It’s a strange question, not a Jisung-question, and you find yourself growing increasingly nervous the longer he stares at you.

You’ve never even thought about it really, so why are you so sweaty? Why does your heart feel as if it may just beat out of your chest, why is your mouth so dry?

Questions.

Clearing your throat and secretly praying it didn’t give away your piling anxiety, you feign a roll of your eyes, tapping your fingernail on the cool desk.

God, why are you so nervous?

“Um, nobody, why?” You retort, ignoring the scrutinizing squint of his eyes watching you.

It’s never like this. You’re the one that teases, gets him all shy, stumbling over his words. So now you suddenly feel like Jerry and he’s Tom.

Abnormal.

“C’mon, there has to be someone you think is cute,” He whines, and before you can stop it one word smacks you upside the head.

You.

“It’s Minho!” You shout, hurried and barely audible as if trying to tune out your inner panic.

Han looks stunned.

Han as in best friend, not crush. Right.

What were you thinking?

“..Min.. Minho?” He phrases slowly, evidently surprised.

Being completely honest, you’re just as surprised as he is. Minho is attractive, sure, but never in your life did you consider him like that.

Oh how you wished you could erase all of this from ever happening.

It doesn’t make sense. Because it’s not like you’re into Jisung. Or are you?

Nope. Nuh-uh. You were just caught off guard and unprepared. Not to mention it was an unexpected question, that’s all.

Fuck.

You like Jisung. There’s no point of lying to yourself anymore. From the start of seeing him again, those “friendly” gestures weren’t friendly anymore, they were intentional, pursuing. Walking from class to class together, constantly checking your texts, meeting his eyes only to smile like fools.

“Yep. Minho. That’s the guy,” Cutting each sentence shorter than the last, you nod fervently, avoiding his gaze.

Both soaking in utterly hellish silence, the tension was likely seeping through the cracks in your door at this rate.

He really shouldn’t have ever brought this up, and you shouldn’t have said Minho. So on the bright side, at least you’re both at fault here in the grand scheme of things.

“..Alright then.” He shrugs and goes back to writing down notes, ignoring how the room feels a hundred degrees hotter and that every inch of your soul is drenched in a cold sweat, plagued with the situation you landed yourself in.

What has gotten into you?

Why Minho was the first name you said couldn’t be explained, and, with your amazing fortune, Minho happened to be Jisung’s friend in their shared engineering program.

Any name. You could’ve said any name.

Great.

“Psst!” You hiss, lingering behind the door, waiting for your victim to finally finish his day-long conversation with Mr. Hong.

Said victim (a.k.a Minho) delivering a venomous glare from the corner of his eye, you gesture for him to come nearer (much to his obvious dislike) once the coast had cleared. Thankfully, the classroom was a distance from Jisung’s, providing ample time to strike your plan before they joined sixth period together.

A plan that had been devised throughout the many hours you spent sleeplessly investigating your ceiling last night.

“I need your help.”

Wait for it. Here comes the questions.

“Is this about Jisung?”

Before you can open your mouth, he cuts you off.

“You got in trouble again, didn’t you?”

You sigh.

“I-“

“Are you pregnant?”

“SHUT— up.” Grabbing a strong hold onto your one opportunity to speak, you clamber both him and yourself into the nearest seat, dreading this experience the longer Minho stares daggers into your soul.

The idea is a stretch, but if the boy in front of you cooperates, at least a few bases might get covered.

“Minho, I need your help with Jisung.”

Anticipatory eyebrows (looking freaky similar to a cat) urge you further.

“Alright, first things first,” You huff, fishing in your bag prior to sliding the notebook in front of him. His eyes widen, breathing an esteemed “wow” upon reading each line.

“Rules For Our Fake Relationship”, The title reads in messy sharpie marker. A silly, first-grade clique idea, although, if wielded correctly, could very easily quell your.. “problem” for a bit while you brainstormed the next step.

Problem being, how can I make sure, at all costs, my best friend doesn’t know I’m in love with him?

“You really thought this one through, huh.”

“I do what I have to.” Cracking your knuckles and stretching your neck, you ignore Minho’s judgemental eyeball and begin setting down some basic rules.

#1 Under no circumstances should we ever kiss.

He seems to whole-heartedly agree on that one, pretty much gagging at the thought.

#2 No one but us is allowed to know this is fake.

The rest is history, so by the time you’ve reached twenty and he adds a “No acting lovey-dovey around me” rule, you realize you might as well make this a “Rules For Worst Enemies” list instead.

But just as you hand him the pen, awaiting his signature with an eager gaze, he deflates, popping the cap back on much to your displeasure.

“Before I sign my life away to your Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, you have to promise me something.”

“..Okay.”

Please don’t say your credit card, please don’t say your credit card please don’t say your credit ca-

“No matter how long this,” he gestures to your page-full of rules, “lasts, you have to find a way to explain yourself to him before Valentine’s Day, deal?”

Valentine’s day gives you a full two weeks to keep up your act, and as much as you want to deny and tell him that would technically break Rule #2, you doubt he’ll agree any other way. It’s Minho for goodness sake, you could throw a brick at his head and he’d wake up in the hospital the next day still remembering to feed his cats.

You’ll make an excuse.. or something like that.

Fine.

“Deal.”

Finally signing the bottom of the notebook paper, the bell rings for your next class to begin and your hand has already started to cramp horribly, a telltale sign your job here is done.

Stashing the illegitimate document in your bag and parting in opposite directions, your movements halt when Minho shouts your name, his flannel-clad form sporting a mildly smug grin.

“Hey! Don’t fall in love with me, okay?” He yells, and you make a disgusted face before both erupting into laughter.

After a rather ungrateful attempt of explaining your tardiness to English class, you drop your backpack down beside your desk, notifications buzzing with texts Jisung sent earlier today asking about where you want to sit for lunch tomorrow and your weekly tutoring sessions amongst other things.

A frown tugged at your lips.

You shouldn’t have lied, really really shouldn't have. So deep inside you hope; pray this’ll be your solution.

Fuck.

Jisung likes you.

Scratch that, he’s liked you. Liked you ever since fifth grade, when he skinned his knee wrecking his favorite captain america bicycle and you patched him up with multiple superhero bandaids.

So when he finds out it’s Minho you’re interested in, Lee Minho who in a billion years he didn’t expect you to be interested in, he’s astonished.

Because it’s not every day your best friend who you’ve been harboring the fattest crush on tells you she’s interested in another guy, especially not your other good friend, so he feels entitled to feeling a tad bit upset.

It’s not your fault and he knows it. You don’t know he likes you because he’s too much of a coward to say anything, do anything.

But somehow, in some majestic, all-knowing way, he wishes you had said his name instead.

Whether it was Summer Camp in middle school or all those times he’d sat behind you in Algebra just to talk to you, it was inevitable. Because before either of you knew it, he was falling in love, and apparently you were falling in love too; with someone else.

“Alright, and? Are you gonna tell me, y’know, why you like her?”

Awaiting the dismissal bell, he folded, desperately needing some kind of assurance. First person he usually went to was you, but that wasn’t possible now, since it’s not like he could simply run up to you and shout out his feelings, could he?

Duh, of course he could. Which is another reason why he won’t, and why he doubts he ever will.

Hell, merely talking to you on the phone whenever Minho passes by amounts to a mini heart-attack.

Instead, Seo Changbin stepped in, and in the midst of a barely occupied cafe, Han Jisung found himself spilling his guts. Spilling his guts as in: venting and brainwashing himself into thinking he could win you over.

“I mean, everything.”

His friend makes a hopeless sort of sound, head resting on his hand.

“She’s like…” Han forks a bit of the cheesecake, Changbin’s expression spurring his cynical seat-mate to continue.

“Cheesecake.”

The level-headed of the two chokes on his drink.

“..Cheese– Cheesecake?”

Han affirmatively nods. “And I love Cheesecake.”

Changbin rises from the table with a frantic Jisung in tow, pleading for his friend to hear him out.

“Look! Look wait, Changbin please-“

He swore the man’s eye twitched.

Although, they’ve known each other for four years, and he was quick thinking up a solution.

“I’ll work out with you for a month.”

He’s never seen a man sit himself down faster.

And as a result, their two hours of utterly senseless talk turned into short-lived (yet greatly appreciated) relief, filled with bits and pieces of advice granted by the matchmaker (Seo Changbin) himself. Plus, he made a good point in advocating you weren’t going out with Minho yet, right? Meaning, despite the possibility being sparse, he had a 1% on his side.

Rain pelted the campus upon his exit, the boy clambering his hood over his head, stepping a mere foot into the watery terrain for a text to vibrate his phone.

Usually he’d ignore it, but that was before he saw the number.

You.

Han stopped dead in his tracks, hoodie slipping off his head in the process—standing there, assailing droplets drenching his form, device clutched in a numb grasp.

Guess the relief wasn’t the only thing short-lived.

Y/N : You’ll never guess what happened Ji!! Minho asked me out!

Something about Jisung is different recently. You’re not sure if it’s an effect of your (fake) relationship, but he’s just.. different.

Distant.

Perhaps you should’ve expected it. This is the first time you’ve ever been in a relationship while being friends with Jisung, and the entire point of this after all is to keep your mushy feelings hidden.

But his entire “cold” persona was starting to get under your skin.

Yesterday he’d completely ditched you to talk to Chan, a fellow producer in the same class as Jisung which, might you add, never happened.

In fact, there was a time that your best friend had gotten so immersed in a conversation he slammed right into a pole. He still has a scar on his nose from it.

More so, a few months ago, leaning against the sink in his dorm the day after midterms when you’d be stressing and obsessing over precalculus, he reached up, cupped your cheek in a hand and rubbed his thumb along your skin.

..And you tumbled head first into those silly feelings the “he’s just a friend” Y/n had locked away and thrown out the key to.

Little did you know Jisung had a spare key all along.

“Eyelash,” He had said, but in your pounding eardrums the comment sounded more like a whisper, an invitation.

That night you lay in bed, trying incessantly to fall asleep to no avail, because every time you close your eyes the scene ran on replay, except in your fairytale he had leaned forward and kissed you—

A car alarm going off outside your window knocks your daydream awry, ushering you to give up on peaceful slumber after the three-hour trial period.

So why were you upset? You wanted this; you wanted to stay as friends out of the fear he didn’t feel the same—even more so that your friendship would dissipate along with it.

Easy.

It didn’t feel fair. You felt like, even though Jisung didn’t have any romantic intentions with you, you were technically (unintentionally) assigning his position as the third wheel without so much as a single vote.

And it didn’t feel fair, because a possibility remained.

A possibility that could mean Jisung liked you, and if that were the case, your efforts, not to mention your mind, would officially drift itself into a never ending orbit.

Albeit amongst your mental warfare, school ran right on schedule, blind to the infinitely deep shithole you had dug (and wished to bury) yourself in.

Thursday’s schedule consisted of a main topic.

Senior prom.

According to your firsthand accounts, prom in high school is either the best or the worst school event in the history of events.

The popular girls stick to tiny maxi dresses with overly tall heels and massive hoop earrings—granted, you don’t blame them for the dress, they’ve got snatched bodies, but sometimes (most of the time) the glitz and glam is a lot on the eyes.

Jocks will show up in cargo’s or dress pants thinking they’re the shit while their attire doesn’t even cut it when you look at their weekly exchange of a girlfriend, but hey, that’s high school.

If you were talking about yourself, you’d say prom was, well, prom. Not horrible, not amazing either.

Freshman year you spent way too much time rewatching “To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before” and filling your nights treating the approaching occasion like a sacred holiday. Sophomore year you began to lose interest, and as for Junior year, you nearly forgot it existed.

The more you thought about it though, Jisung would honestly rock a pair of heels.

Anyway, that’s besides the point.

Senior year, this year, there was a change in your rotation. Change, as in, big change. A what-about-Jisung-while-Minho’s-in-the-picture change.

It’s not like you were genuinely dating Minho, yet your wack job of a situation kept you from telling your best friend (crush) who is deliberately avoiding you at the moment, the truth.

Never in your life did you think you’d string yourself into something like this. That Han Jisung, that snotty-nosed boy, would be a constant reason for your incessant headaches, occupying every expanse of your mind on a continuous loop.

And by chance, fate of some kind, you finally run into the runaway culprit, tagging along with Changbin after the lunch break he normally spent with you.

Oh how the tables have turned.

So when the boy expertly dodges your first attempt to communicate, you don’t let him go, unwilling to let another unread message slip past without sparing a word.

“Jisung- wait.”

He turns to you, lips drawn in that straight line that always forms when he’s nervous.

Hundreds of possible questions you could ask in this moment, minimal time.

“Are you.. going to the prom?”

What kind of question is that you dumbass.

Fixating you with an equally incredulous stare, he tips his head slightly, a mocking, humorless chuckle following.

“Um, yeah?”

What. The. Fuck.

Maybe it’s the way he phrased his words, his cocky attitude when responding that irked your nerves. Regarding you like you’re three years old.

And maybe that’s your flaw, feeling like you’re supposed to be the one sending him beet red instead, used to that comforting casualness, your comforting casualness.

Together.

You wrinkle your nose, ripping your hand from his sleeve like you were stung.

Jisung seemed to feel it too, although only you could tell.

“Oh.. okay. I’m going with Minho, my- boyfriend, so don't worry about me!”

Aw shit, now you’re just embarrassing yourself. Shut up and leave, girl.

Jesus, why do you feel like crying?

You’d never sprinted off faster, long abandoning sympathizing with the now jerk-face Jisung and certainly trying to abandon the two days separating prom’s date and the three from Valentines, otherwise, your explanation deadline.

Talk about pressure.

Nonetheless, shopping for something couple-clique was hell. After never anticipating you’d be shopping for two in the first place, simply finding a flattering color proved itself challenging.

Minho was ungodly picky, and you refused to wear what this lunatic deemed prom-worthy. Also, simultaneously trying your hardest to welcome whatever prom season was (an occasion that felt disgustingly uncomfortable) and staying awake to tirelessly plan on how you would behave seeing Han there left no room for relaxing.

Oh, and telling him everything before Valentines too, adding another sleepless night to your February calendar.

Insomnia much?

“Yah! The tie is what makes us look like a couple!” You groan, pressing the dark green bow tie to his shirt while his grabby hands attempt at prying you off.

February 12th arrived dangerously fast, to the point you managed to snag a somewhat-similar tie and dress shade at the last minute, a tie of which you were straining to attach to Minho while standing in an adjacent room to the packed auditorium.

He childishly whines, complaining that it’s too much before all of a sudden the door springs open, figure standing frozen in the entrance.

A figure none other than Jisung.

Best part? Your hands are pressed to Minho’s chest, stuck in a rather compromising position now that you mention it.

“Oh— sorry, um,” He steps back, frantically closing the door in his wake.

This is what you wanted though, isn’t it? Payback for how rude he’d been, for him to believe you were dating Minho, that you weren’t remotely interested in him.

Regardless, it feels like betrayal.

Your companion’s mildly concerned look speaks your mind.

In the midst of your mental tormenting session however, Minho slammed his hip into the side of the door while leaving, gritting out a hushed curse.

“Want me to kiss it for you?” You automatically tease, puckering up your lips in an attempt to block out the voice in your head calling you heartless.

Well, it’s not like Jisung likes you. The only feelings you’re hurting here are yours.

“I. Would. Rather. Die.” He retaliates, nose scrunched while nursing the wound.

‘What a sweetheart’ you want to call back, but the weight on your chest seals your lips shut, and with a nervous nod you stiffly head toward the opening hall.

Something to blame. Right about now, you need something to blame that would at least provide some breathing room considering the blasting of a bass shaking the floor and just how many people are crammed in here.

Everything feels too tight, too much. Minho’s got a loose hold on your hand to keep up the act, but for who? You can’t spot Jisung anywhere.

The fake boyfriend to your side caught on relatively early, sending you a troubled expression you mirror back.

An hour in and there was no enjoying yourself, no laughing and slipping drinks somebody stole from their parents, no dancing around or sending the same compliment to seventy girls on repeat.

Han wasn’t here even after he had told you (asshole-like) he’d come. The entire reason you went these lengths.

Amidst your frustration, you spot a man in the crowd.

Aha.

Chan.

I’m not looking for Jisung I’m not looking for Jisung I’m not looking for Jisung—

“Where’s Jisung?”

You’re kidding.

Chan narrows his eyes, giving your wavering, obviously upset frame a once over.

“Jisung? He dropped off something for Felix. Didn’t he tell you he wasn’t coming?”

Again, you’re kidding.

What a liar.

And maybe you shouldn't have yourself get so mad. Jisung didn’t even know the half of it, nonetheless how far you’ve gone to secure his suspicions were out of your hair.

But you did go that far, and to think he didn’t show up after all left your tribulations useless.

Calm down, the sensible Y/n would scold.

This wasn’t the sensible Y/n.

Racing from the auditorium to the neighboring apartment complex a block or so away, you utilize the extra key he’d given to you, bursting through the door while ripping off your gloves and kicking off your mud-stained heels along the way.

Han spins around, clad in regular clothes—somewhat regular clothes apart from how incredible he looks—with his biceps straining against the sleeves of his t-shirt, glasses adorning his face, plate of leftovers in hand.

He’s been working out recently, or maybe the majority of the Jisung you’d seen wore hoodies and baggy tees.

You’ll thank whoever got him to the gym later. Presently, number one is Jisung. You and Minho can be dealt with afterward.

“Look, I know you really don’t want to hear this right now, but Minho and I broke up and—“

The words sound like vomit on your tongue, especially from the look Jisung gives you in return.

Fake, It’s all fake. Yet, it feels so real. Yes, you’re still mad, but it’s Jisung, and who are you to deny you still aren’t into him.

You don’t have to be sensible to know that.

“So?”

So? He asks. This Jisung asks, not the one who would’ve, at the drop of a hat, asked if you were alright, asked if you needed anything like a friend does. This is cocky Jisung, jerk-face Jisung.

You’re spoiled with the old Jisung, were spoiled.

But this isn’t him, this is somebody else.

Your frustration levels might breach out of your ears at this rate.

“Don’t look at me like that,” He scoffs, carding a hand through soft strands of hair. “I’m not Minho. I’m not someone you can drag along just for the fun of it, alright?”

Who are you?

Wildly, you wrack your brain for any plausible explanation.

“What- What do you mean drag you along? I would never—”

“Then why?!” He cries, slamming the plate against the table hard enough you notice a crack wedged on the side.

Breaking point.

Come to think of it, this is the first time you’ve ever heard Jisung yell.

What felt to be months and months on end of this lying and stifling came out to this, huh.

Screw it.

“Because! Because I like you, no, I love you Jisung, I love you so fucking much it kills me! Minho and I were fake! I set up all this bullshit just because I was scared of what we have disappearing, can’t you understand that?!”

He’s seething; fat, crocodile tears dotting his waterline. And you stand there pathetically, waiting to hear it, hear something.

“Turn around.”

Huh?

He raises his eyebrows expectantly, and you slowly do as told, awkwardly shuffling around till your back faces him.

His fingers sift across your back, chills spreading along your skin.

“You’ve been uncomfortable all night, haven’t you? Why didn’t you tell Min— Tell me?” He grumbles, unzipping the back of your dress and simultaneously allowing much needed air to re-enter your lungs.

You don’t need to respond for him to know, another of the many things you’ve fallen for when it comes to Jisung.

Although, another reason added to that list would be his arms wrapping around your waist, cozying to your back. And another when you shift around, your own arms slipping to his neck, savoring a hug you hadn’t realized how horribly you missed.

“Can you go back to being just Y/n and not Minho’s fake girlfriend?” He mutters, head buried in your neck.

“Yeah yeah.” You respond, voice wavering the longer you stay pressed in his embrace.

Jisung pulls back slightly, studying your face.

“Can I…” He begins trailing off, eyes suddenly laser-focused on your face.

A roaring pit of deja vu swallows you whole.

His thumb does that, that thing again. That careful caress on your cheek, that close proximity.

“Eyelash.”

Everything feels like it’s on loop.

Only difference is when he begins to lean forward, and you swear it’s your imagination when he pulls the glasses off his face, lips barely ghosting over yours.

“Can I kiss you, please?” His tone slightly breathless, you don’t have to say a word by the way you’re looking at him for Jisung to take initiative.

Yet, his feather-light peck to your forehead catches you off guard, preparing to laugh before a careful hand slips to hold your neck, maneuvering your face into a kiss you’re certain you’ll remember.

Jisung, whom, quite frankly, squealed every time the two main characters confessed their love to each other, who was emotional and fragile, was kissing you.

He kisses you, just like that stupid fantasy.

It’s messy, inexperienced, but it’s Jisung. That’s enough.

And then, even worse for your sanity, his hands slip beneath your thighs to pick you up—an action that wouldn’t have been this detrimental if he hadn’t gained so much muscle recently—but it does.

Basically breathing him in, you’re slow to separate, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip, sending chills down your spine.

Your nerves are on fire.

If anything, the world could burn and you’re certain you wouldn’t even notice, not when Jisung had you caged between his arms on the bar stool, positively enamored with every slight huff and gasp of air, the squeezing grip you had on his arms.

Ignorant to the point you forgot about his gym-partner (likely responsible for helping Jisung grow muscle, you’d thank him later for that) otherwise roommate who wouldn’t appreciate his best friend hogging in the kitchen.

Luckily, it only took the clattering of keys lodging into the doorknob to pull you two off of each other, scrambling to grab clothing while you raced to the bathroom, slamming the door behind you.

Mere seconds after your hasty escape does the man, the myth, and the legend walk in, duffle bag slung over his shoulder.

Jisung awkwardly grins, leaning back on the island as if you hadn’t just been sitting there, all pretty and perfect.

Han had always thought Changbin would be some type of dog in his past life—maybe a Rottweiler. And by the way he seemed to practically smell something was up, he was certain of it.

“Did I.. walk in on something?”

Nearly slipping half-way through his reply, Jisung (non)chalantly wiped a bout of sweat from his hairline.

“Nope! Just uh.. organizing?”

He would get weeks of shit if anyone caught on, nonetheless his roommate.

Instead of interrogating him further, Changbin grunted, bending down to pick up what the younger thought to be a piece of trash, only for one of your heels to be pinched between his fingertips, expression reading: “Seriously? Organizing?”

Color draining from his face, Jisung humorlessly chuckled, likely sweating enough to fill the Atlantic ocean.

“Did I ever tell you about my secret life as a drag queen?”

Hastily snatching the shoe away at the older boy’s face palm, his face flushing ten thousand degrees upon the cuff to the shoulder he received.

“Y/n?” His friend called loudly, met with your pitiful “here…” from the bathroom and a smug giggle from an amused gym-rat.

Yeah. Shit for weeks.

“Do you think Minho’s a good kisser?” Jisung piques, sprawled out on the couch with a bag of potato chips in hand.

The first official night of your relationship with Han started in mid-February. Tonight, you planned a movie date.

You, almost suffocating from how fast you inhaled, threw a not-so-kind slipper at him, the boy screaming avidly in response.

Through a fake relationship, pettiness, and a sad attempt at making-out, in a sense, you did explain yourself.

Hah. Suck it Minho.

“Hey! I’m just asking!”

sunboki, may 2022 ©

FIC TAGLIST. @liknws @itshannjisung @spearbinnie0327 @manuosorioh @dearly-somber @thefangirloncrack @ivydoesit23 @thisrandomgoofy15 @thisisnotjacinta @palindrome969 @shycreationdreamland @j-oneseungz @hyperpixie @eyearebee @cupidcures @gumiess @loxgirl2004

[nyxypoo]

replacing it

[leclerc-s]

suffering since forever

series masterlist

natalia ruiz praying for all of you because at least i like my third wheel

arthur leclerc that's because joris has been stuck with you two since before you were couple

fernando alonso you can say it, since before they were sleeping together.

carlos sainz it's not like joris has a choice.

lewis hamilton and the rest of you do?

max jones-verstappen we don't. we do it subconsciously.

daphne jones-ricciardo like that makes it any better max.

rhys jones i bet it hurt when jorris got that wag of the year trophy and you didn't.

natalia ruiz who let the child speak?

isabella perez she says that because she's hurt.

natalia ruiz i'm not hurt by the 12 year old.

rhys jones I'M 15!!

lance stroll yet you act like you're 12

rhys jones i know your ass isn't talking esteban ocon anyone ever tell you that you're scary? rhys jones never to my face.

zoya torres joris doesn't deserve this heat. let's talk about freya's 3rd wheeling habit.

freya vettel shut your trap torres.

alex albon days like this make me glad that george and carmen love to go on double dates so we don't get stuck with any of you.

george russell and that's because i don't want to get stuck with them.

dulce perez fuck you guys we're delights.

pato o'ward i can't believe i ever thought you people were cool.

daniel jones-ricciardo WE'RE COOL!!

pato o'ward the only cool thing about you is your wife.

penelope trevino REAL!!

gael perez i think pato almost shit his pants when he learned daphne was in this group chat.

pato o'ward IT'S DAPHNE FUCKING JONES, WEY! HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO NOT FREAK OUT?

daniel jones-ricciardo *jones-ricciardo!!

pato o'ward i couldn't care less bitchiardo! i will forever pray for your downfall so i can marry your wife instead.

isabella perez he's so real for that. HURRY UP RICCIARDO THE REST OF US ARE WAITING!!

daniel jones-ricciardo if i ever die let if be known that one of you bitches was behind my death.

daphne jones-ricciardo you people are unbelievable.

natalia ruiz i'll be first in line. i've been waiting for his downfall for the longest time.

daniel jones-ricciardo

this is all your fault.

whatever it is you think i did i swear it was arthur.

charles what did you do?

nothing! what’s wrong amour?

i have a baby screaming for 'unca jo' bring him back now.

ma cherie, i wish i could but i have a race.

okay? send joris and you stay in china.

we only need unca jo, notre petite étoile doesn't need her papa. (our little star)

i know that was a joke but it still hurt. don't tell me that!

you still have a few years left until she's a teenager.

ne pouvons-nous pas avoir cette conversation? je ne suis pas prêt pour ça (can we not have this conversation? i'm not ready for that)

seriously charles ask joris to call me, even zoya's music isn't helping.

i'll tell him to call. just come to china.

i will hop on the first flight to china, do not joke about that.

max said he's sending the jet to pick you up.

god bless sophie for her son.

not jos?

never that man.

natalia_ruiz posted new stories

unseen photo of baby jewel and her 'unca jo' 📸 - zoya because my fiancé and daughter have been stolen by his best friend. and another unseen photo but this time it's pre-baby jewel, joris has been a third wheel since day 1!

taglist: @burningcupcakefire @arkhammaid @applopie @sunflower-golden-vol6 @lorarri @bb-swift @thewannabewriter @mypage-myfandoms @stopeatread @hobiismyhopeu @lilsiz @alessioayla @niniluvsainz @au-ghosttype @six-call @justtprachisblog @nichmeddar @landonorizzz @unluckyyoshi @cool-ultra-nerd @kami10471633 @1nt3rnetgf @fernandoswarcrimes @arieltwvdtohamflash @brekkers-whore @natcha888 @camdensreg @mycenterfold @dear-fifi @georgeparisole @dan3avocado @nikfigueiredo @namgification @jensonsonlybutton @weekendlusting @trouble-sistar @lesliiieeeee @leclercsluv @33-81 @theseus-jpg @sarah-thatstings-ann @minmira95 @casperlikej @formulaonebuff @hopenshaw @ijustgomessitupx @hwalllllllelujah @doodlehunz @prongsvault

¡leclerc-s speaks! this one is a more wholesome one but it's still got it's sense of humor. can you tell i'm still watching greys?

¡disclaimer! this is in no way making assumptions about the people involved in this story, this is all fake. it is a fanfiction please don't take any of what is said seriously. this is all for entertainment purposes and as a creative outlet for me. enjoy!