#...but only if there's a s3 to make us whole again

[indelicateink]

Hi I love reading your tags on iwtv post! What would make season 2 perfect in your eyes re: louis/armand/lestat?

thanks! (i'm taking that as in general, lmk if I misunderstood/there's one in particular that pertains to your question.)

i need s2 to be fucked-up-shit o'clock on our fucked-up-shit show (affectionate). my total emotional annihilation would make it perfect for me re: our guys.

armand has done some seriously naughty shit that's going to put a major dent in their lives for the next century, and i'm hopeful we get to explore that in a no-holds-barred dicks-out blood-tears abject-humiliation existential-horror love letter to the fans.

i want sam reid to get to have the juiciest time portraying the agonizing devastation that is visited upon lestat this season (affectionate)

i want assad zaman to seduce us utterly with armand's beauty and outrageous horror (affectionate)

i want jacob anderson to melt our fucking minds as louis goes through the most traumatizing events of his life (concerned)

that would be perfect for me, for them

[variousqueerthings]

okay I watched good omens s2 yesterday with my partner, and I was genuinely very surprised -- I think if you've grown up through superwholock/merlin/the 100/teen wolf type shows where (with the exception periodically of doctor who) you kind of had to make up the good show that something could have been in your head, that colours a lot of your viewing, and to be honest I thought season 1 of good omens was a fine little piece, honoured the book while modernising it somewhat, it was a nice, fun, low stakes time, with a couple of things I might have wanted a tad different but nothing overall awful.

so I was seeing all this meta and gifsets and discussion, while I was waiting to give s2 a watch with my partner and thought "ah, people have made up the good show in their heads again" not that I assumed s2 was going to be a bad show, but that people were taking extra deep plunges into possibilities, the way fandom does, and that was fine. I knew there was a big ol kiss, I had a sense of some kind of argument at the end, and that it was setting up a s3

I also knew that mainstream reviews were calling it (politely) self-indulgent and dependent on whether or not you enjoy david tennant and michael sheen having a good time for just under 6 hours

all in all, expectations of a somewhat mainstream show without too much to think about, a nice, fun low stakes time, moving on...

(EDIT: AND THEN I WROTE A LOT OF WORDS SO YOU CAN IMAGINE THAT MY REACTION WAS QUITE DIFFERENT)

as it turns out it seems these things that were being written on tumblr were discussing the actual text of the show and not things you could extrapolate if you squinted and tilted your head a little to the left as I'm so used to doing, so in fact there is much to think about!

and my first thought was "this is like when you read early discworld books that ask a question like a joke, only to find that over time the answer to that question becomes very serious (and also can be funny at times of course)." how terry pratchett would pick and pick at tropes and notions and social ideas and go "oh now hold on, this seems strange..." starting way back when he thought it was odd that women warriors always seemed to be dressed in metal bikinis and then realising he hadn't done a good enough job of subverting the trope, simply by depicting it and calling it a bit silly

why do goblins always get treated as the villains? what's with this divine succession of kings business? where are the female dwarfs? who do we treat as disposable?

good omens season one went: "haha what if heaven and hell were intensely incapable, bureaucratic, corrupt, and uncaring of the work they did, and we took an angel and a demon and had them actually care? wouldn't that be... a bit silly?" (and it was)

good omens season two went: "what are the consequences for caring when the people who have power over you are incapable, bureaucratic, corrupt, and uncaring? what are the forces that supersede systems built on fear, ignorance, and violent conformity? can people change and break out of/challenge/break down these structures by caring?"

and this was set up with a neat little sleight of hand (to reference aziraphale's switch-and-bait in the episode with the nazi zombies), because the majority of season 2 does feel a bit indulgent: hey, remember those two wacky angel-and-demon characters? watch some more wacky things they did through the ages, watch them take a sojourn through 1827 Edinburgh and do a magic show during the Blitz, and... stop the death of Job's and Sitis' children (actually maybe that whole segment ought to have been what they call "A Clue")

see them try to figure out a kooky mystery, all the while setting up a cute little same-gender romance on their street. watch as everything points towards a happy ending that's all about the two of them realising what they've been to one another all these thousands and thousands (and thousands and thousands) of years- but hold on. lest we forget - and the show has made this point over and over - there are powerful people who control them, who hurt them, and who plan on hurting others, throughout the whole season, and as it turns out they know what they've been to one another for far far longer, and know how to pull their strings...

season 2 then, has to show us these things, not because they're indulgent (well, maybe occasionally, but the apology dance is still important), but because in order to make the ending a tragedy, we first need to understand, properly, the impact that they have had on each other. we need to understand that Aziraphale relied heavily on Crowley to be his moral compass and leaned on black-and-white thinking in order to deal with things, because if it's all grey then where does he fit and what has it all meant and heaven has to be the good guys, even as Job's and Sitis' children are ordered to be killed, it's all he ever had...

and Crowley was always an anchor, needed to trust that Aziraphale was different, needed to bend to every whim that Aziraphale has, because otherwise what's his worth in all this? After having been already deemed worthless by the heaven that Aziraphale needs to believe in?

and that, simplistically described, is the narrative that we're seeing in s2, and alongside that the ways that the changes they have upon each other are noticed, and monitored, and placed under suspicion, and finally... broken up, not by the clumsy, brute force that's been attempted over and over again, but by a promise to return into a violent, controlling system and to "make it better from within"

and all of this is wrapped up in two queer relationships + a third queered-within-the-text relationship that creates the inverse of how it ends for Aziraphale and Crowley (so far). queer love -- whatever shape that has -- is explicitly the shape of non-conformity within this narrative, including within the symbolism of angel-and-demon love of Gabriel and Beelzebub, which in the context of the systems created is considered queer (and one can argue till the cats come home about casting cis actors, about angel-and-demon notions of gender/romance/sexuality, but the "queerness" comes from building something non-conforming to the systems they exist in), and enforced by the explicitly our-world-definition-of queer romance that Nina and Maggie have going on (which, while less high stakes, still contains the background controlling relationship that Nina initially is in)

all of this to say, that I disagree that s2 meanders, or that plotlines happen for the sake of showcasing Aziraphale and Crowley without purpose, or that characters get sidelined (I'd say it sets up a whole host of interesting characters to further get into actually), or that it's strictly mainstream easy-access narrative that's just an excuse for the main creators and actors to get back together.

the love is the point, and this show takes its time to show the love (and the unequal boundary-setting, and the fact that one of them has an undiscussed tragic backstory, and the desperation to belong again, and the fear instilled by oppressive systems, and and and), so that we understand why those last 15 minutes happen the way that they do

it's sleight of hand, and like all good magic, you don't notice until it's happened

[lowkeyrobin]

still so disappointed that mr pennycrumb [fives dog in the comics] didnt rlly appear much in the show </3

ok ok so its the academy's birthday and the reader is insanely good at gift giving and never forgets to give presents if theres smth special happening. they hand out the gifts to everyone except they avoid five and disappear w/o them knowing where they went, only to come back at dusk w/ a larger box. obviously five went insane and rambles on how worried he was before the reader finally shuts him up by plopping the box on him, and boom. theres a puppy.

[loved the last viktor fic btw. literally bawled my eyes out]

- 🦇

OMG YES the only appearance we saw was in s3 when Luther went on a jog before he got napped :( ; and thank you!! I got bored and I couldn't extend it any further so it's kinda dumb but it's alr haha ; thanks for requesting, hope you enjoy! ; also sorry this is so short and dumb idk writers block is so picky

FIVE HARGREEVES ; mr pennycrumb

summary ; when the umbrella academys birthdays roll around, you get five a whole ass dog

warnings ; language

disclaimers ; some of the gifts are related to hobbies/interests that are more of hcs than actual canon

word count ; 738

masterlist

When you walked into Allison's with multiple boxes and bags for the Hargreeves, they all knew you were at it again with your insane yet accurate gift giving. They started with cake, then moved over to presents.

Gift giving in the family was like secret Santa in a way. Everyone would essentially get gifts for all the others, and they'd pass around gifts one by one, usually by number order. Luther was always first, Viktor always last. Lila usually snuck in around Diego, because duh. Viktor had gotten used to being last, the forgotten one. But around his family now, he knew it wasn't like that anymore. He'd rather go last so everyone else could have their special time on their special day.

So, the group sets the gifts tagged for Luther on the table in front of him. The kids halfway watch from afar, paying attention to the TV and their toys more than their celebrating parents, aunts, and uncles.

You were among the minority in the house that didn't share a birthday with them, thank God. You would've gone insane over big birthdays like this.

Five, meanwhile, was going insane over you basically ignoring him all day.

You'd gotten Luther some workout gear, knowing he'd taken up going to the gym within the past couple of years. Among other gifts were little trinkets and other things he wanted. He was a little hard to shop for, never really wanting anything, enjoying the quality time over any gift giving.

Next was Diego, and inside the gift you got for him, was a knife sharpening kit. He'd lost his old one just in time. Lila came up next, receiving a few nice outfits you found for her and a gift card to Cosmoprof, as she'd been thinking about re-dyeing her hair to white again.

Next up was Allison, grateful for the numerous acting job business cards you'd given her on top of a bunch of books that were on her Amazon wishlist. She was a serious reader who wanted to get back into acting, now.

Klaus was after her, ecstatic about a carry-around cleaning kit. You were going to go with a joint maker to make his life easier before he got sober. Now he wouldn't need a full bag of cleaning supplies, he'd have your perfect gift.

Five decided to go last, wanting to watch his family be happy more than open presents himself.

Ben was next, receiving some letters from modeling agencies. As he should.

Viktor was second to last, very appreciative for the new drink recipes you'd made and found for him atop the pile of clothes you'd gotten him.

You disappeared around dusk, leaving Five to open his presents without presence. He was physically eighteen, mentally sixty-two today.

As he looks up, seeing the lack of you around, he hides a soft frown. He noticed how you weren't standing near him all night, how you barely even spoke around him.

"Did you do something to Y/n?" Klaus asks out of the blue. "They just kinda... dissappeared"

Five shrugs. "I don't think I did. Even if I did do something, they'd talk it out with me"

Allison shrugs. "I think that's them" she comments, looking out the screen door to see you pull up in your car again. "Diego, could you get the door?"

Diego turns around, unlocking the door for you, holding it open as he sees you holding a big box.

"Why is that box bigger than you?"

"Also, why is it moving?"

You set the box on the table in front of Five, a wide smile on your face. "Open it"

He slowly sets aside the large box of coffee pods he received from Diego to the side, slowly reaching for the box flaps. As he pulls them to the side, out jumps a little dog.

"Oh my God?"

Five smiles, pulling the puppy into his lap. He looks up at you, a glimmer in his eyes. "Why did you get me a dog?"

You shrug, moving the box off the table. "You're a lonely old man, you need some company"

He chuckles, petting the pug's head.

"What're you gonna name it?" Ben asks, arms crossed.

"Him" You correct

"Mr. Pennycrumb" Five answers.

"Why?" Luther asks.

The physically younger boy shrugs. "Why not?"

"Interesting choice" Klaus mutters with a shrug.

Five smiles up at you, giddy like a little kid. "Thank you"

"I try"

[formyloveoflove]

The Bear S3 and the Choices We Make

Ok. After a second watch of S3, I'm feeling a little bit more optimistic about the future. Trust - it's a sad ending. It's my worst nightmare for Sydney. But there's still hope, and that all lies in what Carmen and Syd decide to do next. Season 3 Spoilers - read at your own risk :)

In S3 E10 Forever, we see our two mains go through a breakthrough. Starting with Carmen, he finally confronts his former boss (who has a name, i think, but fuck him, I ain't using it). It's the first (and only time) that we see Carmen proactively voice his resentment. He avoids his mom (rightfully so imo). He never got the chance with Mikey. But he approaches him, expects the man to have repent (maybe), or at the very least, have a little remorse.

He doesn't. He regrets nothing. In fact, he takes credit for Carmen's success: his hard work, his skills, and his talent. He tells Carmen that he should be thanking him, and that's not even the worst of it. No, for me, it is when he says

Carmen: My life stopped. Chef: That's the point, right? [...] You wanted to be great. You wanted to be excellent. So you got rid of all the bullshit, and you concentrated, and you got focused, and you got great. You got excellent. It worked. You're here. Look at all this

Sound familiar? It should. It's the same sentiment that Carmen said in the Season 2 finale. Remember, he said,

I wasn't here. Right? What the fuck was I thinking? Like I was going to be in a relationship? I'm a fuckin' pyscho. That's why I'm good at what I do. That's how I operate. I am the best because I didn't have any of this fuckin' bullshit, right? I could focus, and I could concentrate.

Carmen's thoughts about himself aren't even his own. They were drilled into him by a man who wouldn't piss on him if he was on fire. He was emulating the abusive behaviors and patterns that crushed him, that gave him "uclers, panic attacks, and nightmares" on the people that he cares about. On his sister, on Richie, on Tina and Marcus. and especially on Sydney, who is the only one who knows exactly how bad it can get. He's hurt those closest to him. He hurts them daily. And for what? And for why? For his own ego.

And this realization leads us to Carmen's first cry.

For three whole seasons, we see this man lose his idolized brother to suicide, witness his alcoholic mother physically, emotionally, and mentally abuse him, and experience mental degradation to the point where it affects his physical health. Not once did he shed a tear. This is the first time Carmen Berzatto lets himself cry. And I think this is the best thing for him. If he chooses to acknowledge the err of his ways, turn back course, and begin again, I think The Bear could be what he wanted it to be. He needs to decide to stop running, stop fighting himself and everybody around him. He needs to let go. Let it rip, right?

However, if this is what he decides to do, the cards ultimately fall into Sydney's hands.

If anybody's been through hell and back, it's Ms. Sydney Adamu. All season she's been forced to work in a volatile environment, putting herself between Carmen and whoever's the victim of his anger. She has her ideas shut down, her skills demeaned, and her credit is outright non-existent. Staff keeps quitting; they're not making any money; and Cicero and Co. is doing some shady background shit.

She's trapped, but not really. Not until she signs that Partnership Agreement. But like she told her dad in S2 E9 Omelette, she doesn't think she has another one in her. She can't have The Bear fail like Sheridan Road. She doesn't want to make the same mistakes she did last time. She wants to grow and learn and make her mark on the industry - prove she's not a failure.

She's waiting for Carmen to make good on his promises from The Table Scene, but he's not.

"You deserve my full focus." But his focus is not on her. Remember the Carmen that noticed when something was off with her? Remember the "say more?" or the "what's up with you?" Remember when they worked together, when the menu was truly theirs? Where was Sydney's "margin" moment? What did Carmen do this scene that signaled to Sydney that he was there and present.

"I couldn't do this without you." He does everything without her. Don't even get me started. From the menu to the list of nonnegotiables. Syd gets to make no decisions after being forced to make ALL the decisions. What is she there for? To be Carm's wrangler, his doormat? What has he does to convince her that she is invaluable?

He's egotistical. He's verbally abusive. He's the exact person that she warned him not to be. That he assured her that he wouldn't be in S1 E3 Brigade. She said,

You know I think this place could be so different from all the other places we've been at. But, in order for that to be true, we need to run things different. [...] But you just didn't really listen, and if this is going to work the way I think we both want it to work, I think we should probably try to listen to each other. The reason why I'm here, and not somewhere else or for someone else, is because I think I can stand out here. I can make a difference here. We could share ideas. I could implement things that make this place better. And I don’t wanna be wasting my time, working on another line or tweezing herbs on a dish that I don’t care about.

He didn't follow through the first time, so she left. But now, it's different. She's put her blood, sweat, and tears into this place. She's made a place (a home even) at The Bear. Leaving is not as simple anymore.

S1 Syd would've taken that CDC offer in a heartbeat. But building something and it failing (like The Bear. like Sheridan Road.) is terrifying. Slowly but surely, Carmen has been chipping away at her confidence and her fire. So much so that good things, like The Offer or the review of her risotto from The Beef, don't feel like good things.

Sydney's Panic Attack is HUGE for her character. We see Sydney at her lowest: her most frightening and vulnerable. She's uncertain. She's in a constant state of panic. And the person that she trusted with her fears and insecurities facilitated this, drove her to this point. It's heartbreaking. I cried when I saw it. No one would blame her for jumping ship. At this point, I encourage it (but she has to talk about it, acknowledge it. no running).

Now, if Carmen decides to change his ways, he'd have apologized to Sydney twice without changed actions. She'd have to believe him after many, many broken promises. At this time, she doesn't trust him, can't rely on him. But when having to decide between staying or going, will she try to trust him again?

Will she? Should she?

That's where I'm at so far. I have more thoughts, but I'll write those out when I get back from my weekend trip.

[mintaikk]

Shadowpeach Things I think about A Lot

Note: My knowledge of season 5 is very limited (only seen first 2 eps, and some spoilers). Do not say any spoilers in comments or reblogs. If you want to avoid spoilers completely, I suggest you don't read this

-Peng said it themselves. "Could Wukong do anything that could break his hold over you?" or something like that. But Macaque's entire world was Wukong

-Macaque's dream was spending a peaceful forever with Wukong

-"You were a villain like 5 minutes ago!" Nothing there, but this was when they were having that screaming match and I burst out laughing when I realized that's what Wukong said. He was tho. From s4 to s5, bro went from trying to kill him to living on his mountain again

-Oh, that. "This room(?) has been my home just as long as yours." That's true, but my guy, don't you have like a dojo or smthn? Can't you just live there? Or do you just secretly miss Wukong and want to live on FFM to be closer with him?

-AND WUKONG DOESNT FIGHT BACK EITHER OR ANYTHING. He just sighs and accepts it

-OH YEAH THAT. Macaque sleeps on the same GOD DAMN tree that he and Wukong used to sit at. There are so, so, so many trees on FFM, yet he chose that specific one

-Wukong wanted to spend the remainder of his life holding hands with Macaque

-Correct me if I'm wrong, but in old China, a man giving another man a peach was a sign that they felt romantic love for them. Wukong and Macaque's hole thing is peaches

-"Yeah, because you always eush to my rescue." Wukong believed that Macaque never saved him, but from what we seen in s5, he does. Maybe he always has and Wukong's just never noticed, or maybe Macaque took that to heart and is trying to make up for it

-THE GOD DAMN SLOMO SHOT WHEN WUKONG WAS GOING TO SAVE MK

-Macaque calling Wukong "cute" in the s4 special

-When we first see the ink demons of Wukong's past, one of them was Macaque chained up while struggling and crying. Whatever happened there, it still haunts Wukong

-"I don't trust anyone that isn't standing here right now." WUKONG STILL TRUSTS MACAQUE AFTER EVERYTHING, MACAQUE EVEN PERKS UP AT THAT. And right after this scene, Macaque sacrifices himself to save Wukong. I think Wukong saying that really stuck with him. Maybe that's why he was a lot more helpful this season; Wukong still trusted him, and he didn't want to lose that

-When Wukong was getting the circlet put on him for a second time, Macaque didn't even hesitate when he saw that Wukong was in pain and immediately sprung to help

-Ik it's been talked about before, but the fact that Macaque thinks Wukong killed (and that he was about to again in season 3 when he was literally choking him) him but he still helps him when he can and smiles softly at him and goes out of his way to see him and stares in awe when he sees him coming to help MK and still accepts his peach offer (symbolism for rekindling friendship) and smiles when Wukong says "we" instead of "I" and gets sad when he sees the memory and realizes he wants to rekindle their relationship and crashes a beach party just so he could be with him (Copy and pasted from old post

-This specific art piece that Alejandro Saab commissioned and used for autograph signings

-Macaque literally looking away and smiling in this shot bro looks like a schoolgirl with a crush 💀

-Wukong was shown to help Macaque tie his scarf when they were still friends and in the shots of their past, Macaque's scarf is always tied. But now that they're not friends, his scarf is never tied. I just find this detail neat

-As much as Macaque tried to kill Wukong between s1 and s3, the moment Wukong was genuinely mad at him, Macaque's first instinct was to run. Even when Wukong was holding him, he was still shaking Yes, he probably couldn't breathe bcuz choking, but these guys are immortal and with the whole thing underwater, I don't think they actually need to breathe. So this means that he was probably terrified the entire time, and thinking that Wukong would kill him again (I fucking hate doomed yaoi)

-Now that I think about it, the only time we see Macaque scared was with LBD, Sun Wukong attacking him, Sun Wukong getting attacked or being endanger, MK being endangered, Bai He being endangered, or actually having to deal with the idea of staying with Wukong to help him (s4, MK going on that whole "I gotta help my friends" speech while Mei is being consumed by the Samahdi fire). Most of those things are Wukong and Monkey fam related

-Alejandro Saab doing a cover of peaches. Istg, he KNEW what he was doing when he pulled that one

-Correct me if I'm wrong again, but apparently, some gay men in ancient China would become sworn brothers so they could be together legally. Other than Shadowpeach, I was never much a brotherhood shipper, but do what you will with this info

-ALEJANDRO SAAB BELIEVES THAT MACAQUE IS SHORTER THAN WUKONG! THE DEBATE IS OVER YALL

-"Forever is a long time, bud." "Me and you just living here get on fat on fruit forever!" Bro was definetly thinking of Macaque

[skywxikers]

here’s a rapid fire list of things i disliked about the season as well as questions i have

- five x lila (made a whole post about this btw)

- why diego said lila hates bracelets when she wore the one he made her in s3

- why luther got his simian physique again.. when that wasn’t his power, just a side effect from the old timeline to make sure he survived

- similarly, why diego didn’t do something with his fighting skills for a job (like the boxing from the previous season) instead of being a mailman. he retained those abilities as they aren’t his powers either

- why five joined the cia when he was so ready to retire in s3

- how jennifer ended up in a giant squid

- literally no mention of what happened to sloane

- no explanation why ray left allison and claire

- klaus’ arc, i loved seeing him more but it didn’t offer anything for the main plot of the cleanse

- allison being forgiven quickly and without explanation, especially when she committed sa last season and bargained with reggie

- the introduction of a plothole, the commission never got created in the future because the cleanse restored one timeline

- on that note, we never learned reason for the tattoo and the fact that old five only had one arm?

- no explanation on how the book got planted in the subway? was probably a different five but still

- also i wish the subway was used more as a potential solution for the cleanse, it’s such a cool idea. the writers just made it into a plot device for five x lila

- this subplot was also a missed opportunity to show five having ptsd and struggling to go through a second apocalypse-like situation

- why none of the diner fives had paradox psychosis

- the way allison heard ben still alive in the cleanse and around that time, lila asked if there was a different way without everyone dying but that route wasn’t explored. even though i don’t mind the idea of the ending (execution wasn’t well done) i still am a sucker for happy endings

- very little character development for diego

- no mr pennycrumb ☹️

to contrast, i will be doing a list of things i liked bc im trying to not be too much of a hater lmaoo

[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.

[runningfrom2am]

cold nights // twenty-two

summary: you showed him colours he knows he can't see with anyone else.

pairing: coriolanus snow x fem!reader

wc: 3.8k

masterlists / nav / requests

tags/warnings: tribute!reader and mentor!coriolanus, r is very sweet (too kind for this world. literally.), sunshine x grumpy trope kinda, he falls first, violence typical for the source material, depictions of mental illness, also she's is very smart (as she should), district twelve!reader.

a/n: this is the last part of s2!! ahh i am so excited for s3 and i hope you guys too after this part :)

my asks are also open to talk about this series! (i do have emoji anons open now too!)

send me any and all of your thoughts! here!

series masterlist // playlist

When you come to, the air is cold on your skin and it's mostly dark. You groan, feeling the sway of someone carrying you very quickly.

"Hey, love. Hey..." Coryo says, noticing you stirring in his arms. "We're almost home. Hold on, I'm gonna get you some water."

"O-okay..." You agree, reaching up to rub your eyes so you can better see where you are. It's still nighttime, and you're outside. Looking up, the stars have filled the clear sky.

Coryo looks down at you, and then up. "The stars are beautiful. You were right." He tells you and you smile.

"I know." You whisper. "I'm glad you got to see them."

"Me too."

You almost fell asleep in his arms on the way back to their house. You didn't ask why they didn't take you home- part of you didn't want to know. Every time you caught yourself trying to piece together what happened before you fainted, your heart rate increased again. It wasn't good- that was all you knew.

Sejanus opens the door and Coryo is quick to lay you in his bed, kissing you on the forehead and giving you a bottle of water before quickly leaving. You can hear him and Sejanus talking, but you can't make out what they're saying. It sounds like Sejanus is crying.

You want to get up and help, but you are just so tired. You end up falling asleep.

Coryo didn't sleep at all all night. He tried after getting Sejanus to finally go to bed he came and laid with you, but it was no use. What would they do with you? They couldn't just leave you here- whatever history you and Cole had would no doubt come to light very critically in the fallout of his death. He didn't know if anyone had seen you go in or seen you there that night. After the games, it would be so easy to point the finger at you and call you dangerous and insane.

The bottom line of his decision: he couldn't leave you behind in Twelve.

He had a tentative plan, and you didn't have much of a choice if you wanted to live, but the hard part would be convincing you to come back to the Capitol. Well, convincing your whole family to let you come back to the Capitol.

He waited as long as he could before he had to wake you up, getting up and packing all his things while Sejanus did the same. You looked so peaceful, so untouched by everything horrible that has happened to you in your short life. You didn't know he was about to ruin your life again.

Carefully, when he knew you didn't have another moment more to spare, he sat down on the edge of the bed next to you. "Y/N/N?" He whispers, placing a hand on your shoulder. "Love, you have to wake up. I'm sorry."

You hum in your sleep, rolling onto your back. Your eyes open, only slightly, and you smile. "Hi..." You mumble, trying to untangle your hands from the sheets to rub your eyes.

"Morning..." Coryo smiles slightly. You're so beautiful. It's almost easier for him to just scoop you up and bring you with him just like that- sleepy and untroubled. How he ever imagined leaving without you by his side he didn't know.

"What time is it?" You ask, voice raspy from having just woken up.

"Just past three, but we need to get moving. I'm so sorry, love."

You push yourself up, still rubbing at your eyes. "What? It's so early. What's going on?"

Coryo sighs, running a hand over his jaw. "Let's... Let's get you something to eat and then I'll explain, okay?"

You nod, yawning and he stands as you throw your legs over the side of the bed.

"Oh- oh my god." You mumble, quickly standing up from the old chair at their dining table. Coryo and Sejanus look at each other nervously.

"I didn't know that would happen, I didn't even know they were using the money to buy guns." Sejanus defends himself and you nod, hands placed over your face.

"I know." You reply, voice muffled by your hands. "I just... oh my god. I thought it was a nightmare. I thought I was just having another nightmare I-"

"I know, but it's okay. You're gonna be okay."

"His sword, death's stamp, where it did mark, it took. From face to foot he was a thing of blood, whose every motion was timed with dying cries..." You mumble to yourself, pacing now. "Deaths stamp. The reckoning."

Sejanus looks at his friend as you ramble, eyes wide.

"Y/N?" Coryo tries to grab your attention, but with how quickly you were clearly spiraling he didn't want to touch you. "None of what happened was your fault or ours. There is nothing we could have done."

"I know, I know, I know but I can't stop it either everything is falling apart and I am killing everyone and who is next?"

"No, hey, you didn't kill anyone. No one is next." He assures you quickly. "They can't charge anyone if they can't find the guns, no one can prove we were even there. We just have to act as if nothing happened."

You nod, shaking out your hands and trying to breathe. "Okay, yes. Yes." You press your hands onto your chest, clocking your heart rate. A panic attack wouldn't help. "I am having a panic attack." You state, looking toward the two of them.

Sejanus doesn't say anything, but looks quickly between you and Coryo.

"I know, love." Coryo replies. "But you're going to be okay. We're safe here, but we need to get moving so we have to relax. Okay?"

You take a deep breath in through your nose, closing your eyes. Everything is okay. You can't panic now, it will only make everything worse.

"I'm calm. I'm calm." You tell yourself, but it isn't working. Coryo chews his cheek. He still hasn't even told you that you'll need to come with them.

"What was that joke you told me? From that book?" Coryo asks, trying to distract you. "I think Sejanus would like it, would you mind telling him?"

"'I can see he is not in your good books' The messenger said," You recite mechanically. "No, and if he were I would burn my library.'" You furrow your brow, shaking your head. "No, that wasn't it. It was the one about Benedick and his horse."

"Yes, the horse." Coryo chuckles, trying to help you down. "Although, that is funny too."

"Okay, okay." You nod, taking another big gulping breath. "In our last conflict four of his five wits went halting off, and now is the whole man governed with one: so that if he have wit enough to keep himself warm, let him bear it for a difference between himself and his horse; for it is all the wealth that he hath left, to be known a reasonable creature."

You finish, and Coryo smacks Sejanus's arm when all he does is give you a confused look, trying to track what is meant to be a joke.

Sejanus looks at him and Coryo nods toward you. "Oh! That... yes, that's very funny." Sejanus chuckles nervously.

"She's saying that you can't tell him from his horse because he's just about as smart as it." You explain, knowing he wouldn't have understood. "Well, he would be if she didn't let him keep one of his wits."

And just like that, you're breathing almost normally.

"Feeling better?" Coryo asks, approaching you carefully.

You swallow and nod. "Yes. Thank you." He takes your hand in his, gently rubbing the back of it under his thumb.

"Okay, now, this is the hard part."

You had agreed through tears. The idea of even setting foot in the Capitol again almost set you off, but you made it through. You knew it would be hard, terrifying even, but you would have Coryo, and that would help.

The three of you made your way back to your house in the dark, preparing for you to pack up your whole life in order to move in a matter of hours.

You sneak inside, closing the door quietly behind the three of you.

"Just wait in the living room." You whisper. "I'll start packing."

"Y/N, honey, is that you?" Your dad's voice shocks you, and your eyes shoot over to the clock. He hadn't yet left for work.

"Pa?" You walk into the living room where he is sitting, having his morning coffee.

"What were you doing out so late? Did you have fun?" He asks, and then his eyes go past you to the boys. "Oh, hello. Can't say we were expectin' company this early. Or late, I suppose, for you guys."

Your lip starts to quiver as you walk over to the couch. "What's wrong?" Your dad frowns, eyes back on you now as he puts his coffee down quickly, reaching out to rub your arms. "Did something happen?" He looks over to the boys, but they don't dare move.

"Pa..." You cry, sitting down next to him and he pulls you into a hug.

"Honey, what happened?" He frowns, holding you close. You wouldn't see him for so long, and it was breaking your heart.

"I..." You sniff, quickly running over your agreed story. "I'm leaving."

"Leaving? You don't need to go, you're safe here, Honey..."

You look up at him, trying to smile. "Can you get Ma? I need to talk to you both." You say, chin still wobbling with tears.

"Okay, stay right here. I'll get her." He promises, getting up and patting your head.

"Can... can you guys wait outside?" You whisper and both Coryo and Sejanus quickly nod, passing you to wait out back.

"What's happening, Y/N/N?" Your mom asks, brow furrowed as she pulls her housecoat tight around herself. "Are you okay?"

You nod, swallowing as you refresh yourself on the story you came up with. Your parents sit down, all eyes on you. "I..." You start, but you can't get it out without a sob. "I have to go back to the Capitol."

"What?" Your dad asks, brow furrowed as your mom already begins to cry. "They can't take you back, you won. Fair and square, you're home now."

"They aren't." You shake your head. "Coryo helped me apply to the university there and I was accepted. Our train leaves in a few hours."

Both your parents stare at you, absolutely in shock.

"I... What?" Your father asks again and you nod.

"Yes." You laugh slightly.

"But... You can't go, where will you stay? We can't afford any kind of school or even the food there." Your father shakes his head. "I'm sorry, I know you're happy and this is amazing but... that just won't work."

You shake your head again. "No, we thought of that. I'll stay with Coryo, and he will cover my tuition." This wasn't a lie, that's how he talked you into it, in fact- though you hadn't wanted to accept.

"Look, it won't be all bad. You can come to school with us, get an education. It'll be so good for you and your family." Coryo says, holding your hands between his own. "You can stay with me, I'll pay for everything with money from the prize. You gave it to me, anyways. I owe you that much."

"I can't take that from you... I can't leave them."

"I owe it to you, love. Besides, it's not forever." He promises. "You can come visit, and we'll pay for them to get a phone installed so you can call whenever you'd like. They even have these really nice ones with cameras, we'll get you one of those."

"The school won't take me, I don't have a Capitol degree." You sniff.

"Of course they will- everyone there loves you. They know how smart you are. You'll just have to do some testing first, and then you can major in whatever you like. Even literature."

"I can?"

"Of course you can. Whatever you want to do, anything in the world."

"What are you taking?" You ask, wiping your eyes.

"Political Science."  He answers. "But you could do... art history, creative writing, journalism, anything you want, love. Hell, you could even take mathematics if that's what you want." Coryo smiles, squeezing your hands. "You'll change your family's lives, and we can be together."

"Oh, honey..." Your mother cries, pulling you into her arms.

"He said we'll get you a phone, a nice one with a camera and I can call every day." You tell them through your tears, hugging her back. "And then I'll come back for you, with my shiny new education and neither of you will ever have to work again if you don't want to."

"I... I don't know what to say." Your father admits.

You laugh slightly, leaning into your mother's arms. "I don't either... I don't know."

You laughed and cried together, but you knew you couldn't tell them why you really had to leave on such short notice. They had to be happy for you to let you go without fear. Knowing anything about the truth would put their lives at risk. You cried harder when your father had to leave for work not long later; it would be a long time before you would see him again.

"Well." Your mom takes a deep breath in after a few minutes of your father being gone. "We better get you packed." She pushes herself up, and you join her.

"Ma." You stop her as she goes to make her way to the kitchen, no doubt to put on some tea for the process.

She turns, looking at you expectantly with reddened eyes.

"Lennox is going to hate me, isn't he?"

She frowns, pulling you into another hug. "No, honey. Never." She shushes you. "He may not like it at first, but he loves you so much. He could never hate you."

"You promise?"

"Of course, honey. Don't you think on it for even a minute. He'll miss you, but we'll be waitin' on you to come home. We'll be right here." She assures you. "And we are so proud. Don't worry about us, okay?"

"Parting is such sweet sorrow." You sniff, laughing slightly against her shoulder.

"This time, it is." She chuckles. "Now, let those boys back in and we can get moving. We don't want you to miss that train."

Somehow, you managed to pack everything up without waking your brother. You don't know if that was a good thing or not.

The sun began to rise as you made your way to the train station. Sejanus hadn't said a word since you left their temporary home.

"Y/N." Coryo whispers, and you look up at him. He's carrying one of your bags along with his, while you focus on the makeshift carrier in your arms that contains your cat. "When we get up there, let me do the talking."

You just nod, swallowing back another wave of tears. The guilt you felt was immeasurable, especially now that you allowed yourself to be excited. What if you did get into their school? Your whole life was about to change, but this time, hopefully for the better. But if it was all because of the deaths of three more District kids, how dare you think it may be worth it. Even if Mayfair was vile and Billy Taupe had an insatiable habit of cheating on Lucy Gray.

Lucy Gray. You didn't even say goodbye to Lucy Gray.

She wouldn't handle his death well, you knew that. You would have to write her immediately. Maybe that's what you would do on the train.

You would miss her greatly, but she would understand. Same as your parents, she would be proud. And you'd tell her about their phone and you could call her anytime you wanted as well. It would all be okay.

The train was heavily guarded by peacekeepers- though it was likely less so than usual. All the others were probably out already searching for the guns that killed the Mayor's daughter as well as a peacekeeper. It was unlikely they cared about Billy Taupe. You wish you could have warned your family that peacekeepers may come knocking, but the less they knew the better.

When you see Lucy Gray standing back against the building, looking out seemingly for the boys, your heart feels heavier in your chest. You don't say anything to them before you run up to her. You call her name and she turns, smiling at you.

"Hi, Hun. I wanted you to come say goodbye with me but I couldn't find ya last night, you weren't home when I came by after the show or this morning. I was worried."

"Oh, sorry. I slept over at theirs." You nod back to the boys as they approach behind you.

She smiles, but something in it is sad. Her eyes are puffy, clearly she had been crying. It was about Billy Taupe, no doubt.

"Y/N, I got something to tell you." She says quietly, and you tilt your head at her. "Last night..." Her eyes well up with tears again. "Last night Billy Taupe was murdered. He was shot, at the Hob. And Cole was too. I'm so sorry."

Coryo just catches the tail end of it, stepping in next to you and carefully watching your reaction. Or, what you thought your reaction was supposed to be.

You're quickly handing your bag off to Coryo and pulling her into your arms. "Oh- I'm so sorry, Lucy Gray... I'm so sorry."

Coryo and Sejanus look at each other as she cries in your arms.

"I was mad at him... I was so mad at him and I never got to say that I'm sorry."

"I know... God, honey I'm so sorry." You rub her back as you speak, focussing purely on comforting her. You had been close with him too. You don't know if Lennox knows yet, but you know he will be devastated. Just because Billy Taupe was an awful boyfriend to her at times didn't mean he wasn't still like family. "Don't beat yourself up about it, okay? It's not your fault. He knows you love him, okay? He knows."

She sniffs and you can feel her nod against your shoulder. "Love is immortality." You tell her quietly, kissing the side of her head.

"Y/N." Coryo says, hating to interrupt but the train wouldn't wait for you.

"I know." You reply, nodding as you pull away and take her hands in yours. "Lucy Gray, I am so sorry but I have to go."

"Go?" She looks at the boys behind you and the bags they're holding, there are several more than what they had arrived with. "You're going with them?" Her voice breaks and you nod, swallowing back tears.

"Coryo helped me apply to the university and they accepted me. Classes start in a couple of weeks." You lie, you couldn't find it in your heart to tell her you were there when Billy Taupe was killed.

She looks confused, squeezing your hands tight. "I... why didn't you tell me?"

"I wanted to wait until we knew for sure. His cousin called last night and said the letter arrived, and it would have been so embarrassing if I didn't get in. I wish I could have told you sooner."

"You could tell me anything. You shouldn't have been embarrassed." She frowns, shaking her head. "I wish I had known- we could have had a goodbye party or something I just feel like you shouldn't be leaving just like this."

"It's okay, I don't need a party. You know that." You smile.

"I know." She sighs. "Well... I'm proud of you. I'm so proud of you. This is amazing."

"Thank you." You laugh slightly, realizing that the tears you were trying to hold back had started to fall. "I love you so much, I'll write you all every day and we're getting my house a phone so you'll be able to call too."

"Okay. We'll talk every day." Lucy Gray nods, sniffing. "I love you, Y/N." You give her another hug.

"It was so good to meet you, Lucy Gray. Thanks for everything." Coryo says as you let her go again. You take your bag back from him so he can hug her. "And I'm sorry about your friend..."

"Thank you... and of course, it was lovely to have some new faces here. I hope you'll come back sometime." She grins, wiping her eyes again as she pulls away.

When she looks at Sejanus who had been awfully quiet this whole time, you gently pull on Coryo's arm. "Let's give them a minute." You whisper and he nods, following you away. You can't look back, if you look at her again you aren't sure you'll be able to board the train at all.

"Excuse me." Coryo approaches the peacekeeper stationed by one of the train cars, pulling a slip of paper from his pocket. "My friend and I have tickets, back to The Capitol."

The peacekeeper takes it, looking it over. "You live there?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then why did you come to Twelve?"

"Oh, our friend Y/N lives here. We came to get her, she is coming back with us." He explains, flashing a charming smile as he looks back over at you.

"There's only two tickets here, and neither of them has her name on them."

"Yes, so, we were hoping she could just tag along. She won't take up much room."

"No. District personnel can't just go to the Capitol, you should know better."

"I do, yeah." Coryo nods. "But maybe you'd recognize her, that's Y/N Y/L/N, Victor of the tenth annual Hunger Games. I was her mentor. Under the circumstances we were hoping you'd make an exception- we haven't been able to call home about her ticket but they need her back there. It's a new thing, they want to do a Victory tour, some interviews- that kind of thing. They're trying lots of new stuff this year."

The peacekeeper looks past him and eyes you skeptically. You smile, giving a slight wave as Tybalt squirms in the carrier. "Good morning, officer. How are you?"

"What's in the bag?" He asks, returning his attention to Coryo and completely ignoring your question.

"See, she really wanted to bring her cat. Since the games he's been a real comfort to her, Dr. Gaul, head of the war department and head gamemaker, said that the cat wouldn't be an issue as long as he's kept inside. He'll be an indoor cat only, officer."

"No animals." He shakes his head. "She can go, but a cat isn't necessary cargo."

"Okay, well..." Coryo sighs, looking back at you. You can see the panic shift in his eyes. There was no time to take Tybalt home, and you weren't going to set him loose here. Either Tybalt comes, or neither of you do, and that was hardly an option.

"Here," Sejanus mumbles as he rejoins you, digging in his pocket and walking past you and up to them. "No cat." He hands the peacekeeper a wad of cash so thick that it makes your eyes widen.

The officer chuckles, tucking the money into his own pocket. "No cat." He agrees. "Enjoy your ride."

Coryo smiles at you and motions for you to join him, helping you up the stairs onto the train with a hand on your back while you take another last look at the city you love so deeply.

taglist: @soulessjourney , @that-veela-girl ,  @dreamyysouls, @rockstarbfs , @maysileeewrites , @baybieruth , @kitscutie ,  @fratboyharrysgf0201 , @totallynotkaibiased , @stelleduarte , @secretsicanthideanymore , @bejeweledreverie , @drewsandsebastianswife , @niicole-87 , @queenofshinigamis , @innercreationflower , @nallasstuff , @iovemoonyy , @thatmarvelchick19 , @wearemadeofstardust0 , @regulusblackcore , @puredreamagination , @fantasticchaosthing , @becauseseaotters , @secretsicanthideanymore , @strawberryflavouredkisses

okay suddenly tumblr isn't letting me tag more people than this so i just made some cuts unfortunately :') i just left the max amount of people i could whose users i recognized and see in my notifs all the time :) if you're not on here and you should be i'm so sorry!

also this taglist is closed now!! if you’d like to get a notification when i update, turn on my post notifications!! i promise i won’t spam y'all :,)

[glamaphonic]

i did this for rick so as promised my personal headcanon on the trajectory of michonne's feelings for rick

the most fun thing for me about this is that even though i would say that michonne is generally quite emotionally astute, it actually takes her way waaaaay longer than rick to be able to recognize what's going on between them

rick and michonne are so similar in terms of the things that drive them, that move them, that are most important to them (as gimple said: they have the same soul) and her entire approach to their relationship is basically tied into the fact that she and rick had inverse experiences at the very beginning of the apocalypse. he set out to find his family and did. whereas michonne had her family and lost them.

so she closes it all down, decides to just go away, but she can't really escape who she is, so she helps andrea. and this starts the recurring pattern in michonne's character arc where she repeatedly comes to these decision points where she has to make a choice between giving in to the nothingness or being herself (someone who is loving, compassionate, a protector) and every time she makes the choice to be true to herself, it invariably leads her to rick and their family

so from the moment they meet in s3 she is also viscerally drawn to him the same way he is to her, and like him there is no way she's in a place to even begin to process this. but she sought him out specifically because she was making that choice, to look for connection and community, and she sees who he is pretty much immediately, and so extends him this profound trust over and over again because who he is, what she sees in him, is fundamentally why she wants to be a part of that community.

in 4a, michonne's trauma has her turned every which way. she's already grown attached to rick and to carl and her reaction to this is to keep one foot out the door; to not be fully present for the community. to try to keep her distance even though while she's away she's still obviously thinking about her grimes boys all the time, i.e. bringing them back gifts, etc. and then the prison falls and it seems to justify her caution.

in 4b, she comes to one of those decision points and when she chooses to seek connection and community, it returns her to rick and carl. in my other post i note that this is where rick claims her as a grimes, but this is also where michonne fully commits. she claims them too. she accepts that they are hers. and of course we all know, and danai has even pointed out, the exact moment michonne fully falls in love with rick, when it clicks somewhere inside of her that it's only ever going to be him. but she's still nowhere near ready to consciously face that.

in 5a and through to 5b, just like rick she's not spending time examining what they've become. it just is. that's her family. they belong to each other.

towards the end of 5b, when rick starts to Realize, michonne doesn't because she instead actively sublimates the fact that she is in love with rick, that she has regained what she lost during the turn, into her general dedication to community. she puts everything into trying to shepherd their community without acknowledging her personal stake. which is what leads us to:

the end of 5b and through 6a during which michonne has to have 3 or 4 different people pretty much say to her face HEY YOU GET THAT YOU’RE MARRIED TO RICK AND RAISING CHILDREN WITH HIM RIGHT? YOU GET THAT BEYOND FOSTERING A COMMUNITY ON A MACRO LEVEL YOU HAVE A WHOLE ASS HUSBAND AND TWO KIDS? YOU GET THAT YOU DESERVE TO EMBRACE THIS THING THAT IS FOR YOU SPECIFICALLY AND LIVE A FULL LIFE?

but that final wall is so hard to get past because that wound is so deep, she has to sit with all of that for a good long while (she's working up to it), and it still takes carl basically openly declaring that she's his mother and rick actually making the move before she finally lets herself see, in that moment, what was already long since there.

and it's just very delicious to me personally that from 4a on rick was hers for the taking, honestly. all she had to do was say the word, but she wasn't ready to take him until that moment on the couch.

[diegosumbrella]

My observations from s4 of Umbrella Academy

I dont even wanna talk about the main plot of whatever the fuck that car crash of a season four was, but heres some plot discrepancies I noticed while watching Umbrella Academy.

!! Season four spoilers under the 'see more' !!

- Luther's unnecessary body change

It's stated so clearly in s1 that Luther never gained his body from the marigold or developed it along with his powers. When he was up on that mission on the moon, he had an accident and Pogo had to donate his blood which resulted in Luther having that monkey body we all know and love.

So as Luther drank that said marigold, why would he suddenly gain back the blood donated from pogo and the body that comes along with that..? It's as if the writers themselves forgot why he had that body. Why write in unnecessary body dysphoria for my poor baby?

- Diego's sudden appearance of ab's

Listen. I am the last fucking person to complain about a Diego Hargreeves shirtless scene, where you see his pecs quite literally bounce BUT why did he change so drastically from 'dad bod' to suddenly 'ripped'?

I read an article interview with Steve Blackman and saw a few snippets from a podcast that explained that David (Diego's actor) didn't want to gain weight for the role, which is totally understandable. But if you have an actor who doesn't want to gain weight for this role, why not just keep Diego as fit?

Due to the short six episodes, it's extremely easy to miss how Diego slowly becomes more fit as time progressed. For most, and also myself at first, that fighting scene just looked confusing as fuck. Like two episodes before, Lila was calling you 'tubby' (or whatever the fuck she said), so why do you have abs now?? Where did the dilf diego dad bod disappear to :(

- Allison's beloved Ray just leaving her

I'm not sure if i'm taking this the wrong way completely but... In the scene after Allison had given Klaus the marigold against his wishes, but also to save his life. As Klaus is calling out every member of the family, he mentions how he 'took care of Allison when Ray walked out'.

Like i'm sorry but the fuck do you mean Ray just walked out?? Why did he leave Allison if she had no powers. She'd clearly built a better life for herself and began to change her mindset for the better, compared to s3 she's drastically better.

It's never explained (probably again for the lack of episodes) and it's never even mentioned again. Like does Allison share custody of Claire with Ray? Does Claire even see her father? I have so many questions and once again, a severe lack of answers.

- Klaus breaking his five year sobriety

As much as us as an audience are aware of Klaus' addictive tendencies and his utter thirst for form of drug in the former seasons, but why establish that he's not only been sober for three entire years but he's also now a huge germaphobe just for him to ruin it in five seconds.

The main problem I had with this is the fact none of the siblings, including and most importantly Allison, had zero reaction to this. They weren't upset, angry, disappointed or fuck it even happy. They practically ignored the fact their brothers three year detox went out the window.

Five's ability to time jump

Before I get you all jumping up my arse, i'm fully aware I could discuss how they completely just fucked his character development and his entire personality as a whole for a shitty romance that made absolutely no sense but I'm gonna make a separate post on that because oh boy do I have some shite to say.

ANYWAY.

I can't even go into much detail with this one but why is it that every time five attempts to do his time jumps, he ends up in that subway but when he does it with Lila in that end episode.. he can suddenly just jump..?? normally?? Like why. Why can he now only just time jump as he used too. WHY WAS THE SUBWAY NEEDED FOR OTHER THAN FOR THAT AWFUL FIVE X LILA PLOT????

It's as if the writers couldn't come up with a way to get the brellies into that building with Ben so instead of using critical thinking and writing them breaking in, they just said 'fuck it make him time jump with Lila'. Like no I have questions??

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

I don't really get the whole strikes thing and what it has to do with Good Omens to be renewed, I got that Amazon has to pay writers and actors the right amount of money for their work but the thing is, if they negotiate, all is settled and they can renew the series? Or there's more? Also, rewatching the show all over again is really helpful? I'm sorry I know it's dumb for me to ask this but I'm not very educated on this matter, Good Omens is the first TV series I have watched in a long time.

Hiya! Yes, until the amazon studio is willing to negotiate and settle with the writers (and actors), the writers are on strike which means no work can be done on the script, it's like frozen in time from before the strike started (imagine Crowley snapping fingers on the script :)) (and Neil did some work on the S3 script even tho the show isn't renewed yet), when the strike ends the time gets unfrozen and Neil will be able to work on the S3 scripts again plus Amazon needs to renew it for S3. They might make the decision during the strike but maybe they will do it after strike. For the decision they will look at the statistics of Good Omens on prime (not only but it will play a big part). So:

Introduce new people to the ineffability and have them watch S1+S2, new people watching Good Omens are important.

Watch S2 on repeat (entirely to the end (you can have it playing in the background, from time to time pause so you are not confused with a bot), first month is especially important).

Write to amazon to negotiate with the strikes and make S3, AMAZON STUDIOS, 1620 26TH STREET SUITE 4000N, SANTA MONICA, 90404, United States - you can address it to Jennifer Salke who is now a head of Amazon studios,  cs-reply@amazon.com  (physical letter is better but to be safe let’s write both :))

Rate the season and also write a review (some trolls wrote some bigoted reviews so it's good to show that there are people who appreaciate the show and take time to write reviews)

When engaging on social media with Good Omens content use tags - twitter now uses #GoodOmens, #RenewGoodOmens, #GiveMeS3OrGiveMeDeath

[thethingsweneversaid]

Am I crazy or did I just crack the mystery of the monologue scene????

Why did they lose against Vecna in season 4? What were they missing?

They lost the race against time. Time was obviously significant this season (The grandfather clock, Vecna's obsession with time, the UD being frozen in time). The time was simply up, they were too late. Who’s to blame? Mike Wheeler. 

Okay, let me explain, haha.

Throughout the whole series we all know Mike being late, or almost late to things is recurring. Every season in fact. S1: Mike’s campaign was too long, and he tried to get the party to stay past their curfew. S2: Mike was trying to get in contact with El on his walkie, almost making him late to the arcade. S3: Mike was almost late to the cinema because he was with El, making them almost miss the beginning of the movie. S4: Mike was reading El’s letter, almost making him and Nancy late for school... He begins every season with a race against time. Also worth noting that El was the reason for him being late in s2, s3 and s4. Also ALSO worth noting that in season 1, Mike begs his parents to let the party stay longer. The campaign took two weeks to plan! They need to finish it. He has no rush. While in all the other seasons (when he was late because of El), we get a "Shit! Shit! I'm going to be late"-version of Mike. He's stressed out and rushed. Not sure where I'm going with this last point, but I'm sure it means something and that it'll make sense in s5. The point is, Mike gets distracted by El.

Now for the monologue. This time, it's not Mike getting distracted by El. It's him distracting El.

Jason was obviously a key reason for them being too late as well. The scenes switch between Lucas fighting him and Mike’s monologue, comparing the two. Jason destroys Max’s walkman, destroying her connection to Lucas and the world outside her mind. Mike tries to get El to wake up by lifting her out of the freezer, taking off her glasses, Will shoves the radio away. They’re trying to get her out of Max’s mind and into the real world again. But El doesn't want to wake up. She is ready to fight for Max. The boys obviously tried to help because who knows what would’ve happened if they didn’t? They thought El was dying. When Mike begins his monologue, El looked away from Max and up “towards Mike’s voice”. She was listening to him now. Getting distracted. El continuously tells people throughout the series to be quiet when going into her “trance”. People talking distracts her, and she needs to concentrate. Mike also reminds the audience of the importance of the sensory deprivation tank. "It helps her calm down and focus on her powers". With Mike removing all the aids that help her concentrate (the glasses, the tank, the radio), while also talking to her, we can only assume that now, El isn’t only fighting to save Max, but also to stay in Max’s mind, further slowing her down.

At the end of the monologue, Mike reminds her she has to fight, and El’s eyes snap back to Max. That’s when she breaks loose from the vines. Whether you think El believes what Mike is saying and utilizes his loving words for strength or not, it’s still a distraction. I’ve seen a lot of people say that they felt impatient while watching this scene. Like «get on with it! Vecna is literally killing Max RIGHT NOW». And we're probably right to feel impatient! That's probably what the writers were going for! The audience was supposed to feel like that. El lost valuable time because of it. Mike is making them late this time too.

Will is also kinda to blame in this (I don't blame any of them, it's just an unfortunate set of events and they all did what they thought was best, but you get what I mean) Because in a way, Mike is distracted too. Distracted from the truth. That happened when Will lied to him in the van, disguising his own feelings for Mike, using El as a distraction for Mike to focus on instead. Will's guiding Mike towards a lie. He convinced Mike that El was feeling a certain way, which she WAS NOT. (For example: "You make her feel like she’s not a mistake at all, like she’s better for being different." cue Mike and El’s fight where she accuses him of thinking she’s a monster too, like everyone else.) (This also contrasts Will singling Mike out as the only person that doesn't treat him differently in season 2 in that scene with Will and Jonathan.) Mike doesn’t make El feel the way Will portrayed it in the van, though Mike is led to believe that she does.

Therefore, making the feelings that was the foundation for the monologue a lie. Both to Mike and El. It isn’t authentic. This doesn't apply to them. which brings me to my next point. 

 "A paladin swears to uphold justice and righteousness, to stand with the good things of the world against the encroaching darkness, and to hunt the forces of evil wherever they lurk. Different paladins focus on various aspects of the cause of righteousness (honesty=righteousness and honor for Mike), but all are bound by the oaths (promises, “friends don’t lie”) that grant them power to do their sacred work. Oaths, honor, and rigid rules define a paladin's everyday actions. Breaking these oaths (by lying) means their deity will revoke their powers."

This is why his monologue didn’t work. It was a lie (And Mike knowingly or unknowingly portrayed that lie to El). Without his honesty, Mike the paladin loses his powers. He couldn’t save them. 

Will’s selfless attempt to save their relationship sadly turned out to be counter-productive in every way, hindering all of them from seeing the truth. Will was also the one that told Mike not to stop, when in reality, maybe stopping and letting El be was exactly what he should've done. He's the heart. But he's Will's heart. That's what Will would've wanted Mike to do, seeing as Mike has saved him/snapped him out of his episodes multiple times by speaking to him: Of course Will thinks that's the right thing to do! Mike's doing what Will would've needed, not El.

It adds a new layer to El being upset with Mike in the cabin by the end of s4, because it isn't as simple as "she knows Mike is lying" or "She's just upset because they lost". She's upset because once again Mike doesn't trust that she knows her own limits (This being a huge reason for conflict in s3 between El/Mike/Max.) Mike worries because he cares of course, but it isn't what El needs ("Mike, I need you to trust me.") When Mike tries to help her, she fails. But she "redeems herself" when she's making her own decision, without outside influences other than love for her friends. She pushes her limits further than ever before, bringing Max back to life, trusting herself and her powers, without Mike knowing.

Mike is the heart, yes. The problem was - the heart was in the wrong place. They all got it wrong this time. They got confused and misunderstood each other. That’s why they lost. In the next season, I believe Mike and El are going to realize that they’ve both been focusing on the wrong things, and that is how they’re going to win. Still using love as their weapon - just a different kind of love that’s not distracting them from what they really need, not slowing them down. El coming fully into her own, reaching her full potential and using her powers the way she knows best, with the support of her loved ones making her stronger - not under the influence of Mike trying to stop her out of worry. And Mike’s heart being in the right place. With Will. 

I've seen other people talk about this next part, but I'm adding it in because it further proves the point.

Another indication that proves to me that at least SOME of the monologue is a blatant lie is the Romeo and Juliet parallel, with the word "Montague" spelled out behind Mike, and the "love at first sight"-refrence. "I knew right then and there, in that moment, that I loved you." That. is. a. lie. and there's just no going around it. Romeo and Juliet's romance wasn't actually real love, just infatuation. The Duffers also said they don't believe in love at first sight. For them to use that trope wouldn't just be wierd and cliché, but also contradicts everything we were shown in season 1. Are we just supposed to believe that Mike loved her, decpite them showing us otherwise?

More on the Romeo and Juliet thing in this post.

Conclusion: The Duffers are geniuses I’m never getting over this show.

[anundyingfidelity]

I'M A RUIN — Soldier Boy (Part II)

Series summary: After the events of the Seven Tower, you present Grace Mallory a new secret project you're working on already to develop a cure to Compound V. The only problem? You need Soldier Boy for that.

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x female reader.

Word count: 2.5k.

Warnings for series: set after S3 (spoilers), some OOC!Ben, some depressed!Ben, angst, hurt/comfort, eventual smut, slow-burn, language, PTSD, reader has Compound V (she's no Vought supe tho), Soldier Boy being an usual asshole, reader is a fucking liar.

Warnings on this chapter: Ben being a misogynist, talks about masturbation and porn, killing threats, Ben's POV in general is a red flag, death.

☕ if you like my writing, support me with a ko-fi !

get yourself in the taglist!

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII

tags: @k-slla

GEN MASTERLIST! — SERIES MASTERLIST!

Part II: Silence is Peace

The next day arrived fast, and again, you found yourself walking ready to have a conversation with the supe locked in the facility. A part of you was surprised he didn't try to escape yet, but Ben, on the other hand, was just letting things flow at the moment.

The heavy, metal door opened to let you in. The supe caught by surprise seeing you coming inside full of confidence at this time in the morning. A couple of armed men in black uniforms followed behind as they settled down some furniture in the empty area of the room: two small sofas and a coffee table.

His arrogant self knew those guns wouldn't tear a single hair off of him, but hey, he understood you needed to feel safe. So meanwhile, he decided to play along. He remained still by the bathroom door as you came closer.

"I didn't request that," he said once you stood face to face.

"Oh, I know. I did, it's for your therapy," you smiled, tugging the bag on your shoulder. The armed men finished decorating the cell, and they left with a loud thud of the door being closed behind their backs. "There's been a small change of plans. I will come by every day for one hour. Anything you want you will ask me first and if I approve, then I will bring it to you."

He smirked. Like if he needed to be bossed around by a fucking woman, he thought. "You sure have the balls to stand up on me like that."

"Like I said, I want to help you," you replied, making your way and sitting down on a sofa. "Please," you requested him with a hand to do the same and he followed with curiosity. You put the bag on the coffee table, taking out a notebook, pens, a folder, and a small zip bag containing the only thing he asked from you the day before. You left his reefer on the coffee table, putting the folder in your lap as you waited for him with a smile on your face he found unsettling.

Ben still didn't buy you or your intentions, but he sat down on the opposite sofa nonetheless. You had brought him something he asked from you, something he wanted and would calm him down for a little. Hopefully it wasn't going to be that bad. He only had to put up with the game of doctor-patient. In the back of his mind, he was also grateful you dropped the stupid white coat at the same time he found your attempt to fix him ridiculous. He didn't need to get fixed.

"Your guards ain't hurting me with those guns, you know that," Ben started.

"We have to try," you shrugged. "And you're still here, that has to mean something."

He rolled his eyes. Of fucking course he had to stay. There were a lot of questions in his head. He had to settle down for a moment. Things were different in the world, he needed to learn about today's tech and get a fucking good plan to get away with his shit. Who would he get to kill first? Still thinking about it. How would he escape? Probably could use some help to keep a low profile. Could you be that help, being the only human contact he figured would have from now on? Maybe.

"So how are you feeling? Did you have some sleep?" you asked.

"I slept enough, spent the whole fucking night jerking off," he spat. "That TV of yours now does have good porn some hours in the day."

With wide eyes, you wrote down after his answer.

"Alright. But tell me, how are you feeling?" you pushed, your smile long gone and replaced with a serious face locking your gaze to his own.

"Great, never been fucking better" he smirked and you shifted on your seat.

His green eyes started checking you all over for a second. The pencil skirt hugged your legs perfectly and the blouse was tight enough to show off the size of your breasts. The clothes yelling that you were expensive and valuable for the CIA, and most important, to Mallory. Soon he sensed the discomfort emanating from you as his gaze returned to your face. God, he loved doing that, but you sure were daring to get locked inside a room with him alone.

"You can tell me the truth, you know," you said.

"I can easily break your neck and explode this shithole if I want to," he spat back.

"You won't do that. You had the chance yesterday, today even, and yet here you are."

He thought you sounded so sure about that. Ben held your gaze. Neither of you dare to break eye contact. It was like you were challenging him to something he wasn't aware of just yet. He didn't like that, but he remained there, breathing deeply with a strong look on his face. You were right though, and he realised could find you a good usage besides the obvious fucking use for pretty girls like you. He might have missed a good fuck for 40 years but the little common sense on the back of his mind told him the porn channel was enough for now.

"Listen, I know you're not a bad guy," the words fell softly from your lips. "I know you didn't mean to harm those people in Midtown... And in order to help you I could use some information on how you feel every time the blast comes-"

He stood up abruptly, strong enough to move the sofa he was sitting some feet away behind his back and yelled aggressively.

"Fuck off, bitch. What the fuck do you know about me? I don't trust your kind and you're making my threat sound like a great plan now.

You held his gaze as he made his way towards you. You were a prey in his cage, but even if you were scared, he didn't sense any sign of it. Ben's big frame towered you, standing just inches away from the couch you sat on. The space was enough for him to kill you with only one hand but you never moved or flinched a second.

"If you touch me, just a single hair on my scalp, you're fucked."

"C'mon sweetheart, you're no match for me," he mocked with a smirk on his face.

"Novichok definitely is."

He tightened his fists with his lips on a straight line, and his heartbeat increased at the mention of that fucking poison. Meanwhile, you just sat down looking at him with a blank face and innocent eyes. For a moment, he was tempted to just kill you but he forced himself to calm the fuck down. He didn't want to black out again, he certainly did not want to become a fugitive. If he was going to do something, it had to be done well.

"Soldier Boy, it's okay," you got on your feet. His eyes followed your moves. "It's fine if you don't want to talk to me. I can't force you to."

He saw a strange sparkle in your eyes. Were you pitying him? He didn't need that. And when he said nothing, then you continued.

"You accepted the deal, and that includes therapy to help you get out of your trauma. And sooner or later, you have to talk to me," you explained, he felt like a fucking child being scolded.

"You want to fucking help me and spray me with Novichok at the same time," he groaned.

"We have to take our precautions. But trust me. I’d rather not use that on you, I prefer other ways."

"This is fucking crap," he mumbled through his teeth.

He watched you making your way towards the book shelf, leaning down to grab a couple of books. He took in the curve of your ass as you knelt, and he wondered if you were doing all that little show on purpose to test him. His jaw clenched once again at the thought of being played with false promises and a cure to his memories.

"I can leave, but I will come tomorrow," you tossed two books on the coffee table: one about PTSD, the other one about new technology for him to start educating himself on that. "Start reading those and write down in the notebook anything you have to say. It can be about the books, your thoughts, your feelings... Anything you want. I don't have to know unless you want me to."

If looks could kill, you were already dead. He still didn't trust you. He didn't understand completely why a stupid psychiatrist of the CIA wanted him to go through rehab. You were a woman, for fucks sake. Psychiatrists were old, wise, rich men back in his days, not expensive sluts.

He scoffed and rolled his eyes. "You're lucky I'm trying hard not to crush your bones right now, pretty thing."

"At least you're trying, that's improvement," you smiled cockily, pointing at his chest with a finger and you took your bag and belongings together, as if he didn't threaten to kill you like three times in the same conversation. "I will leave you now. Have a good lunch, Soldier Boy."

"Time of death 9:41 a.m."

The sound of the monitor disturbed your senses as the voice announced all over the place the death of yet another supe. You watched through the windows as two lab assistants ran inside the chamber to take out the lifeless body of the woman who had given her life to volunteer and assist the program. Anything for the cure, you remember her voice saying, even after she was warned about the possible effects. The worst of them being death. The contract stipulated it clearly and you told her to think twice before agreeing to take the third version of the Anti-V, although she hesitated a lot before joining.

You breathed out. The formula needed improvement, quickly. How many corpses had they taken out of there? You lost count already. You ordered Bianca, your young assistant, to note down all the details one day after the second death of a supe you witnessed, and for her to count them as necessary and at all cost. Arms folded on your chest, your jaw clenched, losing hope and feeling despair running through your spine. The discomfort of what had to be done to find a cure sometimes was too much of a burden. But sacrifices had to be done.

And speaking about sacrifices, you knew you had to get into Soldier Boy's head as soon as possible. The few other sessions you tried to talk to him were useless. The sixth one being today before lunch. A part of you was growing tired of faking it and pretending to be a psychiatrist, it really wasn't your field but you knew how to be one after many sessions, research, and medication on your own. Grace had taken care of your training years ago and this was just another mission with a huge impact and objective in mind: destroy Vought and Homelander, and then provide the cure to supes who didn't want their powers and give them the chance to live a normal life. People like you needed the cure, but first things first.

"Doc, the analysis of Blaze is updated," Bianca said, giving you the tablet to check the information on the supe that was collected.

"Thanks."

Blaze, or Electra Richards was her real name, was a low-profile supe for some time, and you had a secret track of those like her with some help. These kinds of supes didn't really represent a threat to Vought, so it was kind of easy to contact them and give them a possible solution with a warning written all over the place. When Electra was contacted, she had to think about it but eventually said yes. She was young and brave, but she never wanted powers. She had superhuman strength and healed in minutes, seconds even, her bones were indestructible, and when your people ran the proper tests on her she was healthy as hell. Pity that her body wasn't enough to take in the injection of the new Anti-V prototype.

You read the last notes your assistant typed on the supe's profile.

Cause of death: sudden cardiac arrest caused by ventricular fibrillation; failure in electrical signaling within the heart.

You couldn't continue like this, not anymore. Nine months and nothing seemed to work out. Some supes died, some of them quit the program, and you didn't really blame them for it. The failures were growing bigger than the small steps close to creating the final antidote. The process was becoming an endless trial and error. With a tired face and a sigh, you left the tablet on a desk and walked out making your way to your office.

You took out your cell phone and dialed Grace, walking around the room worriedly. You needed to vent or talk. Anything. And gladly, she picked up by the third ring.

"Is everything okay?" she asked on the other line. She knew you too well.

"I- No, it isn't. But you already know that," you breathed. "Another supe died on trial today. I don't know how many we have-" your voice cut off abruptly and you sighed, composing yourself after a moment. "We keep losing a lot of people..."

Grace exhaled. "It's part of the job. It's your project, you know it was coming when I approved to do this."

"That makes it even worse, you're not helping me," you replied with a playful tone. "I've been thinking- I would like to try the cure."

"No. We need you to focus on this."

"And when I get him, when I get Soldier Boy's blood? He already takes powers of supes with the blast. Should be easier."

"He's your safest option for now. You'll find a way to get it, I trust you. But don't make stupid and hurried decisions, just wait for the right moment," the lady scolded. You smiled a little, like if she was watching you. "About that, how's he doing? Is he cooperating?"

"Not at all, that's my other problem," you fell back on your chair ungracefully, your back hurting at the thought of seeing him again that day. "I am trying to get him to talk, even using my cards of dressing up like I'm a fucking slut with tight skirts and all, but he's really backing up. Besides he's a fucking dick," your words made Grace chuckle for a bit.

"All supes we have dealt with are dicks, especially Vought. But Y/N, you got this," her words attempted to make you feel better. "This is one of our best options to take them down for once. I know you've been working on this way long before you talked to me, and that's the reason I know it's gonna work, doing whatever it takes."

"Thank you, Grace," you mumbled from your heart. Disappointing her was not on your list, and you hoped it won't happen anytime soon. So you switched the topic of the conversation. "And how have you been?"

[bildads-shoes]

I feel like Crowley has often played the role of 'philosophy teacher' in his dynamic with Aziraphale, and I think this is probably what ultimately led to most of the backlash against Aziraphale immediately post-Season 2, especially from casual viewers.

The Resurrectionists episode is super obvious about it, big Philosophy 101 energy, but it's of course a big running theme in the show, often addressing the classic philosophical/theological question 'if God/Heaven are all-loving and all-powerful, why do they make us suffer?'

In these situations Aziraphale is often needing to learn to break free of his black and white thinking. Of course, we, the viewers, agree that morality is not black and white, so we start trusting Crowley's ability in the teacher role.

And it happens again in the Final Fifteen: we cringe at the stark oversimplification of 'you're the bad guys', we agree that Heaven and Hell are 'toxic' with their rigid rules and roles. Having seen so many examples of this dynamic at this point, this can instinctively feel like a continuation of Crowley's 'morality is not black and white' lessons. Therefore it makes sense to me that the instinct can be to agree that Crowley 'understand[s] a whole lot better' than Aziraphale.

I could go on for days about why I feel Aziraphale's character is so much more nuanced than that, but I want to focus on Crowley here. When you start trusting someone in that 'teacher' role, it's easy to assume they have it all figured out. That's why the whole 'Crowley is an unreliable narrator when it comes to his Fall' confirmation always had me so intrigued.

It seems (to me at least) that Crowley probably made some very complex, grey choices as an angel (choices that were not as bad as Heaven feels, but not as good as Crowley likes to think, to paraphrase NG) and he is yet to accept the reality of those actions. To me, it feels like he's coped with that cognitive dissonance by entirely detaching from that identity at times, almost as though those were the actions and experiences of another person (the angel you knew is not me) whilst returning to the first person in moments of vulnerability (I only ever asked questions). Judging by the hints at Angel!Crowley throughout S2, I think (hope) we'll learn more about the Fall in S3, and thus see him finally need to internally resolve this

I think it'll be very interesting to finally see that dynamic flip, to see Crowley in the role of the student, trying to solidify his moral code and sense of self as we have seen Aziraphale do throughout the show.

I suppose I hope that in potentially having Crowley's own struggles with morality becoming more explicit on screen in Season 3, the broad attitude towards Aziraphale and Crowley will become a bit more balanced again. I think it'll be lovely to see them grow in their understanding and acceptance of themselves and each other, and finally reach a place of joy and freedom as individuals and together. We'll always have our own personal character interpretations, and I think that's wonderful and fascinating to hear about, but at the end of the day we're all rooting for their happy ending, and I can't wait to see them finally get it.

[clownery-and-fuckery]

As promised, my commentary on Hunter.... to the people that like him, im sorry.

Spoiler warnings and the like, this is pretty negative aside from like maybe three sentences?? Feel free to leave you're own opinions on this too ofc !!! >:)

I dont like Hunter.

Actually, that's not entirely true, I liked him in TCW season 7, when he was that silly man who fucked droids around the place, took no shit, and loved his brothers. I like the Hunter who, not putting this nicely, had a personality.

This is not a dig on him as a character, it's a dig on how he was handled, writing wise

Listen, I totally get that the "rugged-man-adopts-a-star-child" trope is popular, and I do LOVE that trope, really I do- I just don't really think it was done that well here? It's bothered me since s1 of the Bad Batch, and I don't think it's going to get any better this season....

My only real problem with the writing inconsistency of Hunter being an older brother of three to "Omega this, Omega that" and while I agree childcare is SUPER difficult at the best of times, Hunter had four brothers who were equally capable of taking care of Omega, too. It just never sat right with me that taking care of her became his ENTIRE personality

Hes a soldier, who despite being completely out of his element, had a routine he strictly followed for the whole war. Yet he seemed to completely forget about that ?? Stressed or not stressed, that worn in routines and LIFELONG LESSONS should not have left his head as quickly as they seemed to.

The most obvious and frustrating example of the oversimplification of Hunter's character is with Crosshair. I cannot even BEGIN to describe my anger when it comes to Hunter and Crosshair. It mainly stems from the way he just FORGETS his brother is with the Empire. Conveniently never bringing it up unless someone else did it first.

As the oldest sibling and squad leader, I personally think Hunter should have been the one to bring him up. It should not have had to be specifically mentioned by another character for Hunter to discuss it. He loves his brothers, he loved Crosshair, broody or not, he should have brought it up AT LEAST once, imo.

We also see this complete disregard for Crosshair AGAIN in s3, now that we have seen Hunter looking for Omega and not ONCE mentioning Crosshair. Has he forgotten that they were originally going to find Crosshair??? That they never actually FOUND their brother ??????? Annoyed me so much, tbh.

What else annoyed me was the singular language he used during the whole episode. "She's part of our squad." "Hemlock took SOMEONE from us." He's completely and utterly disregarding the OTHER TWO SIBLINGS that the Empire took away from him !!!!! It genuinely frustrates me so much.

I know I'm DEFINITELY nit-picking here, but even when Hunter looked to Tech's goggles, it was in a "He should've been here to do this." Way, not a "He should be here." Way. That's his brother, who died looking for another that Hunter has forgotten.

Hunter's tunnel vision is probably one my least favourite things about the Bad Batch, if I dare even MENTION that- and I love this show. It means so much to me, but I just can't handle this particular part of it...

I have so SO much anger directed towards the treatment of Hunter by the writers. I want the Hunter who was devoted to his WHOLE family, who fought for ALL of them, who would have NEVER allowed Crosshair to leave in the first place. Give me that Hunter back.

(Saying this- I do not mind Hunter and Omega's father/daughter and brother/sister relationship !!! I do really enjoy it- in small amounts. The fact that Hunter became nearly an extention of Omega really just- threw me off his whole character, really)

I specifically pick to ignore this when I'm making anything. Hunter has been a sergeant of three idiots(named endearingly) for the entirety of the war. One child who wanders around should not have taken up 100% of Hunter's attention, ESPECIALLY when he was surrounded and supported. It just bothers me, idk

Anyway, thats my rant !!! Back to some positives soon, promise !! I just had to get this off my chest, it's been BOTHERING me.

[valenschmidt]

question cause i’m new to 911/buddie. i’ve seen people say buddie was supposed to go canon in an early season but higher ups shot it down. is there proof of that, or is it fans wishing they’d gone canon earlier? do you know?

Ok anon let's start from the beginning

There is this one twitter account (who we call Marvel account) that has been posting inside information since at least 2021. This account had legit info and would post things that ended up being canon with MONTHS in advance. We don't know who this person is or how they get this info but his source is 100% legit. This info will be useful later so we're leaving it for now

Back in s4 when the sho*ting/Will storyline was created, it was created with the purpose of establishing Buddie canon. Of course at the time we had no idea this was happening. The problem??? Fox didn't like that one bit, so they decided to shut it down. We still got that scene but after it happened we never got it mentioned again

This is the reason why I personally especulate Tim Minear decided to leave the show and go work in LoneStar full time (this is not confirmed but it would make sense since he probably had been building up buddie since at least s3)

Fast forward to 2024 Oliver confirms in a podcast inteview post 7x04 that he had been approached with the idea of Buck being bi a couple of years ago (he doesn't especify the time frame but we can guess) but then it was shut down from above (I'll leave the video below as proof)

ALSO! It was also confirmed thanks to Lou Ferrigno Jr. in an interview that the Tommy storyline (the kiss and relationship) was originally going to go to Eddie but then changed direction and went to Buck instead...

Ryan ALSO confirmed in a post S7 interview that he didn't know to whom the storyline was going to go in the very beginning (I'll post it below when I find it)

So going back to Marvel account... during pride month this year after getting mad because of certain shippers (bt) Marvel account posted this

It confirms that Eddie has always been a gay character and they tried to make that canon during 5A (the panic attacks and the whole EddieAna break up being HEAVILY repressed gay coded) and in s7 with the Tommy storyline which gave us bi Buck in the end...

SO! Putting the pieces together we come to the conclusion that Eddie was introduced as a heavy gay coded character and with the chemistry Ryan and Oliver had Tim decided for Buddie and was shut down by FOX

Now on ABC they gave us bi Buck in the first couple of episodes and intensified the repressed gay Eddie storyline

We ARE still missing gay Eddie but it's only a matter of time in my opinion until we get Gay Eddie and Buddie canon

Hope this helped Anon!!!

FOR ANY OTHER QUESTIONS YOU HAVE MY ASK IS OPEN