runningroadsfm

[runningroadsfm]

they  stood  there  for  a  second  longer  than  they  needed to,  her  hand  still  loosely  in  his,  the  night  pressing  in  around  them  like  it  was  waiting  to  see  who  would  move  first.  the  air  was  thick—sweet  and  rotten  at  the  same  time—and  somewhere  way  off  down  the  street  another  pyre  crackled  loud  enough  to  cut  through  the  silence.

inés  didn’t  pull  away,  not  right  away.  she  just  let  it  sit  between  them,  her  thumb  brushing  slow  against  the  back  of  his  hand  like  she  wasn’t  quite  ready  to  let  him go  either.  then  finally,  she  shifted,  fingers  slipping  free,  and  reached  for  the  door.  but  she  didn’t  open  it.

instead,  she  turned  her  head  just  enough  to  catch  his  eye,  a  small  tilt  of  her  chin  like  she  was  weighing  something—and  deciding  it  was  worth  saying.  “you  don’t  have  to  go  just  yet,”  she  said,  voice  low,  almost  a  little  rough  from  the  dust  in  the  air—or  maybe  just  from  the  weight  of  everything  unsaid  between  them.

her  hand  rested  on  the  door  handle,  casual,  like  she  wasn’t  holding  her  breath  even  though  she  kind  of  was.

“if  you  want,”  she  added,  a  little  softer,  “you  can  come  in.”

she  didn’t  smile  when  she  said  it—there  was  something  too  raw  about  the  night  for  that—but  there  was  a  gentleness  in  her  face,  something  quieter  than  words.  not  a  test.  not  a  trap.  just…a  truth,  laid  bare  between  them.

the  kind  of  offer  you  didn’t  make  unless  you  meant  it.

behind  her,  the  apartment  had a  faint  sliver  of  light  bleeding  out  from  under  the  door  like  it  had  been waiting  too.

she  stayed  where  she  was,  hand  still  on  the  handle,  giving  him  the  choice—like  she  always  did.

whether  he  stayed  or  went,  she  wasn’t  going  to  shut  the  door  on  him.

not  now.

maybe  not  ever.

his  hand  slid  into  hers  and  she  didn’t  look  down—not  right  away.  just  held  it  like  it  was  something  meant  to  be  held,  like  it  belonged  there.  his  words  lingered  in  the  air  between  them,  that  soft  confession  he’d  let  slip  before  they  stood.  she didn’t  press  it.  didn’t  call  it  out  or  deflect.  just  gave  his  hand  the  smallest,  near-imperceptible  squeeze.

“then  i’m  glad  you  came,”  she  said  simply.

outside,  the  streets  were  thick  with  haze—sweet  rot  in  the  air  from  those  damn  mothman  offerings,  the  pyres  burning  in  the  distance  like  strange  stars.  but  she  didn’t  flinch.  she  didn’t  break  stride.  his  presence  beside  her  added  a  second  rhythm  to  her  movement—her  steps  still  quiet,  but  no  longer  alone.  his  hand  was  still  in  hers,  protective  but  not  possessive.  and  hers?  hers  wasn’t  letting  go.

after  a  moment,  when  the  silence  stretched  long  enough  to  become  something  of  its  own,  she  spoke  again—low  and  sure,  like  she  only  ever  said  what  mattered.  “you’re  not  just  extra  time,  owen.”

a  pause.  she  didn’t  look  at  him  when  she  said  it.  she  didn’t  need  to.  “you’re  the  part  i  look  forward  to.”

and  with  that,  she  led  him  into  the  dark—one  hand  in  his,  the  other  free  at  her  side,  always  ready.  because  inés  tejada  didn’t  need  protection.

but  she’d  walk  with  it  all  night  long.

[runningroadsfm]

his  hand  slid  into  hers  and  she  didn’t  look  down—not  right  away.  just  held  it  like  it  was  something  meant  to  be  held,  like  it  belonged  there.  his  words  lingered  in  the  air  between  them,  that  soft  confession  he’d  let  slip  before  they  stood.  she didn’t  press  it.  didn’t  call  it  out  or  deflect.  just  gave  his  hand  the  smallest,  near-imperceptible  squeeze.

“then  i’m  glad  you  came,”  she  said  simply.

outside,  the  streets  were  thick  with  haze—sweet  rot  in  the  air  from  those  damn  mothman  offerings,  the  pyres  burning  in  the  distance  like  strange  stars.  but  she  didn’t  flinch.  she  didn’t  break  stride.  his  presence  beside  her  added  a  second  rhythm  to  her  movement—her  steps  still  quiet,  but  no  longer  alone.  his  hand  was  still  in  hers,  protective  but  not  possessive.  and  hers?  hers  wasn’t  letting  go.

after  a  moment,  when  the  silence  stretched  long  enough  to  become  something  of  its  own,  she  spoke  again—low  and  sure,  like  she  only  ever  said  what  mattered.  “you’re  not  just  extra  time,  owen.”

a  pause.  she  didn’t  look  at  him  when  she  said  it.  she  didn’t  need  to.  “you’re  the  part  i  look  forward  to.”

and  with  that,  she  led  him  into  the  dark—one  hand  in  his,  the  other  free  at  her  side,  always  ready.  because  inés  tejada  didn’t  need  protection.

but  she’d  walk  with  it  all  night  long.

his  hand  turned  over  in  hers  and  the  rough  brush  of  his  fingertips  against  her  palm  caught  her  off  guard—not  because  of  the  gesture  itself,  but  because  of  how  genuine  it  was.  how  much  weight  it  carried  without  asking  anything  in  return.

inés  didn’t  pull  away  right  away.  she  let  the  silence  stretch  between  them,  let  him  have  that  space  without  rushing  to  fill  it.  she  wasn’t  a  woman  who  needed  to  be  told  what  things  meant—not  when  so  much  could  be  felt  in  the  pauses.

when  he  asked  about  the  mask,  her  eyes  flicked  toward  the  window  again.  the  glow  of  the  bonfires  outside  looked  even  sharper  now,  like  they  weren’t  just  burning—they  were  watching.

she’d  been  trying  to  ignore  the  tension  creeping  into  the  streets  these  last  few  days.  the  rituals,  the  strange  sounds  at  night,  the  way  the  air  seemed  heavier,  sweet with  something  rotting.

“i’ve  got  one,”  she  said  after  a  beat,  her  voice  low,  steady.  “been  keeping  it  close.”

a  pause.

“doesn’t  do  much  good  when  people  are  walking  around  pretending  this  is  all  normal.”

she  looked  back  at  him,  gaze  lingering.  there  was  concern  in  her  eyes,  but  not  fear—not  yet.  just  caution. thoughtfulness.  awareness.

then  came  the  offer.  and  that  was  different.

“you  can  walk  me  home,”  she  said,  quietly.  “if  you’re  not  too  tired  of  being  protector.”

a  small  breath  of  something  that  could’ve  been  a  smile crossed  her  lips,  fleeting.  not  teasing—just…  tender.

“not  sure  either  of  us  should  be  out  here  alone  tonight  anyway.”

she  stood  slowly,  tucking  her  satchel  strap  over  her  shoulder,  eyes  scanning  the  dark  corners  of  the  diner,  already  thinking  ahead.  calculating  routes.  watching  for  signs  in  the  flicker  of  red  light  outside.

but  when  her  gaze  returned  to  him,  there  was  something  calm  in  her  expression.  steadying.

“besides,”  she  said,  softer  now,  “maps  are  easier  to  read  when  you’re  not  walking  them  alone.”

she  put  her  hand  out,  a  gentle  offer  and  with  that,  she  waited—patient  as  ever,  giving  him  space  to  join  her,  no  rush  in  her  bones.  just  quiet  trust,  and  the  weight  of  the  night  ahead.

“and  you  don’t  need  to  let  go  this  time.  not  if  you  don’t  want  to.”

[runningroadsfm]

his  hand  turned  over  in  hers  and  the  rough  brush  of  his  fingertips  against  her  palm  caught  her  off  guard—not  because  of  the  gesture  itself,  but  because  of  how  genuine  it  was.  how  much  weight  it  carried  without  asking  anything  in  return.

inés  didn’t  pull  away  right  away.  she  let  the  silence  stretch  between  them,  let  him  have  that  space  without  rushing  to  fill  it.  she  wasn’t  a  woman  who  needed  to  be  told  what  things  meant—not  when  so  much  could  be  felt  in  the  pauses.

when  he  asked  about  the  mask,  her  eyes  flicked  toward  the  window  again.  the  glow  of  the  bonfires  outside  looked  even  sharper  now,  like  they  weren’t  just  burning—they  were  watching.

she’d  been  trying  to  ignore  the  tension  creeping  into  the  streets  these  last  few  days.  the  rituals,  the  strange  sounds  at  night,  the  way  the  air  seemed  heavier,  sweet with  something  rotting.

“i’ve  got  one,”  she  said  after  a  beat,  her  voice  low,  steady.  “been  keeping  it  close.”

a  pause.

“doesn’t  do  much  good  when  people  are  walking  around  pretending  this  is  all  normal.”

she  looked  back  at  him,  gaze  lingering.  there  was  concern  in  her  eyes,  but  not  fear—not  yet.  just  caution. thoughtfulness.  awareness.

then  came  the  offer.  and  that  was  different.

“you  can  walk  me  home,”  she  said,  quietly.  “if  you’re  not  too  tired  of  being  protector.”

a  small  breath  of  something  that  could’ve  been  a  smile crossed  her  lips,  fleeting.  not  teasing—just…  tender.

“not  sure  either  of  us  should  be  out  here  alone  tonight  anyway.”

she  stood  slowly,  tucking  her  satchel  strap  over  her  shoulder,  eyes  scanning  the  dark  corners  of  the  diner,  already  thinking  ahead.  calculating  routes.  watching  for  signs  in  the  flicker  of  red  light  outside.

but  when  her  gaze  returned  to  him,  there  was  something  calm  in  her  expression.  steadying.

“besides,”  she  said,  softer  now,  “maps  are  easier  to  read  when  you’re  not  walking  them  alone.”

she  put  her  hand  out,  a  gentle  offer  and  with  that,  she  waited—patient  as  ever,  giving  him  space  to  join  her,  no  rush  in  her  bones.  just  quiet  trust,  and  the  weight  of  the  night  ahead.

“and  you  don’t  need  to  let  go  this  time.  not  if  you  don’t  want  to.”

she  didn’t  interrupt. inés  just  watched  him,  like  she  was  holding  space  for  his  words,  not  picking  them  apart  or  tucking  them  into  boxes  to  analyze  later.  just  listening,  in  the  way  no  one  ever  really  does  anymore.  it  was  her  quiet  gift,  and  it  never  asked  anything  in  return.

his  words  landed  between  them  like  something  fragile.  she  didn’t  flinch.  didn’t  shift.  just  let  the  silence  settle  for  a  few  long  seconds  after  he  stopped  talking.

then—

“that’s  the  thing  about  dirty  hands,”  she  said  softly,  thumb  brushing  the  rim  of  her  mug.  “sometimes  they  stay  that  way  no  matter  how  hard  you  scrub.”

she  didn’t  say  it  like  she  was  guessing.  she  said  it  like  someone  who  knew.  who  had  scrubbed  until  her  skin  split.  who’d  learned  to  live  with  the  stain.

her  gaze  lifted  again,  steady  on  him—not  sharp,  not  pitying,  just  true.

“but  you  still  show  up.  and  that  says  more  than  clean  hands  ever  could.”

a  pause.

“and  for  the  record—you’re  not  a  book,  owen.  you’re  a  map.  one  of  those  old,  complicated  ones  with  burned  edges  and  places  no  one’s  dared  to  chart  yet.”

her  mouth  tugged  into  something  just  shy  of  a  smile,  dry  and  soft.

“i  just  read  slow.”

she  went  quiet  again,  her  own  eyes  drifting  toward  the  diner  window  and  the  flickering  glow  of  bonfires  outside,  casting  long,  distorted  shadows.

“you’re  not  alone  in  feeling  blind.”

the  words  came  out  quiet.  not  an  admission.  a  confession.

“some  days  it  feels  like  the  whole  world’s  gone  sideways,  and  we’re  just  trying  to  keep  our  people  breathing  long  enough  to  see  another  sunrise.”

her  fingers  curled  around  the  mug  again.

“so  if  it  helps,  you’re  not  the  only  one  who’s  walking  forward  without  knowing  where  the  ground  ends.”

she  looked  back  at  him,  eyes  soft  now—warmer  than  they’d  been  all  night.  she  let  her  hand  reach  forward  a  bit,  her  small  fingers  curling  around  his  knuckles  to  give  a  gentle  squeeze. 

“you  don’t  have  to  know  everything.  you  just  have  to  keep  going.”

and  that  was  all  she  said.

because  that’s  what  owen  needed.

not  saving.

just  someone  who  stayed.

[runningroadsfm]

she  didn’t  interrupt. inés  just  watched  him,  like  she  was  holding  space  for  his  words,  not  picking  them  apart  or  tucking  them  into  boxes  to  analyze  later.  just  listening,  in  the  way  no  one  ever  really  does  anymore.  it  was  her  quiet  gift,  and  it  never  asked  anything  in  return.

his  words  landed  between  them  like  something  fragile.  she  didn’t  flinch.  didn’t  shift.  just  let  the  silence  settle  for  a  few  long  seconds  after  he  stopped  talking.

then—

“that’s  the  thing  about  dirty  hands,”  she  said  softly,  thumb  brushing  the  rim  of  her  mug.  “sometimes  they  stay  that  way  no  matter  how  hard  you  scrub.”

she  didn’t  say  it  like  she  was  guessing.  she  said  it  like  someone  who  knew.  who  had  scrubbed  until  her  skin  split.  who’d  learned  to  live  with  the  stain.

her  gaze  lifted  again,  steady  on  him—not  sharp,  not  pitying,  just  true.

“but  you  still  show  up.  and  that  says  more  than  clean  hands  ever  could.”

a  pause.

“and  for  the  record—you’re  not  a  book,  owen.  you’re  a  map.  one  of  those  old,  complicated  ones  with  burned  edges  and  places  no  one’s  dared  to  chart  yet.”

her  mouth  tugged  into  something  just  shy  of  a  smile,  dry  and  soft.

“i  just  read  slow.”

she  went  quiet  again,  her  own  eyes  drifting  toward  the  diner  window  and  the  flickering  glow  of  bonfires  outside,  casting  long,  distorted  shadows.

“you’re  not  alone  in  feeling  blind.”

the  words  came  out  quiet.  not  an  admission.  a  confession.

“some  days  it  feels  like  the  whole  world’s  gone  sideways,  and  we’re  just  trying  to  keep  our  people  breathing  long  enough  to  see  another  sunrise.”

her  fingers  curled  around  the  mug  again.

“so  if  it  helps,  you’re  not  the  only  one  who’s  walking  forward  without  knowing  where  the  ground  ends.”

she  looked  back  at  him,  eyes  soft  now—warmer  than  they’d  been  all  night.  she  let  her  hand  reach  forward  a  bit,  her  small  fingers  curling  around  his  knuckles  to  give  a  gentle  squeeze. 

“you  don’t  have  to  know  everything.  you  just  have  to  keep  going.”

and  that  was  all  she  said.

because  that’s  what  owen  needed.

not  saving.

just  someone  who  stayed.

Inés' gaze had unsettled him when he'd first spoken with her; it was so focused, making him feel like she was looking through him and the layers of armor that enclosed him. There had been part of him that had wanted to run from that piercing gaze, but a deeper part of him had needed someone who could see beyond the surface, and so, he had stayed. Her gaze and her silences had earned his trust, something not easily earned.

"I would call that a talent, if ever there was one. Too many people in this world live with dirty hands...hell, with..." he broke off for a moment. "It's hard to wash off some things. To be able to choose, it's a damn precious thing." His hands assuredly would never be clean. A swallow again and another deep gulp of his coffee. "Yeah, I wouldn't discount your ability to read people either. You somehow seem to read me like a book and according to my unit, I am about as forthcoming as a rock." Not that his lack of talking was their fault, Owen didn't want to put his bullshit on his team.

But with Nés, bullshit didn't seem as much like bullshit. She understood, for whatever reason. "It's funny how it isn't the big flashy stuff that sticks, isn't it? Memory can find the most trivial things and turn 'em into something while other stuff, the moments you think would stick seem to filter away." Things he couldn't remember, that he wished he could haunted him, hanging around the edges of his memory no matter how hard he tried to catch them.

"I just remember looking at my dad and how people looked at him in the Army and I thought that if I followed him that I would look like that, like I always knew what was happening and I'd be prepared for it. But I look out there at the streets, at the people running around and filling these troughs with devil-knows-what and I feel like I know jack about all of this." He shook his head and looked out the window at the bonfires lighting the streets. "I'll face a boar, no questions asked, but this...I feel like we're running blind."

[runningroadsfm]

when  tadgh’s  voice  cut  in—low  and  calm,  with  just  enough  edge  to  let  her  know  he  was  probably  ready  to  bolt—her  head  tilted  toward  him.

not  defensive.  not  surprised.  just…  curious.

her  eyes  flicked  to  his  stall,  taking  in  the  jars,  the  honey,  the  handwork  with  quiet  appreciation.

“remedy  roots,  huh?  i’ll  keep  that  in  mind,”  she  said,  tone  even,  a  little  softer  than  it  had  been  a  minute  ago.  “appreciate  the  tip.”

she  moved  a  little  closer,  not  crowding,  just  enough  to  properly  glance  at  his  setup.  the  beeswax,  the  pottery,  the  wood  pieces—all  crafted  with  the  kind  of  care  that  didn’t  scream  for  attention,  but  held  it  anyway.

“your  bees  have  better  work  ethic  than  half  the  people  out  here,”  she  added,  lips  curving  just  slightly  at  the  corners.  “maybe  we  oughta  start  putting  them  on  payroll.”

a  pause.  she  looked  back  at  him—noticing,  but  not  prying.

“i  won’t  keep  you  long.  but  i  wouldn’t  mind  taking  a  jar  of  the  honey.”

it  wasn’t  just  about  the  product.  it  was  respect—spoken  in  her  own  quiet  language.  he  did  good  work.  she  saw  it.  and  she’d  remember  that.

overstimulation was a very real thing in tadgh's world. it's one of the major reasons he does not live inside the city, that and he'd never be able to live that far away from his hives. he needed to be close by should anything go wrong. usually it didn't bother him at the market but there were always exceptions and that day it felt like it was extra busy.

"they're probably tryin' their best but if it's 'erbs ye lookin' fer, remedy roots has a great selection." he suggested though he knew she wasn't talking to him directly. tadgh was starting to pack up, willing to be done for the day and move on to some place more peaceful. "if ye be interested in honey or one of the many other t'ings i got over here i'm willin' to give ye a wee look at it before i pack it all away and run for the hills." a large hand motioned over his selection of honey and beeswax creations, mead, some pottery, and some woodworking items he'd added. "can't speak for meself but my bees are anything but sloppy."

[runningroadsfm]

her  gaze  didn’t  move  at  first—still  fixed  on  the  vendor  two  stalls  down  who  was  trying  to  pass  off  stale  jerky  as  fresh—but  the  sound  of  grant’s  voice  pulled  a  flicker  of  something  like  amusement  across  her  face.

“generous  of  me,  i  know.”

she  shifted  the  bag  on  her  shoulder,  the  weight  of  her  ledger  pressing  against  her  ribs  like  always.

“it’s  like  every  time  i  walk  through  here,  someone’s  tryin’  to  sell  me  rot  at  a  premium.”  she  shook  her  head,  brushing  her  thumb  over  the  cracked  seal  on  one  of  the  jars  she’d  picked  up.  “like  i  don’t  know  what  mold  smells  like.”

finally,  she  turned  fully  to  him,  her  expression  dry  but  calm—comfortable,  in  that  way  only  jackals  could  get  around  each  other.

“next�� time  one  of  ‘em  short-changes  me,  i  might  just  let  you  handle  it,  grant.”

and  there  it  was:  the  smallest  curve  of  a  smirk,  tucked  in  the  corner  of  her  mouth.

It was hard for him to keep his sticky fingers to himself, but he knew that a lotta these people here didn't deserve getting their shit taken. He tried to at least show enough self-restraint to only do it to those who had it coming. "Gettin'?" He joked, looking around at the market. "I'm startin' to think that we gotta do everything ourselves. People got not competence 'round here lately."

[runningroadsfm]

inés  didn’t  sit  right  away.  she  stood  there  for  a  beat,  eyes  on  the  bike  while  judah  talked—quietly  listening,  like  she  was  weighing  the  story  against  the  machine  itself.  when  he  tilted  his  head  in  that  lazy  half-invite,  she  gave  a  small  nod  and  finally  took  the  open  seat  across  from  him,  resting  her  hands  around  the  unopened  bottle  without  cracking  it  yet.

her  eyes  drifted  back  to  the  bike,  the  paint  catching  the  low  light  just  right.

“she’s  real  pretty,”  she  said  softly,  tone  calm  and  easy. “looks  like  someone  gave  a  damn.”

there  was  a  respect  in  her  voice—not  just  for  the  bike,  but  for  the  history  she  knew  it  carried.  she  listened  without  interrupting,  just  her  fingertips  brushing  the  rim  of  the  bottle  as  he  talked  about  being  a  kid,  about knocking  it  over,  about  uncle  boyd  and  the  kind  of  patience  most  people  didn’t  come  wired  with.

when  he  finished,  she  let  out  a  quiet  breath—almost  a  laugh,  almost  not.

“patience  like  that?  that’s  a  damn  gift.”

she  glanced  toward  the  bike  again,  then  back  to  him.  “not  everyone  gets  taught  how  to  fix  the  damage.  sometimes  all  you  learn  is  how  to  survive  it.”

the  words  came  without  bitterness—just  simple  truth,  said  like  someone  who’d  lived  both  sides  of  it.

then,  like  she  didn’t  want  to  let  it  sit  too  heavy  in  the  air,  she  added,  dryly—

“but  yeah.  kid  drops  my  bike?  we’re  talkin’  full  meltdown.”

she  cracked  the  cap  off  the  beer,  held  it  up  slightly  in  a  loose  toast.  “to  boyd.  for  not  losing  his  shit.”

who : inés tejada ( @runningroadsfm ) where : the fishery when : april, dusk

❝ she's pretty, ain't she? ❞

judah fisher sits sprawled, a languid mess of limbs draped casually over a folding chair with his feet kicked up on the edge of a table fashioned out of tires and old scrap metal. there's a lukewarm beer in his right hand and a bit of amber liquid sloshes out of the mouth of the bottle and splatters onto a concrete floor as judah gestures with it toward a bike parked at a service bay across the garage. it's easily twice his age, but you'd never guess to look at it ; with a glittering coat of cherry red paint and polished chrome detailing, it's clear the dedication that has been put into maintaining it.

his gaze drifts over to inés and judah wears an easy grin as he tilts his head toward the table in a half-nod. an invitation. there's another beer on the table, unopened. a sociable creature with an undeniable lazy bone, he does this sometimes ― sits back, waits for company to find him. tonight it comes in the form of one jackals treasurer ; he wonders if she's here for business or simply for the pleasure of his conversation, but he doesn't bother to ask. if she needs something, he expects she'll be forthright with it. jackals aren't known for beating around the bush.

❝ the number of times i'd climb up on it as a kid ― shit, i couldn't even reach the goddamn throttle, but to hell if i didn't try. i remember one time ― i still don't know how i did it, scrawny as i was, but i knocked the damn thing over. chipped the paint, busted the mirror, whole shebang. ❞ judah lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. ❝ thought i was in for the ass-whoopin' of my life, but wouldn't y'know my uncle boyd, he just taught me how to fix it. made me do it, mind you, but he weren't even mad or nothin'. ❞ he takes a drag of the cigarette hanging from his free hand and tilts his chin up at her. ❝ patience of a saint, i tell you what. some kid did that shit to me? i'd be catchin' a charge. ❞

[runningroadsfm]

she  listened,  the  way  she  always  did—eyes  on  him,  steady,  open.  no  rush  to  speak.  no  need  to  fill  the  silence  too  quickly.  inés  let  his  words  stretch  out  between  them. 

the  mention  of  broken  noses  made  her  smile—not  amused,  exactly.  more  like…  fond.

“finesse  is  just  code  for  knowing  when  not  to  get  your  hands  dirty,”  she  said  gently,  tapping  her  nail  against  the  side  of  her  mug.  “i  don’t  always  get  that  choice  either.  but  most  of  the  time,  if  i  can  avoid  making  a  mess,  i  do.”

her  eyes  flicked  to  his,  soft  but  knowing.  she  knew  what  he  meant.  not  just  about  her,  but  about  him.  she’d  watched  him  enough  to  understand  that  his  violence  wasn’t  careless.  it  was  pointed.  deliberate.  protective.  but  that  didn’t  mean  it  didn’t  weigh  on  him.

“besides,”  she  added,  quieter  now,  “you’ve  got  plenty  of  finesse.  you  just  use  it  differently.  i  watch  rooms.  you  read  people.  it’s  the  same  thing,  just…  different  languages.”

when  he  mentioned  the  song,  her  head  tilted  slightly,  like  something  in  her  shifted  at  the  edges.  she  glanced toward  the  jukebox,  then  back  at  him.

“that’s  not  off  topic,”  she  said.  “that’s…  kind  of  everything,  isn’t  it?”

her  voice  was  softer  now,  not  sad,  just  thoughtful.  she  didn’t  know  much  about  his  father,  didn’t  push  to  know—but  there  was  something  in  the  way  he  spoke  about  music  that  stuck  with  her.  in  a  world  that  didn’t  leave  much  room  for  softness,  he’d  still  held  onto  something  like  that.

“my  uncle  used  to  hum  this  same  song  when  he  counted  inventory.  over  and  over,  until  it  got  stuck  in  my  head.  now  when  it  plays…  i  don’t  know.  it  feels  like  home.  or  maybe  like  memory.”

she  looked  at  him  then,  the  quiet  kind  of  look  that  held  more  weight  than  her  words  ever  could.

“you’re  allowed  to  miss  things,  owen.  even  if  they  didn’t  always  make  sense.”

If Inés had been a different kind of woman, Owen might have offered to take care of the problem for her; he was the kind of guy who would protect someone. But he had learned quickly that his gallantry was unnecessary at best and, at worst, might have proved a hindrance to Inés' work. She was no damsel in distress; she was possibly the most competent woman he'd ever met. It was somewhat hard to square, the compassion that she showed while talking to him and the steel that she had to use while working. She didn't need him to help, but if she asked, he'd back her up in a heartbeat.

"Sometimes breaking a few noses can be a lot of fun. I've gotten challenged a couple times and had to get a hit in or two and sometimes it feels good to just give someone a good crack. I think that's probably why you do what you do and I do what I do...you've got more finesse than I could ever muster in a hundred years," Owen admitted, a smile flashing for a moment.

But what was it that he did anymore? He wouldn't tell Devan or the rest of his unit, but the kid's words held a certain amount of sense. Owen had never had a problem handling the mutated animals, the beasts, and the criminals; he'd never doubted the goal of the mission and his ability to carry it out. Lately, though, some of those they'd rounded up didn't seem to be monstrous at all. There were mutated people, but they were still people and, as far as it seemed to Owen, they'd committed no crimes. There was a sourness beginning in Owen, but he shoved it back down. These thoughts once again pulled his smile off his face and he looked into the inky liquid in front of him. The song on the jukebox filled the moments before he spoke.

"You know, I used to play this song for my dad when I had just learned to play. He wasn't much for me learning music -I was always going to be in the army and he thought it was a useless hobby- but he liked oldies so I learned how to play those for him." It wasn't where he was, but possibly an adjacent spot. After all, his father and the army were intertwined, wrapped around each other so completely that his brain rarely separated the two. "Sorry, off topic I know."

[runningroadsfm]

inés  didn’t  say  much  when  he  sat  down—just  gave  the  smallest  nod,  her  hands  stayed  around  the  mug,  not  for  the  coffee,  but  for  the  comfort  of  it.  something  solid.  something  warm.

his  question  caught  her  off  guard—not  because  he  asked,  but  because  he  remembered.

she  glanced  at  him,  one  brow  raised  slightly.  “yeah.  they  came  sniffing  around  the  market  again.  didn’t  try anything,  just  loud—wanted  attention  more  than  trouble.”

she  shifted  slightly  in  her  seat,  tucking  her  leg  up  under  the  other,  more  relaxed  now  that  he  was  here.  “i didn’t  entertain  it.  let  ‘em  see  me  writing  names  in  my  ledger.  that  usually  does  the  trick.”

the  corners  of  her  mouth  lifted  just  a  little—not  quite  a smile,  but  close.

“no  broken  noses  this  time,”  she  added,  glancing  over  the  rim  of  her  mug.  “but  there’s  still  time.”

a  beat  passed,  quiet  settling  again.  the  diner  buzzed  softly  around  them—lights  humming,  some  old  track  playing  low  on  the  jukebox.

“you  okay?”  she  asked  finally, looking  at  him.  “you  look  like  you’re  somewhere  else  tonight.”

he  carried  things  she’d  never  ask  about.  things  written  behind  his  eyes,  in  the  way  he  held  his  jaw  tight  and  scanned  a  room  like  he’d  never  quite  stopped  fighting.  she  didn’t  want  to  add  to  the  noise.  she  just  wanted  to  be  the  silence  that  made  it  bearable.

she  wouldn’t  push.  but  she’d  give  him  the  space  to  tell her  if  he  needed  to.  like  always.

Owen did not often take a night off; it seemed sacrilege to try to exist in peace when the rest of the world was hanging on by a thread. What would he know of peace anyway? He was a soldier, a man of war, built to fight and kill and protect. His last vestiges of peace had gone up in ashes years ago. No, leave did not bring him peace; it just let the memories get louder. But, even the army had limits on how long they would work a man without a night off, so every few weeks, Owen would be forced to face the images that flickered in his brain when he could not distract himself with the focus of an order. On those nights, he went for coffee.

The coffee was shit. It tasted a little like battery acid and it burned the whole way down, but sometimes a person wanted something to burn them. Sometimes the burn felt more real. He never would have admitted to going to the diner to see Inés, not out loud anyway, but her presence felt like aloe on a blistered summer shoulder. It made no sense to him, but it wasn't the only thing, so he quit trying to rationalize it and just let it happen.

He sat across from her and took the coffee with a grunted thanks before taking a long gulp. He let the heat radiate from the mug up his arms while he sat in silence for a moment or two. His brain ran through the events of the day, the thoughts so much quicker than his words could ever be. He settled on her; he liked to hear her talk. "How'd your day go? Last time you said some shitheads were trying to give you trouble. They come round?" He never asked for details, neither of them did, but he also did not like the thought of anyone giving her shit, so he asked.

[runningroadsfm]

who:  open

where:  the  merchant  market

the  market  was  loud  today—louder  than  usual.  voices  overlapping,  deals  being  shouted  over  the  clatter  of  crates  and  boots  on  pavement.  inés  moved  through  it  like  she  always  did,  quiet  and  steady,  a  satchel  on  her  shoulder  and  her  ledger  peeking  out  from  under  her  arm.

she  stopped  at  a  stall  selling  dried  goods,  picked  up  a  bundle  of  herbs—rosemary,  maybe,  or  something  pretending  to  be—and  rolled  it  between  her  fingers.  it  crumbled  too  easily.  stale.

“you’re  charging  full  for  this?”  she  said,  not  unkind,  just  unimpressed.

she  didn’t  wait  for  an  answer.  just  stepped  aside,  letting  someone  brush  past  her.  her  gaze  lifted,  scanning  the  crowd,  not  really  looking  for  anyone—but  not  avoiding  it  either.

“place  is  getting  sloppy,”  she  muttered,  mostly  to  herself,  adjusting  the  strap  on  her  shoulder. 

[runningroadsfm]

who:  owen  (@interitioxx)

where:  red  line  diner

the  coffee  at  red  line  diner  wasn’t  good,  but  it  was  hot—and  inés  would  take  what  she  could  get.  she  sat  tucked  into  the  corner  booth,  jacket  still  on,  hands  wrapped  around  a  mug  that  had  probably  seen  better  decades.

when  the  bell  above  the  door  chimed,  she  didn’t  turn  around.  didn’t  need  to.

she  just  reached  across  the  table  and  nudged  the  second  mug  forward,  quiet  and  unspoken.  not  much,  but  it  was  something.

“figured  you’d  show  up,”  she  said,  voice  low.  not  surprised,  not  smug.  just  a  soft  sort  of  knowing.

“you  don’t  have  to  talk.  we  can  just  sit.”

there  wasn’t  judgment  in  her  eyes  when  she  finally  looked  up—just  that  same  steady  warmth  she  always  kept  on  reserve  for  him.

because  whatever  owen  didn’t  say  tonight,  inés  already  understood.

[runningroadsfm]

ana de armas.

[runningroadsfm]

ANA DE ARMAS. "Eden" Interview at TIFF.

[runningroadsfm]

THE WILD & WONDERFUL APPALACHIA WELCOMES... inés tejada as written by emma ( she / her ).

✱ affiliated with JACKALS ( TREASURER ) ✱ working as JACKALS TREASURER ✱ has taken up residence in BURNINGTON ✱ born on JUNE 3RD ( 31 ) ✱ identifying as CIS WOMAN ( SHE / HER ) ✱ known to be EMOTIONALLY INTELLIGENT, DIPLOMATIC, GROUNDED, NURTURING, CALM ✱ also know to be AVOIDANT, WORKAHOLIC, GUARDED, TRUSTING ✱ portrayed by ANA DE ARMAS

DIGGING DEEPER.

TW: death, starvation, violence

inés was born into a moving trade caravan, raised by her uncle—a longtime jackal who handled the numbers behind the chaos. he taught her that survival wasn’t just about guns—it was about knowing what people need and when to give it.

when her uncle was killed in an ambush during a supply run, inés stepped up. not with violence, but with her ledger, her smile, and a plan. she restructured the club’s barter system, negotiated with rival camps, and quietly became the reason the jackals didn’t starve.

she’s the one making sure the ammo is stocked, the medical kits aren’t empty, and the club always has something to offer—or trade. if it has value, inés knows how to move it.

she’s warm, approachable, and often underestimated. but she’s survived famine, raiders, heartbreak—and once poisoned a man who tried to rip off the club. kindness and steel.

inés believes in second chances, in feeding your people, in keeping the lights on even when the world’s gone dark. she believes in the jackals—not because they’re perfect, but because they’re hers.

EXTRAS.

personality:

alignment: neutral good

enneagram: 2w1 – the helper

mbti: enfj

astrology: gemini sun, cancer moon, virgo rising

character inspo:

penelope garcia (criminal minds), rosie estrada (mayans mc), luz (the bad batch)

headcanons:

she can’t shoot for shit at long range but is deadly accurate with a pistol up close. she keeps one tucked into her waistband and another under the counter at her trade post.

she’s got a green thumb—keeps a small patch of herbs alive behind the club’s compound (basil, rosemary, lavender, even a little mint if she can find it). it’s her way of keeping a sliver of beauty in the wasteland.

her ledger is handwritten, color-coded, and marked with symbols no one else really understands. she’s the only one who knows how to fully read it. that’s by design.

she makes empanadas or fried dough for the boys after a hard run. the kitchen is always warm when she’s in it. flour on her fingers, tension in her shoulders, a knife within reach.

inés has burn scars across the back of her left shoulder and spine

from the night her caravan was set on fire by raiders. she never talks about it, but she dreams about it often.

never wears full black. always has a pop of gold or color—jewelry, a ribbon in her hair, nail polish. it’s her quiet rebellion against the grimness of the world.

she’s bilingual (spanish/english) and sometimes slips into spanish when she’s stressed or comforting someone. her accent softens when she’s tired.

sings quietly while she works—usually old boleros, folk songs her mother used to hum. it’s the only connection she has left to her.

she believes in luck—but not blind luck. the kind you earn through kindness, preparation, and holding your shit together even when your hands are shaking.

kids and dogs love her without question. raiders? not so much. she has a reputation in certain circles for “knowing the price of everything—including you.”

she keeps a rosary and a bullet in a tin box under her bed. the rosary belonged to her mother. the bullet is from the first man she ever had to kill.

when she’s mad, her voice doesn’t get loud—it gets quiet. deadly quiet. that’s how you know you’re fucked.

[runningroadsfm]

inés  elena  tejada  |  31,  jackals  mc  treasurer,  ana  de  armas  | intro