#bc the only reason he ended up crashing with me for so long was bc his parents moved out of town and he wanted to stay

[beaversatemygrandma]

Randomly thinking about that time this fuckboi started working with me. Now, he didn’t originally come off as a fuckboi, he was rather sweet and just plain pretty. But then came the time when he was flirting/sleeping with three of us there. All at once.

One of them was an old friend of mine and while i was fwb with him (he was nice to have around, okay), she admits to me that she has a crush on him. And I’m like “oh.” bc i had a crush on her. Then there’s the third girl, she was close to this old friend and they started hanging out a lot. This third girl started dating the fuckboi. Now, here’s where the fuckboi really shows his fuckboi colors. My old friend started flirting back with him and tried to date him bc he never told any of us that him and the other girl started dating. Those two stayed talking for a while, we’d do group hangouts together just the four of us. Still. Unaware. That those two started dating. One night he invites me over, I stay the night, etc etc. (Long story, there’s more.)

The next day, my friend comes up at work like ‘Something’s off about those two’ and starts talking about how he still wouldn’t turn her down but seemed like he was avoiding the whole idea and spending a lot more time with the other girl.

A few days later, me and the fuckboi were working side by side and had a whole lot of time to chat. At the worst possible point during the lunch rush, he looks to me and says ‘by the way, me and that girl are dating now.’ (Keep in mind, this was apparently a couple months after they actually got together) So, of course I’m there like ‘what the actual fuck man. I literally slept with you last weekend.’

THEN, a week or so later, my friend comes over outside of work and tells me about how his gf told her that he cheated on her a month before. And me, putting the pieces together slowly but surely through the conversation, realizes, he cheated on her with me. And she didn’t even know about the most recent time that he had. It was definitely more than once bc that fucker was being all secretive. After that, the girl group split up for a while due to different jobs. The fuckboi moved in with his gf. Me and my old friend keep up a casual friendship with oddly homoerotic flirting that goes right over the head of our incel friend who acted as our ride 90% of the time so he casually joins in thinking its just a bit we’re doing even though both of us are subtly telling each other that we’re down to get together. Yadda yadda, six months pass Somehow. I Still Can’t Get a Girl. Which is funny bc she explicitly told me she was into girls too during that time. Fuckboi’s gf finally has had enough of his shit, allegedly he got another girl involved, and dumps him, leaving him without a home. He comes crawling back to me, but i no longer had my apartment and wouldn’t just let him crash with me. There was a whole thing and eventually he finally managed to get a new place to live after I pointed him to our incel buddy for a place to sleep, who, being the kind weirdo that he is, let him stay with him until he could finally move on.

After all that, the girls are reunited again. The three of us would spend whatever time we had outside of work at the beach. (I lived with my granddad at the time and he had a BEACH HOUSE so BEACH.)

The fuckboi brought three bi girls* (*I’m not a girl anymore tho) together and managed to get the weirdest homoerotic friendship between all of us over the unification from this guy, which none of us acted on bc apparently there wasn’t enough evidence for any of us to make a move on another.

Now, the girls started living together after the fuckboi vacancy, alongside another girl, my other old friend’s beard, and the incel buddy. It became this small lesbian coven with the token small man with weeb shit all over the house who’d give me tips on how to flirt with that one girl i had a crush on bc she had him wrapped around her fingers but zero interest in him, but he was like ‘yeah, i’ll get you the girl, dw’. So, i had all the inside tips on what she liked and what kind of gifts to randomly drop on her. It was a Solid Plan. To which, she slowly figured out and literally told me that she was telling him the most expensive things to buy her bc she really did have him wrapped around her fingers. And there i was just thinking she had an expensive taste. 

Then sadly, i ended up hitting the bricks and ditching town not but a few months later due to granddad-related situations. Shortly after that x-mas party we had where i was basically flirting with her the entire time as she kept making me her usual Dark and Stormy cocktails.

I really want to start talking to that girl again. She’s that type of friend you can just pick up without any of those years taking a toll. (Bc somehow an acquaintance i had in high school turned into a best friend that i was crushing on as an adult) I hear she’s still living with the weird lesbian coven and the incel is finally no longer an incel and has a gf and still THERE. (Plus, i think he finally started wearing deodorant. He smelled a lot better last time i saw him. His girl is doing him some good.) Anyway. I want in on that group again. It’s been too long. I need to talk to her at some point soon.

Anyway that was the unification via fuckboi. His ex-gf left the group and went off with a new fuckboi to Texas so who knows where she’s at. But the REST ARE STILL THERE.

I need to get back to my hometown already. I’m ready for a new bout of fuckery, this time excluding our favorite fuckboi. Well. Hopefully.

[adamsrcnan]

OKAY OKAY here we goooo an annoyingly long-ish post about all my thoughts on The Sunshine Court

Spoilers Spoilers Spoilersss you've been warned

First things first it is so interesting to see Nora writing from not one but TWO new people's perspective. Jean's perspective is just devastating being inside his head is heartbreaking the constant fear and panic and how much of his energy is used on just pushing down every memory of what was done to him. His coping mechanisms are terrifying and i truly do hope by the end of book 2 he has a healthier way of dealing with it bc baby boy stop hurting yourself :( Every sentence was so painful to read. But also his resilience the entire time to get through it no matter what, god i fucking love him!!! He is a fighter.

Jeremy's perspective is sooooo refreshing. He is such a little sweetheart i could cry. The fact that he sends hand written letters and he's so caring and genuine but he can also be so stern. When he dropped that "i asked you a question" to Lucas fkehdjdfjdh OK SIR. I'M SAT. His relationship with the family butler is so endearing as well i need more background on that for sure! My only one criticism is that he didn't have enough pov chapters and i'm hoping we'll learn more in the second book of course because there's still so much about him and his (dysfunctional? toxic?) family dynamic that we don't know yet but also i'm greedy and i wanna know EVEYTHING about him !!!

Kevin and Jean are so just tragic it actually breaks my fucking heart like "you didn't have to slit my throat on the way out" JEAN??? and "promise me you won't try again. I can't lose you." KEVIN??? And the fact that Jean to this day is still keeping that promise. Also Jean's obvious but secret long term crush on Kevin the way it's subtly dropped every time Jean has to stamp down on his desire's and "temptations" GOD PLEASE I CAN'T STAND IT

SPEAKING OF!!! BISEXUAL JEAN ??? BI JEAN??? BI JEANNNN !!!!

Neil and Jean oh my God like where do i even start?? The guilt Jean feels at what happened to Neil in the Nest and him finally calling him by his name after Riko's death and telling him his game was good. And Neil seriously needs to give himself more credit for how much of a caring person he is because the way he indirectly told Jean that he thinks he is worth saving and didn't even hesitate before asking Stuart to send someone after That Guy after what Jean told him. Neil Josten the man that you are!!!

Jean's little sister Elodie what a beautiful name. Them being so close and him reading to her. The way he found out about her death jolted me differently. It was so awful and i'm so sorry Jean didn't get to see her grow up and meet her again.

Renee and Jean oh my god. Jean thinking she's beautiful (bitch me toooo) And the whole right person wrong time ugh i can't stand it. Him wearing her necklace all the time, enough that Jeremy always notices it. And unabashedly stealing her picture from the foxes lounge. Like he did not give a fuck. He said this one is mine. One good reason to stay alive being rainbows i'm gonna FKSJSKDHDH. Theirs would be such a soft love.

Speaking of soft loves Laila and Cat are EVERYTHINGGGG. God they are so cute with their little domestic life and their rich gay boy son who crashes on their couch with his cardboard cut out dog. That whole friendship dynamic is beautiful. Their fierce protectiveness and care over Jean as well and the patience they have with him even after the little kitchen incident. When Cat took Jean out for a drive on her motorcycle god that was such a heart warming moment and Jean helping them cook as well and becoming the girls' little sous chef it's so cute so endearing !!!

FINALLY FINALLY THE JEREJEAN DYNAMIC

PLEASE I'M GONNA SCREAM

Jeremy being the one who told Jean that Riko was dead i don't even know what to begin with THAT like hhhhhhh. The way they're both stupidly attracted to each other but won't/can't do anything about it. THE WHOLE "say yes Jeremy" SCENE WTF WAS THATTT I WAS GOING INSANEEEE. Both of them having to stop mid sentence when they catch the other looking FINE as hell. Jean being so obvious that even Lucas picks up on the way he looks at Jeremy. Jeremy being there to ground Jean in a Moment and helping him come down from it. Grabbing his face and telling him he's okay. Moving into the room with him to make him feel more comfortable !! The way Jean grabs Jeremy's chin (boiiiii). Jeremy constantly reminding Jean that he is NOT A RAVEN ANYMORE no matter how many times he has to say it. Jeremy saying he'll wait as long as it takes until Jean speaks to him. JEREMY GIVING HIM A HUG AND JEAN CLUTCHING DESPERATELY TO HIS SHIRT FUUCUFHDHSJHSSUHDH and then the "will you help me?" And the "Anything you need" AND THEY'RE GOING TO TAKE A CERAMICS CLASS TOGETHER?!?!?!!!! i can't i can't i can't i caaan'ttt

There's so much more to say but i'm gonna leave it at this for now because i need to go re-read it again and take my time with it this time round but i really could not have asked for anything better Nora truly outdid herself here !!! I'm forever grateful she blessed us with this after so long.

[thelastofhyde]

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

pairing. narcos!javier peña x fem!reader

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

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

word count. 14.3k

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

if you see any typos, no you didn't 🫣

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

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

The year moves too fast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He’s a show-off, that boy.”

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

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

“Hmm?”

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

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

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

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

He’s fast, agile, stealthy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ve made worse attempts in the past.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It happens when you’re finally being served.

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

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

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

Friendly.

Too friendly.

Till it crosses the border into flirty.

You’re not interested.

At all.

But it’s flattering, to feel wanted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gasps fill the air.

Half the crowd boos.

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

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

Turning on your heal, the scene unfolds.

The ball, abandoned on the ground.

The players, scrambling to grab it before one another.

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

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

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

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

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

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

If you don’t love me, What was April?

You’ve always been organised.

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

You compartmentalise.

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

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

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

Caution tape holds the lid shut.

Fragile stickers cover every corner.

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

A late night.

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

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

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

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

Go still.

Worry you’ve woken him.

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

He’s tired. Exhausted.

Work was getting to him as of late.

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

You know him. You can read him.

Can tell in the way he moved slower against you.

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

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

Unlike other nights, you’re trapped awake.

Something feels off, makes you queasy.

There’s something nagging at your mind.

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

You just know its absence is wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not fair, you think.

Sleep is usually where you see him at his calmest.

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

His grip loosens, though slightly.

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

So you do your best to slip out his hold.

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

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

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

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

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

Then, you open the tap.

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

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

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

Your hair frames your face, though messy.

Your eyes are bloodshot, yet carry less bags.

Your cheeks are rounder, fuller.

You look different.

You feel it too.

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

Has he noticed a change?

Is he the reason for it?

Does he feel different, too?

Your stomach flips.

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

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

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

You don’t remember.

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

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

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

The stir in your stomach becomes more intense.

Eyes refocusing, you find yourself in the mirror again.

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach.

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

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

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

It feels like you’re suffocating.

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

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

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

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

There’s a soothing motion over your skin.

Up, down, up, down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He calls your own name back to you.

“I’m late.”

You await the sharp inhale.

And the unwinding of arms.

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

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

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

Then he’ll turn the blame to you.

That’s what men do, right?

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

None of it arrives.

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

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

He dries you off, delicate drags over your skin.

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

Only, this time you’re wide awake.

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

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

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

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

After all, the blame is yours, surely.

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

“But I-”

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

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

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

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

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

Lips press against your own, soft and subtle.

A quiet greeting, a wordless goodmorning.

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

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

You don’t want him to leave this bed.

Or this apartment.

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

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

Eventually, he peels himself away from you.

You watch him dress.

Tell him which tie to wear.

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

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

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

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

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

He presses a kiss between them, hums in enjoyment.

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

“Good,” you reply.

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

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

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

Leans down, brushes his lips against it.

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

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

He keeps his word.

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

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

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

The thought has you pressing a hand against your womb.

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

With a grimace, you admit you haven’t.

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

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

“I’ll probably just have toast.”

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

The call goes on a little longer.

It’s mostly him talking.

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

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

“I’ll be home soon, okay?”

That sounds nice coming from Javi.

Home.

Not his home, just home.

A place he feels his soul at rest.

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

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

He keeps his word, again.

Comes home barely three hours later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod, then audibly reply.

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

The drive is quiet.

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

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

You welcome it, covering it with your own.

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

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

He’s right.

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

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

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

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

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

You smile, and thread your fingers between his own.

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

The clinic is bright.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A confused sound leaves Javier.

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

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

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

“You hoping for a boy or a girl?”

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

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

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

But you don’t want to ruin the moment.

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

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

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

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

Javi’s still not correcting him.

It makes you nauseous for a whole new reason.

“Mr. Miller?” A voice calls out.

A nurse, you imagine.

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

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

He takes a few steps, till Javi interrupts him.

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

“A girl.”

Eventually, it’s your turn.

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

Shuffled into some room, reluctantly separating from Javi.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re not pregnant.

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

This time, the drive is silent.

Not quiet.

Silent.

You watch him drive past the turning into your street.

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

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

Over your empty womb.

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

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

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

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

You played a game But I run the table

You’re avoiding your dad’s calls.

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

See, you know why he’s calling.

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

He’s hosting another poker night.

He wants you there, as always.

Some baseless theory of you being his good luck charm.

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

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

“Fill in for me, will ya, kiddo?”

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

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

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

He turns out to be no threat.

None of the officer’s are, really.

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

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

But, taking from Javi?

That’s something else, entirely.

Each time you win, he gets more agitated.

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

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

And intoxication.

And something else.

Something you know all too well on Javier.

Lust.

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

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

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

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

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

He’s on the younger side.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe, he’ll offer you a sip.

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

He asks about college.

You ask about working with your dad.

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

He tells you about a new bar, downtown.

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

It’s light, it’s easy, it’s friendly.

You’re enjoying his company.

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

His hands grip his sides.

You’re clutching your chest.

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

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

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

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

You both gather some decorum.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then two steps, which you also match.

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

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

It’s alarmingly gentle for his stoic features.

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

“What’s going on with you, huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s worked up, frustrated, angry.

And it’s hot. A turn-on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wonder what positions he put them in.

How many rounds he lasted with them.

How often he made them cum.

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

That single action changes the game, entirely.

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

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

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

The grip tightens.

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

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

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

Every ounce of feminism evaporates within you.

Who could deny such a tentative offer?

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

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

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

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

Your panties, soaked.

His jeans, tight.

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

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

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

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

“C’mon, don’t be shy.”

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

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

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

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

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

He has his mother’s eyes, you notice.

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

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

A picture of Javi, and you.

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

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

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

There was no point risking your father ever finding it.

But this picture, this one you do not remember.

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

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

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

He does good to bring you back into the room.

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

They sit in the sink, growing wet.

And you are too, frozen on the spot.

You glance down, count over the different bills.

Five dollars.

Twenty dollars.

Hundred dollars.

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

In the mirror, he’s watching.

Not the sink bowl, no.

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

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

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

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

The card is plucked out your hand.

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

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

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

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

Desirable.

And attractive.

And pretty.

And smart.

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

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

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

Javi hisses, muttering something to himself.

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

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

A few seconds pass. 

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

You feel the air tickle your skin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Smack!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hear a cheer.

From the basement.

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

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

If you can hear them, they could hear you.

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

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

It’s not a pleasurable act, in itself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For him, you can do it.

“Fitting big things in your little pussies?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The unbuckling of a belt.

The unzipping of teeth.

The shucking down of-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A hand, reaching up to cup your cheek.

A kiss, gentle and longing against your mouth.

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

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

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

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

“I’m a very patient man, corazón.”

You scoff.

“Just not when it comes to you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You feel lightheaded.

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

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

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

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

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

He consumes you, mind, body and soul.

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

There’s just Javi.

Beautiful, gorgeous, deserving Javi.

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

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

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

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

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

Hands hurry off your waist, slipping between your thighs. 

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

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

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

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

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

He’d catch you, if you fell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You both crash and burn, together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damn Javi and all the memories he haunts you with.

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

Days grow colder.

Nights grow longer.

You change your bedsheets, stuff a comforter back inside.

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

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

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

Lights, baubles, action.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is this some tactic of yours?”

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

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

“Some what?”

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

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

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

Bare legs, messed hair, smudged lipstick.

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

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

“You weren’t complaining earlier.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When he offers the cigarette your way, you hesitate.

Picture your father, disappointed to see you smoke.

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

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

You and Javi were never meant to happen.

Sure, the line had already been crossed weeks ago.

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

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

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

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

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

Until tonight.

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

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

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

He’d offered to take you home.

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

He squeezed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which brings you here, fifteen minutes later.

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

“Huh?”

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

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

“Is that what you want?”

He shrugs.

Pulls in another breath of his cigarette.

Stubs it out on the arm of the chair.

And says nothing.

You assume it’s a yes.

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

Silence falls upon you both.

You twist in his lap.

He tightens his hold.

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

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

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

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

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

Each year, it’s the same.

The station, decked out in decorations.

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

It’s not just Christmas.

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

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

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

Their spouse, their mothers.

Anyone, and everyone, is welcome.

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

It’s the part you look forward to most.

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

Fishing out a pen, some paper.

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

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

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

This year, there was none of that.

No list of pros and cons for each gift option.

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

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

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

Hinted at it, slightly.

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

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

Hold it up to his ear, shake it.

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

The whole room stops.

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

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

Fades to grey.

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

He knows.

Of course he knows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next time you see Javi is hours later.

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

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

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

You say you’re tired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Javi plays it cool.

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

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

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

Well, better than anyone but you.

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

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

Your dad stares at you.

Your mum stares at you.

Javi stares at you.

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh! Yeah, I- Sorry, I meant that I-”

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

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

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

At least that’s the reason you give yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your hands, brushing.

Your eyes, meeting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it isn’t, and you’re not.

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

His lips brush your cheek like an autumn breeze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You and Javi don’t spend time alone anymore.

You and Javi do not exist together anymore.

Maybe you never did.

“It’s okay, I already called a cab.”

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

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

For a second, he just looks at you.

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

“Get home safe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

First, just a little extra weight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One more glance in the box.

There’s a note, tucked at the bottom.

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

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

[onlyswan]

summary: in which sour and salt could be so sweet when jungkook’s existence reminds you that there is still good in the world.

> fluff, a pinch of angst, suggestive / wc: 3.1k

> warnings: mention of the doctor bc oc missed their period >:(, allusion to s/x, making out, jungkook doing pull ups must be a warning for the faint hearted like me

note: we’re going through the seasons?! partly inspired by #that live and jungkook for calvin klein <3 we’ve all seen those pictures right… right… i hope the onlyswan prophecy continues with this drabble i need to see jungkook do pull ups at the beach <3 + reblogs & feedback are always appreciated :D

—

jungkook is a sunkissed daydream and a shirtless adonis. his tender hands are on your bare thighs, keeping himself steady on the light brown sand while you sit still and look pretty on a log.

“baby, are you pregnant?”

when a man spits out this question, it usually sounds a little bit something like an anxious and insensitive ‘you’re not pregnant, are you?’ your starry-eyed boyfriend is asking you in a calm tone, joking for the most part, yet genuine wonder is painted on his face as if you’re just supposed to tell him what day of the week it is.

you stare at him with a blank expression, silent for a moment as the fierce waves crash on the shore, finding it difficult to take him seriously. “i don’t know. did you break a condom?”

he breaks eye-contact to space out, pursing his lips as he pretends to be immersed in deep thought.

“uhh, not to my knowledge.”

“then i’m not.” you shrug your shoulders with a cheeky grin, scrunching your nose. “will you steal some mangoes for me now, please?”

“is my baby craving for them that bad?” he coos at you softly, inching closer to press a kiss on your lips. “no but why do you always ask me to steal mangoes for you?”

“what do you mean ‘always’? this is only the second time.” you scoff, offended by the accusation, shoving him lightly but he quickly takes a hold of your arms to save himself from falling.

he chuckles lightheartedly, recounting the first time you visited his hometown and you took a walk around his neighborhood together. you looked at the mango tree with so much longing, and he had so much love for you, it was untameable.

nothing much has changed.

except for the color of the mangoes, perhaps. they were yellow back then, ripe and soft. you ripped off the fragile skin with your bare hands as you devoured the nectar-filled fruit, and the both of you came home to his parents’ house sticky and satiated like little kids who played under the sun from noon to afternoon. today, they’re green and plump, and truthfully, his mouth is watering for a taste.

“you know, since the tree is directly infront of our villa-” he tilts his head to the side, briefly looking at your temporary private residence. “it’s technically ours, so it’s not stealing.”

your eyes are glitter with mischief, and they communicate without words before you burst into a fit of revitalizing giggles, filling your empty tummy with a childlike joy.

—

for a while before jungkook, you’d forgotten people are kind. you chose to live for yourself, and yourself only, because you thought that if you lose sight of your plans for the future because of a impetuous slip within the thrill of temptation, you would also lose the essence of your being that you’re actively fighting so hard to get a good grasp of. you’re in a never-ending, excruciating process of picking apart your identity; detaching yourself from what you learned in the past to make room for growth; and swallowing bitter pills of hard-taught lessons. but when you’re in a relationship, every decision goes through a filter, a need for an answer to the question of how would this make my partner feel?

your friends still ask from time to time, what it is about jungkook that made you bend this principle and compromise your plans when those were the reasons you impulsively ended relationships in the past.

you’d forgotten people are kind.

jungkook is messy. he always leaves behind a fragment of his heart, and you shake your head and you pick up each one to stuff it in the shallow pocket of your understanding of love… until the weight of them destroyed said pocket, and all of a sudden, you have awoken. he opened your eyes to the underlying implication of that filter, how having something sacred to protect is also what makes life more worth living after all.

more than two hours ago, at seven in the morning, he held back your hair while you emptied your guts in the toilet bowl. a week ago, he held your hand in the doctor’s waiting room and didn’t let go until your name was called. that same night, you sulked about the doctor concluding that the reason you didn’t get your period last month was stress again and he teared up when you said i eat well, and i exercise regularly. but in the end it’s all useless because stress is messing up my body and i can’t control it. what do i do? the next day, he cheerfully asked you if you wanted to go see the ocean with him. right now, he’s hanging on a thick branch of a tree, enthusiastically doing pull ups while you peel the raw mangoes he picked out for you.

the familiar sounds of moans and grunts convince you to move the log you’re sitting on, abandoning the view of the majestic blue sky kissing the sparkling ocean in favor of facing your gorgeous boyfriend. he moves on to doing hanging knee tucks, pulling his knees to his chest and gradually increasing his speed and range of motion after gathering enough leverage.

“ah, this is tiring!” his yell ripples across the near-empty beach. he squeezes his eyes shut, laughing through the pain that hurts so good.

you set aside the paring knife on the plain white porcelain plate, dipping a piece of mango in the hill of salt before taking a bite (you played rock-paper-scissors to decide who would call the front desk for salt and you won after jungkook said he lost because his rock was made of paper). this, it’s just what you needed to cure the lethargy that’s been eating away at you. the combination of sour and salty explodes in your taste buds, remedying your awful loss of taste and appetite.

you shudder in sheer delight, smiling sweetly at the man brazenly showcasing his strength infront of you. “i like this a lot. i can feel my stress melting away… like ice cream under the sun.”

“i’m happy you’re enjoying yourself while i-” he cuts off his sentence, letting himself fall on the sand before jumping again to adjust his grip on the rough wood. once again, he hauls his legs upward repeatedly, reaching higher and higher each time. he releases loud huffs of air, grunting raspily with every exertion of force.

you stifle a scandalous gasp when his knees touch his wrists, covering your mouth as you grind the food with your teeth. okay, you know damn well he is flexible and a human-shaped vessel of physical strength, but you mostly witness their irrefutable testaments during intense moments of love and lust… the blissful memories can be kind of hazy.

he heaves a deep sigh, taking a rest as he hangs motionless on the branch. picture-perfect, center-frame for your adoring eyes to feast upon. his honey skin is glazed with a fine sheen of sweat, further accentuating the well-defined muscles of his torso. you only get a tease of his v-line. it hides beneath the exposed white band of his calvin klein underwear peeking above his black swimming shorts. his stomach rises and falls with each breath, and you can’t help but to marvel at his abs with appreciation. beautifully prominent, sculpted not too much. you love that when you touch them, you still feel the tenderness of his flesh, so rawly and so uniquely jungkook.

“you like what you see?” he grins when your eyes meet, winking at you flirtatiously.

“i do.” you sheepishly admit, scrunching your nose before putting another slice of mango on top of your tongue. “keep going. i want to see more.”

“more? you want more?! aish- so demanding.” he complains, thick satoori accent dripping from his voice but still, he gives you more.

you giggle in satisfaction, closely observing the flexing of his muscles and the veins along his arms popping out. one must think you’re used to his tattoos by now, but you’re definitely not. you just learn how to act unaffected, like you can’t write a book of poems about how his body art never seizes to bring you in absolute awe. his eyebrows knit as he pulls himself up, face crumpling with the amount of force and strength he utilizes with every manuever. it’s a seductive scene, but then the dimples on his cheeks make fondness bloom in your heart.

for the love of god, it’s not compromising your plans, but making jungkook a part of your plans. you no longer fantasize about a perfect life. you just want to keep waking up somewhere safe— to be here, standing on the tips of your toes, planting a delicate kiss on the mole at the lower right side of his ribcage. your lips have made one too many sharp mistakes, but they ghost over his skin and he laughs. laughs so joyfully, a majestic string of musical notes from his mouth no other instrument on earth can recreate. it’s a good mistake, the best mistake you could ever possibly make.

“here, drink.“ you offer him a bottle of cold water.

“i’m so tired. oh, fuck-” he does one final pull up before letting go, deliberately falling on the sand and bumping against your feet when he rolls over.

he sits up, warm body vibrating with giggles as he looks up at you.

“did you pack a first aid kit?“

you put a hand over your hip, raising an eyebrow. “what happened now?”

“my hands-” he stares at his palms, sand coating half of the area, before showing them to you. “they sting like hell! seriously!” his little lisp slips out as he rants.

”then why did you keep going?!” you exclaim, grabbing his tattooed wrist to assess the damage. there’s no blood in sight, but his skin has turned a very bright shade of red.

“because it was fun.” he simply answers, and you can’t argue with that.

of course you brought a first aid kit. it’s a necessity, especially when you’re on vacation with your gym bunny boyfriend, apparently. while you grab the ointment in the bedroom, jungkook decides to clean himself up under the outdoor shower situated in a corner beside the swimming pool.

“what’s wrong with this? why are they going at the same time?” he scratches his head in confusion, looking up at the spraying shower head and down at the gushing faucet. he fiddles with the handle in hopes of fixing his problematic water consumption, unintentionally pushing it up higher as he does so. this causes the water pressure to become stronger, sending thin needles to crash down and pierce his fragile skin.

“aw shit-” he reflexively runs away from the rude attack of the silver device. “yah, you punk! what did i to you, huh?! how dare you-”

he clicks his tongue in irritation, resting his hands on his hips. after glaring one more time, he extends his tattooed arm to push the handle all the way down, turning it off. he proceeds to experiment, tilting it to the left, which turns on the faucet only, and then to the right for the shower.

he laughs sarcastically at his discovery, going back under the water. “ahhh, was i the stupid one?”

—

“i missed you!” he declares loudly as soon as you step out of the sliding door.

“me too, babe.” you hum as you walk towards him, standing a considerable distance from the shower.

he wipes his face with his hands to unblur his vision before pushing back his wet hair, droplets of water endlessly rushing down his body.

“why are you so far?” he protests. “come here.”

“but i already took a shower.”

“so what? you’ll get wet again when we ride the jet ski later.”

you pout at him. “i told you i’m scared.”

“i’d be jack if i have to, i won’t let you drown! don’t you trust your boyfriend, hm?” he attempts to persuade you again after failing last night, knowing well that you’d enjoy yourself only if you overcome your fear of the deep waters. “it will be fun, i promise.”

“ugh, fine. only because you promised.” you weakly succumb to his wishes, setting down the small jar of ointment on the ground.

he happily pulls you in for an embrace, burying his face in the crook of your neck while your arms wrap around his waist. the only barrier between your chests is the thin and small fabric of your red bikini, thoroughly soaked by the cold water combatting the rising heat of the approaching noon. you can feel the rough grains of sand that were washed away from his skin under the soles of your feet, contrasting the feather-light kisses being scattered on your neck. and this feels so utterly liberating, you refuse for it to end, allowing yourself to be hastily pinned against the wall when his supple lips meet yours.

he cups the back of your head and his long and slender fingers dig into your hair, protecting you from accidentally hitting the hard cement. the small thoughtful gesture makes you smile into the kiss. he is not real, he can’t be. if this is a dream, you’re begging the sun to never rise. his gentle hands slowly travel down the expanse of your back, until they reach your hips, teasingly tugging past the side straps of your bikini bottoms before kneading the soft flesh of your ass. he swallows the strangled whine that escapes you, slipping his tongue past your parted lips. he’s addicted to how your body language speaks to him when you get intimate, how you lovingly caress his face and his arms, slow and sensual, but then unconsciously dig your nails to mark crescent moons on his skin when you begin getting lost in your combined passion.

he wants this. he wants you. he wants to spend the rest of his life kissing you and wringing the water from your hair.

—

you’ve deserted the log to comfortably sit cross-legged with jungkook on the lounge chair, under the shade of the brown umbrella rooted in the soil.

“mhmmm! it’s so delicious!” jungkook carefully dips the slice of mango in the salt once more, wary of the ointment from his hand smearing on the food, before muching on it eagerly. “so crunchy!”

you pause from tending to his left hand, looking at the plate between the two of you to learn that he is nearly finished with the second mango. you only have one left.

“damn!” he dramatically curses with his eyes squeezed shut, punching the salt air. without context, a stranger would probably guess that he tragically lost a bet or remembered an embarrassing memory from highschool. but really, he’s just enjoying some pretty good food. this is the fourth time in the past five minutes that he precisely did the same thing, and yes, you’ve been counting.

“is it that yummy?” you chuckle, extremely endeared and contented when he looks this excited around food. he is the only person in the world who can make you say i’m full just by watching you eat and mean it.

“it was your idea!” he bobs his head while energetically rocking from side to side, cheeks round and full as he chews. “i haven’t eaten something new in a long time. i love it… i should give the resort five stars for my review. just for this. i’ll say i’ll come back again for the mango tree.”

“or i don’t know, we can just plant one ourselves.” you propose before lightly blowing on his inflamed palm.

“but, baby, that would take years!” he interjects. “we need to buy another house, one with a backyard, and wait at least five years for it to grow. i’ll be thirty-two by then. are you hearing that?!”

the disgusted look on his face elicits a burst of amused laughter from you, stomach hurting with a reason miles better than earlier’s. he winces at the thought of entering his 30’s in the very near future. it feels odd to think about, but it’s a little less daunting with the tree added to the picture.

he picks up the final slice on the plate, smothering it with a thin layer of salt before devouring it entirely. he whimpers, high-pitched and wide-eyed, clasping his hand over his mouth before the other one you’re holding slips away from the solace of your care. he free falls from the chair, limply collapsing on the sand. and just like that, he’s covered in them again, from his damp hair down to his wiggly toes.

you move closer to look at him, dangling your legs on the edge. “darling, you’re still alive, aren’t you?”

he spreads out his limbs like a starfish, dreamily peering into the vast cloudy sky. “oh? i think this is exactly what it means to be alive.”

beyond his words, it’s the way he said them. without shyness, without qualms, without pondering. it makes him sound purely sincere, his mellifluous voice gracefully echoing louder than the nihilistic thoughts in your head, and you believe him.

he abruptly sits up, crawling on his knees to reach you. “baby! it’s too good! i want more!” he cries out, feigning desperate sobs as he hugs your legs. “i want more. let’s eat the third one, please.”

“fuck, okay. calm down. we’ll have it.” you cackle, stroking his hair while he rests his head on your lap.

you drag the plate to your side, slicing the last mango with practiced precision and skill. he, then, closes his eyes and bathes in your presence, his warm breath fanning you. it’s peacefully silent for a while, only the sounds of the knife dragging across the fruit and the waves chasing each other to the edge of the sea can be heard. that is until your boyfriend grows bored. he puckers his lips to brush against your soft skin, insatiable, climbing higher and higher until he’s peppering your inner thigh with kisses.

tingling sensations inevitably spark in your lower region, and you click your tongue to rebuke him. “jungkook, behave. i might cut myself if you keep that up.”

his lips curve into a naughty smirk, shifting a bit further down. “sorry.”

“do you want to get sunburnt? get back up here, on the chair.” you bounce your legs to shake him off, but your efforts prove to be fruitless.

he groans, stubbornly holding on to you tighter. “no, i don’t want to.”

—

taglist in the reblogs! send an ask / dm if you want to be added (or removed) :D

—

[nyxronomicon]

breaking your restraints because we need to know the endeavour thoughts <3

honestly just thinking about how large he is...

specifically I'm thinking about this artwork and also desperately trying to figure out an au where Enji would wear a suit bc 🥴🥴🥴 (I feel so insane about those sock garters ngl)

ok I'm just gonna spitball something (unrelated to the artwork lol) that has been floating nebulously in my head lol.

(vague spoilers for season 6 but i am actually only halfway through it lol...)

cw: GN!Reader, reader is married, domestic violence (unnamed husband hits reader), guilt, soft and angsty

.

You were his childhood best friend. As a kid, you always assumed the two of you would end up together. You were practically inseparable. He saved you from bullies a few times before they stopped bothering you. You even went to UA together, but you were one of the few quirkless students, and enrolled in the business course so it was getting harder to spend time together.

The more you heard about how well he's doing, how he's a hero now, the more inadequate you felt. You were just a quirkless nobody that would only ever burden him. Then you heard he'd be getting married to another quirk user. She was stunning and powerful, a much better fit for him than yourself.

You moved on and got a job working at a big hero firm. You dated, of course, and eventually got married yourself. Your husband wasn't good to you. He was a jerk, cocky, and had a bit of a temper (yeah, you have a type).

The two of you ended up getting in a heated argument because you've been working too much, not spending enough hours at his beck and call. You ended up in a screaming match, not entirely out of the ordinary, but this was different. You were crying, frustrated that this topic is coming up again. That he can't seem to accept that you're more successful than him.

Your husband was drunk and belligerent. He slapped you on the face so hard you tumbled to the ground, knocking over the wobbly bookshelf he never fixed. You were lucky it only fell on your ankle, but it throbbed with pain all the same.

Your neighbors called in the closest hero agency for domestic violence after hearing the screaming, and only moments after the shelf crashed on you, there was a knock at the door. Without a thought, your husband stormed over and flung the door open, snarling at the man at the door.

"Who the fu-" His words died in his throat when he saw the man plastered all over the news on his doorstep.

Endeavor had never seen your husband before. The two of you had lost touch long ago, nothing but memories of your childhood friendship left between you. He had no idea who the man in front of him was. However, with just a glance behind him, Endeavor saw the fallen bookshelf, trinkets and books strewn across the floor.

And then he saw you.

He didn't recognize you at first, more focused on assessing the situation and doing something about the asshole in front of him.

"Look, honey," your husband chuckled manically. "It's your favorite hero. Y'know, the abuser," he mocked, as if he thought the hero in front of him might turn a blind eye.

"Don't pretend you know anything about me." Endeavor growled in response before knocking your husband out in one hit. Seconds later, he was at your side with your soon to be ex-husband in a heap on the floor.

"You alright?" Guilt clawed at the back of his mind. The man was right, Endeavor was no better than him. He's seen this before, in his own home. By his own hands.

"Enji," you could only manage a whisper, your voice hoarse from the shouting and shock of the moment. His eyes widened, only just now noticing your features, the color of your eyes, and the crinkle of your smile when you added, "thank you."

He saved you before. In fact, you were the first person he saved. You were the reason he pushed himself, so quirkless people like you could live happy lives. The brief hit of nostalgia was immediately shattered when he remembered why he was here. Despite everything, you ended up with someone just like him.

"Sorry, you probably..." You hesitated, feeling heat rush to your face. God, you hadn't been embarrassed in years. "You probably don't remember me. I shouldn't have-"

"How could I forget you?" He interrupted you.

There was a long silence. The two of you were just looking at each other, the changes over the years could never hide the minute details you'd memorized years ago. His gorgeous blue eyes, his strong jaw, the deep red of his hair. But you noticed new things, too. His whole physique was larger, and with maturity brought wrinkles and the battle-hardened gaze that was fixed on you.

"You were..." Enji cleared his throat, thoughts a little lost after taking in the changes in you, as well. "You were the first person I saved." He remembered you as a child, but here you were, an adult, and you were far more stunning then he remembered, even with the tear stains on your cheeks. A distantly familiar feeling bubbled up that he could barely recognize. Just laying his eyes on you reminded him of the crush he had on you so many years ago.

He was sure it was just the nostalgia. No matter how much it felt like fate.

Another lingering moment passed, the words left unsaid flooding the room inch by inch. Both of you wanting to know more, but afraid to close the distance left by time. Not knowing where to start when the end could be as close as him walking out that door.

"Can you stand?" Enji finally spoke, his words softer than even he thought he was capable.

You glanced at your ankle, already red and beginning to swell. "I don't know." You shifted your weight, as if to get up.

"Stop." He placed a hand gently on your shoulder. "Don't try. Can I pick you up?"

It had been so long since someone had been so attentive. So long since someone cared when you were hurt. You couldn't stop the tears that spilled from your eyes again, choking on a sob instead of responding. He hesitated. Were you crying because of him? Because the hero sent to you was the one guilty of this crime himself?

You leaned on his shoulder, his familiar warmth was so comforting. He even smelled the same as he used to, the charred scent clinging to his skin transported you back in time.

"Seriously, Enji..." your voice cracked. "Where have you been...?"

It felt like his heart stopped. It was already broken and battered and beat to all hell. Enji was not the hero you always saw in him. He was just like the man still passed out on your floor. He knew his mistakes were unforgivable, but still, you were thinking about him this whole time.

"I'm sorry." He scooped you in his arms. "I'm here now." He didn't deserve this. You. He knew that. But he'd see this job through and make sure you were safe. It was the least he could do.

[pawnshopbleus]

hi! i was wondering if you could do a corio x plinth reader where he aproches her bc she is a plinth (and she notices and gets mad bc she think that corio takes her for a stupid girl who would just fall for his lies) but he slowly falls for her. i would really like if it ends well, like them together. i hope you understood my idea, i love your work btw.

𝐌𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐌𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

coriolanus snow x fem!plinth!reader

summary - basically what the request says, but there is no happy ending because i'm evil.

contains - angst, the capital being described as beautiful, gold-digging, rude coriolanus, not beta read

author's note - i'm so sorry @simpovereveryone for the unhappy ending, but i feel like once someone finds out you originally wanted to date them for their money there is no coming back. originally, this was going to be a happy ending, but I just couldn't write one that felt natural and real. if you want, I can do a happy Coriolanus later, but there is no happy ending in this one.

IT was no secret that Strabo Plinth’s daughter was in love. It was the only thing people would talk about at the Academy. In between each Hunger Games, Capitol citizens were bored. Gossip would spread like a wildfire. They didn’t know how to keep a secret. 

Coriolanus knew that you liked him. It was obvious to anyone that had two working eyes. The way that your eyes would follow him wherever he went, and how your back would straighten every time he walked by was evidence enough that you had a crush on the blonde boy. 

Coriolanus was flattered, really, but he just wasn’t one to date. Many girls have tried and failed at dating him. None piqued his interest. He found that most pretty Capiol girls were dumb and had no interest beyond their physical appearance. They also lacked what he needed most, money. 

Coriolanus wanted to continue his education at the University after the Academy. He needed to keep a roof over his, Tigris, and Grandma’ams head, or he would have failed as a cousin and a grandson. Those necessities don’t come cheap after a war, no matter how long ago the war was. 

And then he heard the news. Some new students were chatting during lunch. His name and yours got thrown around, and after some intense staring at his apple, he heard what they were talking about. Your little schoolgirl crush on Coriolanus, and that was confirmation enough. 

Then there you were, sitting in all your glory. 

Being the one and only daughter in the Plinth family made you susceptible to fake people. Always after your money and status, but they will talk about you behind your back. Coriolanus has heard it all. He needed to outsmart the many and study the few that made it to your inner circle. Just because you already had a crush on him meant nothing if he didn’t have a good enough reason to chase after you. 

Your red school uniform mixed in with the rest of the crowd, but your face was what drew him in. It was so different, unconventional, and beautiful. The unconventionality of your face made him want to paint a picture of you from memory. You were unique, which he liked. This won’t be too bad, Coriolanus said in his head. 

Your tired eyes met his and he didn’t look away. The bags under your eyes accentuated the fact that you couldn’t sleep last night. The thunder crashing outside of your window was probable cause to keep you awake. 

Coriolanus got up from his chair and stocked towards you. His stride was purposeful, guiding through clumps of students gathered around the room. He sat across from you and said nothing as he studied your tired expression. It was weird that your brother's friend and your crush were sitting across from you all of a sudden. You were in no way ready to talk to him right now. 

“Did you want me to tell Sejanus something?” was all you could manage to ask. Your brain was begging you to ask more. Why are you here? How is your family? Do you think I’m crazy for liking you, even though we’ve never had an actual conversation? But your mouth stayed shut, which saved you from a boatload of embarrassment. 

Coriolanus smiled. His teeth were imperfectly imperfect. A natural color, not too white, but not too yellow. His right front tooth was slightly crooked, giving his teeth personality. 

“No, I came here to talk to you.”

Your brows furrowed for a second. Why in the world would he want to talk to me? Besides being the sister of his friend, you had nothing going on for yourself. There were far prettier girls that he could talk to. You weren’t all that traversed in philosophy and classic books like he was. You were just…you. 

Your lips pressed together in a small line and then returned to normal after a second. You couldn’t form coherent words right now. You nodded your head at the boy in front of you and looked across the room, not ready to make eye contact with him at the present moment. Students talked and whispered with each other as they took in the scene. Coriolanus Snow talking to the girl that had a crush on him. Many girls who had tried to date him in the past narrowed their eyes at you. 

You had not noticed that the room was almost silent, save for the whispers of the nosey students. Coriolanus kept repeating your name, trying to break you out of your trance. You liked the way your name rolled off his tongue. An unlimited amount of syllables were repeated over and over again in his baritenor voice. 

“What?” you ask as you are broken out of your trance. 

“Do you want to go on a date with me?” he answered your question with another. 

This seemed too good to be true. The boy you’ve had a crush on for years had just asked you out for seemingly no reason. Either whatever higher power in the sky was on your side, or this was one huge prank. Either way, you agreed. 

˖ ࣪ . 🦢 ࿐ ♡ ˚ .

You stood in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of your room. The baby pink silk slip dress you were wearing used to belong to your mother. She had given it to you two years ago in hopes that you would wear it. She hoped that you would wear it on a date with a nice boy. That’s exactly what you were doing, but there were two problems. The first problem was that you were nothing like your brother, outgoing and outspoken. You preferred to keep to yourself, and if you had to socialize, you would do it with the handful of friends you had. The second problem was that it was two years later. The dress no longer draped beautifully around you like it did when you were younger. It clung to every curve, crevice, and roll you had on your body. You were lucky that the dress still zipped up. You studied yourself in the mirror, going from the tip top of your head down to your painted toenails. At least it looked like you had enough money to be well-fed and groomed. 

Coriolanus was taking you to a new rooftop restaurant. The women in your mother's book club raved on and on about how elegant and regal the vibes in that restaurant felt. They also recounted how hard it is to get a reservation. For a new restaurant, it seemed pretty picky with its patrons. 

He picked you up around six. The sun had already set and a chill breeze kissed your skin, causing goosebumps to rise on the bare skin of your arms. Coriolanus kept you close to him, placing a strong hand on the small of your back. His hand was cold, causing you to shiver. 

The reviews were right. The restaurant was beautiful. The entire place was lit using nothing but candles. They lined the tables with pristine white cloth. There were other details of the restaurant that were otherworldly, but the view of the Capital made you swoon. With Coriolanus long forgotten, your eyes lit up at all the lights and such that outlined every building and street. You had forgotten how beautiful the Capital was at night. Your heart panged with gratefulness at being able to experience this even though you weren’t born here. 

Coriolanus studied you once again. The city lights flashed and shone across your body, accentuating the way your skin looked. It looked soft, almost perfect. Nothing was ever perfect. 

“So, Sejanus told me you like to paint,” Coriolanus commented, breaking the silence between the two of you. 

Your eyes broke away from the shining lights and back to the companion in front of you. “Yes,” you simply said. 

The simplicity of your words made Coriolanus fix his hand into a fist under the table. He was doing you a favor! You were the one who had a crush on him, not the other way around. He couldn’t say anything, though. He had to remind himself why he was doing this. Flashes of images passed through his mind. They all had one thing in common; they were dear to him - the only things he loved. That was the reason why he was here. He needed the money that was attached to you. 

“What do you like to paint?” The food that he ordered for the two of you was being placed down on the table. He ordered steak and potatoes with a side of steamed vegetables.

You are a vegetarian. 

Everyone knew you were vegetarian. You loved animals and couldn’t fathom eating a living animal. You didn’t judge people who ate meat. Everyone was free to live the lifestyle they wanted and you choose to live a meatless lifestyle.

“Why did you ask me out on a date?” you questioned the boy in front of you who was currently eating his food like a starved man. Which he was. He barely had enough money to pay rent, let alone pay for this meal…

That’s why he asked you on a date - for your money. You’ve lived your entire life having to question whether or not someone wanted to be your friend. Your last name followed you everywhere you went. There was nothing shameful about your family, but you hated having fake people around you. It was literal hell. 

Of course, Coriolanus didn’t like you. He just needed your money. You scoffed at him and didn’t even let him finish as you sprinted out of the restaurant, leaving him confused and with no way to pay. 

It’s safe to say that Coriolanus is never welcomed back. 

[munsonsduchess]

Sugar Rush

summary: you’re chaperoning your little sisters graduation party but you only have eyes for eddie w/c: 18,221 warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI underage drinking (for my American friends anyway, where I’m from the legal drinking age is 18), alcohol, drugs (weed), swearing, heavy making out, grinding, eddie being kinda mean, oral (f receiving), mild exhibitionism a/n: so this was a wip from like last year but I redid parts of it and added the spicy stuff at the end and honestly I’m so happy with how this turned out. I really hope you guys like it too! Please reblog cause it really helps me out.

Dividers by @firefly-graphics and the moodboard is by @sweetpeapod who you should definitely check out bc her work is amazing.

People loved to say tha tx high school was the best time of a young person's life. Of course the people who said that rarely mentioned how high school loved to label people to better pigeonhole them into a certain box. Jock, prep, nerd, geek, freak. 

You’d loved Cheerleading since you could remember. The colourful uniforms, the energy, all of it and you’d been overjoyed when in your freshman year of highschool you’d been selected to join the team. It was a dream come true. 

Of course two years after graduating that dream had slowly faded away and been replaced by something much worse. You still loved the sport and your friends but the lifestyle you were expected to maintain was growing tiresome. 

You’d told your younger sister Chrissy as much when she’d joined the high school squad. Now in her senior year and having been on the High School squad long enough, she’d been sympathetic. You’d long suspected her relationship with Jason was the cause for the sympathetic ear and their relationship drama and eventual break up was not for the reasons most people thought. 

Then suddenly you saw him again. Eddie ‘the freak’ Munson as he was known had always been someone you’d been aware of, you’d been in elementary and middle school together and he had seemed nice enough. Though again not someone that you should associate with in your ‘position’ according to several teammates. Eddie was fine to buy drugs from and if you didn’t have the right amount in cash he was always so grateful for a favour instead. 

You’d met him at a party the first time. He’d been invited presumably just to sell his wares. You remembered your boyfriend at the time buying some weed from the curly haired boy and being grossly overcharged if what you heard was true. You knew Eddie didn’t like jocks and with how the basketball team treated him you didn’t blame him for overcharging rich assholes with more money than sense. 

You’d moved on after that. Graduated school, got into the local community college and set your sights on leaving Hawkins altogether. Well once Chrissy had graduated anyway, you weren’t about to leave her behind in the sort of environment your mother had curated. 

It seemed like fate to meet Eddie again at another party. Chrissy was having a little graduation get together for her friends, but like most events had been ‘crashed’ by the basketball team, the swim team, jock city. Apparently someone had told someone else who’d told someone else and word had just spread, Chrissy Cunningham was having a graduation party and so the house was overflowing with teens preening and boasting about what their parents had gotten them as graduation gifts and which college Daddy’s Money had bought them into. 

Again it seemed like someone had invited Eddie strictly to peddle his wares but things were different this time. People were much more wary after spring break. You’d invited your boyfriend Adam over to co chaperone with you but he seemed much more interested in reliving his glory days with the newly graduated boys milling about and throwing around off handed comments about how Eddie looked. 

The official story was that Henry Creel of Creel house fame had not in fact died at the hands of his father. Instead the budding child psychopath had killed his mother and sister and faked his own death to pin the whole thing on his father. 

He’d been at large ever since according to the federal agents who’d appeared on television and told all of Hawkins how he’d followed your sister back to Eddie’s trailer, Chrissy had told everyone that she was helping Eddie study since he really wanted to graduate this year, and attacked Chrissy again intending to pin the blame on someone else. 

Eddie had put himself between Chrissy and Creel but the madman had taken Eddie and left Chrissy for dead in the trailer. He then went on a rampage that week killing more Hawkins High students and eventually was caught by the authorities. Eddie had not been left unscathed as he’d tried to protect Chrissy and Creel had really done a number on him. Now Eddie had scars all over his body, and if the locker room rumours were to be believed he’d done it to himself in league with Creel, as a result of his injuries. 

Which meant that shallow people loved to take digs at his appearance and the scars, especially the ones on his face. Both you and Chrissy were quick to shut down those rumours usually, but tonight it just seemed that everyone wanted to poke the metaphorical bear. It was a combination off too much beer, too little sense and being provoked and encouraged at every angle that caused your idiot of a boyfriend to call out loudly for Eddie,

"Hey! Franken Freak!" several of the party goers laughed openly, you noticed a few who at least had the decency to look ashamed, 

"What can I do for you? Hasbeen?" Eddie called back, clearly unperturbed by being called out like that, your boyfriend however did not seem to take the rebuttal quite so genially,

"What did you call me?" 

"A Hasbeen, that's what you call someone who peaked in high school right? I hear you're working at the Gas N Sip on the edge of town these days. Thought Daddy was gonna get you into UCLA?" 

It was true. Adam had been boasting to everyone your senior year that his father was going to get him in the 'side door' at UCLA and that no one would ask any questions. Unfortunately someone in the company had already gone to the FBI with evidence of money laundering and fraud and the company went bankrupt months before graduation.

Adam and his family had all survived because of course they had. Came out of the whole situation smelling of roses while some poor guy got thrown under the bus and sent to prison for the rest of his life. It was still a sore spot. Which was evident by the vein pulsing in Adam's forehead and the look of sheer rage on his face. 

You decided to step in before you and Chrissy had to clean blood from your mom's rugs,

"Adam, baby, look why don't we leave the kids to it?" you tried to placate him by putting a hand on his arm and batting your eyelashes, hopefully if he thought he was going to get some he'd calm down. Not so. 

Instead he flung your hand from his arm and pushed you away, leaving you stumbling into the countertop,

"You think you're so fucking cool don't you freak?" Adam was up in Eddie's personal space now, challenging him. Thankfully Eddie seemed to be smarter than Adam and wasn't taking the bait,

"I think you need to chill man. Why not go with your girl? Have a little fun?" he laughed and offered Adam a pre roll from his little lunchbox, "on me" 

"I don't need your charity!" Adam snapped, 

"Wasn't charity dude, just trying to keep the peace" 

Honestly by now you were sick and tired of Adam, he'd been so nice in high school but then when you guys got a little older the niceties ended. He didn't want to go to the mall with you, he didn't want to hang out if you were with friends he didn't know from high school, not to mention that having sex was about Adam getting off and nothing else,

"Get out Adam" you said, making your way through the throng of bodies who had stopped to witness whatever was happening, "I mean it, get out and don't come back" 

"You can't throw me out. You need me" 

"The hell I do, get out of my house and take your stupid friends with you" 

Adam stared at you before scoffing loudly, apparently the whole thing was just so ridiculous to him that he had no other choice,

"You can have her Munson. Honestly she's a frigid bitch, never puts out" he laughed and several of his cronies laughed along with him, "whatever i'm out" 

As Adam left you breathed a sigh of relief. Honestly you'd been wanting to do that for so long and now that you and Chrissy were leaving Hawkins for Chigaco in the fall it seemed like the perfect time, 

"Well wasn't he a peach" Eddie laughed, "i think you're better off sweetheart" 

"Yeah i think so too" you smiled at him, "I feel about two hundred pounds lighter too" 

"Well that certainly calls for a celebration" Eddie offered you the pre roll, "on the house" 

"Only if you'll smoke with me" you said, "you're bound to be sick of all these kids" 

So that's how you found yourself sitting in your bedroom with Eddie Munson passing a joint back and forth alongside the bottle of good whiskey you’d pilfered from your Dad’s  liquor cabinet knowing he’d never miss it. 

“I never asked how you knew my sister” you said passing the joint back to Eddie, “why she was helping you study”

“I remembered her from middle school” Eddie laughed taking a large inhale, “that little cheer routine you guys did” 

“Oh my god I can’t believe you remember that!” You’d forgotten about it honestly, Chrissy had been too nervous to do the routine on her own so you’d gone up with her, “I taught her that. It was the first routine she’d ever performed publicly” 

“A family of cheerleaders huh? Was your mom one too?” Eddie asked

“No. She just likes to live vicariously through her children” you answered honestly. You’d long suspected the reason your mom had pushed so hard for you and Chrissy to join the squad is because she couldn’t do it herself in her own time. 

Eddie hummed a response and lifted himself from your bed where he’d been causally lounging and began exploring your room. He’d lift a little trinket and set it back down, look closely at pictures, trophies, it wasn’t until he got closer to your closet that he stopped. 

Something had caught his eye. Something white and green with a tiger printed on it,

“No way you still have this. Didn’t you graduate two years ago hm?” Eddie teased pulling the cheer uniform out, “let me guess your boyfriend is into it?”

“Not my boyfriend anymore” you said, “he’s a jerk” 

“You didn’t answer the question sweetheart” Eddie leered at you, “was he into it?” 

“Everybody’s into cheerleaders” you offered by day of excuse, it wasn’t a lie exactly,

“Do you still remember all your little routines as well? Even the middle school one?” 

You suspected it was the weed and the whiskey that made you snatch the uniform out of Eddie’s hands and take it to your private bathroom. Re-emerging moments later dressed in your game day finest, even if the skirt was a little shorter now on you than it was two years ago,

“I will have you know that I could have been head cheerleader if Mandy Anderson hadn’t been such a bitch and dropped me during practise in sophomore year” 

“So show me what you’ve got then” 

Now ordinarily you wouldn't have bothered with any of this, but right now? Well your pride was on the line … or something. So you went through the entire routine start to finish and ok maybe you added a few extra high kicks in for good measure, you'd dressed intentionally tonight and you weren't about to waste it. 

After you proudly finished Eddie was beaming at you and applauding loudly, 

"Well colour me impressed. Never did see the big fuss before but I'm a changed man" 

"You're just saying that" 

"Sweetheart you wound me" Eddie rather dramatically put his hand to his chest and clutched at his heart, "I don't think i'll ever recover" 

You laughed and walked towards where he'd slumped back onto your bed, still clutching at his chest,

"Never?" 

"Well, maybe" he grinned sitting up and putting his hands on your waist to guide you down onto his lap, "Never thought i'd get a cheerleader in my lap" 

"Well this must be your lucky day" you were incredibly close, your legs on either side of his. Chests practically touching, all it would take is for one of you to lean in just a little bit,

"Only one hit left, you wanna share?" Eddie asked, holding up the joint in his hands. His rings catching in the light,

"Sure" you sounded unsure of yourself, like you couldn't feel exactly what was going on. Eddie took one last drag inhaling as much as he could before a ringed hand came up to cup your jaw, gently encouraging you to open as he breathed the smoke into your lungs. 

You weren't sure who moved first but it didn't matter much when Eddie's hands were gripping your hips so tightly you were sure they'd bruise, his mouth moving against your own. He kept you firmly in place on his lap while he kissed you, only breaking the kiss to leave large hickies all over your neck. You'd have a time explaining those later but right now you didn't care. You just wanted more.

More of Eddie. More of the sensations you were desperately trying to chase. Making out had never felt this good before with anyone, especially when your clothed pussy kept grinding up against Eddie's jeans, the friction too much and not enough at the same time. Causing you to let out little whines when you'd almost get what you wanted but it was just out of reach,

"Awh what's the matter princess? Not getting what you want?" Eddie laughed

"Funny Munson cause it seems to me like you're the one having a hard time" to prove your point you shifted your weight on top of him, grinding yourself against the bulge in his jeans,

"Baby you have no idea" Eddie stood without warning and you wrapped your legs around his waist to keep from falling, "I'm about to rock your world" 

He deposited you back on the bed, your legs splayed open for him to see exactly what he had gotten flashes of earlier. The baby pink lace was barely covering anything but just enough to tease. It seemed to have the desired effect as Eddie groaned into your thigh.

That skilled mouth began covering your thighs in kisses, bites, like kitten licks to soothe. He made sure there wasn't a single expanse of skin that was left untouched, except of course where you wanted him most,

"Quit stalling" you gasped as he bit preciously close to your now dripping pussy, "come on" you wiggled your hips a little from where he'd pinned them to the bed but were instead given a sharp smack to the inside of your left thigh,

"I'm taking my time, gotta work myself up for the main course" Eddie grinned as you pouted, "patience honey, patience" 

You were sick of being patient, it wasn't just you who was eager. You'd seen the way Eddie was readjusting himself or grinding on your bedspread, so instead of listening you slowly put two fingers under the waistband of your panties and slipped them inside as Eddie watched, slightly awestruck. 

You were absolutely soaked and it didn't take much to collect some slick on your fingers and bring them back up to your mouth. Making a show of licking them clean,

"Oh that's good, are you sure you don't want some?" you asked perfectly innocently, as if offering to share your lunch with Eddie and not inviting him to have a taste of something else. 

Your ploy worked, Eddie wasted no time in dipping his head between your legs again and mouthing at your panties. You could feel his tongue moving along your folds through your panties but you wanted more, this wasn't enough,

"Tear them down, rip them off, I don't care" you moaned, grabbing at Eddie's curls as his mouth closed over your clit, sucking it through the lace,

"You're gonna be the death of me" Edide honest to god growled before doing just what you'd told him and ripping your panties down your legs so he could continue. 

There was no basking in your victory however as Eddie spread your legs further apart and buried his face between them. His tongue running along your folds and collecting your slick on his tongue, long broad stripes from top to bottom, he ate you the way he kissed you. Hungry for more. 

You tried your best to keep quiet, you hadn't closed the door and you really didn't want a group of drunk eighteen year olds hearing you get the best head of your life but Eddie had other ideas. His lips closed over your clit making a sort of vacuum, his tongue coming out to flick over the swollen bud making you arch your back off the bed,

"Lemme hear you princess, come on wanna hear you" Eddie mumbled into your cunt before diving back in, two thick fingers plunging into your dripping cunt as he licked and sucked around your clit. 

Eddie's fingers were far thicker than your own and much longer so it was easy for him to find the spongy spot that made you see stars. Once he found it he wasn't giving it up. Curling his fingers as he moved them in and out, the sounds of your sloppy wet cunt filling the room along with your moans. This was far better than anything you'd ever experienced before, it had always been a chore to make Adam go down on you but Eddie honestly seemed to be getting off on it as much as you were. 

The party downstairs was long forgotten as Eddie used his fingers and tongue to split you open, you weren't even sure how long it had been since you both came up here. The mix of weed and booze and the heady feeling from being fucked so good on just Eddie's fingers had you floating away, all that mattered was what Eddie was giving you. Nothing else. 

You felt it when you were close, that pressure building up inside you ready to burst. Like every inch of you was on fire, a string pulled taught and ready to snap at any moment,

"Eddie" you'd whined, hands buried in his hair pulling tight as your whole body flooded with sensation, 

"That's it Princess that's my girl, come on, cum for me, I wanna see it" his fingers moved faster, bringing you closer and closer until your release washed over you. Slick and spit dripping down your thighs and Eddie couldn't get enough, devouring every drop he could until you finally had to squirm away from the sensation,

"Too much" you'd gasped, "Eddie too much" 

He took a step back and grinned at you, the lower half of his face  soaked in your slick and spend,

"Sorry princess, you just taste too good I couldn't stop" 

A laugh bubbled out of you, he really had enjoyed himself. The fact that he was still hard in his jeans didn't escape you either, but before you could suggest anything to remedy the issue your attention was drawn to your still open bedroom door,

"What the fuck is going on here?" Adam was standing in the doorway, red faced and looking as if he were about to explode. You quickly closed your legs though it didn't seem to matter since Adam's attention was all on Eddie,

"Oh hey man. Look I'm sorry but I'm a little busy, kind of in the middle of something so I won't be selling anything else tonight" and with that he just, shut the door on Adam's enraged face and turned back to where you were still lying on the bed, "so, where were we?" 

Taglist: @pillow-titties @eddiemunsonwillbethedeathofme @munsonology @thegirlblogstuff @boomhauer @prettyboyeddiemunson @hellfireeddie6 @that-lame-ghoul9000 @flashyourgreeneyesatme @anxiousstark @ruinedbythehobbit @winnifredburkleismyhero @manda-panda-monium @insertcoolnameherethanks @aftermidnightwriting

if you want to be added/removed let me know

[cupcraft]

i watched the Dream video for technoblade, his dad, and the charity. no other reason.

It'll be A dream free liveblog this will mostly be about stories of techno, his dad. I will state here that dream does talk about his memories of techno/techno kicking his ass at things/being good (mc monday and the duel for ex) and responds to his dad's stories and stuff but i dont feel comfortable liveblogging those parts so thats all ill say about it here. There will be a portion where his dad mentions dream a few times in his stories which ill state in service of his dad's/the family's voice but thats where itll end!

This will be long im sorry, and also its unedited grammar wise:

this stream/video was to donate to the sarcoma foundation (which definitely i do encourage donating if you can) and once again reminder you can buy the techno merch that also goes to his family and charity!

skeppy presented the award at the sarcoma foundation and met techno's dad. His dad also heard a lot about skeppy over the years as they were friends. Skeppy said the video that resonated the most with him the most when asked was "skeppy tries to troll me but i troll him first" (on technos channel, "skeppy's dungeon" on his). His dad shared a lot of joy to memories with techno and skeppy's relationship.

his dad says he feels like the "grief wants to be the only thing thats happening". and he said "i was there for his whole life. literally from day 1. literally for the last day." He finds his memories going over the last week of his life over and over again and he remembers it being mostly painful emotionally. And he doesnt want that last week to cement itself in his head, so he wants to go over memories of his whole life and stories from when he was a little kid and stuff. His goal is to talk about him as a whole person and not just the cancer.

His dad talked about how little funding cancer gets, how its the number 2 killer in the US and "it not only takes our parents but takes our kids sometimes and our friends and anyone." He praised doctors and researchers and he met them at the sarcoma foundation event.

in the spirit of joy as he dad said he wanted to share this story: when techno was 2 years old his dad had techno and his younger sibling. he said when kids are 3 months they sit so you can go to the bathrooma nd that when they get older theyre dangers and he said "thats when they try to kill themselves!". His first wife had the flu at this story, and he had to maintain the childcare and there was a staircase to the bedroom. The younger sister thought going up and down the stairs was super duper fun but she wasnt good at it, he had to like monitor her a stair behind. She then at one point was on the stairs close to the bottom and fell, and his wife said "what was that??". he picked her up and he tried to comfort her and stuff. And techno walks in the room and goes "baby fall down crash" and then his dad mimicked slapping the floor and rolling all around to show what 2 year old techno did to describe the story. Srsly crying at this :,) oh techno.

another reminder to donate!

his dad is an avid gamer but stayed away from minecraft bc he didnt want to be the "parent that gets heavily involved with what the child does" *laugh*. He watched techno play pvp, and once he figured out what was going on during these 1v1's and noticed that he kept winning without losing hearts. And his dad said "alex do they know youre there? are you invisible?" Though his dad could believe his son could win due to other video games like tf2 that they played together where he'd be MVP 2x the score of the entire other team's score and he'd say "oh i did so bad im so disappointed" (noted to be a bit of an exaggeration).

in his whole career his dad said he never saw him stress about anything other than the duel, leading up to it mostly. he didnt know why but it really stressed him out and techno shared with his dad a lot of worse case/ "nightmare" scenarios that his dad said "didnt seem realistic." His dad said "all the bad things you imagine might happen but are more likely if you turn it down (paraphrased i missed a few words here my apologies i do have auditory processing issues!). And his dad said "who is this green smiley guy whose gaining more subscribers than my boy!!" and he felt competitive on technos behalf.

he aspires to be a good dad to those behind the camera (which i assume are techno's siblings by context).

his dad brought up the elbow reveal and that he wanted to do a face reveal which caused some laughs. He is now thanking his sponsor "cancer where without it this stream wouldnt have happened." (All i can say is that ik where techno got his humor from im srsly in tears this fucking family :,)!)

His dad talked about the cancer. and referenced the joke "it was gonna be the most epic elbow reveal ever" about the almost amputation. And he did a great impersonation of techno's voice. He thought he was going to be weeping copiously but he didnt want to put that on the situation so he tried to stay positive and kept it about love for techno as much as he could until the end. He got techno a present in this message and then started laughing and that "nobody likes this story". next bullet pt->

the present was for the occasion of the surgery. He wanted it to be good and valuable and special. He got him a book, a rare first edition first print 1922 book of hemingway's farewell to arms. (no shot cryinggg)

Now its mcc time! Just a lot of sharing of techno mcc memories.

Dream smp whitelisting time! Techno was always on the dream smp list because (maybe) tommy asked him to be. He just logged on at one point (which we all know when :,)!). His dad also shared that he had several characters only one he wanted to be whitelisted (which was technoblade!). i assume he means acc names (?) and there was a joke that he kept trying to log in with his other acc's and said "i cant join because im not white listed (paraphrased) and that "i spent 50 dollars on a joke".

his dad is 60 years old, recent bday!.

"no ones gonna watch you play the videogame you can just play it yourself!" his dad said. (i missed the context of this im so sorry)

he says as a dad hes required to tell dad jokes.

There was a touching and emotional moment about how "it feels like techno is here with us" (paraphrased)

his dad wanted techno to pick out a good chair and out of all the chairs in the world he picked his dad's chair. and he has a shit desk, a computer, and a "ehhh" mic.

Whenever techno would stream/record at 2 am when his family was trying to sleep theyd hear "WHAT???? HEH?? *insert technoisms*" through the door. and he said "it was so awful when it stopped." :(.

he and his dad communicated through the door texting and hed check on him and theyd watched hunterxhunter/etc. together. And techno "couldnt eat without watching tv" and so meal and a show ig :D!

His dad said "i really miss him a lot." And he'll see reddit posts and he'll think its perfect to techno but then he remembers he cant send them.

Also He wont make a twitter but he's thought of making a technodad reddit and he loves the techno-ers on reddit a lot :D and he reads those posts until he cant any longer.

REMINDER TO DONATE AGAIN!

they knew another boy who had sarcoma who only lived until he was 8. and they had to take a break. at this point.

his dad said techno seemed to mean a lot to people that was more than pvp and funny jokes. and he sees the like "techno you helped through a bad time" posts. and hes so proud, and has seen all the donating on his behalf and finds it really (he pointed to his heart).

He met the director of the sarcoma foundation and they had never seen anything like it before. And she shared a story of a kid who ran a lemonade stand and raised to 100 dollars and sent it to the foundation for techno.

His dad said techno said "i sell pants now for some reason".

Theres new merch coming out soon. He's outselling! Also you can only order merch when its in stock to avoid delays.

The stream was ended with a hug <3!

His dad gave a big thanks to dream for what he did to help the family.

His dad plans to do more stuff with more people! Hinted at a big charity event with lots of games maybe.

AGAIN DONATE.

Technoblade never dies. this was a stream of love overall <3. I miss technoblade so fucking much. o7 king.

[spacelesbiandisaster]

Do you guys think Barriss knew about what happened with Rafa and Trace Martez?

Because I started to rewatch Clone Wars recently to pickup on lore for a fanfic I pretend to write I started to wonder if Barriss was aware of the Martez parents fate and ended up with a headcanon about that.

So, we a (almost) certain that was Luminara the one who changed the trajectory of a crashing ship who end up destroying the Martinez sisters home with their parents still inside. At least the description that Rafa give us mach her almost perfect:

I sure that is a lot of beautiful green skin Jedi with the order, even Barriss fits in that description if we really want to push it, but I think it's already common sense with the fandom that Rafa was talking about Luminara. And I couldn't agree more! Luminara being the one involved in this opens up so much room for potential new stories.

Could you imagine a Tales of the Jedi arc with Luminara fighting in the war and having to make difficult decisions such as that to protect a falling republic? How would she deal with her responsibility was a Jedi when the council is constantly sending away to battlefronts? That would be absolutely perfect! I almost with I could suggest to Filoni personally.

But the way Rafa describe the scene sounds like Luminara wasn't the only Jedi who came see her and Trace...

"Afterwords the Jedi came back and one of them came over to me. (...)"

One of them.

So who are the others?

I believe Barriss must been one of them. Remember this all happened in the beginning of the clones wars while the Jedi were capturing Ziro the Hutt (I believe it was in season 1 or 2). There's is no reason for Barriss don't be around at the time, especially given that she is Luminara's Padawan and they were on curruscant, not too far away from the Jedi temple.

She was with Luminara when that ship start to crash. Maybe she even was the one to made the call to set the ship on the apparently empty house to save the people she saw walking on the street and bc everything was happening so fast so Luminara agreed. And honestly, what other choice did they had? It's not like they knew the Martez parents was inside the house, Jedi don't have x-ray vision, and was their job to save as many life as they could. So the two of them did what they had to do, but later they learn about the orphans girls and pay they a visit. Luminara took the responsibility of talking to the orphans because she was the Jedi master (and probably bc Barriss would had been too shocked to stay put in she situation. She is a teenager girl after all) while Barriss stayed aside watching.

It could had been more Jedi with them, but I believe that is very unlikely given that they were fighting a war. The council couldn't realistic spare 5 Jedi to speak to every orphan the war left, but a Jedi Master and their Padawan seen fit for this quest.

At first I thought that was it: Luminara told the sisters the force would be with them and didn't do anything else about the situation, but analysing further what Rafa told Ahsoka changed my mind:

"(...) Trace and I were left, without a home. Just left there to find our way in their system."

Of course that Rafa could be referring to the republic was the Jedi system and they were left on the street, but being Luminara the Jedi involved I believe she left the girls on a orphanage of sorts and when Rafa become of age she find a place and won the right to bring Trace with her. So they had some kind of assistance after their parents death, but we all know that this kind of system had lots and lots of problems and high chance is they weren't take care properly. Not that Luminara or Barriss could had known such a thing, so they truly believed they were doing good to Rafa and Trace.

But why this is important?, you may ask. What difference does it make if Barriss was that or not?

Well, do you remember what happened to Ziro not long after that?

He broke way from prison!

Jabba paid Cade Bane (and I think Aurra Sing too) to go to curruscant's prison and take Ziro back to Nal Hutta to pay for the crimes he commit against Jabba's son. The show have two whole arcs about it and both together form one of my favorites stories on the clone wars.

But picture this: Barriss up to that point was very careful to not hurt anyone. On the second battle of geonossis she is talking about the importance of saving lives even when it means sacrificing herself going as far as asking Ahsoka to kill her just to prevent some weird mind controlling worms to spread to the galaxy. This same girl unintentional kill two person to same many on that ship crash and couldn't do anything to truly help the orphans that were left behind. All because of some Hutt crime lord the Jedi and the republic allowed to prospect in Coruscant (Ziro had a damn cantina on the lower levels! With bounty hunters and other criminals running around all the time and no one made anything about it until Jabba's son, another crime lord, order they to act). And like that wasn't enough, Cade Bane kill lots and a lot of people during his mission to "rescue" Ziro.

I can imagine Barriss looking at all that and wondering what was the point of sacrificing the Martez parents on the first place if everything just end up returning to the status quo. The choice Luminara and Barriss made didn't make anyone life better. People still died. The Martinez sisters were alone. And both the republic and the Jedi were conducting their actions base on what Jabba the Hutt wanted.

That could had been the moment she realized the number of wrong thing were happening because of the order and how far they had fallen from their old ways. Barriss was a solder when she should have been a pace keeper and there's nothing she could do that made the Jedi realize what they were doing to her, to all her Padawans friends and to the galaxy as a whole.

Well... Almost nothing...

My personal theory/headcanon is the Martinez sisters incident were the thing that let Barriss to her radicalization and to the Jedi temple bombing.

She probably decided to stay in Curruscant to try to help the people who live there even though she supposed to stay with Luminara and ended up meeting Letta and her husband Jackal (I think that's how it's spelled) and Letta start to talk about doing this great act to attract attention of the Jedi and of the people and was Barriss was spending all the alternatives she had to resolve the problem in a pacific way she started to agree.

I also think the bombing didn't work out the way Barriss intended to because the girl were a total mess on the Wrong Jedi arc.

Maybe Letta feed the nano droids to her husband a little to early, or they were never meant to be feed the him on the first place (Can you imagine Barriss Offe planning on using a civilian was a living bomb? The Barriss we knew from the second battle of geonossis would rather eat the droids herself!) either way Barriss definitely wasn't in her right mind. Other wise she could had save both Ahsoka and herself from prison very easily by blaming Ventress for all her crimes and this is how:

In the Wrong Jedi arc Barriss a holo transmission were she both learn that Ahsoka and Ventress were together and tell Ahsoka were the nano droids droids were.

Right after that Barriss proceed to stole Ventress lightsabers and go to the deposit Ahsoka is look for the bomb's disguise was Ventress so she can fight Ahsoka.

But why she does that?

If her intended was to further incriminate Ahsoka she could had just called the guards who would seem Ahsoka in a room full of nano droids and would go like "Yeah, she returns to the crime scene, there's is no way this kid is innocent".

And if her intended was to incriminate Ventress she should had put her in the room while unconscious. Then she could proceed to fight Ahsoka and stage a situation were Ahsoka finds Ventress there and when the guards eventually show up they would shoot at the separatist rather than command Tano.

So yeah, Barriss was spiraling over guilt so hard she couldn't think straight. And I couldn't think of any other reason in cannon that could had sparkle such reaction (I you know of something else I'm begging me to tell me!).

Barriss had to correct her mistake if the crashing ship incident, but the Jedi didn't listen to her, so she plan something big to gain the attention but her accomplice fuck somethings up and everything gotta way out of control so she ends up killing even more civilians and the rest we can imagine from there: She kills Letta because she was freak out about taking all the blame, end up feeling even more guilt (if this is even possible) and on a desperately attempt to save Ahsoka she tries to blame Ventress but fails spectacularly.

This is all speculation, but I'm choosing to believe that the Martinez parents death play some part on Barriss's Arc. It really is a tragic event that exposes all the cracks in the role the Jedi said they perform as well as the failing republic as a whole.

I would love to Barriss reaction to that on screen I totally think could be part of a hypothetical Luminara story on a future season of Tales of the Jedi.

But what do you think?

Like I said I planning to write a fanfic that has a great role for Barriss and would be super helpful to her others people opinions on the character, so feel free to reach me out to share your personal head cannons and theorys!

(Ps: I'm still learning english so please forgive me if that was a hard to read post)

(Also could you imagine how funny/tragic would be if both Ahsoka's ex-girlfriend and ex-mother in lawn were involved in the death of her current girlfriend, that being Trace, parents? That is good lesbian drama right there!)

[loversj0y]

OMG THE SONG MINE FOR THE TAYLOR EVENT WOULD BE SO GOOD

congrats on 200 btw, you deserve it <3

mine

pairing: wilbur soot x gn! reader

tws: reader has parent issues pog

notes: this one probably took the longest bc of my brain not working, but i do like how it turned out :3

word count: 1.2k

taglist: @l0veb0mb1ng / @core-queen / @zooone / @lillylvjy

You weren’t afraid to admit that you were scared of love. It wasn’t love you were really scared of after all. No, you yearned for love, for something real. But you were scared of falling in love for a multitudes of reasons. You’d seen how quickly love can crash and burn, and how it could leave one person deserted in a whirlwind of heartbreak and loneliness. So you were afraid to fall in love, terrified of giving someone that power over you. You’d seen how it worked out for your parents.

The first time you met Wilbur, it was at a small restaurant on the outskirts of town where you’d go when you needed some quiet. He was your waiter, and since there was no one else, he was very attentive, joking and laughing with you. He wrote his number on the edge of your receipt, and ever since, you and him had been close friends.

You remembered your first date, and you thought about it often. At the time, you hadn’t even realized you were on a date. You and him went to the beach at night, sitting in the dark and staring out at the Brighton sea. You had been stunned when he wrapped his arm around your shoulders, but it was easy to fall into his embrace. He kept his arm around you the entire night, even when he walked you home. The only time he let go was when he dropped you off to press a gentle kiss to your cheek.

At first, you’d been terrified of loving him. But it came easily to you, as careful as you were. Before you knew it, the two of you were an almost inseparable duo, constantly around each other, joking and laughing. Your first kiss felt like a headrush, and you’d been addicted ever since.  

Things weren’t completely easy. As you got closer and your relationship got more serious, you ended up moving into Wilbur’s apartment. What started as a drawer in his closet of your things turned into sharing the closet equally. It was a big step, and it made you incredibly anxious, but Wilbur was always there to quiet your fears with the touch of his hand. As two struggling college students who knew nothing about life or how to live it, you did a pretty good job at making a comfortable life for yourselves. As more time went on, you always thought back to that first night, when you allowed your heart to overtake your fears, and you wondered if he thought back to that night too.

It was two years from then now. You hated to admit how shocked you were that the two of you had lasted this long. You ended up finding a house to rent together, now that both of you had full careers post-university. But more growth also meant more tension and more fights.

You dropped your bag off as you walked in, sighing softly. It was late, you had just closed at work, so it was nearly two AM. You went to the kitchen, opening the fridge. It was almost completely empty. You groaned softly.

You felt Wilbur’s arms wrap around your back as you stood up.

“Hi, darling,” he kissed the side of your head, “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” you smiled slightly, “Did you go grocery shopping?”

“No, I didn’t have time. I ran late tonight.” You sighed, “I just wish you would’ve told me. I could’ve stopped on my way home.”

He laughed, “Darling, it’s two AM. I don’t even like you walking around this late, let alone going to the grocery on your own at this time.”

“Yeah, well, I haven’t eaten, so it would’ve at least been nice to know.” You didn’t mean to sound so upset, but you couldn’t help the tense edge that filled your voice.

He pulled his arms away, and you turned to look at him. 

“Love, you can’t possibly be blaming this on me. You’re not the only one who works a lot.”

“I’m not blaming you, Wilbur. I’m just annoyed right now.”

“Really? Because it sounds like you’re blaming me.” Wilbur was tense too. You knew that his job was making him more stressed as well, but honestly, you weren’t thinking straight.

“Wilbur. Let’s not do this right now-”

“No, we should. You know how much work has been pushing me lately,” Wilbur argued.

“I know that, Wilbur, but you’re not the only one! Work stresses me out too, but if you asked me to pick up the groceries, I would figure out a way to do it!”

“It’s not like I forgot! I had things to do!”

“So do I, and now, I’m home and all I was looking forward to was coming home and having a good meal! And now I can’t, so I’m allowed to be a bit pissed off!”

“I get that, but that doesn’t mean you come in acting like it’s my fault!”

“I’m just tired of feeling like the only one who does shit around here!” Tears sprung to your eyes as you yelled back. You hated this, the yelling, the fighting, all of it. It reminded you of your parents. “We wouldn’t even live here if it weren’t for me! I’m tired too!”

You couldn’t take it anymore. You stormed out the door, crying and running out into the empty street. At some point during your conversation, it had started raining, and you hadn’t even noticed it. You stood there in the street, letting the rain wash the anger out of you, and just felt upset. It was over. You knew it was over. This was how it ended for your parents. Screaming and fighting and walking out. And you just fulfilled the prophecy.

As you were bracing yourself for the goodbye, you were shocked to feel arms wrapping around you.

“Wilbur?”

He held you tightly, and you could hear slight sniffles from him, “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I never wanted to make you cry, I just, I’ve been so stressed, but I never meant to take it out on you.”

You turned, hugging him back tightly, “I’m sorry, too. I just got overwhelmed, and work sucked today,” you admitted softly, relaxing in his arms.

After a few minutes of silence and just holding each other, you felt him kiss the top of your head. 

“Do you remember our first date? At the beach?”

You chuckled quietly, nodding, “Yeah. I think about it every day.”

He smiled, holding you closer, “I think about it a lot too. How much changed because I decided to just finally make a move. I remember how it felt, I was so scared you’d just push me off. Everytime I look at you, I remember how ecstatic I felt when you leaned into me.”

He pulled away, but only so he could lean down and kiss you gently. 

“I still don’t know if I deserve you. I’m shocked you ever fell for me, darling, but I’d be the biggest fool to ever do something that could jeapordize that. I don’t know how you’re mine, but you are. You are mine, and I am yours. And you are the best thing I’ve ever been so lucky to be able to call mine.”

You cried again, but these tears were happy ones, clinging onto him tightly.

“I love you so much.”

“I love you, too, darling. Now, let’s head in. Go shower and clean up, and I’ll order some food in, does that sound good?”

You nodded softly, “Yeah, thank you, Wilbur.”

He walked you in, and you had one thought on your mind. You were so lucky to be able to call him yours.

[umlewis]

Hamilton Asks F1 Fans Not To Spread "Negativity" With Favouritism Claims

Seven-time champion asks for support from his Mercedes team's fans

Lewis Hamilton has asked his Formula 1 fans not to spread "negativity" following a recent debate about possible favouritism towards his teammate George Russell. With Hamilton leaving for Ferrari at the end of 2024, his results compared to Russell have come under added scrutiny, particularly in the context of the younger Briton currently possessing a 9-2 qualifying head-to-head record. Russell leads Hamilton by fourteen points in the drivers' standings and Russell took pole Canada after Hamilton had topped FP3 in Montreal. Hamilton also sparked a particular focus on the dynamics within Mercedes when he said "performance comes away from my car, for some reason" after he had qualified two places behind Russell in Monaco. At that event, the focus centred on how Russell was running Mercedes' new front wing, which has been credited with boosting the performance of the W15 significantly, and how Hamilton said he had "anticipated it would be difficult to outqualify George because he has the upgraded component." But motorsport.com understands that Hamilton had, however, been offered to run the same wing, but chose not to as he had deemed a qualifying crash too risky in the circumstances. This was considering how Mercedes only had one example of the new wing at the time and breaking it would mean having to revert to an older specification and starting from the pitlane in Monaco, where overtaking is essentially impossible in modern F1 machines. The Mercedes drivers' contrasting fortunes in Canada then led to considerable speculation on social media about Mercedes possibly showing favouritism towards Russell. Ahead of this weekend's Spanish Grand Prix, Hamilton was specifically asked by reporters if there was something he wanted to say to his fans regarding this development. "Yeah, I think they know that we're… If you look at the years, we've always been a strong team. We've always worked really hard together. I think it's easy to get emotional, but I think it's always… I even commented in the last race, for example, just about my performance. I think we need support, not negativity. I wasn't actually aware that George was experiencing negativity. George does nothing but his best every single weekend and he's developing with the team, so he can't be faulted at all. Of course, there can always be things that are better within the team, and that comes through conversation, through communication, and that's something that we've been consistently working on. But we're all in the same boat. We're all working hard together. We all want to finish on a high and I feel we owe that to our long-term relationship." When asked about the situation and Hamilton defending him, Russell, speaking alongside his teammate in the Mercedes motorhome in the Barcelona paddock, said: "Personally I don't look on Instagram or Twitter, to be honest. I still sort of control my own accounts, so what my team and all of the content that goes out is through me. The captions, everything, is all of my messaging. But I think social media is a really double-edged sword. There's so many funny things that you see on social media and it keeps you up to date with so much, but then on the flip side it's not just myself, but everybody in the limelight, there seems to be negativity pointed towards them. And like Lewis said, you want to feel their support, and not giving out negativity to others. So, as I said, it's not something I've seen or heard about it [from viewing comments online]. Of course, it's never nice to hear this stuff, but that's unfortunately the world we live in at the moment, and what any person in the public eye is facing." the 'one warning' rule has been amended bc i'm sick of y'all taking the real person behind this account for granted tbh. leave george hate in my notifs, get blocked.

[twistedsocials]

wait this is who people are simping for, excusing a horrible crime (or crimes i'm not sure yet) even if they were only attempted crimes?? (<- hasn't seen rollo but heard about him and his character until today (i was waiting for glomasq or the new drum event to drop (an ssr idia card will come home.)))

like people bash you for simply liking the shroud brothers—not excusing their attempted erasure of the world, or anything else they've done but simply liking how their characters act, look, whatever you like about idia and ortho—then they turn around and excuse him of literal attempted genocide? and genocide of minorities at that?? JUST because his brother died or whatever excuse people use to "justify" his actions???

like i haven't even got to reading the first glomasq book yet bc twst crashed on me while i was trying to load up the first book, so i'm sure once i finish it i'll find more reasons to not really like him and the people who try to justify his actions. idk maybe i'll like him for being able to serve his role as a character well, maybe i'll just end up disliking him overall, who knows?

overall, my first opinion on him is just a pryo inverted hair scaramouche genshin impact who's attempted genocide of a minority (actually, two minorities i believe since not all mages are fae/of fae descent)

anyways have a good day and have a cakehound!

Omg a Cakehound :3

Sorry I meant to respond to this earlier but my paragraphs kept deleted so let me start over

Okay so first of all, no hate to you btw, I like the shroud brothers both for their story and aesthetic (the blue colors on Ortho and his design), but also that doesn’t mean I’m gonna brush off every horrible thing they’ve done, ofc. I even acknowledge too like “yeah, obviously I don’t support them attempting to destroy the world”. Like I can explain it, but I can’t excuse it, ofc.

Also yeah, hot take I’m sorry but Rollo isn’t even that interesting to keep meat riding him. Imo he’s kindaaa boring, I get he might be planned for something considering he’s one of the only event characters to get an SSR but other than that, I just don’t get the hype. Probably shallow of me too, but I just seriously can’t bring myself to like him even for the sake of “aesthetic” or for a “complex character” (it’s just “boohoo my brother died! Time to hate on minorities!” from what I know).

Plus doing a villain and a whole event based on hunchback of notre dame feels a bit…idk off??

Also off topic but before anyone says this, I HATE FELLOW HONEST. Don’t come @ me with some “b-but fellow honest!!”. I’m not talking about him rn. Yes I agree he’s definitely worse. No that’s not gonna stop me from hating rollo.

Kinda feels like a long yap plus it’s 1am for me rn so i apologize 😪

[lewisinho]

as the anon that asked for the race list: thank you!

now this is totally up to you if you have the time to spend on this, but this is my first year watching the races, and while I've been doing some background research to get up to speed, there is still a lot i don't know. i trust your judgment so what are some races and/or f1 adjacent things i should look into? i'm going through your McLaren list and have watched the last 4 seasons of dts and the brawn documentary. are there any other books/ documentaries/ races (especially seb's) / old youtube videos that are lost in the void that i should also check out?

again no pressure and thank you!

no problem!

(and btw welcome to f1 and the world of watching some glorified hot wheels every other sunday 😁 it’s great!)

i completely get how daunting it can be as a new fan in the sport. when i was getting back into f1 it also took me some time to get back up to speed with everything, especially all the techy stuff; i honestly learned the most through just watching the races (old and new), bc you get to see all the strategies play out, the pit-stops, the overtakes etc. and the terminology just becomes much easier to understand through sheer exposure. there are also some really cool f1 data analysis blogs you might want to follow on twt/x if you want some more detailed tech analysis and graphs if you’re into that sort of thing: (x)

as for seb, oh there’s a whole arsenal of recs i have!

monza 2008, rise of torro rosso wunderkind; i presume you already know the lore with that one but ig you can never get tired of it.

abu dhabi 2010, world championship no.1 “du bist weltmeister!”

interlagos 2012, the infamous one. this one’s a rollercoaster, chaos everywhere and the manifestation of murphy’s law: anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. amidst a title battle against nando, seb was fighting the weather, bruno senna’s front wing, a damaged side-pod, no radio, and somehow managed to claim p6 to win the championship

malaysia 2013, multi-21 (iconique), he was faster, deal with it. 💅

singapore 2013, domination masterclass from quali to the race. (also just all of his singapore wins...lion of singapore and all that)

india 2013, title no.3 secured, changed tyres on lap 2 and came out p17, was third by only lap 13 and then won the race by nearly 30 seconds. it was also his sixth win in a row. he went on to win three more. speaks for itself. also this:

malaysia 2015, first win with ferrari, can't forget that one, also features sewis’ gay knee-touching on the podium.

germany 2019, CHAOS, in which merc got bewitched by the special livery curse 😅, with crashes, spins, 50-second long pit stops, and also features one of seb’s best drives from p20 -> p2

i also highly recommend watching Floz's fan-made docus on youtube about 'the silver war' (there are also docus for the 2014 and 2015 seasons) as well as the merc v ferrari (lewis vs seb) 2017 fight and 'fight for five' in 2018, they're so much better than dts and actually give a full run-down of what happened during the season, with all the action on-track, with interviews and providing all the context! it's so well-edited as well (you literally feel like you're watching a movie about all of the seasons) and they are just incredibly fun to watch.

in general, i love rewatching races from 2017/18 (literally my comfort seasons), personal favs include spain 2017 (strategy galore and lewis v seb), baku 2017 (for obv reasons), austin 2017; and basically the 2018 season in its entirety...

as for books, there are many driver autobiographies e.g. jb (he’s even got two lmao), mark webbah etc. but i think the best f1 book out there is adrian newey’s memoir ‘how to build a car’ if you want lore + great insight into cars!

i’d also recommend watching some older races (i could do a separate post on which ones are my personal favs) but it’s all up to you in the end! go digging, look around on yt for some highlights and just keep exploring! 🫶💜

[fluxedbuds]

apparently y'all Are desperate enough for my Lomadia Oc so uh. hope you're in the mood for [checks notes] ~13 paragraphs, half of which is just description!

allow me to introduce Villom!

She doesn't have an actual name or in-universe nickname, I just call her Villom. Because she was originally a Villain Version of Lomadia from a sci-fi world for some comic idea I totally scrapped bc it sucked. Except for Villom!

So basically what if we put Lomadia in space and gave her every problem and no normal coping mechanisms

The base universe is Completely Impossible sci-fi space stuff, involving solar systems being relatively close together and having tons of habitable planets, with star trek 'convergent evolution' making everybody a Weird Human Basically. Part of these choices is that I. Don't actually like sci-fi lol. I don't think its bad I just can't Get Into It, so I did the lazy version. HOWEVER I do also use the fact that its extremely artificial and story-focused as part of the plot so its FINE There IS also magic, but it’s generally less used, as tech is more accessible and less complicated from a user standpoint. That doesn’t mean it isn’t powerful, if you know what to look for. Thats foreshadowing!

Compared to base Lomadia, Villom is.. very immature. She has trouble identifying and controlling emotions, she's quick to anger and holds grudges. She's also more impulsive and tends towards insults and crude jokes. She's actually pretty fun to hang out with as a result, but responsibility is a role she's crushed into, and it never truly fits. She's trying her best ok

Villom starts out her story as a young adult, training to be a pilot. She does some hero shit, but breaks so many rules in the process and gets kicked out. She’s enraged by this betrayal of what was supposed to be her life, and steals a ship to go rogue and try to pursue her dreams anyways. She doesn’t exactly know what she’s doing, though, and eventually a chase causes her to crash on an unfamiliar planet, where she meets Rythian. He’s steampunk now, don’t question it

Anyways, they end up teaming up, and form the first of her crew. Later additions are Martyn, who is a mouse guy who has So Fucking Many People Who Want Him Dead, and Zoeya! Who ended up separated from Fionn following partially the plot of Mushbury, and works as the ship’s engineer. Their ship (that lasts long enough to get a name…) is called the Ask, and Villom occasionally (and jokingly) calls her crew the Answers. (Its called the Ask because originally I gave the characters nicknames based on Norse mythology for Pretentious Reasons, those might come back later)

So everything’s all fine and poggers for a while, with the Ask’s crew causing mischief and undercutting evil empires across the worlds- and then Villom’s home planet is destroyed. And she sees it happen.

See, one of the tropes of sci-fi that bugs me, is how understated the death of an entire planet tends to go. This is the first step of Villom realizing how truly fucked up the world they live in is- and the first step of her wondering why it has to be this way, and how to stop it.

It only gets worse from here.

No matter how many evil empires they topple, no matter how many massive threats they thwart, there’s always another one. And no matter how fast they are, they can’t stop every world-ending crisis. Villom starts learning magic, wondering if theres some kind of solution there. When she doesn’t find one, she just looks harder. Brushing so close with forces she’s alone in experiencing wears on her, compounding with their futile mission.

The breaking point is when Rythian dies. Raiding an enemy ship goes wrong, they’re outnumbered, they’re trying to retreat. Surrenders are not accepted, there.

It’s another thing she sees happen, another thing she was inches away from but unable to stop. And she can’t take it. She can’t take losing another part of her, another of the few things she could call home in this cold void.

She takes some of the things she learned looking where she shouldn’t- and kills the nearest member of the enemy team, trading a life for a life. And part of her soul as tax, of course. Just a small bit, this time. She never tells him. Pretends it was instead an incredibly close call. He probably knows she’s lying, on some level, but he never says it.

Villom is desperate, now. There’s more and more things she’s hiding from her crew, more and more boundaries of safety she’s pushing. She trades one of her eyes for the ability to see the functions of the world itself- maybe it’s a mistake, there’s some gear stuck, and if she fixes it this infinite loop of wars will stop.

There is no mistake. This is how the universe is intended to function.

She can’t give up. Because if she stops, she’s never going to get up again.

Maybe there’s other worlds where it’s better, where it’s safe. Maybe there’s a way to make this world like them.

Maybe there’s a way to leave.

She’s barely human anymore, even though she looks perfectly fine. Her hair is white, her eye replaced, but that’s all. She’s replaced the things she’s traded away. She’s barely even a part of the world, anymore. Unstuck from the threads of it, floating as a constant point, unchanging and undying, snapping back into place when moved.

A lot of universes are visited by a strange woman with white hair, who never stays. Sometimes she’s a savior, or a tyrant, or merely another passerby.

One of them, somewhere, has to have an answer. The way to break the cycle. And Villom will find it- even if she has to take every one of them apart.

[happyk44]

Thinking about that long form feral!Jason fic I wanna write but probably never will get around to doing so, and like. It would be such a disappoint to just keep my meandering thoughts in my head, right?

As far as plot goes, it'll probably end up being more character driven introspective than plot important. Like yeah there's a plot they're following because it wouldn't be PJO without a stupid quest but that's really just an excuse to bustle everyone together. Thought process is Thanatos goes missing ala SoN and Nico, flocked by Hazel and Jason, drags Percy and Thalia along to help find him because - idk, he just does. Cousin outing lmao.

Hazel is alive for no other reason than I want her to be. She was a "gift" from Zagreus as thanks for Nico helping out in the war, because he was annoyed Nico got snubbed in all the congratulations. Naturally Bianca was Nico's first thought but she was like "Nico, fuck off with that shit" and directed him to their lonely sister sitting beneath a tree and poof. Hazel.

Leo was in the Kronos army and ran away at the end of the war, because he didn't trust the gods or CHB not to kill him. He wasn't really a fighter - he just made their armor and weapons, so he wasn't technically even in the actual battle, which made it a lot easier to escape detection.

He also lives with Piper now - idk if I want to include my mute!Piper thoughts, and I'm murky on how Piper and Leo will get brought into the mix. I do know it will be a "Nico knows a guy" situation. But anyway Piper and Leo live together. Idk how they met - probably crashed into each other or caught one another stealing shit or Piper saw Leo and thought "opportunity to make my dad pay attention to me" and took him with her or whatever. Obviously it doesn't work, but Leo sticks around because Piper enjoys having a friend, and he's the one who pieces together that Piper is a daughter of Aphrodite, and warns her from ever going to CHB. Up in the air if she knows his background regarding the war and shit by this point, but they're the people they have so they're tight.

Frank's backstory is more or less the same, except after training in Camp Jupiter for a couple weeks, he's like "no. I can't do this. This is awful. How do I get back to Canada and the snow?" And then Nico pops up doing his ambassador to Pluto thing (bc while both camps know about each other now, they haven't yet started mingling and Nico is aware that Octavian has... issues).

Anyway Nico is trying to get the scope of the place, wondering it would be a good place for Hazel to live so she doesn't have to hang out in the Underworld all the time, which she doesn't mind for the most part - but she does want to socialize and make friends with living people. And Nico thinks that she'll probably have a better time with the Romans than the Greeks, because they'll associate her more with wealth.

He and Frank bump into each other and Nico realizes Frank is trying to escape camp. Offers to help him and gets Hazel and Jason who help him leave in the middle of the night, while Nico socializes publicly with the other cohorts, so that like. No one gets suspicious that Frank disappeared right after Nico showed up. On their journey back to Canada, Frank discovers his shapeshifting powers.

Currently the POVs are probably gonna be a switch between Thalia and Percy. But maybe others will join in as the story flows.

Also Jason really likes Frank's shaping shifting powers, and every time they visit him and his grandma, Frank turns into a wolf (or bear or other large predator animal) and lets Jason wrestle him. Frank does not enjoy this as much as Jason does. Jason also has to wear a muzzle inside the house as per Grandma Zhang's rules, because he "does not know to keep his teeth behind his lips". Despite this, he is a decent-ish wolf pup with her, and will grumble loudly but let her click the muzzle on with only a few pitiful whines.

[hertwood]

Please elaborate on ttpd being a sargewood album 👀

hi thank u so much for caring abt the rot in my brain 💖

ok so. mayhaps i am talking out of my ass here, i havent rly fathomed the whole album yet, and there are songs i associate w/ a variety of ships/fic ideas. BUT more songs fic sargewood than any other ship so. allow me to explain.

this is all speculative to taylor swift’s life so its not #confirmed but allegedly this album is abt leaving long term relationship she felt trapped in (joe), and then rebounding in a short term fling (matty). if we look at these songs through the lens of joe=f1 and matty=indycar, therefore kyle, this is how i fathom these songs in a sargewood way.

OBVIOUSLY this does not work for many of the songs, but for the ones it does it is so compelling. also she broke up with matty anyway and he allegedly SUCKS so i’m only rly considering “early relationship” songs here.

Fresh out the slammer is probably the best example: leaving a relationship and immediately knowing where you’re going next. if logan doesn’t have a future in f1, indycar /is/ the place to go, and kyle is his connection. if he gets dropped, you KNOW kyle is one of the first people he’s calling 

Fresh out the slammer, I know who my first call will be to

NEXT SONG lets talk Florida!!! the original song I claimed as sargewood for obvious reasons!! ofc, its great bc Florida is there home state. But if we can go back to joe and matty for one second (i’m sorry)

In So Long, London, London not only represents the place, but also Joe and their relationship. I did not come up with this, but I saw people on tiktok saying that while joe=london, matty=florida. the entire song is abt being trapped monotony of her old life (london/joe) and escaping to the new exciting florida(matty).

this fits logan just as florida proper—he can always go home and relax to take a break from the stress of f1. BUT if u wanna see it in a sargewood way--they can both escape their stressful racing lives, come back to florida, to EACHOTHER. this song makes me insane abt them fr. I also like to hear “fuck me up, florida” as “fuck me in florida” AND YOU CAN TOO

I need to forget, so take me to Florida I've got some regrets, I'll bury them in Florida What a crash, what a rush, fuck me in Florida

LAST SONG i’m using for this thesis, but i’m not ruling out fathoming more as sargewood through the joe=f1 matty=indy/kyle lens. it’s a long ass album, i’m employed, i can only do so much

BUT LETS TALK FORTNIGHT

this fathoming was key to me liking this song. HOWEVER while the last two can be fathomed as sargewood in general, fortnight fits a specific fic idea i have where i need to explain some lore first.

logirlie historians will know how after the 2020 f3 season, logan was in a sort of a limbo career wise before he got the call from williams and we know where it goes from there. in this time he was testing for indy, thinking his european racing career was basically over.

so the fic idea. kyle & logan have always had a bit of a ~non platonic connection~ but neither has acted on it due to the distance etc etc. but in this short period of time (a fortnight, perhaps 👀), when its looking like logan might be heading to indycar, the dam breaks and they have a short fling that is more serious than either will admit after, when it ends when logan goes back to f3.

The ACTUAL fic would be years later, where logan leaves f1 and goes to indycar in 2025(?). years have passed, and they've stayed friends this whole time so it /should/ be fine, but now that the distance is no longer an issue all those old feelings come bubbling right up to the surface. they could, of course, just communicate and get together easy peasy but that wouldn't be a fun fic would it? of COURSE it'd be messy.

I haven't written anything, it's more of just a nebulous concept rn and idk if it'll ever go anywhere but it is ALL i think abt when listening to fortnight. The florida and car reference in the bridge is just the cherry on top

And for a fortnight there, we were forever (Back in 2020/2021, what we had was real)

Run into you sometimes, ask about the weather (We talk sometimes (2021-2024) like it's normal and nothing happened)

Now you're in my backyard, turned into good neighbors (Now (2025) we see each other all the time and pretend it's all platonic)

I love you, it's ruining my life (My career would be so less complicated if you weren't in it)

Move to Florida, buy the car you want But it won't start up 'til you touch, touch, touch me