#Dominican press

[tina-aumont]

December 1960 - Press clippings/photos reporting the show Luchy Vicioso, María Montez II and Aida Lucia did a show in front of thousand kids in Zoological and Botanical Gardens of Dominican Republic. In the first photo they are seen with artist Rafael Solano.

First and third photos come from Los Archivos de Américo Mejía on Facebook. Used with kind permision from the owner. Thank you very much!!

Second photo comes from: El Caribe newspaper.

[starlooove]

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[biglisbonnews]

World: New network on Missing Migrants in the Americas aims to drive actions to save lives Countries: Colombia, Dominican Republic, Haiti, Mexico, Panama, Puerto Rico (The United States of America), United States of America, Venezuela (Bolivarian Republic of), World Source: International Organization for Migration Thousands of people are dying crossing deserts, rivers and remote areas in the Americas - IOM Missing Migrants documented 1,433 deaths in 2022, the highest number since the project began in 2014. https://reliefweb.int/report/world/new-network-missing-migrants-americas-aims-drive-action-save-migrant-lives

[klemen-tine]

White Whale Part 2

Platonic! Yandere Batfam x Deaf!Male Reader

A continuation of this one.

https://www.tumblr.com/klemen-tine/736839222321922048/white-whale

Thoughts

Sign/Morse Code

Speaking

Trigger Warnings: Disability Discrimination and a mention of suicidal thoughts. Its like on sentence.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Y/N sat near the window, his processors off and a book on his lap. His attention was drawn to the snow falling outside and covering the ground in white, watching Damian walk Titus around the yard to experience the frozen water. Not like the giant dog hasn’t walked in snow before. 

He pressed his forehead against the glass, feeling the freezing melted sand press against his skin and without a doubt making it red. His tan was slowly fading, which made him all the more depressed whenever he looked in the mirror, now resulting in him wearing long sleeves in the hopes that he wouldn’t have to see it fade faster. His finger running down the spine of his book over and over again, tracing over the embroidered words and his short fingernail picked at the strings. 

Y/N pulled away from the window, before Damian could see him, and he set To Kill a Mockingbird down on the lamp table beside the small nook near the window. It was his secret little stowaway, one Y/N knows that if they wanted to, his family could find it easily. There is nowhere in this manor that is unable to be discovered by them. He thinks Alfred is helping in keeping this spot a secret. Assuring the bat family that Y/N is safe and there is no need to tear apart the library to look for him. 

All the windows in the library are sealed besides three, and those have sensors on them. Even if they didn’t, Y/N wasn’t stupid. He knows that those trackers he had dug out from his body are back in him. There is one in his inner thigh, deep enough that if he were to take the same scalpel he used the first time, the chance of nicking his artery was a higher possibility than he felt was worth risking. 

Sometimes, when he presses down on the soft skin, he could feel the cold metal sear his muscles and capillaries, reminding him of his captivity without the chains. 

Y/N connected his external processors, and winced when the world began to make noise. There was the buzz of some lightbulbs the hummed in the air and the heater was making a thrumming noise. Before his ‘trip’ to the Dominican Republic, Y/N would have thought that this was quiet. He would have believed that this was almost silent and there was little chance of it becoming any more quiet. 

Now it was just loud. Obnoxiously so. 

Looking out the window once more, Y/N couldn’t help the turn of his eyebrows and the downturn in his lips. Even his safe place felt like a cage. 

Walking out of the room, he zigzagged through the bookshelves and into the main room, where the large couches, the fireplace, and coffee table are. The fire was crackling and popping, the bright oranges, reds, and yellows casting a warm glow on the sofas. 

“I was wondering when you’d come out.” Y/N didn’t even look at Tim, his gaze still on the flames and the burning embers of the fire. It matched  the heat that was beginning to burn in his chest whenever he was around any of them. It’s embarrassing, but it took Y/N a few days to realize what exactly it was he was feeling towards them. 

Anger. Y/N was so, undeniably, pissed at all of them. It got to the point that he wouldn’t even eat with them. Alfred, the kind man he is, would bring his meals to his room and Y/N would eat there. Dick once tried to drag Y/N out of his room, but he got a solid kick to his leg and Y/N’s enraged voice screeching at him to get the hell out of his room. 

Even Jason was receiving the cold shoulder. When he tried to read to Y/N, taking their usual spot and position, Y/N just scrunched his nose and moved. Ignoring his twin’s call and slamming his door hard and  loud enough that it made his processors ring. 

Tim sighed, watching his brother stew and brew like a shaken pepsi bottle, ready to erupt with words that will stick to the skin. Y/N didn’t acknowledge him, his jaw clenching and nose scrunching, before he turned away and left the library. Tim stood up and followed him, jamming his foot in between the door and the door frame to stop Y/N from shutting him out. 

“Go. Away.” Tim pushed into the door, and even though he and Y/N are about the same size, Tim is Red Robin. A vigilante used to put down villains twice his size and three times his weight. Y/N is just… Y/N. He muscled through, inviting himself within Y/N’s room which he took a scan of. 

The window was closed, the bed was made, the desk clean, and the laptop locked. When he had gotten back, his laptop had been installed with monitoring software, allowing everyone access from the Batcomputer to see what Y/N was doing. His phone had been given the same thing, only the child settings were enabled. His bags, duffle, suitcases, backpacks, all of them had been taken and if he ever needed them then he would need to go to Bruce. 

If Y/N had anything to say, he didn’t share it. When it was all explained to Y/N, he wasn’t even looking at them, or Bruce, and instead was staring out the window. Damian believed that the other didn't even listen to them, but the lack of questions proved he had heard them. 

“We really need to talk, Y/N.” 

“No, go away. I don’t want you in my room.” Tim sighed, watching Y/N seethe in front of him. He held firm, “I will leave, once we talk.” Y/N rolled his eyes, “About what? There is nothing to talk about.” Those raging E/C eyes followed Tim’s every move in his space, and if it were any other time, Tim would have been thrilled to have Y/N’s attention on him. Those eyes focused only on him. 

Tim sat on the chair in front of Y/N’s desk, ignoring Y/N’s scandalized expression and instead taking in the desk. All of Y/N’s writing tools, journals, pens, and markers have been confiscated. Instead, he only had the iPad to write down his thoughts and notes for when school starts. An iPad that is monitored. 

Y/N seemed to accept that Tim would not be leaving, but that didn’t mean he was happy about it. Scrunching his nose, he disconnected the processors, pulled them off of his head, and debated about chucking them at his brother. He tossed them on his bed. He saw Tim deflate from the corner of his vision, and when those E/C eyes filled with irritation and smugness met Tim’s blue eyes, Y/N couldn’t help the vindictive smirk that formed on his face. 

‘Bruce wants you to keep those on.’

“What do you want, Tim? If you have nothing good to say then get out, I want to nap.” Tim nodded, adjusting himself so he had space to sign. 

‘How long are you going to keep pouting?’ Y/N’s face scrunched and he stared at Tim in disbelief. Not in disbelief that he said that, but disbelief in that that was what he wanted to say at this point in time. He could feel a headache forming and the rage building in his chest to the back of his throat. The words scorching the sensitive skin and making him feel as if he was about to catch fire. 

“I tell you to have something ‘good’ to say, and that’s what comes out of your mouth? Get out, Tim.” His brother stayed in the chair, and Y/N marched over and grabbed the collar of Tim’s shirt. Which, if he had a clearer mind, Y/N would have not done that. It only allowed for Tim to grab his wrist and maneuver them so that it was Y/N who was pinned. 

Icy blue eyes stared into boiling E/C eyes. Tim sighed, releasing Y/N so he can sign, ‘It is getting out of control, Y/N. I can understand a month, but you are pushing three.’ 

“You can’t tell me how to feel or how long I can feel it.” Tim looked ready to throttle him, and Y/N hoped that Tim rolled his eyes enough that they got stuck like that. 

‘Y/N, just what was so important about that shack that is keeping you acting like this?’ Y/N pushed Tim, startling his younger brother and if he was calmer, Y/N would also be startled. He’s never been a violent person, choosing to look away when things got bloody in a movie or show. However, the spike of rage and aggravation he felt towards Tim and the situation had made his body move before he could really process it.  

He glared at Tim with a new rage, and now he had wished he had thrown those external processors as the so-called genius. He balled his fist, “It wasn’t the shack! It wasn’t the ocean, it wasn’t the country, for fucks sake Tim, it wasn’t even then whales!” Y/N reached across his desk and threw a copy of Alice in Wonderland at the other. 

He ignored the annoyance when Tim caught it. 

“It wasn’t any of that! It was what you all took away! It wasn’t the sun, it wasn’t the outside, it was the ability to make my own decisions!” Tears burned Y/N’s eyes and he wondered just how many nights he spent crying and wishing for a chance to escape. 

“Why… why am I the only one who doesn’t have any say in how I want to live me life?” Tim set the book down on Y/N’s bed, and walked closer. Y/N stepped away, “Why am I the one who is held here like some kind of… prisoner when everyone else can go and–and do what they want?” 

Tim’s heart broke, ‘No, no Y/N. You’re not a prisoner, we just want you safe and the safest place is here.’ Y/N gave him a look of exhaustion and disappointment, “What else is this then? Where else are people monitored to this extent?” Prison. Hell, Arkham doesn’t even have this level of monitoring and Gotham’ worst and craziest people were there. 

Y/N knows that all of this is done out of some sick and twisted form of love, but if this was love then Y/N wanted no part of it. 

“Y/N,” Tim winced. He didn’t feel bad about what they have done for Y/N, but he did feel bad that it was somewhat affecting Y/N like this. It wasn’t their intention for Y/N to feel trapped, but Y/N just doesn’t get it. The world is mean, cruel, and horrible to those who don’t fit in. Tim, Jason, Dick, Damian, Bruce, the entire Bat clan knows this because they are the ones out there and witnessing this. 

They all know just how awful this world can be, so why would they not want to protect Y/N from it? 

“Dinner is ready.” Tim’s attention snapped to the door, where Damian stood. Y/N’s attention also turned to Damian, and the boy softened under Y/N’s hurt gaze. 

‘Alfred made your favorite.’ Y/N wanted to bury his head in his hands. He didn’t want to read this conversation anymore. Pursing his lips, Y/N plopped down on the edge of his bed and looked out the barred window. 

“You say I am not a prisoner… then am I a pet?” He mumbled, his voice barely above a murmur. Damian moved further in the room, so Y/N can see his hands at least. 

‘Of course not. You are our most prized person.’ Damian didn’t see Y/N as a person. It is cruel to admit and he had almost been choked-out by Jason when he said it out loud. Y/N, in Damian’ eyes, was the Wayne’s family most prized possession. Next to the Batcave, the library, the Barmobile, and even Wayne Enterprises, Y/N stood next to and in front of it all. They could not function without him. 

Like every prized possession, like diamonds, sapphires, and jades, they wanted to protect him. They gave him the best care they could and the best security. The difference was that jewels don’t have opinions or a desire to roam the earth. Something Y/N did have, and Damian blames the books for that wanderlust. Specifically that Moby Dick book. 

When Jason took it from Y/N, Damian had to stop himself from throwing it in the fire. It was a first edition, the cover and binding still the same from when the book was first published, and if he looked closely he could see the faint line where Y/N has traced the spine of the book numerous times. Damian knows there is only one person in this world Y/N hates, which is the Joker, and Damian does not want to be added to the list should anything happen to that book. 

Still, it was tempting. 

Damian has read the book, and the lesson was as obvious as an East Gothamite amidst the upper echelon of Gotham. Damian knows what Y/N’s ‘white whale’ is, and he can’t help but to wonder why Y/N can’t draw the same conclusions like everyone else did. 

Just like the story, Y/N will drive himself crazy trying to obtain something that they will never allow. Diamonds, sapphires, and jades are always protected by glass cases and security systems. That is how Y/N should see this. 

‘Your safety is the most important thing.’ 

“More than my happiness?” Damian and Tim stared at Y/N with the answer clear in their eyes, but Y/N wanted to see them say it. He wanted to see them admit that they did not care for his happiness as long as he was trapped within these thick walls and gilded windows. 

‘You were happy before.’ Y/N sighed, “That is because it was an illusion.” E/C eyes, dull and lacking emotion, “Tell me Dami, how can I go back to that illusion when in the morning it is the sun’s reflections off the bars on the windows that wake me up? Or the feeling of those trackers in my body replacing the collar you all want to put around my neck?” 

++++

Bruce stared at the photo, taking in the smiles and the way those eyes used to shine. Y/N always had a great smile, full of his emotions and rarely ever fake. His eyes always the most expressive, and it is why Bruce found it easy to see when he was lying. 

Granted, in Y/N’s defense, he’s never had a real reason to lie before. He was open with everyone about his thoughts, opinions, and desires. Bruce made it that way. Bruce swaddled him in the comfort that only he and the family could provide in order to make it so Y/N would always rely on them for that. He made it so Y/N would never have to lie, or feel the need too. 

Then Y/N just had to get curious. Bruce doesn’t know who is to blame for this sudden defiance in Y/N, but he does put a lot of blame on those ocean documentaries. Even when he was young, Y/N always had a fascination for them. Watching them over and over again, reading the subtitles, memorizing them, so now he can just watch the documentaries while already knowing what is going on. 

His attention turned to the photo he had bought from that photographer in the Dominican Republic. Y/N was freediving and looking like he was in his element. 

Bruce didn’t feel bad for taking Y/N back, but he did feel bad about cutting a hobby short. There was denying that Y/N was a natural at this sport, and Bruce had always wanted to encourage each of his kids’ interest. 

But not this one. Not one that meant Y/N had to live far from them and was dangerous. At least with vigilantism, Batman was there in case anything turned south. There was no one in the water for Y/N in case something happened. Free diving is dangerous, and the ocean is unpredictable. Bruce can’t help Y/N if he goes free diving, especially if he goes alone. 

Sighing, Bruce rubbed his forehead and checked the surveillance cameras one more time. Y/N and Dick were in one of the study rooms. From what it looks like, Dick is trying to talk to Y/N who was standing next to the windows, looking away from the other. 

Perhaps, it’s about time Bruce steps in. Y/N hasn’t talked to him since the day Bruce grounded him, about two months ago and the other has done a great job in staying out of Bruce’s radar. The only time Bruce has seen Y/N in person is when he goes into Y/N's room at night after patrol to make sure that he is still there. A new fear unlocked that one night, when everyone is out and Alfred is asleep, Y/N will disappear once more. 

No one knows how Y/N got out that one night, and no matter how many questions were asked, Y/N never said anything. Damian had tried bargaining with him, telling him that if Y/N told them how he got out then some days of his grounding would be taken off. Y/N huffed, a bitter smile taking over his face. 

Bruce rose from his desk, shutting down his computer and leaving his own study. It is about time he and his son have a conversation. One sided or not. 

He walked over to the study room that Dick and Y/N were in. Halting before the door and listening to the voices coming from inside. 

“Y/N, I am telling you that no one is going to believe you after the stunt you pulled.” 

“But you will be with me. Dick, I just want to go to the beach. We did it all the time.”  

“Mmm, and look how that ended up.” 

“Me being happy for a few months.” 

“You’re still on that, Y/N?” Bruce opened the heavy doors, silencing the conversation and causing two sets of eyes to land on him. Dick was leaning against the desk, and Y/N had his back to the window. Both of their faces showed their surprise and confusion, until E/C eyes flickered to the ceiling and the corners of the room where he saw the cameras. Confusion became annoyance, rolling his eyes and turning back towards the window. 

Dick and Bruce made eye contact, and when Bruce nodded his head towards the door Dick didn’t fight it. He took the hint and walked out, sparing Y/N and Bruce one last look before shutting the large oak doors. 

Y/N refused to look at him. Bruce walked closer, behind the desk and next to Y/N, standing next to the window. 

“Y/N.” His son moved to pull out his external processors, but Bruce grabbed his wrists within his large hands, effectively stopping his son. Bruce set his jaw, “None of that, we need to talk.” 

“I don’t want to talk to you.” 

“Then listen.” Y/N scrunched his nose and furrowed his brows, glaring at Bruce. The older man sighed, but held his grip on those thin wrists, noting that Y/N had stopped tugging his arms and was in fact waiting for Bruce to start talking, “I understand that you are upset, and that you are upset at us for meddling.” Y/N raised an eyebrow, his face slowly smoothening out and his lips no longer in a pout. 

Bruce sighed, releasing one of Y/N’s wrists to push aside his bangs. Gently brushing his son’s forehead and pushing the rest of the strand behind his ear, minding the processing unit resting behind Y/N’s ear. 

“And I know you’re aware that if you had asked, we would have said no.” Y/N’s lips pouted once more and his eyes became a little downcast. Sadness blanketing over him and Bruce felt a bit bad for revealing that, but Y/N knows it already. 

“Y/N, why are you insistent on wanting to be independent? There are millions of people in this world who still wish for their parent’s support, and thousands of people who would give up everything to have a life and opportunities that you have.” Y/N scrunched his nose, feeling guilt curl in his chest. 

He knows that he is lucky. Y/N is aware of how fortunate he is to have all that he has and then some. He knows that there are people in this world who would kill to have what he has. 

Yet, just like there are millions of people who want what he has, there are also millions of people who strive for their independence against their family. Millions of people who take pleasure in making choices that affect only them. Millions of people who don’t let their disabilities define their life, and learn to accept and live with them. 

“I am aware that I am fortunate, that my deafness has only been a part of my life instead of completely defining it,” Y/N acknowledged, turning his attention back to outside where it was beginning to snow. He ignored his reflection, not wanting to look at the weak person in front of him. 

“I am grateful for all you have done, along with Alfred and everyone else. No amount of ‘thank you’s’ will ever be enough. But Bruce–” Y/N turned his eyes once more to Bruce, E/C eyes meeting ocean blue, “– No amount of money or gadgets is going to deny the fact that I am deaf. 

“I am reliant on you all for a lot of things, and you raised me that way so that I can forever depend on you. Which… I know it wouldn't bother some people but it bothers me.” Y/N’s eyes shined with unshed tears, as if the very thought of having to rely on them was shameful. 

“I am not fragile, nor am I glass. I am from East Gotham, just like Jason.” Bruce is aware of that. Like every East Gothamite, the both of them had the stubbornness that made Bruce question if he had a lineage that tied him back to that part of town. Y/N is strong in his own ways, and stubborn in others. Bruce will agree on that. He will agree that Jason and Y/N are more like brothers than those Bruce has seen when blood related. 

However, Jason and Y/N are not the same. They were different pieces cut from the same cloth. Jason was shaped and molded to withstand the toughest and dangerous situations, to be durable and take a beating. 

Y/N was not molded like that. Y/N was refined and polished to be treated gently and kindly, to only know the kindest hands and gentlest of uses. 

“And I know that compared to the rest of you, I am weaker. I… I am not strong like you or Jason, I am not fast like Damian, nor am I as smart as Tim, or charismatic like Dick.” Bruce’s grip tightened on the one wrist he was still holding, wanting to deny everything Y/N had said because he hated hearing Y/N self-deprecating himself like that. Y/N is kinder than any of them, easier to talk to, and has almost the same amount of medical knowledge that Alfred has. 

Y/N is the normalcy they all crave for when they come back from a patrol or mission. He reminds them in the gentlest ways that they are human. They are not just vigilantes, not another person hiding behind a cowl, a cape, or a domino mask. He reminds them that they are brothers, friends, allies, a father (in Bruce’s case). 

“But just because of that, do you really have to control every part of my life? I wish you had more faith in me to let me go and learn to be strong on my own, just like you do with everyone else.” Y/N stared up at Bruce with a hurt expression, E/C eyes staring into Bruce’s blue eyes through those lashes that normally would be able to grant Y/N anything he wished. A simple bat of those lashes and eyes would have everyone running around trying to do as he wished. 

“Y/N–” 

“If you can’t trust me, at least trust yourself that you taught me well enough to be by myself.” But the thing is, is that Bruce doesn’t trust himself. He’s failed so many times and he fears that this one failure will be the one that breaks him. It’ll break the boys, the girls, Alfred, him. It’ll break everyone. 

Y/N doesn’t realize it, and Bruce wonders if it is because he doesn’t want to get it or he just doesn’t. He wonders if Y/N chooses not to see his importance in this family so the burden doesn’t feel as heavy. If anything should happen to Y/N, Bruce can’t guarantee the safety of Gotham anymore. He couldn’t guarantee the safety of his Robins, past and current. If Bruce couldn’t protect literally the easiest person to protect, then who was he to try and protect a city? 

Y/N, sensing Bruce’s hesitation and unease, tried to withdraw his hand from Bruce’s grip and shrug off the hand that was resting on his cheek. His hopes and wants crashing onto the carpeted floor, replacing his chest with anger and disappointment. He's been feeling those two emotions a lot lately. They are carving its way in his chest like it is their new home, and he wonders if it will be. Will he hold onto these feelings for the rest of his life as he stares out these large windows and reminisces what the sun felt like on his skin and the breeze through his hair. Does the biting cold still turn his nose and cheeks red, and does the heat and humid summers still make his freckles pop and skin gleam?

“...Forget it. I… it was stupid to ask that of you.” The raging inferno of anger died, filling his chest with the smoke of its fury and his stomach warm with the dying embers. A new emotion, one he is intimately familiar with, filled him instead. It is one he knows like the back of his hand, an emotion that is more of his identity than his deafness. 

Sadness. 

It is like a steady stream, filling the smoking cavity in his chest with cold water, putting out the embers and making that smoke turn to steam. Burning his muscles and organs with a painful sting, and filling his person with ice cold water instead of the burning fire. Y/N knows sadness. He knows the emotion well and sometimes it reminds him of a scar. Never truly gone, just sometimes forgotten. It sits at the back of the mind, hiding behind the good times, the happy emotions, until it is accidentally hit and it draws your attention. From there, it is no longer at the back of your mind, but all you can think about. 

Sadness, to Y/N, is like a scar that has marred its way across his face. Never forgotten and for the whole world to see, unless makeup and a smile is put on it. 

Y/N, in the basicness of emotions, is sad. He is hurt, upset, exhausted, and sad. 

“Leave me alone, Bruce.” Bruce’s grip tightened once more, and his jaw clenched. He’s finally got Y/N within his vicinity to talk, like hell he’s letting go. Y/N narrowed his eyes and pulled his arm, “Let go, Bruce.” 

He pulled again, “Bruce.” The man’s iron grip never waivered, and Y/N felt the air in his lungs begin to escape quicker than it could fill the organs. He brought his other hand up to try and peel those thick fingers off his wrist, but Bruce grabbed his other hand. 

“I still don’t understand why you would want to leave.” Y/N scrunched his nose, “If you can’t understand, even after I spelled it out for you, then maybe you should stop being a detective.” Bruce didn’t feel insulted or slighted at Y/N’s words, chalking it up to Y/N being upset still. 

“How can I make you want to stay here?” Y/N sighed, and Bruce could feel that fight leaving his son’s body. The tension in his arms disappeared. 

“How can I know that it is here that I am meant to be, when I haven’t been anywhere else?” Bruce opened his mouth, to which Y/N effectively cut him off, “East Gotham doesn’t count, and the Dominican Republic would have counted if you all hadn’t kidnapped me.” 

“We didn’t kidnap you.” Y/N gawked at him, and the fight returned, “You did kidnap me! Do you need a dictionary definition of what kidnapping is?! It is the unlawful abduction, aspiration and confinement of a person against their will!” 

“You. Live. Here.” Bruce gritted out and Y/N’s jaw clenched, “Well I don’t WANT to be here!” He snarled and tried once more to loosen Bruce’s grip on his wrists. 

“What is it with all of you NOT comprehending that?! No matter how you look at it, no matter what angle you try to take this from, Bruce. I am a prisoner within this manor!” Y/N glared at Bruce, “Just what did I do that warranted the surveilance, the trackers, the stupid god for fucking sake imaginary collar you all want me to have on?!” 

Bruce growled out, “You left when you are only meant to stay here. It is the consequences of your actions.” 

“I am not your property!” Y/N snarled, “ Nor am I a pet that you can keep chained and trapped in the house!” Bruce felt something snap within him and he released Y/N’s wrist and watched the other stumble from the sudden loss of support. 

Y/N righted himself, still glaring at the man. Bruce took a deep breath, “Fine.” 

“Huh?” 

“You want to try your luck out there, then go. I will give you an hour's head start.” Y/N stared at Bruce in suspicion, “What are you getting at?” Bruce made a show of adjusting his watch, “I will give you an hour, only one. If you can outrun us, out maneuver us, or outsmart us until sunrise, you can choose how your future plays out.” 

“‘Us?’” Bruce smiled, “All of us.” Y/N wanted to bite out a ‘not fair’ comment, but found a more pressing matter, “What about the trackers?” Bruce fished out his phone, and made a dramatic show of pressing some buttons, he then showed Y/N what appeared to be a small map, like a GPS, on his phone. 

“Turned off.” Y/N ignored the feeling of disgust seeing that his location was literally on their phones. 

“Start running Y/N, your hour has already started.” Y/N bolted out the study room, not looking back. 

Bruce stayed in the room, looking out the window as the sun began to set and the snow turned dark. Light footsteps entered the room, and Bruce could basically hear the eyebrow raise, “Not now Alfred, save it for when Y/N comes back.” 

The old butler humphed, “He’s always gotten sick when playing in the snow.” Bruce hummed, “Then I guess we better make this quick.” 

“Are you sure an hour was a good idea? He did sneak out of the manor before.” Ocean blue eyes filled with mirth, and he tapped his ears, “If Y/N wants to know what it’s like to be deaf, then he’ll play this game deaf. It’ll teach him how lucky he is to have his hearing.” Alfred’s eyes widened, “They turn off without his knowledge.” 

“Once he reaches a certain distance, they do, and he can’t turn them back on. Only I have the power to do that.” 

In the hall, suited up and waiting in the shadows, were the rest of this crooked family. Waiting for his orders, “Give him an hour, then find him.”

++++

Y/N knows this is a losing game. He knows that this game is set for his failure, and he knows that once this game is over, he will most likely never be able to set foot outside again. Not without a babysitter. 

When he external processors cut out, he knows what angle Bruce is playing out and he knows that his chances of making it to sunrise have become nearly 0%. He may not be as smart as Tim or anyone else in his family, but if you live with geniuses you learn how to read between the lines. 

He somehow managed to flag down a taxi before telling them where to go. Not missing the slight judgment cross their face and Y/N wonders if they know he cannot hear them. Y/N wonders if they know he is being chased and he essentially is just digging a bigger and deeper hole for himself. The bars will get thicker and the chain will be heavier, but if that is the outcome of this, then Y/N believes that this will be worth it. 

He clutched the bag closer. 

When he arrives at the station, he knows his hour is up and he knows that Barbara is watching him through the cameras. She is watching him buy his ticket, and is retelling everything to his siblings. He knows this because in front of him is Nightwing, drawing a crowd and making everyone look around for the villain. 

‘Going somewhere?’ 

‘Only temporarily.’ 

‘Temporarily is too long Y/N, let's go back home. Alfred has a peach cobbler ready.’ Nightwing held his hand out as if Y/N would actually take it. Which is fine, because Y/N knows through the giant circular mirror hanging from the ceiling, that Spoiler and Red Robin are behind him. 

Y/N stared at the hand once more, and he wondered if this is what it feels like to know the path you should take and still choose the other one. Taking a deep breath, Y/N said the one word that would get everyone running. It would have people scrambling and trying to seek cover and get out of a place that made everyone have a close vicinity to each other. 

“Joker!” Like someone shouting fire, the world was set into motion and Y/N watched as his view got obstructed by the rush of people. He disappeared within the crowds, dodging idle hands and ducking into the crowd. He may not be able to hear, but he can feel the panic that everyone else was feeling. Y/N saw parents pick their kids up, lovers grabbing each other’s hands, and strangers pushing and shoving other strangers. 

He rushed down the escalator, towards the Amtrak that had his destination written all over it. Y/N didn’t have to turn around to know that it was Nightwing right behind him. He can feel the heavy and frantic gaze and if he could hear, without a doubt his name would be filling the air. 

His heart picked up at the sight of the doors closing, and through some luck, he squeezed in at the last minute. The metal shutting behind him, and large latex covered hands slammed into the glass. Dick’s frantic face stared at him, and Y/N couldn’t stop the smile from creeping on his face. 

How it must feel for the rabbit to slip through the Hunter’s fingers. 

When the train began moving, Y/N wiggled his fingers in a mockery of a goodbye. He now sees why Jason loves teasing Dick. Dick’s angry expression really does tickle a sore spot in Y/N. Choosing a spot near the windows, Y/N prepared himself for the 10 hours train ride. The sun will not be rising when he gets there, but he never expected to make it to sunrise. Peering into the duffle bag next to him, Y/N gave a bitter smile and turned his attention back to the passing sight of Gotham city. 

In the Batcave, everyone was pacing and figuring out the best way to do this. 

“Are you sure that is where he is going?” 

“For the last time, I saw his ticket, yes. He is going there!” Jason winced at Barbara’s raised voice and he grit his teeth in irritation. He massaged his temples, “Why North Carolina? What is even there?” 

“The beaches.” 

“No shit you little spawn, but which one.” Nightwing didn’t bother reproaching his brother, and instead tightened his fist. He was so close to grabbing his brother. So close. 

The very knowledge that his little brother had barely escaped him stoked two different emotions in him. Pride in knowing that his brother was fast, fast enough to get away from him, and irritation because he did slip through Nightwing’s fingers. Batman didn’t seem bothered. 

In fact he looked awfully relaxed for someone whose son had just hopped on a train to North Carolina. Nightwing glared at him, “You know where he’s going.” Batman shrugged, “An idea.” 

“Where?” 

“Y/N took his freediving gear, and there’s only one beach in North Carolina that is worth freediving.” 

++++

Y/N felt the water encompass him, hugging his limbs and freeing him of gravity. The light attached to his forehead illuminates the sea and sees marine life at night. The train ride had been long and restless, but he did manage to at least sleep for 4 hours, before his nerves woke him up once more. 

It was still dark, but at 4 am in the morning, it would be stupid to assume there would be any light. Navigating to the pier at Wrightsville Beach had been difficult, constantly looking over his shoulders to make sure he wasn’t being followed. Then there was the actual jumping off of the pier that if anyone saw would have the cops racing over. 

Finally though, he was here. Swimming in the water and just letting himself be. It was a poor replication of freedom, but if this will be all he is allowed he’ll take it. Who knows how long it'll be before he could do something like this. Y/N isn’t stupid. He knows that Bruce knows where he is at. 

He knows his siblings are on their way over. Probably letting him get off the Amtrak first before jumping in the Batplane, or maybe even the Batboat. Y/N surfaced, and took a deep breath before diving below the surface once more. 

God, this was all a terrible joke but here it was happening. Y/N could have never imagined his family doing this. When he was younger, he chalked up Bruce’s need to constantly check on him as anxiety because it was the first time the man had a completely normal person in the house. Jason had always been touchy, and then Dick came along who would ruffle their hair. Tim would hold his forearm and Damian would follow him where he went. 

It wasn’t weird at all. That was Y/N’s normal, until he went to college and started making friends. Friends who were mature enough to see past his lack of hearing and shared their own sibling experiences. 

Experiences that didn’t match Y/N’s. 

His little trip outside the country only proved it, and Y/N wondered if it was a bad thing he decided to do in person classes instead of online. If he did online, he would live in the fantasy that his family was normal and they loved him as a person. No red flags would be waving because Y/N wouldn’t even know they are flags. 

He felt the water around him begin to vibrate and from the way the fish started spazzing out, Y/N knew his time was limited. How funny it would be if he never rose to the surface again. 

Sinking a bit further, he looked towards the surface and watched as the water distorted and ripples began to form, each one acting as a timer. Closing his eyes, he held his breath as long as he could, until his lungs began to ache. Lightheadedness caused him to almost inhale water.  

Rising to the surface, he could see the ominous black shape and the people looking over the edge. Here he was swimming back to his captors’ arms. Like a mouse headed for the trap. A fish into a net. 

Y/N has never hated himself more then when he took that breath of air and met the sight of cowled Batman, and masked Robin and former Robins. 

‘Ready?’ 

“Even if I wasn’t you’d still take me.” 

‘You lost Y/N, get out of the water.’ He accepted the ladder thrown down to him, and as soon as he was within arm distance, Red Hood and Red Robin hoisted him over the edge of the boat and it was Robin handing him a towel. Taking off his snorkel and flippers, Y/N let himself be guided to the inside, where an unmasked Dick sat at one of the tables with two cups of coffee. Red Hood pushed Y/N into the seat, squishing his body against the window as he laid his giant self on him. Sighing in relief and going limp. 

Y/N didn’t mind. From his seat, he watched the sunrays begin to slowly peak over the horizon. The warm glow gently illuminating the darkness, the sun not in sight yet but it’s very beginnings making itself known. Y/N wonders if one day, he can fall into the illusion of once more having a choice in his decisions. That there will be multiple paths in front of him instead of just one. 

A large hand patted his head, and Y/N felt disgusted that he welcomed it. Back to normalcy. He has to go back to normalcy. If he didn’t, Y/N really does believe he will go crazy. His fate has been chosen from the start, and he knows that there is little chance of changing it. He knows that all of this comes from a sick and twisted form of love, and Y/N wonders if this is the type of love he has always been destined for. 

The worst part is if given the choice to start over, Y/N wouldn’t stop himself from meeting Jason. He wouldn’t stop Jason from stealing the Batmobile tires, and he wouldn’t stop Jason from being Robin. He would try and stop Jason from dying, but he wouldn’t stop Tim from being Robin, or anything really. Y/N loves Jason, he loves his family, he loves their flaws and vices, even if it means letting go of somethings. His desire to be on his own was temporary anyways, only a few years and he would come back. 

It was never good to have a ‘white whale.’ That is what Moby Dick taught everyone who read it. 

If freedom was his white whale, then his family are the whalers. Killing it and completely destroying anything that made him want to chase it. 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Honestly.... I'm not to sure about the ending.

[nanaminsmoon]

hey hru :) can i request connie x reader being both hyper sexual but reader chose celibacy so the sexual tension is always high and the make out a lot and connie can’t take it anymore

now how did you know that i was thinking about this like an hour before you suggested it?🤨 anyways i'm good and i hope you like it fren🤭

cw: horny!connie x celibateblackfem!reader, pnv, phone sex, masturbation (f+m), connie calls reader; 'ma', 'hermosa', 'my good girl', ('gorgeous), 'cuero' ('whore'), 'mételo, ma' ('put it in, ma'), 'despacio' ('slowly'),

wc: 3162 + lazily proofread bc i'm tired lol

your celibacy had started long before you met him. after wasting your time with too many useless men, you decided to focus on yourself which led you to the decision to try and avoid sex until you were dating someone for, at least, two years. as good of an idea as it seemed at first, you couldn’t help but grow to hate the hastening of your heart each time you had to tell a guy you were feeling about your somewhat ‘extreme’ decision. luckily you only had to do it once, before you met the man who could only be described as your worst match; connie springer.

connie had a reputation that proceeded him, and a long line of women who would do anything for him because the dick was just that good. the first time you had met connie, one of his friends had brought up his nickname, ’cuero’. and once you found out what it meant, you hid your shaky voice with a small laugh. but, contrary to what you had thought of him, connie didn’t really care about you being celibate because he just wanted to be with you. though it took a while to get used to, he made sure he respected your decision and adhered to all your boundaries surrounding physical affection.

but sweet gestures would be layered to hide the bitter truth. that being, connie had never been through anything as difficult as this in his life. his friends called him dramatic, but he told them that they would never understand how infuriating it was to be laid next to the prettiest girl he had ever seen, his borrowed shirt moving up her body, and her thong doing nothing to cover her skin. all of that meaning that the warmth of her ass would just be pressed up against him, as he squirmed and cursed under his breath. for the first time in years, connie’s cheeks and ears rouged at the heat radiating off a woman’s skin, growing at the place you two connected to engulf him whole. he felt like a teenager again in the worst way possible; once natural mannerisms became awkward, words stumbling over each other in a way that made him cringe. there were too many times he felt like you could read his lewd thoughts as he watched you perform mundane tasks like getting dressed. but you had never noticed the way he observed you, wondering what you’d look like clothed in lip marks, accessorised with hand shaped stamps on your ass cheeks.

unbeknownst to your boyfriend, he wasn’t the only one having a hard time. celibacy had been a fairly simple journey until the day you stumbled across a fine dominican speed bump. now you worried about catching him as he came out of the shower, towel loosely hanging from his hip bones as steaming droplets of water slid down the valleys on his toned abdomen. or the dreaded times where he’d wear those stupid fucking compression shirts, with those stupid grey sweats and nothing underneath. when ovulation week rolled around, everything your boyfriend did felt like a taunt to you; sleeping in just his boxers, smacking your ass, kissing you, even the way his tongue and fingers moved as he rolled his blunts had you crossing your legs and shifting in your seat.

it had gotten to the point where making out wasn’t cutting it anymore. and that’s how you and connie’s sex life began to escalate. one night, your hormones got the better of you so you called your man in need of relief. excitement was audible in his voice when he picked up the phone, but it would soon be substituted with a panic that would seep out of his pores, when all he could hear was you breathing heavily. but, something in his brain told him not to say anything so he remained quiet as he listened intently. that’s when he’d realise that those heavy breaths were laboured, and probably caused by whatever was buzzing in the background.

”i need you to put a baby in me, pa”, you had suddenly broken the silence, and a deep breath left connie’s mouth. he’d have to shift in his seat to calm himself down, but it’d do absolutely nothing.

”you can’t say shit like that, hermosa.”, he replied through clenched teeth. luckily he had just sold to his last client of the day, so he’d stay on the phone as he drove into an empty car park. within seconds, his dick would be in his hand and his own breaths would harmonise with yours over the phone as he fucked into his hand, and talked you through your nut.

prior to that day, the furthest you had gone was kissing. whether it be in his car, in bed, on the couch when you’re meant to be watching a movie, or even when connie would join you in the shower to kiss on the wet skin on your neck, you had never crossed that line. it was definitely difficult when he’d be stood right behind you, his bare dick touching your cheeks and all, but you’d always keep it together. that was until the day you were sat on his couch, getting ready to watch a tv show together. everything was fine, until connie went to wrap a blanket around you. it was something he had done many times before, but this time was different; due to your proximity, his breath was going straight into your ear, and it’d grow uneasy as you maintained eye contact. the sound of his breath picking up was reminiscent of the times you’d fucked over the phone, and the salacious memories were making your eyes gloss over. connie could read you like a book; he wouldn’t even reach the second page before his hand would be on your thigh. it’d linger on the warm skin before it’d move up your shorts, while he connected his lips with the skin on your neck.

when he finally did pull back, connie would place his lips on yours in a kiss that was sweet…until it wasn’t. its romantic feel would fade out as soon as he heard you moan when he put his tongue in your mouth. and, once he felt your hand so high up on his thigh that it was practically touching his dick, he would throw away all regard for where his hands were—they’d start grabbing anything they could. discernment told connie to pull away, because your lips were shooing the blood in his head to the place between his legs. yet, it’d all go ignored. instead he’d pull you onto his lap and smile against your mouth when you just let him. the wetness between your legs would rub against the hard length about to break through his boxers as your hips moved on top of it. all that could be heard in that room was heavy breathing, quiet moans, and the sound of connie’s hands occasionally landing on your skin to smack your cheeks when he got bored of massaging them.

the feeling of your hands on his nape, and running through his short buzzcut, travelled throughout connie’s body to will his hands to pull you down onto his bulge as he began chasing any form of relief from you. still lost in how bad you wanted him, your hips would subconsciously help connie by moving faster. and it wouldn’t be until he pulled away from your lips to lean his head back on the couch that you’d be alerted of your actions. they’d immediately cease, and connie wouldn’t get what was happening so he’d be kissing on your neck,

”it feels so good, ma, just keep movin’ on me”. that request would be met with you moving yourself from him completely. judging by the pensive look on your face, connie knew exactly what had happened and remorse began to wash over the arousal he had once felt. soon his hands would wipe his face, before he placed one on your knee.

”i’m sorry, y/n.”, he quietly apologised, ”i…i don’t know what the fuck happened. i guess i just lost myself”, he picked your hand up, and kissed your knuckles repeatedly. of course it wasn’t just him, you should’ve known better too, so you shook your head and pulled him in for a hug.

”it’s fine. i fucked up too”, you chortled before pulling him back and awkwardly going back to watching whatever show you had picked.

and that should’ve been the end of it. but the feeling he had formed in your clit had yet to subside. so when you moved to his bed, later that evening, you decided it was about time you gave him what you both wanted. connie leant against the head board, with you cuddled up by his side and, with your each and every movement, it was clear to see that he was still sensitive after what happened earlier. using that to your advantage, you’d lay your hand on his thigh and, as soon as that contact was made, connie’s eyes would dart to you. just as he was about to open his mouth and question your actions, you got up and climbed onto him. curiosity told him to move his parted lips, but intrigue kept them still as he watched you move closer to his neck. small pecks on his skin would increase in length, as well as intensity, and a few marks would decorate his neck, before you moved on to kiss and suck at his earlobe. that, mixed with the way your hips started moving again, brought back the memories of what had unfolded on his couch a few hours ago.

”y/n”, connie voiced, head still tilted to give you better access to his neck and ear, ”what about…?”, the end of that sentence was unfinished for two reasons; connie didn’t like bringing it up, and he was just too horny to think of the word.

”fuck it.”, you answered curtly, “i just need you so bad, pa”, connie scoffed at you, yet he still wouldn’t move from his position, he’d just place his hands on your hips.

”you sure?”, his eyes opened to look at you, and they’d see you nod softly before you stopped what you were doing.

”i mean, if you don’t want to then we can just—”, you began to taunt your boyfriend, but he’d cut you off.

”fuck that”, is all he said, before he’d flip your positions so you were laying beneath him, and he was stripping your body of anything covering it.

connie had seen you naked many times during the 7 months you had been together, but you would’ve never guessed with the way his eyes were darting all over the place, not sure what to do with themselves. because they were seeing you in a way they had only ever dreamed of—dreams that would end in embarrassment as connie trudged to change out of the moist fabric covering his lower half. but now that you were in front of him, wanting what he did, he would have to take a second to think. then, once he knew what he wanted, connie would move from the bed to rummage through one of your bags. confusion would scrunch your eyebrows for a second until connie returned to your line of vision with your vibrator in his hand. cockiness would stretch his lips into a smirk at the discovery that you were unaware of him seeing it when you were looking for your socks earlier. thinking of all the possible things he wanted to do with it pulled you out of the present moment until the droning sound of the toy brought you back. in the time you had been daydreaming, connie had walked to the side of the bed and when he handed it to you, you’d look up at him to say ”really?”. he’d chuckle as he nodded,

”i need to see what i’ve been hearing for so long”, he explained, and your eyes rolled before they eyed the device as if you’d never seen it before. though you wanted connie, you couldn’t refute the fact that the prolonged buzzing noise exacerbated the wetness between your legs. so you’d spread them, and the way you acted without instruction widened connie’s eyes. they’d stay that way as you used the wand to tease your clit, moaning his name as if he were the cause for the way your thighs were already starting to tremble. and connie’d just watch you; eyes fluttering shut, as you leaned on the pillows and keened his name. he wouldn’t even realise that he was holding his breath until he let out a heavy sigh.

”mételo, ma“, he ordered gently, as he moved a chair and put it in front of the bed. his dick would be in his hand as he watched you do as he said. the calls that he had began to yearn for at the end of every day seemed meaningless in comparison to the display before his eyes; his beautiful girlfriend sprawled out in front of him, legs shaking at a toy she wished was him instead, and a growing patch of wetness on the bed covers underneath her.

”despacio”, connie’s strained voice managed to reach your ears, and you nodded, sliding the toy in you slower to give connie a better view of the slight stretch.

so lost in it all, your eyes hadn’t opened since the toy had touched you—your head had been on the pillows below you, as your back arched off the now wet bed. you’d only pry your drowsy lids open when you felt connie’s hands on yours, pulling the toy out of you, licking a strip of the wetness on it, before throwing it on the bed. he wouldn’t even bother to kiss you as he knelt on the bed, his thumb moving over his raging tip as he positioned himself between your legs. pink, and needing to touch the spot inside you that he knew would drive you crazy, connie’s tip would be rubbed in between your folds to collect as much of your arousal as it could. and, for the first time in too long, connie’s ego would awaken at the sound of the gorgeous woman whining underneath him, toes wiggling aggressively as he teased you. after a while, it started to look like connie was teasing himself; though he had literally dreamt of this moment, he wasn’t rushed. instead, he wanted to take his time and make you feel so good that you would beg him to fuck you every single second of every single day to make up for lost time.

when his tip finally did enter you, it’d still there for a second. it was during that second that you started wondering if you could actually take connie. you knew that he was big, but the thought of actually having to deal with that stretch had always been pushed to the back of your mind. luckily for you, he’d push the rest of his dick into you very slowly. and, about quarter of the way inside you, his forehead would be on yours—already sweaty, and starting to wrinkle in the middle. romance would reintegrate itself during that one second, because connie would connect your lips again, allowing his tongue to dance with yours in a messy kiss that would spur his hips to move again. and, as soon as the sound of his balls smacking against your ass registered in your mind, you’d intertwine your hands at his nape, keeping your lips attached to hide the sound of your moans. connie’d quickly catch onto what you were doing, and pull back from you to shake his head,

”nah, ma, i’ve been waitin’ on this f’r too damn long. let me hear ya.”

connie wouldn’t need to ask you twice because, after that, you gave him exactly what he wanted. and, other than fawning over the way you were cussing using the spanish you had learnt from him, connie was losing his damn mind. this was your first time fucking, and he honestly felt like it was his first time ever having sex because of how hypersensitive his dick was. he could feel every single micro spasm of your walls, and when they intensified to the point where it was difficult to ignore the twitching of his balls as you continuously clenched around him, he knew you were close.

”fuck, ma, how you been keeping this from me?”, he asked at you and you’d mumble out a nonsensical response. all you could focus on was the fact that your release was at the tip of your curling fingers, so everything else was just fading into the background,

”’mm so closee, p-pa, p-pleasee”, you pleaded, and connie pressed your legs against your chest as he fucked into you with more haste.

”need you to promise to never keep my pussy from me ever again”, he demanded through gritted teeth, and you nodded desperately at him, ”’f you wanna cum then you gon’ have to speak t’me, ma”, he kissed his teeth, and you would try your best to gather yourself to start speaking.

”i p-promise i prom-mise pppromise”, you stuttered out, and connie’s smile warmed you from above.

”that’s my good girl”, between the praise, and connie’s dick abusing your cervix, it wouldn’t be long before pleasured tears left your closing eyes as you came around him. and, being a retired man-whore, connie thought he could take it, but he really couldn’t; as soon as you started tightening around him, his eyes would shut firmly as he struggled to move in and out of you.

”shit.”, he whispered, head bowed.

his intentions to make you yearn for his dick wouldn’t be neglected. they’d quickly come into fruition because, even as he filled you with load after load and fucked you in every position his filthy mind could think of, you would still beg for more of him. in the time space of a few hours, you two had gone from trying not to give into each other, to refusing to not be connected in a way that made you both sweat. most of connie felt satisfied with himself, yet a small part feared the monster he had created.

© Rights owned by nanamoonsinc. Do not repost without permission.

[zvaigzdelasas]

An elite Marine security team has deployed to Haiti because of a deteriorating security situation there, according to a defense official.

The fleet antiterrorism security team’s deployment to Haiti ― which is in the middle of a power struggle between gangs and the prime minister ― occurred sometime this week, said the official, who spoke on condition of anonymity because he was not authorized to discuss the sensitive issue publicly.

The Marines were deployed at the request of the State Department, according to the defense official. Marine Corps Times asked the State Department for further details Thursday and didn’t receive a response within a few hours.

Haitian Prime Minister Ariel Henry is struggling to stay in power as he tries to return home, where gang attacks have shuttered his country’s main international airport and freed more than 4,000 inmates in recent days.

Henry remained in Puerto Rico as of midday Wednesday. He landed in the U.S. territory on Tuesday after he was barred from landing in the neighboring Dominican Republic, where officials closed the airspace to flights to and from Haiti.[...]

The Corps’ fleet antiterrorism security teams, often known as FAST, are deployed around the world for limited periods of time to reinforce or recapture U.S. assets.[...]

At a press conference Wednesday, Karine Jean-Pierre, the White House press secretary, denied that the United States was considering sending U.S. forces to Haiti.

The US now officially has troops deployed in Haiti [7 Mar 24]

[lovelytsunoda]

proud mary // han lue

summary: now living a quiet life with their daughter, han and y/n reflect on how they got there, and all the good moments that are still yet to come.

pairing: han lue x wife! reader

warnings: this is a big one so listen up: mentions of post pregnancy mental illness, mentions of pregnancy and starting a a family, weddings, ignoring tokyo drift canon because I fucking can, (actually I ignored a lot of canon) han is about to activate a shit ton of daddy issues

I left a good job in the city, working for the man every night and day and I never lost one minute of sleeping, I was worrying 'bout the way the things might've been.

big wheel keeps on turning, proud mary keeps on burning. and we’re rolling, rolling, rolling down the river

2009, tokyo, japan.

the garage was dark, lit only by the moonlight and the small lamps atop the workstations. han lue had closed up hours ago, and everyone was gone save for him and his lover.

“han, what are you doing?” y/n laughed, sitting at a table scattered with nail polish bottles and a shellac brisa light. “it looks like a smudge.”

“it’s a drifting car!” han laughed, staring through the large magnifying glass that was allowing him to see the design he was attempting to paint on his lovers thumbnail. “see, there’s the spoiler and those are the headlights!”

friday night manicures had become somewhat of a tradition. y/n hated painting her nails with her non dominant hand, but she also didn’t speak enough japanese to venture out and get her nails professionally done. when she and han started dating, he offered to do it for her, easing the aggravation that sometimes came with doing mail designs yourself.

“well, now that you’ve pointed it out.” she laughed, kissing him on the cheek. “I love you.”

they had been together coming up on two years. two long, wonderful years. she was a mechanic and he was drifter, it was almost meant to be. she stopped him from getting himself killed, and in return, he loved her unconditionally.

they were sympatico like that. she loved his sense of humour, his protectiveness. he loved her smarts and the excited way she talked, animatedly and with hand gestures.

“what do you say we get out of japan for a bit?”

han should have known this question was coming. y/n was a restless spirit, never meant to stay in one place for too long. in a way, han was as well. he could tell that his lover had been more restless than usual, either from missing home or needing a change of scenery.

“a friend of mine, his name is dominic torretto, he’s got this place down in the dominican republic.” han started slowly, unsure of how much he wanted to involved her in. y/n was his whole world, and what dom and mia would be running was far bigger than street racing in shibuya.“he called me the other day wondering if I would run a job with him. but it’s not entirely legal and I don’t blame you if you don’t want any part in it.”

“baby,” she frowned, placing her hand inside the blue light machine. “of course I’ll go with you. I never pass up a chance to go somewhere sunny, and you know that I’d go anywhere with you. what we’re running here with twinkie and sean isn’t exactly legal either, you know. I’m a big girl, seoul-oh. I can handle myself.”

“I know. I just want you to know what you’re getting into. you’re important to me, y/n.”

“I know.” she said softly, running her hand up his arm as she rested her head on his shoulder, gently kissing his neck. “so when does our flight leave?”

“whenever you want it to. I haven’t even bought the tickets yet. are you ready for an adventure?”

“fuck yeah.” y/n smiled, pressing her lips to his. “but you have to paint my other nails first.”

han laughed, the kind of laugh that would always set loose the butterflies in y/n’s chest, the kind that reminded her why she fell in love with him in the first place.

“I don’t think I have it in me to paint another drifting car.”

“then what are you going to paint on my thumbnail?” y/n laughed back, looking down at her nails and realizing that her lover had actually done a very good job painting a drifting car manicure.

“I don’t know,” han shrugged. he would deny it if asked, but he actually loved painting y/n’s nails. he thought it brought them closer together, built up intimacy in their relationship.

they were moments he wouldn’t trade for the world.

“I’ll just do like a checkered flag or something.”

“but you did that on my index finger!”

laughing, y/n turned her head to kiss him. “come on, you big dork. the sooner we get my nails done, she sooner I can model that new lingerie set I bought last weekend.”

“sold!” han laughed, knocking over bottles of gel polish as he searched for the bright pink he had used to paint the car on his girlfriends other hand. “drifting car? f1 car? whatever my gorgeous gorgeous girl wants.”

“I love you, han lue.”

“love you more, pretty girl.”

2010, monte carlo, monaco.

it was set up to be another sleepless night without her lover by her side, and y/n was having none of that as she wandered the deck of the comfortable yacht, looking around at the decorations that the crew had spent the day putting up.

she was just praying that it wasn’t going to rain.

nothing was about to spoil her big day.

she scurried below deck, past a half open door through which she could hear roman pearce’s guttural snores. fingers curled around the door knob, she tried not to make any noise as she eased the door open, slipping into the cabin.

“you couldn’t sleep either?” she laughed, looking at the king size bed where her fiancé lay, phone in his hands as he texted his mother, who the crew was picking up in the harbour in the morning before the ceremony began.

“got a lot on my mind.” han shrugged. “fucking tej won’t shut up about the reception and the playlist and I’ve told him a million times that it’s not going to be some crazy rave kinda thing.” the man sat up, gesturing for his soon-to-be wife to come closer. "it's doing my head in. seriously, he wants to do a club mix of 'i would do anything for love'."

y/n snorted. han thought she looked like an angel in the low cabin light, a halo glowing around her head and shining off her white silk pajamas, the ones with the tiny shorts and 'bride' embroidered on the butt. "how the fuck do you turn the best meat loaf song in existence into a club rave song?"

"the fuck if i know." han shook his head, hands sliding up her thighs as she came to stand in between his legs. "jagi, sarang-hae."

honey, i love you.

"mhm." she hummed, a smile on her lips as she leaned down to kiss him sweetly. "i love it when you speak korean. it's so fucking sexy."

the last year had been stressful. the dominican job had been way more complex than y/n had expected, and it took a while for han's old crew to warm up to her. it took a while, but eventually she managed to crack dom toretto, and two weeks later, han got down on one knee and asked y/n to marry him.

hence why they were on a yacht off the coast of monaco, the entire thing decked out in fairly lights and tulle.

"if you think tej is bad, you try getting in between letty and those large plastic ribbons on the back of the deck chairs." y/n laughed. "who knew letty ortiz was so serious about weddings?"

she was practically sitting on his lap now, head resting comfortably on his shoulder as the boat rocked back and forth.

han seoul-oh was her home. her safe harbour. she always felt safe in his arms, at his side, even when they were plunging into almost certain danger like they had in the dominican.

"i brought you something." y/n hummed, reaching into the pockets of her shorts and withdrawing the small cardboard packet.

"fake nails?"

"help me put them on? for old time's sake." she passed him the glittery white french tips, no doubt chosen to match her dress for the ceremony tomorrow.

"i can't wait to spend my life with you. and believe me, there will be plenty more manicure mondays."

2014, monterrey, california.

"daddy, where's mommy?"

"i don't think she's feeling well, poppy." han lue frowned, looking over at his daughter, who was perched in her little kiddie chair at the kitchen table. "i'm going to go check on her, okay? stay right here."

how do you explain depression to an infant? poppy jae-i han had been one of the best things to have ever happened to han seoul-oh. but in the almost twenty-four months since their bundle of joy had been born, something had felt off about his wife.

everyone hears about the mental health complications that can come with childbirth, but no mother ever thinks it would be her.

every husband fears it, too.

"y/n, jagi?" han tried to keep his voice level as he eased open the bedroom door. the couple had bought a ranch house in monterrey when they learned they were expecting. it was one of the few things they used their ill-gotten gains as a part of dom's crew for. "poppy's asking for you."

it broke his heart to see his wife like this, hair messed and greasy, red splotches under her eyes from where she had been crying.

"am i a bad mother, seoul-oh?" she asked, voice small. she seemed so tiny and fragile underneath the layers of blankets on the queen bed. "she always seems to cry when i'm around, but never with you. poppy loves you more than she loves me."

"what?" it was all han could do to stop himself from crying as he sat on the bed, gently running his fingers through y/n's hair. "sweetheart, what's brought this on? poppy loves you. you're her mom. she needs you."

"mia makes it look so easy." y/n sniffled, pulling herself up to a sitting position. she's lost weight. not a noticeable amount, or even an unhealthy one, but enough that her husband knows. there are many things that you can hide from the man you share your bed with, but han knows. he knows she's not doing well. "and i'm fucking shit at it, han."

"look at me, pretty girl." han encouraged, reaching for her hands. "you are such a good mother. i know you're struggling right now, and i know you're hurting but you need to know that poppy loves you so much. she was asking about you over breakfast, you know."

"i don't know who i am any more. i've lost my sense of self."

han frowned, brushing a few strands of greasy hair away from her forehead before leaning down and gently kissing her hairline.

"listen, i was talking to brian last night-"

"of course you were fucking talking to brian."

"-and he thinks you should talk to mia. they're passing through town today on their way back from dom and letty's, brian and i are going to take the kids out to the zoo or whatever, and you and mia should do something." he suggested, running his hand comfortingly up and down his lover's back. "go to the mall, get a coffee. i think she could really help you. she's been through this before."

y/n inhaled shakily, pulling away from han. "what if something happens to poppy and i'm not there?"

"y/n, everything is going to be okay. i promise. brian will be there, the kids will be in great hands. go do something with mia, darling. find yourself again, yeah?"

"okay." y/n nodded, still clutching his hand like it was her lifeline. "i can do that."

"mommy?" a small voice called. poppy had managed to get herself all the way from the kitchen to the master bedroom, where han had left the door ajar just in case poppy needed them. "are you okay?"

"oh, sweetheart, come here." y/n said, tears beginning to fall.

because how could she ever think that her little bundle of joy didn't love her as much as she did? poppy waddled over to the bed, and han hefted the toddler onto the mattress so that y/n could pull her close.

"you know that mummy loves you, right?"

"yes. i love you too, mommy."

"see." han smiled. "you're going to be okay. we're going to get through this."

2017, monterrey, california.

"i genuinely can't comprehend that roman pearce is getting married."

the family of three was walking down the nail care aisle at walmart, a welcome addition to their weekly shopping trip as y/n scanned the packages on the rack for a set of acrylic nails.

han laughed, one hand around his wife's waist and his chin on her shoulder as he leaned against the shopping cart. "it's not going to last. they may be getting married on saturday but i bet that by christmas roman is going to call and tell us she asked for a divorce."

"don't be so cynical." y/n laughed, kissing her husband softly before holding up a small white box. "do these go with my dress?"

"they'll go with anything, babe." han said, moving to whisper in her ear “they'd look even better wrapped around my c-"

"i want nails like mom's!" poppy han's shout cut him off, the little girl looking at the array of disney princess nails on the lower shelves.

laughing, han knelt down next his daughter, one hand on her shoulder. "which one do you want, princess? do you want frozen, tinker bell? mulan?"

"i want the ariel ones." poppy smiled, reaching for the pack of little mermaid nails. han helped her get them off the hook before lifting her up, carrying the six year old securely against his chest.

"seoul-oh, she's like six, you're spoiling her by carrying her all the time." y/n laughed, dropping both packs of nails in the cart.

"what, she's not heavy, sweetheart." han grins. "besides, i have to stay in shape somehow."

y/n rolls her eyes. "sweetie, it's bold of you to assume that you were ever in shape. but i loved you anyways, didn't i?"

back at home, they settled in the living room, near the large bay window. y/n watched contentedly from the kitchen as han sat at the coffee table across from poppy, delicately brushing nail glue across his daughter's tiny nails, dropping the glittery little mermaid nails on top.

it had taken a while to get to this peaceful, quiet part of their life, but y/n han was so glad that they had made it. that she had seoul-oh and that she had little poppy.

"be careful with your nails, they might come off. now, go get your homework done before we make the pizza, okay?"

poppy scurried off down the hall to her room, and y/n padded across the shag carpet, looping her arms around her husbands neck as she gave him a kiss.

"i'm so lucky, you know that. i'm happy and healthy again, and i have you and poppy. that's everything i could ever ask for." she said softly, resting her head against han's chest as the man tilted his head down, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head.

of course they both missed the good old days. the days of adrenaline and adventure. but brian and mia had left, and then y/n and han, and soon after was letty and dom. they were moving on with their lives, a chapter of glitz and glamour coming to a close.

"i want another one."

y/n froze, pulling back from her husband. "what?"

"i want another baby. and i know what we went through last time, and i fully understand if you're not willing to take that chance again, but god, y/n, i want a big family with you." han explained, holding his wife's hands. "poppy is growing up. soon she's going to be too cool for dear old dad. and then there will be boys-"

"or she'll be like you," y/n cuts him off with a laugh. "in which case there will be lots and lots of girls."

"god help us all. my little girl is going to break a lot of hearts one day."

"and you want another one?"

"honestly? yeah, i do."

"then i guess we'd better start trying. multiplication isn't that hard, so poppy's gonna be looking for us within the next hour." y/n hummed, kissing her lover softly.

han smiled against her lips, hands slipping into her jeans pockets to cop a feel of his wife's ass. "i only need half that."

TAGS:

@libraryofloveletters @magnummagnussen @mignonricciardo @sidcrosbyspuck @cartierre @monzabee @scuderiamh @daydreamingleclerc @diorleclerc @oconso @cl16version

[writtensturn]

in the moment | c.s

PAIRING : chris sturniolo x hispanic!gf

GENRE : fluff?

SUMMARY : chris’s girlfriend is dominican, and at her cousins birthday party, chris wonders off too come back to surprise her.

!WARNINGS! : use of y/n, cursing.

✮⋆˙

y/n was making her way into the backyard of her aunts house, they were celebrating her cousins seventh birthday, and if you knew how hispanic parties work, they last forever. it was around 11pm and she was talking to family slipping a few drinks from under them, she watched as her family and her cousins friends danced around and had fun. her family adored chris, they always said he was a different “type” of white. as her favorite artist, romeo santos came on she held onto chris’s arm singing almost every lyric to him.

“y/n, baby..” chris laughed

“promise you’ll hold me, touch me, love me. way past forever” she sung to her boyfriend across from her

“promise” chris spoke with a huge smile on her face, agreeing to the song that she held so dearly. as y/n turned to watch her family dance and hold on to eachother, it warmed her heart the one time of the year they all looked genuinely happy and got along.

“see how their moving" she pointed to a pair in the crowd, feeling chris nod in agreement.

"we call that bachata, the way the song has the little clicks is when you change. i think its so romantic, its all in the hips." she explained ending her sentence with a shrug. she turned to see chris's eyes on her, feeling his smirk almost instantly. she shook her head and pushed his shoulder

“oh enough christopher” she knew his mind went directly in the gutter with that one

“what? i didn’t do a thing” chris spoke back to her with the same smirk plastered across his lips

“yeah yeah” she sneered turning her head to look at him, her head tightly slightly as she took a moment to admire his features, the way they looked back at her. she felt chris’s hand come up to brush the hair out of her face, pushing it behind her ear and come back down to run his fingertips along her arm.

“i’ll be back” chris said bringing his face closer to hers and pressing his lips against her softly before standing up and walking away, before she could say anything he was already to far for him to hear.

meanwhile

chris moved into her aunts house finding the cousin she was closest with

“hey can you help me out for a sec? it’s for y/n” chris asked

“uhh yeah” jay said back to him with a smile while she stood up, she moved chris to another room.

“i need you to need me how to dance.. um..” chris spoke lost on the word

“bachata?” jay said while raising a brow

“yes!” chris nodded

“ja, okay..” jay let out a laugh towards chris, she took his hands and looked up at him a little awkwardly.

“do you just kinda-.” she moved in twos, popping her hip on the beat that you could hear from outside.

“that’s it?” chris raised his brow

“oh honey..” jay laughed again

“you try.” she challenged, she watched as chris moved with her, the two starting together. she raised her brow impressed on how he was moving, she moved closer in dancing how they would outside.

“i’m shocked” she shook her head at her cousins boyfriend

“what why” chris shook his head back

“you’ve got some spice don’t ya” she scoffed as the two laughed and continued to move together in her room

“what’s her favorite song.. yk like these” chris asked, jay pulled away from him stopped the synced movements between the two.

“just go there, i got it.” she smiled as the two started to walk out

“you’re good for her you know? you care. it means a lot” jay nodded as they headed outside, chris couldn’t help but smile as the two parted him walking back to find y/n.

“hey baby where’d you go?” she stood up wrapping her arms around his sides, chris shook his head at her attachment holding her against him. he turned his head to see jay nodding at him and hearing the song change, she watched as y/n’s head perked up.

“i love this song so much” she closed her eyes before looking up at him

“dance with me ma?” chris smiled down at her admiring her features, she looked up at him, her expression confused.

“what.” she spoke and as soon as she could get another word out she felt the two moving closer to the center, chris’s arms fell onto her hips and her hands moving around his neck. as the song started picking up she felt the two move in sync holding onto one another, she looked up at him shocked and impressed that he knew how. she never taught him out of embarrassment but now that they were here she didn’t care, her little fantasy of them two dancing together to her favorite song.

“pongo en ti toda mi fe me arrodillo a tu merced y aunque hable nunca me arrepiento” she sung softly looking directly into him, meaning her words.

“what’s that mean” chris furrowed his brows

“you’ll figure it out eventually” she nodded with a smirk

“i love you ma” chris smiled down at her hearing the song end

“i love you too mi amor”

guys someone requested this and im lowk so obsessed with the idea of this, i think its adorable.

[toxiccrybabyart]

Skeles as humans but with all my headcanons and design choices

Because in my eyes they’re all queer as fuck and no one can take that from me

Ink is nonbinary, uses any pronouns, is aroace and from Filipino decent. They’re a tattoo artist, though his own tattoos are actually just henna. They like to do henna at the local ren fair when it’s open. He also does art commissions on the side, when they’re not prepping for various tattoo gigs.

Blue is a cis guy, uses he/him pronouns, is bisexual, and half Hawaiian half Puerto Rican.

Dream is a trans man, uses he/him pronouns, is pansexual, and from Scottish and fae decent. He likes to garden and do photography. He’s currently a free lance photographer.

Error is a cis guy, uses he/they pronouns, is demiromantic and demisexual, and a black American. Despite his rather closed off and almost rude nature, he finds that he enjoys streaming, and has a decent following. He also enjoys crocheting, and sometimes just streams himself crocheting while talking with chat. He brings string alone with him in his coat pocket, and weaves it between his fingers when he’s overwhelmed.

Cross is a cis guy, uses he/him pronouns, is bisexual, and Dominican Puerto Rican. He works as security for Nightmare, though Nightmare technically doesn’t need it, but he has the money and it makes Cross feel better to make sure he’s okay.

Nightmare is genderfluid, uses he/she/they pronouns (in preference order), is queer, and is of Scottish and fae decent. He is also a natural red head like Dream, but dyes his hair black. He’s embarrassed of the red color, which is silly because he looks lovely with red hair. She’s a gothic model, mostly encouraged into it by Dream, but she secretly loves the positive attention.

Dust is a cis guy, uses any pronouns, is pan, and is a mixed black American. He’s incredibly closed off and is pretty paranoid. She gets the shakes pretty bad, especially in her hands. They’re rather cold. But around his two other friends he lightens up a little bit.

Horror is a cis guy, uses he/him pronouns, is bisexual, and a white American. He tries to be friendly and approachable despite his own issues he’s working through. He’s got a few memories issues and a thing about food, but he’s a great friend, and his friends will kill you if you even imply otherwise.

Killer is gender queer, uses he/they pronouns, is omnisexual, and is a mixed Korean American. He comes across as just a chill relaxed guy despite his morbid sense of humor. Though he’s got issues, you’ll be hard pressed to learn of them unless you’re close to him.

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Maria Montez (Cobra Woman, Arabian Nights)—maria montez was a dominican actress who rose to fame starring in a series of technicolor adventure movies in the 1940s hollywood, becoming popularly known as "the queen of technicolor”. her dramatic persona and elaborate bejeweled attire in these films subsequently lead to her becoming an early camp icon to underground queer filmmakers like jack smith and andy warhol. maria was fiercely determined to become a Movie Star from early on and tirelessly promoted herself (she would be killing it as an influencer today probably) - she deliberately cultivated an outré star persona in the tradition of old school screen vamps like theda bara and alla nazimova and she was always serving no matter where she was or what she was doing.

Judy Garland (Meet Me In St. Louis, A Star is Born, Summer Stock)— Judy is the GOAT when it comes to classic movie musicals. The voice of an angel who deserved so much better than she got. She can sing she can dance she can act she's a triple threat. Though she had a turbulent personal life (her treatment as a child star by the studio system makes me mad as hell like Louis b Mayer fight me ((she was made to believe that she was physically unattractive by the constant criticism of film executives who made her feel ugly and who manipulated her onscreen appearance by capping her teeth and using discs in her nose to change its shape and Mayer called her "my little hunchback" like imagine hearing that as a child and not having damage)) she always goddamn delivered on screen and in any performance she gave. She began in vaudeville performing with her sisters and was signed to MGM at 13. Starting out in supporting parts especially paired with mickey Rooney in a bunch of films (she's the best part tbh) she eventually transferred to the lead role. She is best known for her starring role in movie musicals like the iconic Wizard of Oz (somewhere over the rainbow still hits hard and is ranked the top film song of all time), meet me in St. Louis (Judy singing have your self a merry little Christmas brings tears to the eyes she is that powerful), the Harvey girls (she looks like a technicolor dream and sings a catchy af song about trains), Easter parade ( dancing and singing with Fred Astaire), for me and my gal, the pirate, and summer stock ( with pal Gene Kelly who she helped when he was starting out and he helped her when she was struggling). But she also does non- singing just as well like the clock ( her first movie where she sings no songs and is an underrated ww2 era romance), her Oscar nominated a star is born ( like the man that got away she put her whole soul in that and I have beef with the fact she lost to grace kelly ((whom I love but like still not even her best work)), and judgement at Nuremberg (a courtroom drama about the nazi war criminal trials). Outside of film she made concert appearances to record-breaking audiences, released 8 studio albums, and had her own Emmy-nominated tv series. She was the youngest (39) and first female recipient of the Cecil B DeMille award for lifetime achievement in the film industry. Girl was a lifelong democrat and was a financial and moral supporter of many causes including the civil rights movement (she was at the March on Washington and held a press conference to protest the 16th street Baptist church bombings). She was a friend of the Kennedy family and would call jfk weekly often ending the calls by singing the first few lines of somewhere over the rainbow (she thought of them as Gemini twins).She was a member of the committee for the first amendment which was formed in response to the HUAC investigations. Though she died far too young and tragically she remains an icon for her work and her life. As a girl who didn't feel like i was as pretty as everyone else I have always felt a connection to Judy and I just really love her.

This is round 2 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Maria:

Dominican actress dubbed the Queen of Technicolor. Starred in colourful action adventure movies and was Universal Studios “glamour girl” of the 1940s. She starred in 26 movies before her untimely death in 1951. Shot to stardom with Arabian Nights in 1942. Fought with universal over roles she was cast in and managed to negotiate better pay for herself before going freelance and starring in European movies.

Judy:

Judy's voice alone qualifies her for at least top ten hottest HOT VINTAGE MOVIE WOMEN. She was a truly incredible swing singer, with a stunning voice on top of her technique. Her short dark hair looked incredible in just about any style. Have I mentioned her swagger? I can’t do it justice with words. She had swagger. She was funny as hell, and clever too. Incredibly charming and cool. I adore her.

Her eyes, her voice have bewitched me

I mean how can you beat the one and only Judy? She's beautiful, her smile is contagious, the way she sings with her whole body. You can't help but love her.

Beautiful woman, love her singing voice. And she can do everything between happy or silly and angry or heartbroken

[hyper-trash-panda]

Bad Boys — Legacy

Pt 2/?

Warnings: Blood, violence, cursing

Rated R

Chile, I’m over here bootlegging the Bad Boys movies trying to make gifs 😆😆

The clink of silverware against plates echoed through the dining room. The smell of smothered chicken and roasted vegetables filled the air, but the usual warmth of Theresa's cooking were overshadowed by the heaviness that had settled over the table.

Marcus, sitting at the head, glanced around the table, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took a bite from his fork. To his right, Theresa meticulously adjusted her napkin, her lips pressed into a thin line, betraying her discomfort. Next to her, their daughter picked at her food, her usual chatter replaced by an uncharacteristic silence. Reggie was focused on his plate, completely unhindered as he scarfed down every bite. Marcus grimaced.

Mike, sitting to Marcus' left, was still; his fork hovering over his plate as he stole glances towards Valerie. She sat beside him, her smile polite but strained. The air between Mike and Armando, who sat beside Valerie, was charged with unspoken words. Armando's jaw was tight, his eyes flicking between his father and his fiancée, the muscles in his neck taut.

From the living room, the sound of the kids' cartoons provided a distant, cheerful contrast to the uncomfortable quiet at the table, but it only seemed to deepen the discomfort in the dining room.

The scrape of Marcus' chair against the floor as he leaned back to take a sip of water seemed louder than it should have. An awkward, "Sorry." Left his lips before silence overtook the table once more.

Theresa cleared her throat softly. "So, Valerie," she began, her tone warm but slightly forced, "how was your flight?"

Valerie, mid-sip of her water, swallowed quickly, her eyes widening in brief surprise. "Oh, um, it was good," she replied, her voice steadying as she placed her glass back on the table. "It's only a two hour flight from the Dominican Republic, but it was hard leaving my kids."

Mike perked up. “You got kids?"

"In a sense," Valerie admitted, "I'm a school teacher."

Megan's eyes lit up, a spark of enthusiasm breaking through the tension. "Really?," she said, leaning in. "I'm actually working on my master's right now to teach English. What grade do you teach?"

Valerie turned to Megan, her expression brightening. "It's a small district, so we don't really have grade levels. I teach kids from about six to ten years old."

"Oh, those are the fun ages, I should know," said Megan, eyes gesturing to her brood in the next room. "What do you teach?"

"Science," Valerie answered, her smile widening. "My degree is in chemistry, but I also teach them astronomy, earth science, physics, the general basics."

As she spoke, Valerie's eyes drifted to Armando; his arm rested protectively along the back of her chair as he leaned back, picking at his plate. Sensing her gaze, Armando glanced at her and then straightened up, his posture shifting as if already anticipating what she was about to say.

"Actually, that's how I met Armando," Valerie added.

Armando's eyes softened, his usually guarded expression easing for a moment as their eyes met. If one were to squint hard enough, they might believe him to be smiling back.

Marcus interjected with a smirk. "Well don't leave us in suspense, Valerie. I've got to know who managed to melt the warlock baby's heart."

Before anyone could react, Mike's foot shot out under the table, landing a swift kick to Marcus' shin. Marcus winced, but the pain went unacknowledged by everyone else at the table.

"Well," Valerie began, her voice gentle as she thought back, "I was teaching my kids about the rock cycle at the time. My home is set near a small dock, so I was walking along the shore collecting rocks when I noticed a boat floating out in the distance."

Valerie paused, her brow furrowing slightly at the memory. "At first, I didn't think much of it—there are fishermen who pass by all the time—but the person inside this boat wasn't moving, and it gave me an eerie feeling."

The table was silent, everyone leaning in a little closer as Valerie continued. "I got my neighbor, who owns a boat, we set out to check on it. That's when we found Armando. He—um—" Valerie paused, taking in the audience, realizing some of the finer details to be inappropriate, "Wasn't in the best condition. We got him to shore and set him up in my spare room. I spent the next two days helping him through a fever, rehydrating him, and sewing up his wounds until he was strong enough to leave."

Theresa, her eyes twinkling, cut in with a knowing smile. "Well, clearly, he didn't, did he?" she teased, glancing at the engagement ring on Valerie's finger.

Armando picked up the story, his voice steady. "Val got me a job working maintenance for the school. It gave me time to find a fresh start. It was honest work, something I needed."

Valerie nodded. "It took two years, but eventually, Armando proposed." She smiled softly, the memory still fresh in her mind. "And, well, here we are."

Marcus grinned, "Ain't that something," he said, his voice warm. "Congratulations, you two." He nodded approvingly as he noticed Armando's arm had moved from resting behind Valerie's chair to holding her hand on the table.

Mike, who had been quiet, focused on the ring on Valerie's finger. It was a simple design—a double gold band encasing a half-line of small stones. Mike knew that with the kind of money Armando's former cartel life would’ve have afforded him, he could've easily bought something far more extravagant. But this ring, it was a testament to Armando's honest work, to the new life he was trying to build. Mike felt a swell of pride for his son.

Just as Mike was lost in thought, Megan broke the silence with a playful tone. "So, when's the big day?"

Valerie started to answer, "We've decided to wait until Armando joined—"

But before she could finish, Armando interjected smoothly, his voice firm. "Until I've fulfilled my contract with Miami PD," he said, his words carefully chosen.

Valerie blinked, momentarily confused by the shift in their story, but before she could question him, the simultaneous ringing of both Mike and Marcus' phones cut through the room. They exchanged a look, already knowing what it meant.

"Duty calls," Marcus muttered, already pushing back his chair as Mike did the same. Marcus leaned down to kiss Theresa on the cheek, then turned to Megan, giving her a quick kiss on the forehead. "Take care, alright?" he said before turning to Reggie.

"Let’s move," Marcus ordered.

Reggie stood up immediately. "Yes, sir." he replied with a nod, wiping gravy from his lip. He then turned to Megan, his expression softening as he leaned in and gave her a tender kiss before following his father-in-law.

Mike turned to Theresa as he grabbed his jacket. "Dinner was amazing, Tee. I'm coming back for them leftovers."

Theresa smiled, already heading to the kitchen. "I'll pack some up for you."

As Mike headed toward the door, he looked back at Armando, who was still seated, clearly conflicted. "Armando, you're coming with us," Mike said, his voice carrying a hint of expectation.

Armando hesitated, his gaze shifting from his father to Valerie, who looked at him with a mix of confusion and concern. He didn't want to leave her without explaining, but he knew he had to go.

Leaning in close to Valerie, he spoke softly, "Hablamos después, ¿sí?" *we'll talk later, okay?* His voice was firm but gentle before giving her a quick, reassuring peck on the lips.

Valerie nodded, though the worry in her eyes remained. She watched as Armando rose from the table, his movements deliberate as he joined Mike, Marcus, and Reggie at the door.

Eclipse was a far cry from its usual scene. The neon lights that once pulsed in sync with the deafening beats of the music were replaced by harsh, clinical overhead lights that washed the space in sterile white. There was no music now, only the mechanical rhythm of camera shutters and the soft thud of boots across the slick, glossy floor. Crime scene tape flapped gently in the artificially chilled air, marking off areas that had been vibrant just hours ago but now lay in silence, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of a body bag being zipped up.

Forensics teams combed through the wreckage of the night, dusting for prints, collecting fibers, and snapping close-ups of every bloodstain. Detectives huddled in quiet conversation, their voices low, while uniformed officers kept curious onlookers at bay outside. A few clubgoers who hadn't made it out before the chaos were lined up against a wall, their once-carefree expressions now replaced with shock and confusion.

The hum of an Porsche 911 rolled up to the scene, its tires barely making a sound as it came to a smooth stop just beyond the tape. From the driver's seat, Mike stepped out, his crisp black shirt catching the glint of the overhead lights. Beside him, Marcus followed, already tugging at his shirt collar like the tension of the scene had wrapped itself around his neck. Reggie hopped out of the back, eyes wide, taking in the grim scene. Last out was Armando, his posture cool, but his sharp gaze sweeping over the mess in front of them.

The four moved as a unit, heading toward the yellow tape that separated them from the chaos. Mike led the way, his badge flashing like a beacon in the dim light as he approached the officer guarding the entrance. Without a word, the officer lifted the tape for him, nodding in recognition as Mike passed. Marcus followed, flashing his own badge. Reggie was next, getting a quick nod from the officer who had seen him enough times to know he was with them. But as Armando reached for the tape, the officer stepped in front of him.

"Whoa, hold up. Where's your badge?"

Armando didn't flinch, but his jaw tightened slightly as he glanced at Mike. Before he could say anything, Mike stepped back, his usual cocky grin in place as he clapped a hand on the officer's shoulder.

"He's with us. AMMO consultant," Mike said, his voice leaving no room for argument. The officer hesitated for only a second, then gave a quick nod, lifting the tape higher for Armando to pass through.

"Gracias," Armando said, his voice cool and even as he followed Mike and the others toward the center of the club.

They made their way through the scene, weaving past clusters of investigators, toward Kelly, who stood over a body in the middle of the dance floor. Her gloved hands rested on her hips and sharp eyes scanning the evidence in front of her like a puzzle that hadn't yet revealed all its pieces. She didn't look up when the group approached but spoke, her tone matter-of-fact.

"Took you long enough," Kelly muttered, finally turning to face them, her gaze locking on Mike and Marcus. "You're not gonna like this one."

Marcus tugged on his gloves, flexing his fingers as he glanced over at the body Kelly stood over. "Who we looking at?" he asked, his tone casual. Mike, following suit with his own gloves, gave the body a quick glance before focusing on Kelly.

"ID says Maddison Harrison, age twenty-two," Kelly started, but the flatness in her voice gave away the truth. "Dorn ran facial recognition. Real age is sixteen."

Marcus grimaced, his usual bravado slipping for a moment as the reality of the situation hit him. "Sixteen? What the hell's a kid doing in a place like this?"

Kelly handed the fake ID to Mike, her jaw tight. "Good question. And she's not the only one. Found the same quality ID on two other bodies over at the booth." Her eyes flicked toward the far corner of the club, where another pair of black body bags lay zipped up, waiting for the morgue to claim them. "Same story, both kids."

Mike turned the ID over in his hand, barely needing a second glance to recognize the poor craftsmanship. "Who's the genius letting a bunch of kids in with this shit?"

Before Kelly could answer, Dorn approached, tablet in hand. His sudden presence made Kelly stiffen, her posture visibly more rigid, but Dorn didn't seem to notice—or he pretended not to. "The bouncer. He was distracted by a fight that broke out just as the kids were coming in. He let them slide so he could deal with the guys throwing punches."

Mike exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Hell of a time to drop the ball."

"Bouncer remembered the two boys at the booth," Dorn continued, tapping on his tablet to pull up more info. "Said they came in with their dates. Names were Tyler James and Zachery Harris, both seventeen."

Marcus sighed, the weight of it all getting heavier by the second. He crouched down next to the body bag, reaching for the zipper. "Let's see what we're dealing with."

Mike's brow furrowed, and he stepped closer. "Marcus, don't-"

But Marcus ignored him. With a quick, sharp pull, he unzipped the body bag and uncovered the face of the girl. What he saw made him jerk back instantly, swearing under his breath. The teenager was streaked with dried blood that had poured from her eyes, nose, and ears, her expression frozen in a final moment of agony.

Mike, used to his partner's squeamishness after all these years, shot him an irritated glance. "Seriously? After everything we've seen, you still can't handle it?"

"Man, shut up," Marcus snapped back, holding his hand up defensively as he gathered himself. "It's gotta be Helios. Only that nasty shit does this."

Reggie, who had been lingering nearby, furrowed his brow. "Helios? What's that?"

Mike crossed his arms, glancing at the bodies being wheeled away. "Its a new drug. Fucked up shit. Started out west, moving its way east. In the last six months, it's been tearing through the southern coast from Louisiana to here. More addictive than heroin, deadlier than fentanyl."

Kelly picked up where Mike left off, her voice clipped and precise. "It's potent. A little too much, and your body goes into overdrive. By the time you know something's wrong, it's too late."

Dorn, still holding his tablet, added, "Gets its name from the warm feeling it gives you. Like you're being hugged by the sun."

Kelly snorted softly, the sound bitter. "Yeah, but it's more like being roasted alive. Burns you from the inside out."

Marcus, having regained his composure, stood up, though his face was still pale. "Helios literally melts your brain. Cooks you. Blood comes out of everything-nose, eyes, ears. Fucks up everything."

He gagged, clearly visualizing the horror in too much detail, and had to cover his mouth. Mike shot him another annoyed look. "Come on, man?"

"I'm good, I'm good," Marcus muttered, waving him off.

Reggie, his eyes drifting toward the row of body bags being taken out by the forensic teams, swallowed hard. "All of this... was because of overdoses?"

The silence that followed was heavier than any answer. Mike and Marcus exchanged a glance, the weight of it unspoken but shared. Kelly turned back to the body at her feet, her jaw clenched, while Dorn stood by, still tapping through files on his tablet before clearing his throat, "Well, there's some good news. We've got one survivor." He tapped on his tablet for a moment before holding it out to show a picture of a teenage girl with bright eyes and a wide smile, frozen in a moment of happier times. "Hannah Davis. She was rushed to the hospital. Unresponsive, but showing signs of life. Her mother's on her way there now."

Marcus, still shaken from the gruesome sight, glanced at the photo with some relief. "That's something, I guess."

"Yeah, but she won't be ready for questioning until tomorrow," Dorn added, lowering the tablet. "Docs need to stabilize her first."

Mike nodded, his gaze shifting toward Armando, who had been standing silently on the edge of the group, his sharp eyes taking everything in but saying little. "What about you, man? You know anything about this Helios stuff?"

All eyes turned to Armando. He shifted slightly but remained composed, meeting their stares without flinching. "Not much experience with it personally," he admitted. "But my mother buying a batch a few years ago. Back when it was still in its testing phases."

Marcus, leaning against one of the club's broken-down tables, raised an eyebrow. "What was it like back then? Anything like this?"

Armando shook his head. "Weak. Barely gave a buzz. Nowhere near lethal. It was sloppy, low-grade. I didn't think much of it."

Marcus let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Times have changed. This shit now—it's evolved."

Mike crossed his arms, his mind already working on the next step. "You remember who was selling it back then? Might give us a lead."

Armando paused, thinking back, before finally answering. "No clue which gang it came from. My mother handled most of the deals. But I picked it up from a man named Rojas in Mexico City."

Mike exchanged a look with Marcus before turning back to Dorn. "Look into it. Find out everything you can on this Rojas."

Dorn gave a quick nod, already typing away on his tablet as he walked off, disappearing into the maze of flashing cameras and bustling investigators. Kelly watched him leave, a tension settling over her that didn't go unnoticed by Mike. He stepped toward her, voice low, his concern clear. "You good?"

Kelly blinked, snapping back to the present. She gave a tight smile, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Yeah. I'm fine. Just... gotta help bag evidence." She turned quickly, heading toward one of the forensics teams before anyone could push the question further.

Mike's eyes followed her for a moment, his brows knitting together in thought before he let it go. He turned back to Marcus, who was now pulling off his gloves with a sigh.

"Looks like we'll be stopping by the hospital in the morning," Marcus said. "Hannah's the only witness we've got." He tossed his gloves into a nearby bin. "If she makes it. Who knows how much of her brain was fried from this shit."

The two stood in silence for a moment, the flashing lights and hum of the crime scene continuing around them, as the weight of what was ahead settled in.

The warehouse loomed in the shadows, hidden behind a strip of rotting dockyards on the outskirts of Miami. Once a bustling center for trade, it now stood as a crumbling monument to neglect. Its corrugated steel walls were rusted, streaked with years of saltwater spray from the nearby bay. Weeds and wild grasses had forced their way through the cracks in the concrete, their jagged edges curling around broken pallets and abandoned shipping containers. A cracked neon sign, long since burned out, clung to the roof by a single bolt, creaking in the wind like the last whisper of something forgotten.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of chemicals and mildew. The interior, gutted from years of decay, had been crudely transformed into an underworld den. Makeshift tables lined the walls, strewn with plastic tubs and half-empty bottles of unknown liquids. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting the room in a sickly yellow glow that made everything look like it was drenched in oil. The floor was sticky, littered with cigarette butts, empty fast-food bags, and discarded needles.

In the far corner, near a stack of dented metal drums, a group of men worked silently, mixing powders with practiced hands. They wore torn tank tops and bandanas over their faces, their eyes dull and focused on the tasks in front of them. A radio, perched on a filthy crate, hummed out muffled Spanish music, its static blending with the low hum of machines churning in the background. Beyond them, a staircase rose up to a second-floor office. The steps were rusted, each one groaning underfoot as if they might collapse at any moment. Their railings, once painted red, were now chipped and peeling, revealing raw iron beneath. The stairs led up to a large glass window, cracked but still intact, through which the shadow of a man could be seen.

At the bottom of the stairs, a hulking figure emerged from the shadows. His body filled the space, almost too large for the narrow corridor leading to the staircase. Alejandro’s heavy boots thudded against the floor as he moved, the sound cutting through the murmur of the workers and the hum of machinery.

He reached the bottom of the rusted staircase, paused for a moment, and then ascended. Each step groaned beneath his weight, and the metal beneath his boots seemed to scream in protest. His eyes, dark and unyielding, flicked toward the window of the office above. The dim light reflected off the cracked glass, but he could still see the figure inside waiting for him.

Reaching the top, Alejandro stopped in front of a door, its once-white paint chipped and faded to a dull gray. He didn't bother to knock. He shoved the door open with a grunt, the hinges squealing in protest.

Inside, the office was surprisingly neat compared to the chaos below. The furniture was sparse but modern, a sleek black desk with polished edges, two leather chairs positioned neatly in front of it. Behind the desk stood a man with slick black hair, combed back so sharply it looked like it had been painted onto his scalp. He wore a black button-up shirt, its sleeves rolled up to reveal smooth, tanned forearms. His expression was calm, almost bored, as he turned to face Alejandro.

The man with the slick hair raised an eyebrow, awaiting an explanation that brought Alejandro to his office. He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands together on the desk in front of him, his eyes sharp and calculating. Behind him, a large map of Miami was pinned to the wall, red pins marking locations across the city. A small, gold-plated revolver sat on the desk next to a half-empty glass of whiskey, glistening under the dim light of a single bulb hanging from the ceiling.

Alejandro’s eyes flicked to the gun before meeting the man's gaze again, shifting on his feet. He ran a hand over the tattoos snaking up his forearm before speaking, “That girl," he said, his voice low. "She survived. They've got her at Mercy. Cops all over it."

The man behind the desk didn't flinch. His expression remained unreadable as he stared out the window, watching the silent hum of activity below.

"I see."

Alejandro nodded, though his face remained stone cold. The man picked up his glass of whiskey, swirling the amber liquid inside. "I trust you won't disappoint me, Alejandro," he said, his tone soft but laced with menace.

Alejandro cracked his knuckles, a slow, deliberate sound that filled the silence between them. "I never do."

The man's smile widened just a fraction, his eyes gleaming. "That's what I like to hear." The man gave the slightest tilt of his head, a shadow of a smile ghosting across his lips. “Prepare everything for the morning."

Alejandro's eyes narrowed, his face hardened with understanding.

The headlights of Mike's Porsche cut through the quiet suburban street as they pulled into Marcus's driveway. The hum of the engine faded into the stillness of the night as Mike killed the ignition, but the tension in the car remained thick.

Marcus opened the door and stepped out into the cool night air. The others followed suit, the tension still hanging over them as they approached the front door. Theresa stood waiting, framed by the warm glow of the porch light. Beside her, Valerie stood, her arms crossed and expression unreadable.

"Hey, baby," Theresa greeted Marcus softly, her arms wrapping around him in a comforting hug. She pulled back, studying his face. "You okay?"

"Real bad scene out there." Marcus muttered, running a hand over his face.

Theresa's brow furrowed with concern. "What happened?"

Marcus shook his head, his voice low and tired. "Kids, T. Three teenagers. Overdosed right on the floor of that club. All three gone before we even got there."

Theresa's hand instinctively squeezed Marcus's arm, a soft gasp escaping her lips. "Oh my God..." She knew how much it tore him apart to see kids caught up in the darkness of drugs and crime.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her thumb rubbing small circles on his arm.

Marcus nodded, his jaw tight as he forced the images away.

Reggie cleared his throat and gave a quick nod toward the house. "Where's Megan and the kids?" he asked, looking over at Theresa.

"They're in the back room," Theresa said, her voice soft but steady. "I'm sure they're ready to head out."

Reggie nodded gratefully and disappeared down the hall, eager to see his family and escape the weight of the day.

While Theresa comforted Marcus, Armando drifted toward Valerie. She stood stiffly, her arms still crossed, avoiding eye contact. He stepped closer, hesitating for a moment before wrapping his arms around her. The embrace was tentative, but there was no warmth in her response. She barely moved, her body cold against his.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice low and careful.

Valerie pulled back slightly, her expression distant. "Fine," she replied, her tone clipped. "What’s the case?"

Armando frowned, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. "That's not what we need to talk about," he said, keeping his voice steady. "I don't wanna keep dodging this, Vee.“

Valerie sighed, rubbing her temple. "Armando, I'm not doing this tonight. I just got off a long flight."

His patience, already thin from the night's events, was wearing even thinner. "Val—"

Before he could press any further, she cut him off, glancing at the yellow suitcase by the door. "I'm staying at a hotel.”

The words hit him harder than he expected. The distance between them felt more than physical now, and the coolness in her voice made his chest tighten. Mike, Marcus, and Theresa, caught in their own conversation, suddenly fell silent as Valerie's statement hung in the air.

Armando turned to her, trying to mask his frustration, though the edge in his voice was hard to miss. "That's fine," he muttered, "I'll go get my stuff."

Before he could move, Mike spoke up, his voice casual but firm. "Hey, hold up. You cant do that, man. You're still under contract to stay here at Marcus' house."

Armando shot him a look, but the reality of his situation left no room for argument. With a quiet sigh, he glanced at her, searching for some kind of compromise.

Theresa, sensing the tension and trying to defuse the situation, stepped forward. "Valerie, really, it's no trouble. You can stay here with us if you want. You don't have to go to a hotel."

Valerie gave her a tight smile, polite but firm. "Thanks, Theresa, but I've already called a ride. They're pulling up now.“

True to her observation, a dark, four door sedan pulled up to the curb. Armando clenched his jaw as he grabbed her yellow suitcase. "I'll walk you out," he said quietly.

Valerie gave a small nod and thanked Theresa again before heading down the pathway. Armando followed closely behind, his frustration mounting with every step.

The night air was cool and still. The soft hum of the idling car was the only sound as they approached. Armando opened the backseat door, and Valerie slid in without a word. He handed her suitcase to the driver and then stepped over to her window as it rolled down.

His voice softened, almost pleading. "Text me when you get there, okay?“

Valerie met his gaze, her expression softer now but still guarded. "I will." She paused, hesitating before adding, "Maybe we can talk tomorrow. Meet up for lunch?"

Armando nodded, a flicker of hope in his chest. "Yeah, come by the station. We can grab something."

Valerie gave a small nod and leaned forward, placing a brief kiss on his cheek. It was quick, more of a gesture than anything intimate, but it left Armando feeling both grateful and hollow at the same time.

He watched as the car pulled away, the taillights fading into the night. The silence settled back over the street, heavier than before. After a long moment, Armando turned and walked back toward the house, the weight of the day pressing down on him.

Mike stepped out of his car; the late evening breeze carrying the scent of saltwater as it drifted up from the bay. His bachelor pad, perched on the edge of Miami's waterfront, stood like a modern fortress of glass and steel. The house was all sharp lines and wide windows, the city's skyline reflecting off the shimmering surface of the infinity pool out back. Inside, dim lights spilled out, casting a soft glow over the manicured steps that led to the front door.

Balancing a container of leftover smothered chicken in one hand and a stack of mail in the other, Mike felt a flicker of recognition at the car parked in his driveway. The Mustang. His lips twitched into a smile. As he stepped through the front door, the comforting hum of home washed over him—the quiet thrum of the air conditioning, the faint sound of the water lapping against the shore. But it was the sight on his couch that really brought the warmth.

Rita, dressed in one of his crisp, white button-downs and a pair of black leggings, was comfortably sprawled out on the couch, chopsticks in hand as she deftly twirled noodles into a bite. The Chinese takeout box balanced on her lap, its open top revealing their favorite order from a spot they hit up way too often.

She paused mid-bite, her eyes darting to him as he entered. "Yours is on the counter," she said with a grin, swallowing her mouthful.

Mike set the leftovers and the mail down on the kitchen island, his gaze catching the familiar red and gold logo of their usual spot. "Damn, you didn't wait for me?" he teased, crossing the room with easy strides.

Rita chuckled, shifting slightly on the couch to make room. "You know I can't resist their noodles."

He leaned down, brushing a kiss against her cheek, the soft scent of her perfume mingling with the savory aroma of takeout. "Good to know I'm not the only thing you can't resist," he murmured, his voice low with amusement.

Rita rolled her eyes, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. "Please, you're not that irresistible," she shot back, her tone laced with mock exasperation. Mike chuckled as he shrugged off his leather jacket, draping it over the arm of the adjacent couch. The light scent of leather and his cologne lingered in the air as he headed toward the kitchen, flipping open the stainless steel fridge.

"I already ate, by the way," he called over his shoulder. "Marcus had me over for dinner."

Rita raised an eyebrow and followed him, curiosity piqued. "Oh yeah? What did Theresa cook this time?"

Mike turned around, one hand rummaging through the fridge while the other held up the plastic bag of Tupperware with the leftovers. "Smothered chicken," he said with a grin, waving the container slightly as proof.

Rita's eyes widened as she groaned dramatically, resting her hand on the kitchen counter. "Did she use the special gravy?"

Mike gave her a knowing look and nodded. "The one and only."

"You should've brought me some!" Rita half-pouted, stepping closer.

Mike laughed as he began placing the takeout box inside the fridge. But before he could close the door, Rita reached for the container in his hand, making a play for the coveted leftovers.

"Oh no, you don't," Mike said, swatting her hand away as she grinned mischievously. "Woman, don’t you touch my chicken."

Rita threw her hands up in surrender, eyes twinkling with amusement. "You're really going to be greedy like that?"

"Hell yeah," Mike quipped, slipping the container safely onto a shelf. "You've got your noodles. This right here"—he tapped the fridge door for emphasis—"is sacred territory."

Rita chuckled, leaning back against the counter. "You're lucky Theresa's food is worth it. Next time, though, I'm claiming first dibs."

Mike leaned forward, resting both hands on the edge of the counter, his dark eyes locking onto Rita's as he absentmindedly fiddled with the buttons of his shirt she wore. The playful tension between them simmered down, replaced by something heavier. "You know," he began, his voice quieter, "if Theresa knew you and I were together, she might’ve packed enough for both of us."

Rita's sigh was almost immediate. She straightened up, crossing her arms in front of her chest as she avoided his gaze. This wasn't the first time he'd brought it up, and she knew where this was going.

"Michael—"

"Nah, don't do that." He shook his head, cutting her off. "It's been almost a year, Rita. A year since we got together, and it's still a secret." His words were firm but not angry, like he was trying to understand, to make her see his side.

Rita closed her eyes for a moment, frustration bubbling up inside her. "We've already had this discussion," she muttered, her tone clipped as she pushed away from the counter.

"We haven't, though," Mike countered, following her movement with his eyes, his voice rising a little. "Every time we try to talk about it, you change the subject or dodge the question. You’re it doing right now."

She turned to face him, her frustration evident in the way her lips pressed into a thin line. "Michael, it's not as simple as you make it sound.“ said Rita as she made her way back to her spot on the couch, wanting the conversation to end.

Mike exhaled, following her movements as they stood by the window. "I'm not saying it's simple. I get that. But we're not just coworkers, Rita. We're… this is more than that."

"And that's exactly the problem," she shot back, pacing now, her voice tight with the weight of what she was trying to say. "I am your captain. The moment people know about us, they'll start questioning everything. Whether I can make unbiased calls, whether I'm doing my job because it's right or because of you."

Mike ran a hand over his face, trying to keep his cool. He knew she was right, but it didn't make it any easier. "I just don't want to keep hiding," he said, his voice softer now. "I don't want to feel like we're sneaking around, like we're doing something wrong."

Rita paused, her back to him for a moment before she finally turned around, her expression softening just a bit. "I don't want that either. But you know how this works. We don't get to have it both ways. And I can't risk everything I've worked for—everything we've worked for—just because we're... together."

Mike let out a long breath, the tension between them hanging thick in the air. "Alright, I'll drop it," he muttered, stepping back.

Rita glanced at him, sensing they both needed a shift. "Since we're already talking work," she began, her voice lighter but still carrying the weight of their jobs, "how was the crime scene? The one you went to tonight."

Mike took a seat on the adjacent sofa to Rita, his arms spreading out across the back, "Seven bodies. All overdosed on Helios. Three of them were underage kids. One of 'em survived, though. She's in the hospital right now, barely hanging on."

Rita nodded, her arms coming to cross over her chest as she crossed her legs on the couch, “Helios is spreading fast. And with this many bodies, someone's got to be moving a lot of it. You know Ernesto Vargas, right? Cuban gang leader?" Mike’s expression tightened as Rita continued, “His body was found this morning at the docks. Him and several of his guys. Shot to hell."

Mike raised an eyebrow. "Do you know who did it?"

Rita shook her head. "We're still piecing it together. No witnesses, no clear leads. All we know is it was a bust—there was a bag of money left at the scene, untouched. No product.”

Mike crossed his arms, the wheels turning in his mind. "You think it's connected to the nightclub case?"

Rita sighed. "That's the theory. The timelines match up too perfectly. Vargas was a known distributor of Helios and he dies the same day we've got seven OD cases from that same drug. It's too big of a coincidence."

Mike nodded, his expression hardening. "Tomorrow, me, Marcus, Reggie, and Armando are heading to the hospital. See if that witness knows anything that can help us get a lead."

Rita's lips pressed into a line as she considered that. "How's Armando settling in?"

"He's doing alright," Mike replied, though there was something off in his tone. "He gave us a solid lead on someone in the Helios distribution line. Dorn is looking into it"

Rita studied him closely, her sharp instincts kicking in. “That's good news," she said slowly. "But you don't seem thrilled. What's bothering you?"

Mike exhaled, leaning forward. "It's not the intel. Armando's sharp, and he's been pulling his weight." He looked away for a moment, his frustration creeping back in. "It's just... he's got a whole fiancée. Showed up at Marcus' place tonight."

Rita's eyebrows shot up. "A fiancée? And you had no idea?"

"None," Mike said, shaking his head. "Two years and I didn't know a damn thing about it."

Rita's shock softened into confusion. "Is she connected to his past? To the cartel?"

Mike gave a small, bitter laugh. "No. He met her after the McGrath mission. When he was laying low in the Dominican Republic. Her name's Valerie. She nursed him back to health, gave him a place to stay while we were negotiating his deal with the DA."

Rita took a deep breath, processing the new information.

Mike's voice grew quieter, his frustration giving way to something more vulnerable. "I'm his father, Rita. We're supposed to be building something here, and he's still keeping shit like this from me."

Rita moved from her place to sit beside him, her voice softening as she spoke. "Michael, you've both been through a lot. He's spent most of his life not knowing you. This isn't going to be easy for either of you, but he's here now. You're working together, and that's a start."

Mike nodded, but the frustration still lingered in his eyes. "I just thought by now... I don't know. I guess I hoped we'd be closer. That he'd trust me at least.”

Rita placed a hand on his arm. "Give it time. He's working with you, with AMMO. He's in the states now, which means you have a chance to build that relationship. It's not going to happen overnight, but it will happen."

The tension in Mike's shoulders slowly eased, and he gave Rita a small, appreciative smile. Rita gently squeezed his arm, sensing that he'd had enough of heavy conversations for one day. "Come on," she said softly, standing up and offering her hand. "It's late, and we've got a long day tomorrow."

Mike watched her for a moment before taking her hand and letting her lead him. He rubbed his face, trying to shake off the lingering frustrations and doubts as they reached his bedroom. Rita was already at the foot of the bed, pulling the covers back, her movements fluid and familiar. Mike watched her for a beat, appreciating the quiet routine they'd developed, even if it wasn't something he could show off to the world. Here, in the dim light of his home, it felt... real.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, revealing a bustling hospital corridor bathed in the unforgiving light of late morning. The scent of antiseptic and the quiet murmur of medical staff hit them immediately. Mike led the way, his crisp, tailored jacket cutting a sharp contrast against Marcus's more laid-back attire, while Reggie and Armando followed closely behind, their eyes scanning the sterile surroundings.

They approached the reception desk, where a nurse in light blue scrubs sat typing on a computer, her fingers moving with practiced precision. Mike, ever the charmer, leaned in slightly, flashing his badge with a brief smile.

"Miami PD. " he said, his voice smooth. "Can you tell us if Hannah Davis is able to answer a few questions?"

The nurse's fingers stilled, and she glanced up at the four men before her eyes settled on Mike. She exhaled softly, a shadow passing over her face.

"She's awake in room 324," the nurse said, her voice measured. "But... she's suffered severe damage to her brain." She paused, her gaze shifting slightly as if unsure of how much to reveal. "Her short-term memory has been... hindered."

Marcus, standing just behind Mike, frowned and stepped forward, his brow creasing in confusion. "What does that mean exactly?"

The nurse's eyes flicked to Marcus, her expression softening as she elaborated, "She's lost the ability to make new memories. She won't remember anything that's happened since the incident. Every few minutes, it resets."

A cold, heavy silence settled over the group. Marcus shifted uncomfortably, his usual humor drained from his face as he processed what the nurse was saying. A kid, just sixteen years old, stuck in a loop, her life paused indefinitely because of a drug overdose.

Mike nodded slowly, the gravity of the situation written in the tight set of his jaw. "Thank you," he said quietly, stepping back from the desk. The nurse gave them a sad, knowing look before returning to her screen.As they made their way down the hall, the weight of the news sat heavy on their shoulders.

Marcus stopped just outside the door, his hand on the handle, and glanced over his shoulder at Reggie and Armando. "Hey, y'all hang back. We don't want to overwhelm the girl with too many faces."

Reggie gave a small nod with a sharp, “Yes sir.”while Armando just shrugged, not taking it personally. They both found chairs along the wall in the hallway, Armando into them while Reggie took to standing.

With a quick exchange of looks, Mike and Marcus steeled themselves before entering the room. Inside, the soft hum of machines filled the space, and the sterile white walls were softened only by the presence of an older woman sitting at the bedside. She had dark hair streaked with silver and light eyes that glinted with fatigue and heartache. Beside her, a young girl lay propped up on pillows, her complexion glowing with youthful health that seemed at odds with the reality they had just been told. Hannah Davis looked like any other teenager, but the hollow space between who she had been yesterday and who she was now seemed to fill the room.

The two men greeted the woman, their voices quiet but professional.

"Ma'am, I'm Detective Mike Lowrey, this is Detective Marcus Burnett," Mike began.

The woman stood and offered her hand, her grip firm despite the tremble in her lip. "I'm Helan Davis. Hannah's mother."

Mike nodded, glancing over at Hannah. The girl's eyes flitted between the detectives and her mother, a nervous energy radiating from her. Marcus softened his stance a little.

"Mrs. Davis," Marcus began, "if you're okay with it, we'd like to ask Hannah a few things. We'll take it slow. If she needs a break at any time, just let us know."

Helan hesitated, looking down at her daughter, her fingers brushing lightly against Hannah's hand. "It's okay, honey," she said softly. "Just tell them what you can remember."

Mike stepped closer to Hannah's bedside. "Hannah, we just need to know what happened last night. Anything you remember can help us."

Hannah swallowed, her eyes darting to her mother, seeking permission or maybe forgiveness. When Helan nodded, Hannah looked back at Mike, her voice barely above a whisper. "Maddie... my friend... she wanted to go out with this guy from her Geometry class—Tyler."

Marcus raised a brow, waiting for her to continue. She paused, her eyes welling up with the weight of the truth.

"But Tyler didn’t want to go out unless Maddie found a date for his friend, Zach. So... Maddie asked me to go with them."

Marcus exchanged a look with Mike, both sensing the nerves in Hannah's words.

Hannah hesitated, glancing down at the blanket in her lap. "I thought we were just going to the movies." Her voice wavered. "But then... in the car... Maddie gave me a fake ID. She said we were going to sneak into a club."

Helan's jaw tightened, though she stayed silent, squeezing her daughter's hand.

Mike nodded, taking this in. "Do you know who gave you the fake IDs?"

Hannah shook her head. "Zach got them. From some guy at a gas station... in an alleyway."

Marcus cut in, his tone gentle. "Did you or Maddie plan to meet anyone at the club?"

"No," Hannah whispered, shaking her head again. "At least, not that I knew of."

Mike pressed forward, his voice soft. "What about the vape pen? Where'd you get that?"

Hannah hesitated again, looking back at her mother. Helan squeezed her hand tighter this time, offering a small nod of encouragement.

"Maddie... Maddie went up to a guy at another booth. She got the pen from him. The same guy Zach got his from." Her voice cracked, and her eyes brimmed with tears. She turned to her mother fully now, her voice breaking. "I'm sorry, Mom. I didn't mean to—"

Helan wrapped her arms around her daughter, pulling her close as she started to cry. "Shh, honey. It's okay. We'll get through this," she whispered, her voice steady, though her eyes betrayed her fear.

Mike waited a beat before asking the final question. "Hannah, can you describe the guy Maddie talked to? The one with the vape pen?"

Hannah sniffled, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "I never saw his face... but I remember he had wings."

"Wings?" Marcus asked, puzzled.

"Yeah," she nodded slowly, her voice distant, like she was trying to reach for the memory through fog. "Tattooed on his chest. They were... big, like angel wings."

Mike and Marcus exchanged a glance. It was a small detail, but one that could make all the difference. Mike nodded, taking a mental note of it.

Just then, Hannah turned to her mom again, her voice smaller this time. "Mom... I need to use the bathroom."

Helan nodded quickly, helping her daughter out of bed. Hannah stood shakily but managed to walk the short distance to the bathroom door on her own, closing it softly behind her.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Helan's composure shattered. Her body slumped as she pressed a hand to her face, choking back sobs that came in short, sharp gasps. Mike shifted uncomfortably, unsure whether to approach, while Marcus stood still, giving her a moment.

Helan's voice was choked with emotion as she spoke. "I just... I don't know what happened. I normally keep such close track of her. I'm always so careful. But with my husband away on his business trip—he hasn't answered a single call—and the workload piling up at the office... I thought she was fine. She's always been so independent. I never imagined..."

Marcus stepped forward, his tone comforting. "None of this is your fault, Mrs. Davis. Kids make mistakes, and sometimes things slip through the cracks. It's not a reflection of your parenting."

Helan's eyes flashed with a mixture of anger and despair. "Not all kids end up dead or with their memory permanently damaged, Detective. It's not just a mistake. It's—" Her voice cracked, and she buried her face in her hands, sobs escaping despite her attempts to stifle them. “She'll never be the same, will she? She won't even remember this conversation in a few minutes."

The weight of that truth hung in the air, pulling all their hearts down with it.

Marcus cleared his throat, trying to find the right words. "We'll find the people responsible for this, Mrs. Davis. I promise you that."

Helan's eyes met his, searching for something—hope, maybe, or a reason to believe. She gave a small nod, wiping her tears away as best she could. Helan wiped her eyes, trying to pull herself together. "The doctors want to run a few more tests before they discharge her later today. They said it's important for Hannah to return to familiar surroundings to minimize her distress when her memory resets."

The weight of Helan's words settled heavily in the room. Mike and Marcus shared a solemn look.

"Mrs. Davis," Mike said gently, "we'll make sure to keep you updated on our progress. We're committed to finding the people responsible for this."

Helan nodded, her face pale but resolute. At that moment, the bathroom door opened, and Hannah emerged, her face fresh from washing up. She looked between her mother and the detectives, her confusion evident.

"Mom, who are they?" Hannah asked, her voice tentative.

Helan's face fell as she realized the implications. "They're detectives from Miami PD, sweetie. They were asking about last night."

The realization hit Mike and Marcus simultaneously. Hannah's memory had reset; the last twenty minutes had vanished from her mind as if they never happened.

The hallway was quiet, the kind of quiet that amplifies every small noise. Armando sat leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, arms crossed over his chest. Across from him, Reggie stood like a sentinel, his posture rigid, the muscle memory of his Marine days still alive in the way he held himself. His eyes were fixed forward, scanning the hall as if waiting for something—anything—to happen.

For several minutes, the only sound was the hum of distant hospital machines and the quiet shuffle of medical staff moving in and out of rooms. But soon, Armando became aware of another sound—a rapid, relentless tapping. His eyes stayed closed, but his brow furrowed in annoyance.

Reggie's foot was tapping against the tile floor, the pace picking up every second. Armando let out a small sigh, trying to ignore it. The tapping, though, became impossible to drown out. After a few more moments, Armando's frustration peaked.

Without opening his eyes or changing his posture, he asked, voice casual yet irritated, "You waiting for permission to piss, or what?"

The tapping stopped immediately. Reggie looked down at his foot, realizing Armando was addressing him. "Uh... no," he said awkwardly, "Detectives Lowrey and Burnett told us to wait out here."

At that, Armando opened one eye and cast a dubious glance in Reggie's direction. "Detectives Lowrey and Burnett, huh?" he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You always refer to them like you're in basic training?"

"It's called respect," Reggie replied, crossing his arms. "Something you wouldn't know much about."

Armando let out a low scoff, now sitting up a little straighter. “Yeah? What's that supposed to mean?"

Reggie shifted his stance, his voice calm but pointed. "You still call your father by his first name like you're a stranger. You clearly don't respect Detective Lowrey."

Armando straightened up completely, his easygoing facade slipping. His jaw clenched as he leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Watch it, man. You don't know anything about me."

Reggie didn't back down, though. "That's the problem, Aretas. No one knows anything about you because you don't let anyone in. Hell, your own father didn't even know you were engaged."

The tension in the air snapped like a wire pulled too tight. Armando shot to his feet, "Mind your fucking business, Sargent Boy Scout."

Reggie stood his ground, meeting Armando's intensity without blinking. The two stood there, locked in a silent standoff, their frustration bubbling to the surface. Just as it seemed things might escalate, a nurse wheeled a cart right between them, breaking through the tension with an obliviousness that only heightened the absurdity of the moment.

Armando clenched his fists, but as the nurse passed, he took a deep breath and forced himself back into the chair, muttering under his breath. He leaned back, trying to settle his irritation, while Reggie returned to his watchful stance, though the air between them remained thick.

It wasn't long, however, before the familiar sound of Reggie's foot tapping started up again, quieter at first but picking up speed just like before. Armando squeezed his eyes shut in exasperation before muttering a curse in Spanish.

"Por el amor de Dios, *For the love of God* go to the fucking bathroom already!"

Reggie, startled, looked down at his foot and then back at Armando. "Uh... yeah, okay. I'll be right back."

As Reggie hurried off down the hall, Armando finally allowed himself a moment of peace, the silence—at last—returning to the hallway.

Reggie rushed down the hospital halls, turning the corner and practically skidding into the men's room. He made a beeline for the first open urinal, the pressure of needing to pee finally releasing with a sigh. As he finished up, he made his way to the sinks, washing his hands with a few quick pumps of soap. His mind was still half outside door 324, keeping an eye on things.

Just as Reggie rinsed his hands, the sound of a toilet flushing drew his attention. From the stall emerged a massive man, easily towering over six feet, he rolled his white sleeves down to cover arms of heavy black tattoos that snaked up farther than Reggie could see. His surgical mask concealed most of his face, but his eyes were sharp, darting around like he was more alert than a typical medical staffer.

Reggie's instincts flared immediately. Something about the guy wasn't right. He washed his hands too fast, barely scrubbing before bolting from the restroom with a casualness that felt forced. Reggie shook the water from his hands and, without thinking, began to tail him.

The guy moved swiftly, but not with the purpose of someone who belonged there. Reggie followed him discreetly through a few turns in the hospital corridor until the man disappeared into a supply closet. Reggie waited a moment, leaning casually against the wall, his mind racing. Something about this situation screamed wrong. He glanced down the hallway but stayed put, waiting for the man to reemerge.

After a few minutes, he couldn't afford to leave his post any longer. He made his way back to Armando, who was still lounging in his chair with an indifferent expression. Reggie sat down, his eyes never leaving the supply closet.

Armando, noticing the tension, raised an eyebrow and followed Reggie's gaze. "Why you staring like that?"

Reggie leaned forward slightly, his voice low. "The man that just came outta the bathroom—big, tatted up, scrubs and a mask—he's not right. He went into that supply closet, but something about him... it didn't feel like hospital staff."

Armando straightened up in his chair, shifting to get a better look at the man, who had just emerged from the supply closet and was now rifling through some files at a nearby desk. Nobody else seemed to notice him, which struck Armando as odd. He wasn't interacting with any other staff, like he was trying too hard to blend in.

"You sure about this?" Armando asked, his eyes narrowing.

Reggie nodded. "Problem is, I can't act without approval from the detectives, you know? I’m still a rookie."

Armando rolled his eyes, pushing himself out of the chair. "Rookie my ass," he muttered, brushing past Reggie.

"Wait—Armando!" Reggie whispered urgently, trying to stop him. But Armando was already halfway across the hall, ignoring the warning.

Armando walked over to the vending machine, the perfect cover to observe the guy without being obvious. He punched in some buttons for a coffee, all the while stealing glances at the man rifling through the files. From his position, Armando could see the bulge at the man's ankle—a telltale sign of a concealed weapon. Definitely not standard hospital issue.

Just as Armando's eyes moved up from the ankle holster, the man turned, catching him watching. For a split second, their eyes locked.

Then, without warning, the man bolted.

The files scattered to the floor as he took off down the hallway, his heavy footsteps echoing against the sterile tiles. Armando cursed under his breath, spilling the hot coffee as he turned to run after the guy.

Armando's boots pounded against the hospital tiles as he sprinted after the tattooed man, his heart racing but his mind focused. He dodged nurses, rolling carts, and patients being wheeled down the halls, keeping his eye on the man as he knocked over everything in his path. Chairs clattered, trays crashed, and people were shoved aside as the guy barreled through the corridor like a wrecking ball.

Despite the chaos, Armando managed to avoid the obstacles, slipping past tumbling chairs and hurdling overturned carts with ease. Just when he was about to close the distance, the tattooed man sent an older woman's wheelchair spinning into the middle of the hall, knocking her to the ground. Armando gritted his teeth as he jumped over her fallen form. He cursed under his breath and, despite the rush of adrenaline and frustration, skidded to a stop.

"Damn it!" he muttered, turning back.

The tattooed man was getting farther away, but Armando couldn't ignore the woman. He rushed back, kneeling beside her as she reached out, confused and shaken. Her face was pale, her breaths shallow with shock. Speaking softly in Spanish, Armando reassured her as he gently helped her up and steadied her in her wheelchair.

"Está bien, señora. ¿Estás herido?" *Its okay, ma’am. Are you hurt?* he asked, his voice calm despite his urgency.

The woman blinked up at him, her hands trembling as she gripped the arms of the chair. "No, no, gracias... estoy bien. Solo me asusté..." * No, no, thanks... I'm fine. I just got scared...*

"Lo siento mucho," *I am very sorry* Armando said quickly, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze before checking her over one last time before he bolted back down the hall. The chase wasn't over.

Armando pushed the door to the stairwell open with his shoulder, his eyes scanning downward as he leaped down the first flight of stairs. The clattering of hurried footsteps echoed beneath him, and a flash of a bald head caught his attention a few floors below. That had to be him.

He jumped two steps at a time, his breaths coming in short bursts as he descended rapidly. The tattooed man had a good lead, but Armando wasn't about to let this guy get away. He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins, sharpening his senses. Every turn of the stairwell felt tighter, every floor a blur as he pounded down after his target. The sounds of the man's movements echoed in the concrete stairwell, guiding him like a beacon.

When Armando finally hit the ground floor, he could hear the heavy thudding of footsteps just ahead. He tore through the lobby doors, his eyes locked on the back of a man sprinting toward the exit. Armando lunged forward, closing the distance in a final burst of speed before he tackled the man from behind, sending them both crashing to the floor.

They hit the ground hard, sliding across the smooth tiles. Armando wrestled with the man, using every bit of strength he had to pin him down. It took a few seconds of struggling, but eventually, Armando managed to flip the guy over and press his arm into the man's chest to keep him still.

But as soon as the man turned, Armando froze. It wasn't the tattooed guy. Not even close.

The bald man beneath him, wide-eyed and gasping for breath, was in his fifties, a look of sheer terror plastered on his face. His hospital scrubs had become bunched up and he looked nothing like the muscular figure Armando had been chasing.

"What are you doing?!” the man shouted, trying to wriggle free.

Armando blinked in disbelief, the realization sinking in hard. He'd grabbed the wrong guy.

"Shit!" Armando muttered, quickly letting go and jumping to his feet.

The man scrambled to his feet, his face flushed with anger and confusion, but Armando was already scanning the lobby. His true target was nowhere to be seen.

[zepskies]

Devour Me - Part 2

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Plus-Sized/Latina!Reader 

Summary: When you and Dean start to press each other’s buttons, both of your tempers ignite. To make up for it, you give him an impromptu salsa dancing lesson…one he didn’t exactly ask for. (18+)

AN: Here's Part 2! **Read Devour Me: Part 1

Song Inspo: “Yo No Se Mañana” by Luis Enrique. But really it’s “Ven Devórame Otra Ves” by Lalo Rodriguez. (You’ll see why.) 🤭

Word Count: 5,400

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Blood, character death and violence, smutty smut, angst, Dominican slang, and tons of sexy fluff.

☕ Midnight Espresso Masterlist

Part 2: "Telenovela Style"

Your resulting scream of agony is as unforgiving as the ground when your knees buckle, hitting the hard cement.

Andy grips you with the strength of a monster. 

Then he holds you down as he drinks your blood. 

No matter how you struggle and whimper, you can’t push him off, and you’re getting weaker by the second.

Until Andy is ripped away from your neck, and is taken care of the way all vampires must be. He doesn’t even feel the blade coming. 

When you’re able to look up, Dean stands above you with thinly veiled fury. He doesn’t have time to consider what he’s just done. 

He bends to gather you up into his arms, all the while trying to stamp down the panic clenching his heart. He calls your name, but you can only make weak sounds as your bleary eyes meet his. 

“Dean,” you manage. The ragged wound in your neck is bleeding profusely down your chest and shoulder, seeping into your shirt. He takes your hand and clamps it hard against your neck, even though it makes you whimper.

“Gotta stop the bleeding,” he says, apologetic but firm. “Keep pressing.”

In your stupor of pain, you don’t realize that your screech woke the entire nest. Dean has to lock up his worry; he looks up and finds his brother and Cas already fighting a hoard of angry vampires. 

Dean carries you over to them and lays you down against the wall with the other humans. He keeps a protective line in front of you, but he decapitates a vampire before she can sink her fangs into Sam next.

The two of them work together, and with Castiel’s smiting power behind them, the angel and the two men are able to clear the rest of the nest. 

By the end, only you and two of the women being held captive are still alive. The third girl’s heart just finally gave out. Sam takes the survivors to the nearest hospital. 

Meanwhile, Castiel approaches where you sit up against the inside of the barn, barely awake, while Dean kneels with you, holding you to his chest. He meet’s Cas’s blue-eyed request with a nod. So Cas stretches out a hand and touches two fingers to your forehead. 

You’re healed in an instant. Dean marvels, like he always does when Cas displays his power. Dean is able to breathe a little easier, the vice grip on his heart easing as he touches your neck.

The tan skin is once again smooth, if still stained with blood. You blink back into wakeful consciousness. 

He shifts so he can see your face. “You okay?” 

You meet his eyes but can only nod. His jaw is still tight and tense, and you can’t blame him. 

You know you’ve messed up. Big time. You nearly got everyone killed, including yourself…and now, you have to tell a mother that her son was dead. 

Dean helps you up, holding you by your arms and waist until you’re steady on your feet. You have a hard time meeting his eyes, but when open your mouth to apologize, he beats you to it. 

“I hope you’ve learned your damn lesson,” he says. 

Your gaze snaps up to his. “Excuse me?”

Dean’s hands go to his hips as his brows raise at you. 

“Next time, when I tell you to hang back, I mean that shit. Hang the hell back,” he all but growls. 

You tilt your head at him as your irritation begins to spark. Meanwhile, Castiel is the one who backs up as he glances between you and Dean uncertainly.

“I made a mistake, but that doesn’t give you the right to tell me what to do,” you shoot back. “I was a hunter long before I met you.” 

“Yeah, well, color me surprised that you’ve made it this long,” he snaps. 

Your temper flares hotter. “You know, you’re not so goddamn perfect either.” 

“Never said I was,” Dean says. “But when my gut tells me something ain’t right, I need you to fucking listen. Otherwise, we get a day like today.”

His words are edged with grit by the end of his little rant, and you don’t appreciate it. Your lips purse in anger.

“I don’t care what that legendary gut tells you,” you sass back. “I’m not a little girl, and you’re not my damn father!”

Dean raises incredulous brows at the way you’re shouting at him. He crosses his arms. 

“What’s this, some kind of Latina temper?” he asks snidely. 

You truly become incensed at that. 

“Oh, you want to take it there?” you ask, as your eyes narrow. “Que sin vergüenza tú eres, coño. Sigue jodiendo conmigo. Entonces tú vas a ver quien soy yo.”

Dean won’t admit it, but in that moment, he’s a bit intimidated by the quiet threat in your voice. Still, his fuse is lit, and he’s way beyond curbing his internal filter.

“Oh, I’m sorry, does this telenovela-style tongue lashing come with subtitles?” he snarks. 

You let out an incredulous breath. Your eyes begin to sting.

“You’re such an asshole!” you shout back. There, understand that?

You turn away from him before your frustrated tears can fall, but you stop short once you notice Castiel dragging out the bodies of the dead…including Andy. Your throat constricts, and you begin to stalk out of the barn. 

Dean calls your name in frustration. 

“What?” you hiss. 

The only thing that makes him hesitate is seeing the state of you when you turn back around. His anger crumbles, and maybe something in him breaks when he sees your tears. They’ve welled up in your eyes, and a few of them carve a path down your cheeks. 

You’re still covered in your own blood, and he hates it. He hates it more than anything. 

Later, you see the state of yourself when Sam returns with the Impala. In the reflection on the backseat window, you see the blood dried down your neck, staining nearly half of your shirt.

You see the black rings of your mascara and eyeliner around your eyes. You look a mess, and you try to wipe underneath your eyes. It’s a fruitless effort.

After you all finish burning the bodies, Dean starts the long drive home. You insist on stopping to tell Rachel Campbell about her son, but Sam says he already took care of it when he drove into town. 

You frown, but you no longer have the energy to be angry. You further withdraw into yourself, and your lower lip trembles as you look out the window. Through the rearview mirror, Dean sees more tears slipping down your face.

What Sam told him (but he won’t tell you), is what one of the survivors said. One of the mated pairs had taken Andy…to “adopt” a son of their own. 

That night is quiet and tense in Dean’s room. You have to wash your hair all over again, and scrub the blood and grime from your body until only your skin remains. But you don’t have the energy to do more than braid your wet hair afterwards and pull on your lucky Journey shirt, which is still full of holes. 

Dean knows that it’s bad when you need the “dreamcatcher,” as he’s called it in his head. You’ve never had a nightmare while wearing that shirt, or so you claimed a while back. 

You wear it over some long pajama pants instead of your usual shorts, or better yet, nothing at all. But he can see what kind of mood you’re in. Things are unsettled as you both get ready for bed in silence. 

He notes the way you turn to face the other side in bed, maybe to avoid him. Though if you really wanted to do that, you could’ve gone to your old room.

So in more ways than one, Dean takes some solace in the fact that you’re still next to him. And he decides to give you some time and space. 

He goes to bed and tries in vain to sleep.

In the morning, Dean’s woken by the familiar smell of coffee…and the less familiar sound of loud salsa music. 

What the fuck?

After he brushes his teeth, he puts on his robe and slippers and heads down to the kitchen, where he finds you in a seemingly better mood. You’re mopping the floor, of all things. You’re out of your pajamas, instead wearing a loose shirt that falls off your shoulder and some spandex shorts. 

“Yo no se mañana…yo no se mañana. Si estaremos juntos, si se acaba el mundo,” you sing softly along with the music as you dance from the kitchen to the living room. Your phone is connected to a Bluetooth speaker on the coffee table. 

Dean starts to smile, crossing his arms as he leans against the doorway to watch you.

At an instrumental break with a run of conga drums and trumpets, you pause in your mopping to do a little twirl as you dance, with a soulful roll of hips and a flair of salsa steps. It makes Dean’s smile kick up into a smirk.

He walks in on purposefully light feet until he’s sidled up behind you in the living room.

“Nice moves, Shakira,” he quips. 

It startles a shriek of surprise out of you as you whirl around. Dean’s smile hikes up into a grin, but it soon fades when he remembers the way your scream rang through his ears last night. The way his heart dropped into his stomach, and his head swiveled at the sound. And he saw you go down hard. 

Then the rest of it tumbles through his mind—what he had to do afterwards in order to save you. How he’d did it without really thinking, his panic and determination blocking out almost everything else when he’d grabbed the kid. The monster, he forcibly reminds himself. 

“You trying to give me a heart attack?” you ask with a hand on your heart. 

Dean forces himself to smile a little. “Sorry. But might I remind you, not everyone here’s an early bird.”

You give him a wry look.

“You’re the only one around here who sleeps past 10 a.m. Cas dipped out a while ago, and Sam’s on a run.” 

But you graciously grab your phone to lower the music to a more bearable level. Dean doesn’t yet know this about you, but this—listening to music, dancing, cleaning—it’s all your way of coping…and releasing as much of your pain, terror, and regret from yesterday as possible. 

You then look up at him more guarded. The two of you exchanged a lot of unsavory words last night. In fact, it may just be the worst fight you two have ever had in almost three years of knowing one another.  

Dean senses the shift in you, and his amusement fades. He just can't let things stay like this. He won't.

He hazards drawing closer and touching your arm.

“Look…I’m sorry for snapping at you yesterday. I know I was being a dick,” he says. “You’ve just gotta understand something.”

You wait for him to continue with furrowed brows, sensing that whatever he’s about to say is hard for him. 

“There’s a reason I don’t do this. The uh, relationship thing,” Dean continues, clearing his throat. His thumb swipes along your arm. “It’s not just this job. It’s my fucked up life. I tried to warn you before—” 

“Dean,” you say with a sigh, but he raises his hand. 

“Please, just…let me say it,” he says. “You know the spiel. But things can change on a dime. Even on a damn milk run, like a dusty nest of vamps.”

You know that. You know you could’ve died yesterday, and he doesn’t need to remind you of that fact. Before you can start to get petulant again though, Dean continues. His jaw is working, like this next part is more difficult for him to admit.

“Trust me when I say, us being together is dangerous, for both of us,” he says. “For a while I, uh…I started to think Sam and I were better off alone.”

That casts you into dismay. Because you know Dean isn’t lying. He’s really contemplated spending the rest of his life devoid of love, so he won’t have to lose it. 

Dangerous, for both of us.

You realize then what Dean’s really saying. He’s afraid…afraid to lose you. You see it in his furrowed brows, the downturn of his lips, and whatever pain he’s trying to hide in the depths of his eyes. 

And just like that, the water works start. You can’t quite keep your tears at bay as you hold onto his shirt. He lets out a resigned sigh as he holds you by your arms. 

“You don’t have to cry for that,” he says, a bit teasing. 

“Have you met me?” you sniff. But you manage to look up at him with your glassy eyes. “I’m sorry too. God, I’m so sorry, Dean.” 

Your fist clenches in his shirt when you remember Andy, latched onto your neck, and how Dean had to save you. You know he’s remembering it too when his brows furrow, and his gaze falls away. You reach a hand for his cheek.

“I know I fucked up,” you admit. “I was working with my heart, not my head. I just…”

You wanted so badly to help that kid and his mother. You also know that Dean understands; you see it in his eyes. He holds your hand to his cheek and brushes his thumb across the back of your hand.

“I know,” he says. “I really am sorry, baby.” 

The problem is, you didn’t just see your own mother in Rachel. She hadn’t been much older than you. And when you imagine a life beyond hunting, more than anything (no matter how much you shove down the idea), you really do want a family of your own someday. 

It’s just…days like yesterday remind you why that could be a very bad idea. 

More of your tears bubble over, and you head willingly into Dean’s arms. “Me too…”

He holds you tighter than ever. His hands rub down your back, tangle in your hair, and he drops his lips onto your hair. You sniffle, wiping your face dry in his shirt. And for a while, the two of you have peace in the relative quiet. 

Music still plays from the speaker though. And when another salsa song starts to play on your playlist, you start swaying. A smile works its way onto Dean’s face. 

“You can’t help yourself, can you?” he teases.

You smile into his chest. “We should go dancing sometime.”

Dean just laughs. “Oooh, no.”

“Oh, yes,” you reply, batting your lashes up at him. You slip a hand on his shoulder and into one of his hands. He’s forced to hold you as if the two of you were about to start Fred Astair-ing across the living room. 

“Have you ever danced before?” you ask. “Like real dancing.” 

“Not salsa, I’ll tell you that,” he quips. 

“That’s okay. I’ll teach you,” you reply with a coquettish smile. “It’s just a few simple moves.”

Dean gives you a wan look. “You made it look anything but simple.”

You blush at that, but you meet him with a pout of disappointment. You don’t let up, even when Dean frowns. He huffs at you in resistance.

“No,” he insists. You just brush a gentle thumb along his neck, biting your lip in askance.  

But the longer he stares at your beautiful, hopeful eyes, the more cracks form in his resolve. 

Eventually, Dean breaks with a sigh, and a shake of his head. 

“You’re too much, you know that?” he mutters.

It’s then that you know you’ve won.

So with a happy squeal of excitement, you clap your hands and move to stand next to him so you can show him the basic steps of salsa dancing. 

You make him take off his robe and slippers, leaving in his shirt and plaid pajama pants. Then you instruct him for a few minutes, correcting his footing and getting him to move on a beat. You’re pleasantly surprised that he has some rhythm.  

Dean sighs once again. How the hell did we get here? Heat crawls up the back of his neck as embarrassment starts to set in. 

“This is fucking ridiculous,” he grumbles.

“You’re doing good,” you encourage, with a growing smile. “Now come on, feel the beat in threes. One, two, three. One, two, three…”

Once he sort of has the basic steps and turns down, you move to stand in front of him. There you show him how to hold you, how he’ll move forward, and you’ll move back. It takes a little while, but you slowly move through the combinations, then do a little twirl underneath his hand. 

When he pulls you back in without faltering, you give him a beaming smile. “Very good!”

A subtle grin raises his lips at your enthusiasm. He also feels his face heating up at the praise.

But you pause when a certain song filters through the speakers. It’s an old one (and it never fails to make you blush), but you love it.  

“Ooh, yes,” you exclaim with delight, and you turn up the volume.

“What’s this one?” Dean asks.

“Ven Devórame Otra Ves,” you inform him. Not that he knows what that means. You sing along a bit with the first couple of verses while you encourage Dean to lead you in the dance. 

This song is just slow enough for him to attempt it, and the funny thing is, he doesn’t feel all that uncomfortable with the steps now. He’s starting to get a feel for how to move, both with his feet, and with his hands as he guides you by your waist, holding your hand close to his chest. Still, Dean’s also curious about the lyrics you’re singing. 

“What does it mean?” he asks.

You huff in amusement. “You sure you want to know?”

Dean raises a brow. “Well, now I gotta know.” 

You giggle at that, though you correct his steps when he leads with the wrong foot. 

“Okay. It’s about a guy who’s pretty much a player,” you say with a smirk. “His bed has been a revolving door of hot ass, but he keeps thinking about this one woman who used to have him turned inside out…”

Dean’s lips curve at the familiar image you’re conjuring. He manages to turn you under his hand, then pull you back to him in one smooth motion. He looks down at you with a deeper gleam in his eyes. You bite your lip, soothing your hand from his shoulder and down his arm.

As the song’s verses come, you translate for him. And for Dean, your voice in itself is a spell.

“Even in my dreams, he says, I thought I had you devouring me. And I dampened my white sheets remembering you,” you begin. Your words are smooth like black velvet. “In my bed, no one is like you, who draws my body on every corner, without a piece of skin left over.”

Dean is getting hot under the collar as you push away, dragging your fingertips along his back as you turn around him. When you come back into his line of vision, his attention is attracted to the sway of your hips, clad just in those little spandex shorts. He has to clear his throat a bit. 

You eventually return to him with a warm hand against his chest. 

“Ven, devórame otra ves. It means, come devour me again,” you continue, looking up at him from under your lashes, “Come punish me more with your desire. Because I kept my love for you…because my mouth has the taste of your body.” 

You smile at the laser focus of his green-eyed gaze. “Come devour me again.”

You push off with another little spin. When you reach for his hand, Dean yanks you back into him, eliciting a gasp. The move disorients you for a moment, but you giggle and hold onto his arms. Your hands glide up to rest on his shoulders. 

He’s holding you flush against him, and as you shift a thigh between his legs, you unintentionally graze against his hardening length. You look up at him with a smirk.

“You’re a little…stiff,” you say, both flirtatious and teasing. “Let’s loosen you up.”

You shake his shoulders out and try to get him to relax. Dean raises a wry brow, because you know damn well whose fault it is that his body is coiled tight. But you place his hands on your hips as you move back into the dance. 

“Feel what I’m doing there?” you ask. He looks down on you with growing heat.

“If I could do that, we wouldn’t be together,” he rumbles. 

You try to stifle a laugh as he pulls you in close again, just swaying for a bit. Soon enough, you grin knowingly when his hands start to slide lower on your ass. His head bows to yours, ready to meet you with a kiss. 

You stop him with your finger on his lips.

“Question: do you consider yourself more of a tits or ass man?” you ask him. You’re half teasing, but still curious. Dean snorts at the question. 

“More of a connoisseur,” he replies, smirking. 

“Ah.” You nod sagely, and you point between him and yourself. “So this is like a ‘sample the menu’ situation.”

Dean’s smirk deepens. “Sweetheart, you’re a goddamn buffet.”

You splutter laughing…and that’s when he finally pounces. He claims your lips with greedy passion. His hand winds into your hair, gripping tight and ruining what’s left of your loose ponytail. The strands coil around his hand in messy curls while he also gets a healthy grip of your ass through your thin shorts. 

You smile into his lips, even as you acquiesce to him guiding your head to the side, so he can slip his tongue against yours. You grip his arms more for stability while he manhandles you, kneading soft flesh and making pleasant tingles run up your spine. 

After a little while, his mouth burns a hot path away from yours. He noses down your neck, skimming his lips across your skin. It sets your nerve endings on fire and gets you breathing more shallowly in his ear. You cling to the back of his shirt, holding him close. 

Often he’s one to leave love bites of varying degrees, wherever he sees fit. But for a moment he stops at the crook of your neck, just pressing a lingering kiss.

He lets out a deep breath, and you realize he’s probably thinking about where you were bitten. The wound is gone, but it doesn’t change what’s imprinted in both of your minds.  

A softer smile grows on your face. You trail your fingers up into his hair, massaging the back of his neck. 

“I’m okay,” you remind him. Dean hums deep in agreement. You know, however, that he’s still thinking far too much.

So you slide your hands down, slow between the dips and planes of muscle in his back, and rest at his hips. Your thumbs delve under the hem of his shirt and tease the skin there. 

And you start slow, pressing wet, nipping kisses of your own to his neck while you inch his shirt up. You feel his smile on your neck. His grip on your hip flares to life. Still, he lets you tug his shirt up and over his head. Your loose shirt comes next, revealing the same black satin and lace bra you wore the first time he ever got you topless in his arms. 

A fan favorite. Dean grins. He reaches around to go for the clasp, but your firm push on his chest takes him by surprise.

He falls back onto the couch with a grunt, looking up at you then with raised brows. You’ve got a mischievous little smirk on your face that heats his blood and makes his cock twitch.

You take out the rest of your falling ponytail, shaking your hair out wild. Then you let your hands drift down your neck, over your clothed breasts, and finally to your little shorts.

Dean rubs his palms down his thighs and watches. A smirk forms across his lips as you slide the fabric down the curve of your hips. It leaves you in a red thong, familiar to him by the little tear it has on the front. (Again, his fault.)

You climb aboard his strong thighs to straddle his lap, using his shoulders as leverage as you sink down. You make sure to rub yourself teasingly against his clothed erection. He groans in appreciation. His hands fly to your soft, thick thighs and squeeze. 

“Aw, I like this,” Dean says, half on another moan as you grind down a bit harder on him. 

“Yeah?” you tease. You take his face in your hands and capture his lips with your own. Your tongue invades his mouth, and he welcomes you with a deep hum. It’s slow and hot at first, but Dean feels the loss of you when you break from his lips.

Instead, you treat him with the same trail of kisses he gave you, along the curve of his jaw and down his neck. But you don’t stop there.

Your hands move over his chest with purpose, tweaking over each hard nipple while your mouth burns a wet line down and down his sternum. Dean groans at your ministrations, but lets you leave his lap to slide down to the ground, between his thighs. 

“What’re you up to, baby?” he asks, despite having a very good idea of it. He catches the playful, yet determined gleam in your eye. 

You pause, briefly leaning back up to give him a heated kiss. You part from him with a grin. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” you ask. “I’m gonna devour you.”

Dean stares hard at you as goosebumps break out across his forearms. 

Oh, fuck yeah. 

A giggle bubbles in your throat at the expression on his face. But you continue, taking his pants down his legs first, before his boxer briefs. 

Dean’s body tenses in anticipation. You’ve gone down on him before, but somehow it’s different this time. He feels like every single one of his nerve endings stands at attention along with his dick. And you’re taking your sweet time working him up. 

Even when his cock is finally free, you sooth your hands down his legs first, maybe teasing him a bit as you drag your nails down his inner thighs. Dean makes a strained sound, though he tries to hide it by clearing his throat.

Your gaze flicks up to his with a little smile. He’s holding the back of the couch; his fingers are digging into the old cushion in effort to keep still for you. But his eyes stare into yours like a man starving. You know what you’re in for after you have your way with him, but for now, he’s quite literally under your control. 

So you take him in your hands first. Dean groans as you tease him with light touches, soft movements, your thumb slowly circling over the sensitive, weeping head of his cock. It's torturous enough to make him drop his head back against the couch, closing his eyes tight.

And suddenly, he blinks them open again.

“Shit,” he utters, when you finally take him into your mouth. Your tongue is soft and wet, your lips move over him steadily, and your hands caress whatever your mouth can’t take, even teasing his balls. 

You work him over relentlessly, until he can’t help but spill everything he has to give into your waiting mouth. When you suck off and swallow whatever remains, Dean’s heart stutters like syncopated conga drums. 

He shudders and struggles for breath afterwards, watching your every movement—from wiping your mouth to shooting him that satisfied little smirk. 

You press one last kiss to the inside of his thigh before you raise from where you’ve been kneeling on the hard ground. 

Dean manages to lean forward and helps you up by your elbows. But then he pulls you back into his lap and kisses you deeply. He doesn’t let up until you’re panting with him.

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart,” he manages to say. His voice is deep and laced with grit. 

He’s still panting heavily. You giggle and press your warming face into his neck. 

“What, now you’re shy?” he remarks. And he has to laugh. “Come back here.”

He brings your face back to him with a hand on your cheek. For a second, he just looks at you. His thumb strokes across your full, thoroughly kissed bottom lip.  

“Say it,” you encourage softly. “Whatever you’re thinking. Right now.”

A smile tugs at his lips. He can’t help but oblige you. 

“You’re too damn much,” he says again, both gruff and fond. Despite how you drive him up the fucking wall sometimes, he doesn't think it'll ever be enough for him, what he has with you.

Because this is something he'd almost given up on. Didn't think he'd get to have it. And it almost scares him, how much he wants you. How much he...

“I love you,” he says. His thumb traces along the familiar curve of your cheek.

It hasn’t been all that long, but he knows. You weaseled your way in without even trying. The least he can do for you is be honest.

Your fingers curl around his wrist, holding his hand in place. You tilt your head at him.

“Oh, yeah?” you ask. 

Dean hesitates, but he nods. “Yeah.”

A smile grows across your face. “Eh, I’m still on the fence.”

At his flat look, you laugh and lean in for a kiss. He allows it, a little petulantly. But you make up for it with sweet affection. Your gentle hands stroke down the column of his neck, down his chest. You then lean back so he can see your face.

“Yo te amo,” you whisper. “Te amo y te quiero, más que tú puedes creer y entender.”

Dean smiles. He doesn’t understand all of it, but he gets the important bits. He hears it in the tone of your voice. He sees it in your eyes. They shine with emotion, but mainly with love. 

Dean kisses your hand. He lets go, just so he can slip his hands around you to finally unhook your bra. He tosses it across the room without bothering to see where it lands.

You do though, and you meet him with a slightly narrowed gaze. 

“Are you making a mess of my clean bunker?” you tease. 

His lips curve as he kisses you again, while his hands each get a generous handful of your breasts. 

“Ah, hello, ladies." He grins. "Miss me?”

You can’t help but laugh. He’s such a dork sometimes.

But you hum when his thumbs brush over hardened nipples, then drag deliberate circles over them, and pinch just hard enough to make you whimper in pleasure. The sensation zips through you, enhancing the flood between your legs. 

“I fucking love that sound,” Dean mutters, and licks a hot path in the valley between your breasts. His lips move against your dewy skin when he says, “Do that for me again.”

When he takes a nipple in his mouth and nips a bit hard, you have to oblige him. Your voice rising high is music to his ears.  

So he goes for your panties next. You help him get them off and return to his lap. With a breathy moan, you revel at the feeling of his fingers probing into your wet heat.  

However, you and Dean have been too engrossed in one another to notice the door of the bunker unlocking, and heavy steps down the spiral staircase. 

It’s Sam who’s back from his run. Unfortunately, he soon has to shield his eyes upon reaching the living room. 

“Damn it, Dean!”

You yelp in surprise, but Dean laughs and holds you close to shield you from view. As a bonus, it presses your breasts against his chest. 

“All right, Sammy. Go to your room,” he chides playfully (but he means it). “The adults are havin’ a moment.”

Sam scoffs. “You’re having a moment on the goddamn couch!”

“Sorry,” you say, though it’s muffled in Dean’s neck. Your face is red hot with embarrassment. 

Sam rolls his eyes heavenward and tries not to see anything else on his way to his room. 

But Dean’s chuckle reverberates through your chest as his hand goes to your cheek. He encourages you to pull back, so he can see your face again. 

When he does, he smirks at the scarlet blush dusting your cheeks and neck. You bite your lower lip, but despite your embarrassment, you’re happy.

Your own words replay in your mind when you lean in for another kiss.

I love you, you’d said. I love you and I love you, more than you can believe and understand. 

AN: Yay! I hope you enjoyed Part 2 of the “Midnight Espresso”-verse! I loved writing this one so much. I know we're just doing fanfic here, but I genuinely put my heart and soul into this one. ❤️

Also, here are a couple of Spanish translations:

(Note: other Spanish-speaking countries may interpret certain words differently.)

[During their fight]: 

“Que sin vergüenza tú eres, coño. Sigue jodiendo conmigo. Entonces tú vas a ver quien soy yo.”

Translation:

“You’re fucking shameless. Keep messing with me. Then you’re going to see who I am (<- This is Dominican slang. It essentially means fuck around and find out what I'm made of.).”

[Song lyrics: “Yo No Se Mañana” by Luis Enrique]: 

“Yo no se mañana…yo no se mañana. Si estaremos juntos, si se acaba el mundo.”

Translation:

“I don’t know tomorrow. I don’t know tomorrow. If we’ll be together, if the world will end.”

Keep Reading:

Next in this series is "Chico Malo" ("Bad Boy"):

Summary: You catch Dean red-handed—with one of his favorite episodes of Casa Erotica.

▶️ Next Story: Bad Boy (Chico Malo)

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[girlactionfigure]

onthisdayinjewishistory

On July 6, 1938, the Evian Conference began. This was a nine-day meeting where 32 countries sent representatives to discuss the Jewish refugee situation. Country after country stood up and expressed their sympathy for the Jews and then followed the sympathy with an excuse as to why they could not accept more Jewish refugees.  The only country which was willing to accept more Jews was the Dominican Republic: 50,000-100,000 Jews. By October 1941, only about 700 German Jews were able to actually make it to the Dominican Republic. Even though the DR was willing to accept more Jews, H*tler ended Jewish emigration from N*zi territories which put an end to the relocation plan. Later, in a twisted irony, it became known that Dominican dictator at the time, Rafael Trujillo, opened his country to Jews in an attempt to “lighten the race of Dominicans”. Following the Evian Conference it became clear just how much countries refused to take in Jewish refugees. America was unwilling to allow in Jewish children as seen by the rejection of the Wagner-Rogers refugee bill which would have allowed in an extra 20,000 German children under the age of fourteen over two years. This could have saved thousands of Jewish children. In Canada, “one Jew was too many”. Great Britain also had an opportunity to save Jews by allowing immigration into Palestine (א״י). Instead, in May 1939, the British government published the White Paper of 1939 which says that there will be no independent Jewish state and it restricts Jewish immigration to Palestine (א״י). Golda Meir was present at the meeting with a Yishuv delegation of Jews living in the Land of Israel, but were unable to speak because “they weren’t a country”.  Following the conference, she was asked by the press her opinion to which she replied: “...the world is not necessarily antisemitic, because H*tler was denounced and there was pro-Jewish sentiments... but all could stand by and allow for us to be victimized. We can’t depend on any others”. Meanwhile, the N*zis returned to Germany gleefully and feeling justified as can be seen by the propaganda (images above) ✍🏽 @jewishistoryguy

[biglisbonnews]

Guatemala: Social media facilitates migrant smuggling in Mexico, Central America, and Dominican Republic, warns IOM Countries: Dominican Republic, El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras, Mexico Source: International Organization for Migration Migrant smugglers are using social media and instant messaging applications to promote and provide their illegal services, according to a study published by IOM. https://reliefweb.int/report/guatemala/iom-social-media-facilitates-migrant-smuggling-mexico-central-america-and-dominican-republic

[octuscle]

My friend’s in search of a pool boy for August. He recently told me to download this Chronoviac app to help him look. We’re buds, so I agreed, even though I suspect by “pool boy” he just wants me to keep an eye out for twunks. But while I thought it would be like Craigslist or maybe Uber or something, the link he sent me just has one big button: “ACTIVATE SCENARIO”. Am I supposed to press that? Am I doing this right?

It's early in the morning. You still have some time before you have to go to work, so you can have a look at it. And hey, it's your buddy, what can happen? Push the button!

If you need to think, it's best to go for a run first. That clears your head. And obviously you need a clear head. Since when do you go running in the morning? You have running shorts and top hanging above your desk chair. There are running shoes in the hallway with not-so-fresh socks in them. You are really confused. But your morning 10-kilometre run is clearly in your mind's eye. So you get ready and start running.

Fuck, that was a good time for the distance. You are in top form today. A quick protein shake and then get into your hybrid Hyundai and off to work. It's really hard for you to concentrate at your desk today… For one thing, it's hard for you to sit still and not move. On the other hand, you find the air conditioning incredibly stuffy. Fortunately, as the day goes on, you receive fewer and fewer enquiries about the planning figures for the next year. Instead, you are asked every now and then to look for a blocked drain or a defective socket. Actually, that's not the job of controlling now. But you are happy when you can get out and move around.

During your lunch break you go to the company gym. There's usually no one there at that time. But only losers take lunch. A big protein shake after training is enough for you. When you go to your locker after training, your suit is gone. Dios mio, you think, why is there an overall with "Janitor Marques" hanging in the locker? You get annoyed every time that your engineering master's degree from the Dominican Republic is not accepted here. You studied climate engineering. And you graduated with honours. And here you are allowed to refill toilet paper and repair the flush. Fucking gringos. And the money isn't even enough for a decent life. But luckily your little pool service business is doing quite well. Someone was looking for help on the noticeboard at the gym. The guy who advertised the job sounds chilled out and you can even use the pool by arrangement. In return, you have to maintain the equipment, clean the pool and the terrace and occasionally help out at pool parties. At the university in Santo Domingo, you were a popular DJ at student parties. Maybe you can do the same here.

After work, you hop in your pickup truck and drive to the guy looking for pool service. The interview goes close and smoothly. Finally, your new client, who is a pretty hot guy, asks if you'd like to try out the pool. And takes off his shirt. You follow his example without hesitation. The first pool party can begin!

[slafkovskys]

What’s all star weekend gonna be like for the boys and Angel? Hopefully Luke gets voted in 🤞🤞

jack’s running into the gym in his and luke’s apartment complex, popping in front of where she was doing her cool down on the treadmill. she pauses the machine and her podcast, looking at the man alarmed, “who’s hurt? do we need to go to a hospital?”

“no. why would you- nevermind,” he leans against the front of the treadmill excitedly, “what are you doing the first weekend of february?”

“the first weekend of february?” she closes her eyes as she racks her brain, “probably sleeping?”

“do you want to sleep in toronto? because i’m a fucking allstar baby,” he shows her his phone and she looks at the announcement, taking the phone from his hand as she reads it a couple of times before squealing. “you’re coming, right?”

“of course i am! oh, i’m so proud of you jacky,” she mumbles, pressing her hands to his cheeks before pulling him in, “so, so proud.”

quinn’s bid to toronto comes later that night and she sends him an equally enthusiastic message, asking for a call as soon as he could. with two of her boys set, she worried about luke. she knew he could be voted in, but what if he wasn’t?

he can see her mind running wild as they lay in bed that night. she was tracing shapes on his chest with her lip between her teeth, obviously having something to say. he clears his throat, “you can say it, angel.”

“what if you don’t get to go?” she avoids his eyes, “it’s not fair if i get to with quinn and jack and you’re just not there. it won’t feel right.”

“i’ll cut you a deal,” he offers and her fingers stop, palm laying flat against his abdomen as she prepares to soak in what he has to say, “if i don’t get voted in, you and i, we run away for a couple of days. somewhere warm with fruity little cocktails. then we go can go to toronto and be with them. does that sound good?”

“yeah,” she sighs, “now i kind of don’t want you to go so we can be somewhere warm with fruity little cocktails.”

luke misses the vote and he swears he doesn’t mind when he’s sending her a flight confirmation for the three days in the dominican republic with another flight to toronto attached. they have their time before joining jack and quinn in canada, hanging out in the suite that was unofficially housing all four of them most of the time.

she’s secretly a little happy that she gets to have luke with her and the rest of the hughes family that joined the occasion. leaning into him when play is slow or grabbing onto his wrist when quinn’s shot bounces off the bar. he stares at her, “is this what you’re like all of the time?”

without missing a beat, she and ellen respond in tandem, “yes.”