#no it isn’t it’s a spanish word i think i’d know more as someone who grew up around that culture and language

[idiot-mushroom]

‘you’re a hater’ yeah i am, i hate disrespect and i hate people thinking being rude is ok, to mask your ignorance with disabilities that would never make you think that you know more than me just because you’re a white, cis, straight american man. you are annoying and bigoted, that is why i hate you. i wouldn’t trust my daughter with you and you make everyone uncomfortable with your opinions and actions, you make my friends leave a room you entered. i’m not a hater, i just hate you.

[pommunist]

Thoughts on Quackity’s stream

Q saying that he’s doing the stream in english instead of spanish and saying it’s because people were upset that the previous statements were in spanish. Obviously I’d like for him to speak about these important things in the language of his choice, but I feel like he misunderstood that the issue most people had was actually not the language but the lack of subtitles + official translation. And this issue still stands when he speaks english btw.

Now, and I believe that’s all that need to be said about this : Anyone who goes out of their way to spread Q’s personal information and/or uses it to threaten and harass him are proper freaks and I will never stand for that. I’m sorry that he is fearing for his safety, no one deserves to go through that.

I know that there are many people who perceived him stepping down from his position as a way to avoid his responsibilities and I can definitely see where they’re coming from but I personally see it as a good thing. Obviously because safety comes first and if taking a step back can stop him from being put in harm’s way, absolutely a great decision. And also because this may allow people who are more capable of handling this position to be put in charge.

I’m also glad that he’s taking actions against the people who were misusing his funds and who enforced a toxic work environment. We don’t know anything about these people so I won’t talk much about it but I hope they face the consequences of their actions.

Also good that it was clarified that that one problematic person has not been involved with the project, I think everyone is relieved to know that someone unsafe was not a part of it. Although, while he was right to warn people not to spread misinformation (this is true for everything btw do your research !), I don’t like how he said to be mindful about the intentions of people who raised the question, because a lot of them had genuine concern about it being a possibility and this could have been a very serious and dangerous thing if it had been true.

It’s good that he acknowledged that he didn’t properly address the issue of xenophobia against brazilians the first time and apologised for it. However I don’t like how he took the time to address that it was specifically brazilians who were being targeted, but didn’t address that it was mostly his own community who was responsible for it, which led to another wave of hate and bigotry towards brazilian fans on twitter. However I’m not brazilian myself and it’s only up to them wether they choose to accept his apology or not.

He talked about how he is usually a private person regarding these situations and to be honest I’ve always admired the fact that he doesn’t engage publicly with drama. Drama, except this isn’t drama, it goes way beyond what this word means.

Him saying he was ready to handle it privately but that it was made public before that is just so hypocritical to me, because we know from the many admins statements that they had tried to bring attention internally to some of the problems but it was either ignored, or actually impossible from them to have communication with the higher hierarchy. So saying what he said just puts the blame on the admins who came out with their stories for this whole situation taking the proportions it has taken.

And great that he’s saying that there has been some restructuring made within the team, and hopefully these changes will only leave the studios with competent people who are good intentioned towards everyone involved. I won’t like though, I fail to see how asking for everyone’s feedback and taking it into account to make these changes wasn’t an option. Also the fact that this restructuring ended up causing them to massively letting go of all the twitter teams as well as some other admins is still an issue.

Like he can deny that he purposefully put his stories above those of other ccs, say that he does have passion for the project and was involved in its creative development, which I’m not trying to imply he’s lying about btw, but not address the main issue of the admins situation ? Not a word about or for them ? But instead you use your plateform to talk about your role in the lore knowing these are talking points discussed by the admins and community. What good does that do except for your own image ? What do you think your fans are going to do if not go and harass the people who have made these claims ? Meanwhile people will discuss these topics that are so far removed from the main issue and focus less on what the admins went through.

I’m not saying this was intentional, I’m not saying he’s directly guilty of any disgusting behaviour that some of his fans are guilty of, but as an influencer with an audience as large as his is, you have a certain responsibility to try your best to prevent these things happening.

If you think I’m exaggerating, that it couldn’t be that bad, just know that since the stream :

Admins who spoke up are receiving hate again and Léa is getting the worst of it as you can imagine. Like I mentioned before, there has been a resurgence of xenophobic tweets against the brazilian community. French qsmptwt accounts and others who took a stance for the admins are also being insulted/harassed again. Léa, Lumi (Pomme admin) and Shade (Dapper admin) have all had some of their private info leaked. There has even been a call to mass report Nat_Ali’s, the streamer who conducted Lea’s interview, twitch channel.

—————

And because still he didn’t do it and I want to end on a positive note, some thanks are in order

Twitter admins, thank you for making every stream accessible to everyone, allowing us to follow what went on when we could watch and to rewatch the best moments. Thank you for adding your own comments to the clips, and for making all the funny memes, you gave a heart to these accounts. Thank you as well for being the ones to collect fanarts for the museum, for giving many people an opportunity to appreciate the wonderful talent of the community.

Writers, thank you for coming up with such amazing and intriguing stories, and making us pull our hair out theorising about them ! I wish you were given the space and creative freedom to develop them more and make them flourish.

Roleplayers, thank you for having done such a wonderful job giving life to all these characters I hope you know how deeply they are loved by us the viewers. Mentions spéciales : Lumi, merci pour Pomme, merci pour avoir représenté notre pays, notre langue et notre culture pendant tout ce temps, on aurait pas pu rêver d’une meilleure ambassadrice 🍎♥️. Léa merci pour tout ton travail, tes illustrations, tes personnages, et aussi toutes tes refs purement fr ahah. Merci et bravo d’avoir osé parler surtout, on est avec toi 🐰💓.

Thanks to all the builders, devs, artists, translators, sound designers, everyone who has been a star in the qsmp constellation and has worked to make it such a great time for us viewers.

[sideroachblog]

Hey y'all here's that AleRoach WIP I promised!!

~4k words. Dry humping at the end (mostly build up), Alejandro being OOC because this was a bit of a daddy issues fic, Size Difference, Unfinished.

There will be TWs under the cut. They're pretty heavy because this is an offshoot from my fic Outside Looking In, where Roach was rescued after being a POW and experienced *severe* trauma. This WIP doesn't go into detail, but it doesn't mince words and it investigates how Roach's experiences are fucking with his current relationships. Additionally, there are heavy spoilers in here for OLI and it reveals more of Roach's perspective of his relationships with the team, particularly Ghost and Soap.

@youredyingthatsallthereis bc I was asked to tag <3

~~

TWs:

1. References to SA Roach endured while captive

2. Roach still being underweight from torture

3. Referenced Cheating

4. Internalized homophobia

5. My awful attempts at Spanish and writing realistic dialogue for someone who speaks English as a second language. In other words: Alejandro sounds corny as fuck. This man on the damn cob.

~~

TRANSLATIONS

Flaquito = An endearing petname. Flaco means skinny and the suffix -ito makes it smaller/cuter/etc

¡Está bien! = It's alright!

Cuate = Buddy/friend/etc

Mierda = Shit

Cariño = Honey/sweetie

No puedo dejar de pensar en ti. = I can't stop thinking about you.

Tesoro = Treasure

--

“Awfully thin for a member of the 141. How do you run drills? I dunno why they brought you here; you don’t even have a call sign yet.”

Roach looked up from the table where his nose was buried in gun parts, one of the team's assault rifles completely disassembled for cleaning. Colonel Vargas filled the doorway.

Before he could stand to salute his superior waved a dismissive hand and said, “Don't bother. Keep the energy, heaven knows you need it. At ease, flaquito.”

The nickname was a surprise when Roach expected to be addressed by rank. No clue what it meant, though. Halfway up from his chair he hesitated, then plopped back down with straining thighs and a groan. He quipped, “Maybe I'm just too good to leave behind, Sir.”

It was impossible to relax again, on edge and unfamiliar with the man’s temper, bracing for an inevitable smoking. He sat stiffly, spine straight as a board.

The Colonel double checked the safety on his own rifle before resting it in the corner then meandered across what was one of the safe house's bedrooms, now stripped of furniture save for folding tables and gun cases. The space was designated for weapons storage and maintenance. A lone yellow bulb hung from the plain room’s ceiling and offered sufficient lighting—enough to complete duties, not enough to help locate dropped screws or runaway pens.

“You’re in danger,” Vargas said matter-of-factly.

Roach squirmed. “Aren’t we all?”

“You especially. The stairs up here winded you. You have thin bird wrists and negative muscle mass like a frail old lady. What if we’re raided?”

He frowned and said, “I either prove my gun skills or perish, I guess.”

“That isn’t a price I’d expect your Captain to chance paying. Sacrificing fresh meat who needs more time to train, especially when you could put others in danger, too. I’m well-acquainted with John and well-experienced weighing risk versus reward.” The man pulled up a chair and settled in on Roach’s right. “Point is, I’d never send someone so underweight on an operation like this one, even if they stay cooped up in here. Not a newbie. Not in a million years. For Price to make that call, he knows more than he’s letting on.”

“What are you getting at, Sir?”

“You don’t have the eyes of a new recruit.”

He monitored the Colonel in his peripheral for any threatening behavior and swallowed hard. “Just joined the Special Air Service, Sir. If you think he’s hiding something, I think he’s the bloke to ask.”

Alejandro Vargas sat there like a brick wall: an athletic, imposing man of great importance to the Mexican Special Forces, more so than Captain Price was to the taskforce. Only now, with broken ribs where a bullet slammed his plate carrier, was he confined to the safe house in brief recovery. Roach felt like chump change in comparison to his weight lifting build, about six inches shorter and only half the kilos, stuck doing upkeep rather than assisting in the field. Even at his peak, before everything, before Makarov’s Ultranationalist animals held him captive, Roach wasn’t nearly as strong. He reminded himself that he was still healing, still gaining muscle, still making progress on top of how far he’d already come.

…So far, he’d only managed to gain about ten kilos. Ten more and he’d reach a ‘normal weight,’ again, still so unbearably skinny, still far from the size and strength his job required.

Their power imbalance seeded discomfort in his abdomen. Their differences in strength only amplified what stemmed from the subservience a sergeant owed a colonel. It was too similar to Russian prison, Roach beaten and abused by guards double his size who commanded him around like a mule. He tensed without meaning to, leaning away when Vargas’ thick forearms rested on the table, muscles rolling beneath their skin as the man fiddled with a hand guard from the disassembled gun.

The sight left him conflicted. Vargas struck fear in his heart, but struck it in other ways, too. He was attractive, certainly Roach’s ‘type,’ especially considering his confident, benevolent demeanor and how he cared personally for each of his men (at least from an outsider’s perspective). Tough love, but love nonetheless. However, the timing of Roach’s trauma was tragic—happening before he had the opportunity to explore his true sexuality. His thoughts were a muddled mess.

“I just cleaned that, Sir,” he stated. “You’re smearing finger grease all over it again.”

Vargas grabbed a damp cloth and wiped his hands down before using it to tidy the mess. “We’re not on an op. I’m not even your colonel. No need for the formalities right now, Smith.”

Smith. Garrett Smith. The new name was still foreign to his ear, so accustomed to ‘Gary Sanderson’ that he nearly corrected people on occasion. He went to say ‘yes, Sir,’ then truncated the title, hissing, “Yess-s—”

The slight lisp from Roach’s missing teeth made it all the more embarrassing. His cheeks turned pink.

“I’m dead serious about those eyes. Have you seen yourself? Permanent dark circles, thousand yard stare. Even now, you look passed me rather than at me.”

“Mm. I hadn’t noticed,” he lied, sounding as unbelieving as possible. “Interesting observation.”

Vargas angled his wide body to watch the Sergeant work. “Yes, very.”

Roach shrunk into his shoulders when the Colonel leaned forward, into the small uniform shirt that hung baggy enough to have him dress-coded anyway. He prayed the man didn’t notice.

No such luck.

“Not everyone in the world is out to get you. I don’t know who taught you we are. Price wouldn’t put you in harm’s way.”

He shuddered at the memory of Shepherd and replied, “I’m well aware there’s people on my side, Sir.”

“I’m one of them. No need to act like a scared dog.”

What if Price was wrong again? What if Alejandro were schmoozing him, attempting to—Roach gritted his teeth, trying to allow his respect for the Colonel to overpower his panic. “I know.”

“Then relax; I won’t bite.”

His legs screamed to bolt before something terrible happened, old pain from Ultranationalist hands resurfacing. Cuts, punches, yanked hair. Having his head shoved underwater until the bubbles nearly stopped.

When he was first captured, their medics begrudgingly treated his burn wounds with as little care as possible (and he had no idea why they didn’t leave him to die). They ripped off the dressings as if peeling stubborn wallpaper, debrided his skin without anesthesia, re-mummified his writhing form as agony lingered. The worst came later, towards the end of his imprisonment. It happened once. Fingernails digging into his thighs, forcing his legs open. Wrists bound so tightly with fraying rope they sustained nerve damage. Bodily intrusions he longed to forget. Thankfully, his attacker was not gifted in certain areas; however, the bastard compensated with violent thrusts that tore through Roach anyway, mentally and physically, leaving a cloud of disgust surrounding his body even months later. Worse still, the fact that Roach had dreamed of those same activities, gentler, involving trusted individuals. These fantasies were tainted, of course. Everything about him felt rotten after his assault was said and done.

He knew that wasn’t true. The thoughts surfaced regardless.

With a deep sigh, he did his best to loosen up.

“Good,” Vargas praised when Roach visibly shoved down the tension. He plucked a rifle scope off the table and worked the cleaning cloth up and down its length in long strokes, wrist twisting as he did.

Roach watched momentarily, then gazed up and found the man already looking back. He said, “You don’t need to help, if you’re busy. I’m sure you’ve more important duties to tend.”

“More important…? It’s break time. I’m striking up conversation. You intrigue me.” A gleam in Vargas’ eye betrayed the true extent of his interest: Roach was a mystery to solve. A broken man still piecing himself together in the line of action, ‘freshly recruited,’ although it was clear the Colonel knew better.

Roach offered a weak smile. “There’s not much to know.”

“Ah. I see. Hate small talk?”

“Always have, S-sir.”

Vargas replaced the scope and began polishing the other hand guard. “There’s beauty in the little things, you know. Much to be learned from interactions you wouldn’t think twice over. Puzzles made from smaller pieces are more intricate by design.”

“They take longer to assemble. Not much time to spare in our line of work, is there?”

“I’ll spare my time for you.”

As sure as he was the Colonel meant nothing of it, Roach’s face flushed anyway. Even though the thought of Vargas picking out the truth made him queasy, his eyes opened wide, dry lips parting delicately.

“Oh,” he chuckled nervously, “thanks.”

The corner of Vargas’ mouth raised in amusement. However slight, the expression managed to reach his eyes with sincerity.

“Of course. We kinda… left you here toiling alone. I wasn’t expecting to be stuck here as well. I can only assume you feel swept under the rug, maybe a little useless,” he said, wiggling one hand like a balance. “I know I do. But you’ve been lightening the load on our shoulders when we return from missions, though. So don’t feel bad. We appreciate having maintained weapons and an organized living quarters after. Your work at the base is invaluable.”

The words struck a cord in Roach’s heart, feeling more understood than he had in ages. With the 141, he was merely doing his best. His accomplishments were stepping stones in recovery. He wasn’t capable of anything more until healthy, and even afterwards his achievements would be overshadowed by the unspoken thought that he managed them despite everything.

Roach became inseparable from his suffering.

He nodded. “No problem.”

The Colonel clapped a massive hand on his bony shoulder. “Don’t be so shy. I appreciate your hard work, lugging around heavy gear and checking ammo supplies. It hasn’t gone unnoticed, and I’ll be sure to mention it to Price.”

Again, he nodded, unsure of whether to give thanks once more.

“You’re doing great, Garrett. You deserve recognition.”

Tears pricked at the corners of Roach’s eyes. He blinked them back but ultimately failed, and two tiny droplets escaped down his cheeks in white-hot rivulets.

Vargas was taken aback. His brain caught up to speed as he exclaimed, “¡Ay, está bien, cuate! Don’t cry. What’s wrong?”

Roach let him rub circles into his upper back, resting his eyelids as the movement swayed his body. Vargas cupped Roach’s jaw in a warm, calloused palm, encouraging him to turn without force, fingers long enough to hit his sideburns. It felt great to be appreciated, even better to be touched without being handled like glass. In their efforts to help him feel safe, the 141 did the exact opposite of his captors. Instead of treating him like rubbish—like a fleshlight—he became a priceless heirloom that would shatter under a funny look. Intentions aside, he still felt like an object.

Alejandro touched him like a person.

“What’s wrong?” He repeated.

“You—you’re so nice,” the Sergeant whimpered, laying a hand over Vargas’ own on his face. “I dunno what to make of it.”

“Are your teammates not nice to you?”

“They are! They are. Just… Not like that. They don’t say things like that. I f-feel like a dead weight.”

“You’re not. And I mean it.”

Roach cried harder. Vargas stood and opened for a hug, which he lunged into wholeheartedly, draping himself onto the man’s chest as those strong, angelic arms wrapped around him. Breaths heaved Vargas’ sturdy pectorals and Roach along with them. It felt secure. His thoughts calmed to a trickle for once.

Suddenly, a warm kiss pressed into his temple, short circuiting his brain. He sighed as safety eased through him. Roach had never been kissed for himself. Hannah kissed him selflessly, mistakenly. She loved him; she wanted to kiss him for their sake, not knowing he'd never feel it as intended but unconsciously aware something was wrong as she floundered to fix things. It was through no fault of her own, having a coward of a husband who feigned heterosexuality to avoid family drama, and she eventually stopped trying. It hurt, seeing her sneak around with Mike. Gary ignored it, figuring she deserved someone able to cherish her entirely.

Gary did love her though, and Roach believed he always would no matter his identity. There was a reason he chose her to marry. Playing the part was easy with her kind heart and dark, witty jokes. She’d been his best friend, high school sweetheart, and first kiss—supposedly his last and only, if not for Simon coming along.

Simon.

Simon kissed him greedily when he needed reassurance.

‘Are you still here with me?’ He asked wordlessly when they were alone, boxing Roach against the wall in one final measure of security. He was aware of Hannah, his kisses selfish, self-aware, and sorry. ‘I need to mean something to you. I don’t care what, lieutenant or lover, just care for me.

Be there for me.’

Gary wasn’t. He couldn’t be. He orbited Simon because of their difference in rank, never falling in love because they were battle buddies and he was a married man. However, he couldn’t let his Lieutenant in as a brother-in-arms—not when he dreamt of holding him each night. Of fucking him stupid in the supply closets. No, Gary acted selfishly, too, devouring the only male attention ever thrown his way and giving Simon false hope, accepting kiss after undeserved kiss. Simon was kind while Gary was awful, returning the gentle reassurance of his lips despite never fully opening up, caught in Cupid’s purgatory where he lied to his commanding officer and wife simultaneously. Garrett could be better, if Simon would have him. If he could bear putting his damaged self on display for someone who loved him when he was whole.

A thumb wiped the moisture from Roach’s cheek.

This was different. Vargas put comfort in the gesture. It was Roach’s turn to be reassured, promised he was welcome in their embrace. Vargas didn’t need anything, didn’t want anything more than to learn who Garrett was now, and it was similar to Soap’s appeal—except Vargas was less skittish and unsure of what he himself had to offer, unbiased by the team’s grief-stricken reminiscing or the knowledge of Roach’s assault. Most importantly, despite all this mushy emotional crap, Vargas’ touch remained impersonal. Impermanent. Roach could safely make mistakes because he'd either die recapturing Los Vaqueros’ headquarters or return to the UK after the operation concluded.

“Colonel,” Roach whispered, pulling back to scan his face.

“Please. No one’s here. Call me Alejandro.”

“I couldn’t—”

“Really, do it. You’re not one of my men. We could be friends at the end of all this. You need more of those.”

“I’ll be too far.”

“I’ll make time to call.”

He hesitated. His arms snaked away from Vargas’ neck until his hands fell to the man’s chest, stabilizing himself on the broad ribcage waiting there, further examining the man’s expression for hints of annoyance. He found none.

Roach’s eyebrows furrowed and more happy tears begged to flow freely as he asked, “Do you mean it?”

“Absolutely, I do,” Alejandro replied. His grip slid to Roach’s hips to accommodate how the Sergeant repositioned. “Christ, Garrett, you’re even skinnier than you look. I can’t believe Price would… Never mind.”

He was right. He engulfed Roach. Only now, rather than make Roach feel lesser, freakish, and scared, it had him weak in the knees. Roach shivered and flicked his eyes to Alejandro’s lips, starving to feel them tenderly elsewhere, ashamed to desire such attention from the first man to give him understanding and selfless touch.

A Russian accent floated through his mind, dark with arousal and aggression. Maybe he was ‘just a worthless whore.’

“Please,” Roach asked, knowing exactly what he wanted yet not how to phrase it.

“Please, what?” It was an honest question, not a flirty tease.

Roach wanted more than friendship at the moment. A relationship wasn’t the goal; physical intimacy was. To get fucked out of his mind by someone harmless.

One of his hands drifted to the back of Alejandro’s neck who, thankfully, took the hint and leaned forward until their foreheads clunked.

“Please. I’m Roach. When we’re alone, I mean.”

He tilted his head and asked, “Roach? Why that?” sounding pleasantly confused yet excited at the prospect of an answer.

“It’s my old call sign. Don’t tell anyone. Not a soul.”

An answer and a secret, and a clue about Garrett’s past. Alejandro’s face lit up like he’d won a hundred quid. “Okay,” he grinned. Then, the serious tone in Roach’s voice transferred to his. “Okay. Sure. Anything you need.”

“Anything?”

“Anything I’m able to do, I will. I’m a man of my word.”

Alejandro was a stranger he’d known less than a month, but his kindness and sincerity were unending thus far.

Roach chewed his lip and said, “Kiss me again. Kiss me more. You did it right.”

He pulled back, gazing at Roach while one of his hands returned to the Sergeant’s jaw. His smile grew until his cheeks squished his eyes into crescents. “Mierda… How could I say no?”

Turning Roach’s head to the side, Alejandro’s lips reconnected with his temple, then stippled across his cheekbone and down the crooked bridge of his nose. Request granted, the Sergeant closed his eyes in contentment and hummed, reaching up into Alejandro’s hair. Heat rushed to his face and coiled in his belly as the Colonel traced kisses along one of his smile lines, planting a final one at the corner of his mouth before pausing.

“Am I still doing this right, cariño?”

His knees were quaking and his hands gripped Alejandro’s shirt for dear life. Even if he let go, he knew he’d be safe. “Yes,” he said, voice wavering.

“Want me to keep going?”

“God, yes. I’ve never had someone do this before.”

Alejandro frowned. “Not ever?”

“No. I’ve only ever been…” he struggled to think of an appropriate term, “…touched by people who wanted it from me. I’ve never had someone do it because I needed the attention.”

“You have mine now. You caught it the second we met.”

“…Why?” Roach asked.

“None of the files about you line up with who I’m holding in my fucking arms. I’ve met a different man than the recruit I approved on paper—I need to have a chat with Price about that. No puedo dejar de pensar en ti.”

“What does that mean?”

Alejandro grinned and whispered, “You’re peculiar. Mysterious.”

“There’s no mystery,” he insisted.

“Whatever you say, Roach. Even if I don’t figure you out, I'll enjoy learning what I can.”

“You’re too much. Shut up and keep kissing.”

He caught Roach’s chin and guided the Sergeant’s lips into his own, making no attempts to part them or shove his tongue in between, maintaining comfortable pressure that broke briefly between smooches. His exhales blew hot. His stubble tickled when he trailed up Roach’s jaw and planted one below his ear.

Roach shivered and moaned behind his puckered mouth, savoring the way Alejandro curled over his body in response, now looking up so their lips remained connected while the man cradled his head and the small of his back. When Alejandro relented Roach groaned in protest, attempting to pull him back by the collar.

He chuckled. “I was going to ask if you’re still enjoying this. I think I got my answer, th—”

Roach cut him off with an open-mouthed kiss, hoisting himself up on tip-toes instead since Alejandro was immovable and took too long closing the gap of his own accord. It elicited a surprised gasp that Roach swallowed whole, using it as an opportunity to press his tongue against the Colonel’s teeth. Fingers tangled in his hair, offering comfortable encouragement rather than balling into a fist and yanking.

Then, Alejandro moaned.

And the sound rolled as deep and powerful as an ocean current,

And it flowed up the arc of Roach’s spine slow and sweet like molasses,

And Roach couldn’t take it anymore.

“My legs are tired,” he complained, limbs shaking, “and my ass hurts from the chair.”

“My lap is pretty comfortable.”

Just what he wanted to hear. He grinned, winded, huffing desperately through closed teeth, “I dunno if can I just take your word for it.”

“Aw, don’t trust me?”

“What can I say? I’m a skeptic,” Roach laughed nervously. Having little experience, flirting wasn’t his forte. “Can we move to that couch in the sleeping quarters so I can find out for myself?”

Alejandro blessed him with a look of surprise that bloomed into a beaming smile. “Lead the way.”

Roach took his wrist (and was allowed) to drag him. They burst through the door, Alejandro flopping onto the aforementioned futon with creaking springs. Roach straddled him immediately and the Colonel’s hands returned to his hips, untucking the baggy shirt from his loose pants, slipping under its hem. It felt electric. It had him shaking like a dog.

“You alright?”

“Just nerves,” he assured.

“Relax. I’ve got you.”

Unbuttoning his own fly, Roach cursed at the pre-cum already forming a wet patch on his boxers.

“Already excited, cariño?”

“Sorry. Y-you’re very attractive.”

Their half-hard cocks throbbed together.

“You’re one to talk,” Alejandro said and lifted Roach’s shirt, mouth gaping at the exposed fuzzy skin beneath.

The shame of having a body surged in Roach’s mind. “I used to have more definition. I was hotter before…”

Those hot, rough hands roamed further under Roach’s uniform, ghosting over his ribs. Alejandro said, “I want you however you are.”

“I’m doing much better than in September.”

“Good,” He replied and leaned in for another slow kiss.

Roach moaned into it as fingers tweaked his nipples. No matter the pleasure, he put his own hands over Alejandro’s and pulled them off. The man detached at the first hint of resistance.

“Hm? Don’t like your chest played with?”

“No, I do! I just… was curious if you’d stop when I wanted.”

Alejandro’s eyes widened. He was intelligent; he read between the lines before Roach finished writing them.

The Sergeant continued. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make it weird.”

Pulling him in tight, Alejandro buried himself in Roach’s neck and whispered, “Tesoro. If you want me to stop, tell me! It would kill me to know I hurt you.”

“I will,” he smiled, leading the man's focus back to his nipples, who immediately resumed toying with them. “You know, for a bloody colonel, you sure do love to follow my directions.”

“A good one knows when to stop commanding and listen. Competent sergeants know what they need. Besides, it’s still break time. I’m just Alejandro. You’re just Roach.”

Before Roach could reply, Alejandro leaned forward and sucked a nipple into his warm, wet mouth while flicking the other, earning a gasp at the tongue teasing it and wriggling hips searching for friction. Their cocks pressed together as Roach ground his pelvis down, then again, driving the rhythm of their dry humping as fast as he could. Unfortunately, in his affected state, this wasn’t that fast.

He growled in frustration, the pleasure simultaneously too much in his inexperience, yet too little.

“What’s wrong, hm?”

“I want it harder!”

Alejandro tested the waters, applying gentle pressure as he bit Roach’s pectoral.

His reply was somewhere between a whimper and yelp. “Nn!~ Not what I meant!”

The man simply soothed it with his tongue, reaching up to caress Roach’s head.

“The grinding, that’s what I mean.”

With a slow grip on Roach’s waist, giving him time to realize and protest if desired, Alejandro used those massive muscles to rock him back and forth.

[reading-stains]

miles morales & his spanish

I’d like to start with the disclaimer that headcanons are headcanons and if people are having fun with fluent Miles, then have fun. I’m so proud to see a Spider-Man with the blood I was raised with, with a mother who gives her bendiciones and kisses her son with the love I have seen my whole life. 

And while my discussion may be in criticism of some things, I need to communicate this before anyone thinks otherwise.

I am proud of Miles Morales and what he represents. I love to see his family really feel like the life of someone in the diáspora. It is heart melting, and it is worth so fucking much to me as someone that’s seeing the growing recognition on this small, lovable, beautiful island. He is a part of the pride of my flag and of my home.

So yeah, I love that Miles Morales is Boricua. 

But I do have some things I want to point out on Miles and the way he’s been observed within the fandom. After all, he’s kind of been discoursed into two people, neither of which I agree are accurate in the language sort of terms. 

The first point is the following.

Miles is not a fluent Spanish speaker, switching between languages in sentences because he can’t remember words or he’s lost in his own head. He thinks in English. 

Miles is not fluent enough, as observed by his vocabulary and sentence structure to think in Spanish. He is not a fluent character. He rushes words and in turn, speaks in Spanglish.

His pronunciation is the one thing that can be argued if the previous factors weren’t there. 

One can be fluent in English and still struggle with pronunciation. However, that requires well developed grammatical knowledge, which we haven’t observed enough from Miles. 

There’s only two full, Spanish spoken sentences that we see in the whole movie, which I will quickly break down. 

“¿Qué tal tío?” Directly translates to “how are you, [insert colloquial term of impersonal endearment]”. 

This is a quick greeting, not colloquial to Puerto Rican Spanish, and thus can be quickly assumed to be a class-learned thing. Which, you know, doesn’t help the argument that he is fluent.

And then there’s this:

“Te trajé una empanada.” That translates to “I brought you an empanada”.

Once again, this is a very easily taught sentence. Actually, it’s grammatically found to be a simple sentence, as it holds only one verb. But also, he pronounces the verb wrong. He pronounces it almost as “dress” instead of “brought you”. The meaning shifts with the spelling of the word (ex. papa vs papá). 

The second point follows.

Miles doesn’t need to be fluent to be a Spanish speaker. 

The Spider-Man clearly showcases understanding of his mother in the college counseling scene, and that is enough to observe him as a Spanish speaker.

People can say they speak a language after having enough knowledge to hold a conversation. The previous evidence observes Miles being able to conduct an introduction and a point. That’s enough words to be passable when ordering food, yk? And that’s good enough.

He’s definitely able to capture terms and realize what words mean, which clearly showcases how he can continue his effort to know more, but still has enough basics to communicate himself. 

And now, the final point.  

He doesn’t need to be a Spanish speaker to be Puerto Rican.

Miles isn’t explored enough in the language to show his understanding of Spanish as fluent.  

And that’s okay. Miles represents a very specific type of person. But also, he represents millions of experiences.

Being from somewhere else, being from a diáspora is an experience that while I personally haven’t been able to relate to fully, millions have. For example, all immigrants know what a diáspora is. Maybe not in the coined term, but in its significance and its pain. Being away from a motherland and living in a fundamentally different nation. 

But Puerto Rico is an interesting situation because it’s officially part of the United States’ territories, but is still experienced as a foreign place. One of its fundamental differences is the main language explored in the island, being Spanish vs the US’ English. 

And because of its particular, and very colonial-esque, nature around the island, Puerto Ricans can often find the discourse of what makes a Puerto Rican a Puerto Rican. Born, raised, fluent, and influenced by Puerto Rican culture are oftentimes the most important aspects to acknowledge someone as being from here.

Many times, people from diásporas find themselves being rejected in where they live, but are just as marginalized from where they come from (biologically, culturally, or otherwise). And this experience is what often bothers me about the whole situation regarding Miles’ Spanish. 

Because Miles, and any other Puerto Rican, doesn’t owe people a certain origin to be a Boricua. You can live your whole childhood in England after moving from the island, and still say you are Puerto Rican. You can be raised by Puerto Rican parents and never step into the island’s soil, and you are still Puerto Rican. You’re able to be born somewhere else, but be raised and loved by a family here, and you are still Puerto Rican. You are who you are, identity is in your grasp, and no one owes anything to others.

He doesn’t have to speak the language to still identify with the life of a Puerto Rican. Which is why it surprises me to observe people finalizing him as either not a speaker at all because he isn’t fluent (which btw implies he is less connected to his roots when you take away his interest in knowing) or he is fluent (which then takes away about his experience in the diáspora).

This is not to say that people in the diáspora cannot be fluent, just like they cannot be fully disconnected from the Spanish language. I’m personally identifying that Miles can be in between, and still be characterized as who he is within his canonical identity.  Final notes:

When wanting to write more Puerto Rican influenced work, be sure to inform yourself! There’s a lot of things to learn about, and it’s always lovely to know more.

Boricua is a term used in the island to refer to Puerto Ricans.

I definitely encourage people to inform themselves of the term diáspora, especially if you are of foreign descent from where you live!

And of course, thanks for reading!

[zipperrants]

More Loki and I as incorrect quotes since ya'll found it funny

Zipper : We both look very handsome tonight. Loki: You know, if you'd just said that I looked handsome, I would have said, "So do you." Zipper : I couldn't take that chance.

Zipper : How do I tell Loki that I want them to yell at me like they're Gordon Ramsay and I'm a poor little chef who just ruined a crème brûlée?

Zipper : So... what would you do if you were in bed with me? Loki: Depends. Is your bed comfortable? Zipper : Yes. Loki: I'd sleep.

Zipper : I like your new pants! Loki: Thanks, they were 50% off! Zipper : I’d like them better if they were 100% off. *winks* Loki: The store can’t just give away clothes for free. Zipper : Thats’s… not what I meant. Loki: That’s a terrible way to run a business, Zipper

Loki: Bro, I had a dream we fucked. Zipper : Bro, relax it was just a dream. Loki: Huh, gay, I wouldn’t fuck you. Zipper : You wouldn’t? Loki: I mean, unless you want to-

Loki: I love them both, but how do I propose to two people? Zipper : Two different restaurants, one person at each restaurant. Twice the dessert, twice the applause. Loki: Won’t people think it’s weird if there is a third person just sitting there, though? Zipper : I saw someone feed their pet peacock crème brûlée from their mouth at the French place on the corner last week: I think faux third-wheeling at an engagement is the least of your worries.

Loki: I’m proud to identify as morosexual. I’m attracted to dumbasses and dumbasses exclusively. Someone asked me what the Spanish word for "tortilla" was once, and now I dream of kissing them under the moonlight. Zipper : What kind of animal is the Pink Panther? Loki, already taking off their clothes: God, Zipper , you’re so fucking stupid.

Zipper : We’re getting married, bitches! Loki: And we're about to make it everybody else's problem.

Zipper : Bro- Loki: No, no, hold up, rewind. Loki: My tongue was down in your throat just a second ago and now you're calling me bro??

Loki: Just a minute. I need to go take out the trash. Zipper : Oh. We're going out? Loki: Wh...

Zipper : You look good in that hoodie. Loki: You know where else I'd look good? Zipper , zero hesitation: My bed. Loki, at the same time: By your side- wait, what?

Loki: I feel like doing something stupid. Zipper : I’m stupid, do me.

Zipper : You know my motto: carpe diem, carpe noctem, carpe coles. Loki: Seize the day, seize the night, what’s the last one? Zipper : Seize the dick.

Loki: I think I just figured something out. I got to go. Zipper : Aren't you forgetting something? Loki: Uuh...*hesitantly kisses Zipper 's forehead before running out.* Zipper : No, pay your bill! Damn, who raised you?

Zipper : Are you an F5 key? Because that ass is refreshing. Loki: Are you a software update? because not right now.

Loki: Look, last night was a mistake. Zipper : A sexy mistake. Loki: No, just a regular mistake.

Zipper : My crush isn’t picking up on my hints. Loki: What hints have you given them? Zipper : Well, I think about them a lot. Zipper : And sometimes I even think about talking to them.

Loki: Two brooooos! Zipper : Chillin' in a hot tub! Loki: Five feet apart 'cause we're not gay! Zipper : Loki: Zipper : *tearing up* Loki: Babe, c'mon... Zipper : AND HERE YOU REALLY HAD ME THINKING WE HAD SOMETHING. Loki: Babe...

Zipper : Wait, what's going on? Are we all talking about how hot Loki is? Because Loki is a straight up sexual fox riding a red-hot nuclear bombshell right toward the yowza plaza in the heart of Babe City, Assachusetts, U S A. The last A just stands for more ass.

Loki: Did it hurt when you fell- Zipper : From heaven? Wow, I didn’t think you were such a flirt- Loki: No, I meant when you fell down the stairs. Zipper : ... Loki: You just laid there for 15 minutes.

Zipper : I truly go into housewife mode when I'm someone's soulmate- like, I'll make you pancakes and bacon every morning. Loki: This is a lie. Loki: I'm literally dating them. This is a lie. Loki: THEY DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW TO COOK A PANCAKE, WHAT IS THIS.

Loki: Hey, wanna take a shower with me? Zipper : I have a gun in that nightstand beside the bed. If I ever say no to that question, I want you to take it out and shot me because I’ve obviously gone crazy.

Zipper: We have a problem. Loki: No, YOU have a problem. I have an idiot who keeps making them.

Loki: Are you ready to commit? Zipper : Like, a crime or a relationship?

Loki: How much did you spend on this date? Zipper: $1400. But all of it's on credit cards, so it's like $5 a month for the next 2,000 years.

Loki: *Holding up a pack of pencils* These are kinda cute. Zipper: Loki, that’s gay. Loki: We’ve been dating for 2 years—

Zipper: Loki is playing hard to get. Zipper: Little do they know, I'm a master at playing hard to get rid of.

*Zipper comes home absolutely drunk, undresses, and stands in Loki’s bedroom.* Loki: Babe, are you.. coming to bed? Zipper: No thank you, I’m sure you’re lovely but I have a partner. Zipper: *Lies on the ground and falls asleep* Loki: ...

Zipper: When I was young, I left a trail of broken hearts like a rockstar. I'm not proud of it. Loki: You're kind of proud of it. You work it into a lot of conversations.

Zipper: Stop doing that. Loki: Stop doing what? Zipper: Saying things that make me wanna kiss the hell out of you.

Zipper: The first time I saw you, you stole my heart. Loki: But I'm a kleptomaniac, so that doesn't mean anything.

[lovesosweeet]

better left unsaid // cth

chapter four

in which orion has leukemia, and calum doesn't know.

chapter zero, one, two, three

june 3, 2016

madrid, spain

calum

—

Before I know it, it’s 6 am and Orion and I are watching people sleepily head to the metro station near where we’ve been sitting for several hours. Our trash from our late night/early morning falafel run has remained unmoved next to us since we devoured our food. I didn’t even realize the sun was up until Orion started squinting at me because it was glaring directly into her eyes. We aren’t in it, but we’re sitting on a bench right outside the big park in Madrid called Retiro.

In the daylight, I can better see her eyes and their warmth. They’re brown, but they almost look like burnt orange. There’s something extra warm and light in them… almost like caramel. Maybe they look extra bright because of the light blue dress she has on, but still, I can’t stop staring at them.

Orion is one of the funniest people I’ve met on tour, and one of the kindest. She’s smart, but not in a way that makes it hard to talk to her because she speaks above me, just in a way that makes it even more intriguing to hear what she has to say, and truthfully, she has a lot to say. It’s sweet, and I like listening to her.

“I don’t know about you, Mr. Rockstar,” she starts, and I roll my eyes at her dig. “But, I’m pretty tired. Want to grab a coffee? I can help you figure out your way back to your hotel if you want to go sleep or hang out with your band or whatever it is you’d normally do at this time.”

I laugh, knowing the rest of the band is definitely sleeping soundly right now. Truthfully, I don’t really want to say goodbye. Touring the world, you learn how fleeting your time is with people who aren’t on the move with you. It makes it harder to say goodbye and the time with the people you care about feels even more special. I only met her less than 12 hours ago, but Orion is someone I want to spend my time with.

“I’d love to grab a coffee.”

She smiles—a tired, but still energetic smile. “Sweet. Hmm… I think there’s a place just a few blocks this way.” She points to our right and pulls out her phone. I don’t know how hers isn’t dead—mine died hours ago.

I stand up and dust off my pants, and then I look down and notice the stain on my shirt for the first time in daylight. It’s a faint purple splash. I don’t know if I’ll ever wear this shirt again and not think of her. It already makes me smile, thinking of our encounter at the club and her frustrated, but adorable, expression when I startled her.

I hold my hands out to her to help her up and she reluctantly takes them, scoffing a little. “Let’s go grab a… cafecito? Is that right?”

A surprised look takes over her face. “Are you sure you don’t speak Spanish? You know a total of like… five words now!”

“Alright, take the sass back down to a level two.”

With the help of her GPS, we arrive to the small cafe after a few minutes of walking. It’s nice to see Madrid in the daytime. We’ve stopped here before on tour, but haven’t ever really explored much. Honestly, if I wasn’t with Orion right now, I probably wouldn’t be exploring now either. It’s a pretty city, from what we’ve seen, and oddly clean. Compared to Paris, or New York, or LA, it’s a world of difference in the amount of litter.

There are families and young people and elderly people out and about, even though it’s early in the morning. There’s traffic but it’s not noisy. I also love how at home Orion seems here, even though she’s only been here for a week. It feels like she just meshes with the city and she’s content—I wonder what she looks like in other cities. I can’t imagine her being any more beautiful than she is right now at 6 am, bloodshot eyes, faded makeup, her hair falling out of its ponytail, and still so sweet and happy.

At the cafe, she doesn’t even ask me what I want, but I don’t mind. I hand over a handful of coins for the coffees she ordered us, and grateful for the hot cup when she gives me mine.

“What do you have going on today?” I ask, silently hoping she’s free to spend the day with me.

“I don’t think we have any plans. I’m sure my friends are hungover and sleeping…” She trails off and grabs my hand, pulling me out of the tiny cafe and back to the sidewalk. “Do you need to be anywhere?”

I shake my head. “I’ve got to be at the hotel by 3 to ride with the band to the venue for soundcheck, but I’m all yours the rest of the day if you’ll have me.”

Orion nods. “I guess we can hang out.” She feigns acting annoyed with my presence.

I fake hurt and shove her arm playfully before I wrap an arm around her shoulders, starting to walk while she starts rattling off ideas of what we can do.

—

By 2:30, she’s taken me to her favorite breakfast cafe, forced me to try vegan donuts, helped paddle in a boat at Retiro, and pulled me into a few small art museums to marvel at the pieces and translate some of the labels so I know what I’m looking at. She wanted to take me to the three story Primark on Gran Via but she said it would take up too much of our time and there’s too much else to see.

“Do you want to come to the show tonight?” I finally ask her. I’d been debating asking her all day—not debating whether or not I wanted to ask, simply unsure of when or how was the right way.

She looks surprised. Have I not been blatantly obvious? I really like this girl, of course I want her to come to the show.

“Do you want me to come?”

I grab her shoulders and turn her to face me so she has no choice but to look me in the eyes. “I would love for you to come, but I don’t want to make you come if you don’t want to.”

Orion smiles somewhat sheepishly. “I’d love to come. Do you know what the venue is? And what time?”

“Shit, no, I don’t, and my phone is dead.” I try to remember the name of the venue but can’t. “Here, I’ll text myself on WhatsApp and when I get back to the hotel I’ll text you everything you need to know.”

I hold my hand out for her phone and she hands it to me, unlocked, so I can message myself. I type in a quick message — “hola señora” — and then hand her phone back to her.

“Oh, and you can bring your friends, if you want.”

Her face lights up. “Oh my god, I think they’d lose their minds. They’ve been texting me nonstop since they woke up.”

I laugh. “Bring them, they can meet the band if they want.”

Orion nods, shoving her phone back into her bag. “Okay, I’m sure they’ll be up for that. You should probably get going.”

I nod, going to pull my phone out to figure out how to get to the hotel, but am reminded again that it’s dead.

Orion giggles. “Do you need help getting there?”

“Maybe.”

“What’s the hotel?”

“Hotel Madrid…. Gran-something?”

She gives me a look like ‘you should get your life together’ but she types it in her GPS. “Oh, duh, silly. Hotel Madrid Gran Via. It’s a few blocks this way. We’re already on Gran Via.”

I feel stupid but I don’t care. I’m just excited that she’s coming to our show tonight. I can’t wait to introduce her to the guys — they’ll love her.

“Walk me there?” I ask, hopefully. I want to spend as much time with her as I can. I don’t want this to be the last time I see her, but I’m not sure how often I’ll get to see her if she even wants to see me again.

Orion grins and locks her hand in mine again. Gran Via is busy and hot, and it’s easy to get lost in the crowd. It’s nice to be tethered to someone in places like this. “Let’s go.”

We meander through the crowd—I’ve got sunglasses on to try to lay low, thankfully I’ve only been recognized a few times today and Orion has been really cool about it. After a few blocks, the somewhat familiar hotel comes into view, and I notice a small crowd outside of the regular entrance. Thank god we asked security to show us the back entrance before we went out last night.

I feel Orion tense up at the sight of the swarm of fans and I squeeze her hand. “It’s okay, there’s a back entrance.”

Her shoulders drop as she relaxes. “Oh, good, I didn’t think it’d be good for you to be seen with me.”

I’m not sure what she means by that. I’d have no issues with being seen with her—she’s not a controversial figure, and I can confidently say she’s not going to go spreading gossip online, and, fuck, do I like her. I don’t say anything though, as now we’re less than two blocks away and they could see me at any moment. I turn us down a side street and then into the alley that leads to the secure back entrance to the hotel. I see Matt, our tour manager, and Gus, one of our main security guys, talking outside of the entrance.

They’re so caught up in their conversation they don’t see us until we’re just a few yards away. When Matt looks up, he does a double take.

“Calum!” He grunts. Shit. He’s mad. “Where the fuck have you been? You haven’t been answering anyone’s calls or texts. You know we’re leaving for soundcheck in,” he checks his watch, “seven minutes!”

I turn red, embarrassed that Orion is here for this. “My phone’s been dead, we were just exploring the city.”

Matt fumes. “You know you’re not supposed to go out during the day without security.”

Shit. I’d forgotten about that rule. Truthfully, I don’t normally go out during the day, and it’s a new rule we just implemented after a few shows in Asia when Ash got ambushed while he was out grabbing food.

“It’s my fault,” Orion says.

I turn to her, surprised. How’s she going to dig me out of this hole?

“I just really wanted to show him Madrid and we didn’t have time to charge our phones so we couldn’t stop and call to get security with us. We stayed away from touristy spots mostly and I felt weird about the idea of having security following me around. I knew we had to be back here by 3 and I hoped it wouldn’t be a big problem as long as we came back in time and laid low. I’m so sorry, if I’d known it was that important we would’ve come back earlier to let you know everything was fine.” Her story is somehow believable, but Matt’s still mad.

“Who is this?” Matt snaps, his eyes angry and boring into me.

“This is… Orion. We met last night and hit it off, so we spent the day together.”

Matt still looks angry as his eyes flit back and forth between the two of us. “You’re lucky you’re back in time.” He then turns away from us to wave down the black van that just entered the alley, presumably our ride to the venue.

I let out a sigh of relief and turn to O. I can’t help but smile when we lock eyes, and then we both stifle a few giggles. What are we, schoolgirls who just got caught? “I had the best time with you today.”

Orion blushes and looks down, breaking our eye contact. “Yeah, it was really fun.”

I nod. Goodbye. I’m supposed to say goodbye. I don’t want to. I wish she could just come with us to soundcheck and then join us on tour, honestly. That’s incredibly irrational and she has a life. But that’s what I wish.

“Can I kiss you?” she whispers, looking incredibly nervous.

I place a hand on her cheek and pull her close, having to bend down to get us on the same level. I don’t even think about my probably horrible breath due to not brushing my teeth all day, I just focus on her and her soft lips on mine. It’s a short kiss, but definitely my favorite first kiss I’ve ever had.

“Kiss me whenever you’d like,” I quietly say back, making her laugh. “I’ll see you tonight?”

Orion nods. “Yep, don’t forget to text me!”

“I promise, I won’t forget.”

She gives me a hug goodbye and I kiss the top of her head before she’s pulling away, stepping back and giving me a small wave before she starts walking out of the alley.

“Hey Matt, got a phone charger?” I call, making the already angry man scowl and dig through the backpack he has leaning against the building. He tosses it to me and then opens the door to the van.

“Get in, Hood.”

read next chapter

—

a/n: i promise the plot is picking up soooon i promise i promise. i’m trying to make this new version more in depth than the one i had on wattpad which means more fleshed out pieces of the story. i know we haven’t gotten to the juicy parts id love to hear what people are thinking of this 🥹 ty for reading!!! 🫶🏻

[arielhopepeace]

This is a Javier Peña and Harry Styles (again lol) short story for all my fellow Pedro Pascal lovers 💕 This one isn’t gonna be as sweet as the Joel one. Y/N’s life kinda sucks lmfao. I will be posting the trigger warnings since some of the content is sensitive! This was a story suggestion by my best friend who doesn’t have a tumblr otherwise I’d tag her lol. BUT I will be coming out with another Joel story after this one so, feel free to follow me if you’d like to read that when it comes out!

As always, enjoy ❤️

Part two is here

Part three is here

Final part is here

Part One

18+ only

Tw: prostitution, abusive father, mention of drugs, mention of death, extreme violence, guns, murder, abuse in general, mention of sexual assault, implied smut (there’s gonna be a lot of this, she’s a prostitute 😬)

I’d also like to quickly say that I’ll never ever write sexual assault into my stories. It’s just a topic that is too sensitive for me, and for many others out there. There are mentions of it because men are sick and twisted in this world, but I will never describe it happening, or have it happen to y/n. Just a heads up on that ❤️ Anyway, onto the story to escape reality…

4,200 words

There's nothing that I love more than the scenery of Columbia; the beaches, mountains, forests. For the last few months that I've lived here with my father, I've always felt melancholy about the fact that I wasn't born in this beautiful country.

The move was a necessary change in order for my dad to be more successful with his business ventures. I despise the man, but he's filthy rich due to running with the narcos of Medellin. Of course he's never given me anything from his wealth, and instead has pawned me off to be a prostitute for extra income.

I tried my best to fight him on it, but to no avail. You can't argue with a powerful, dangerous man like him. All it does is get me badly beaten. He doesn't like to hit me often since it's bad for business, as he likes to say. Men don't generally like to sleep with women who are all battered and bruised. They think I'll carry some sort of emotional baggage and try to cling to them for security.

Truthfully, I'm very numb to all of it; the beatings, the sex, the disgusting clients, everything. There's no point in me feeling bad for myself. After all, I'm still the daughter of an important drug dealer who works for the drug dealer of Colombia, Pablo Escobar. Nobody would dare to hurt me, since it could possibly end up with them "disappearing". I don't think my father would ever kill someone for my sake, though. But I know he has for his.

It's been a difficult transition since I know hardly any Spanish, and that is the only language anyone speaks here. There's been countless encounters where I've been left feeling imbecilic and witless. My father never bothered to teach me the language, but hired his own personal tutor in order to better conduct business. This way, nobody will be able to talk about anything right in front of his face without him being able to understand. He never wants to be made a fool of.

The house my father lives in is incredibly opulent and pristine. It's just outside of Medellin, sitting on an emerald hill overlooking a vast crystal blue lake that shines brilliantly in the sun. Anytime I'm there for a visit, it makes me wish I lived in that damned mansion. Instead, I have to live in a shitty apartment in the more run-down side of town.

My place is close to one of the whorehouses where I like to sometimes find clients. Usually, I'll dress nicely with a provocative touch and head to a bar, fishing for men whose eyes linger on my breasts. The proposition I set is only said with my body, and once the man understands that I can't speak Spanish, not much else needs to be said, anyway. I'll say my price before we leave, choosing a number I'm comfortable with charging and pronouncing.

I have yet to find someone who refuses to pay, or is unnecessarily rough. It's a relief, because that was one of my biggest concerns going into this. My dad doesn't think that my job has any danger, but he also couldn't give two shits about me, it seems.

There's a slight sense of giddy elation that courses through me, knowing that I'm able to take the day to myself. All I want to do is go to the clinic to do my weekly health check, and then to my father's lakeside house to bask in the sun while he's away for a while today.

He always has to be made aware of my company, just in case he were conducting business and I startled one of his ruthless peers. They all know what I look like, and a few have even solicited sex from me before, but I'd rather be cautious about it than get shot for showing up unannounced.

Once the clinic gives me yet another clean bill of health, I go on my way to my dad's mansion. The warm air whips my hair around the car from the open windows, allowing me to breathe in the crisp feeling of summer. It trails goosebumps of satisfaction along my skin, a smile splitting my face as I giggle lightly to myself.

There aren't many moments when I'm truly happy, but being alone on the drive to my dad's is definitely one of them.

  To my dismay, my father is home, his smooth, lavish car parked at the top of his gated cobblestone driveway. He was supposed to be out all day, but I'm sure he'll explain why he's here so early.

I step out of my run-down sedan, closing the creaking, rusted door shut with a slight slam. My breathing is a bit more shaky as I approach the front door, not really wanting to face my dad today. He knew I was coming, though, so he shouldn't be mad, right?

The living room is relatively quiet as I enter, being greeted by one of the maids in the foyer.

"Dad?" I call out, hoping he doesn't answer me.

His raised voice echoes through the halls, my high heels taking me clicking down the marbled pathway, the walls are so tall it feels like they could swallow me whole at any moment. There's some profane Spanish coming from my dad's office, and I inwardly kick myself as I push the ajar door to it open slowly, not knowing if he's going to scream at me for this.

He has his front turned towards the countless amount of books that he never touches, an obvious strain in his irate tone. The large, gray mobile phone is pressed to his ear, the antennae shining silver above his head by several inches.

My eyes widen as he turns to me, my body immediately cowering in fear as he takes in my presence. He ends the call, gripping the phone so tightly in his fist, I'm worried he'll crack it.

"Hey, y/n," he says quickly. "What have I said about being in here when I'm on calls?"

"I'm sorry," I stammer. "I just wanted you to know that I was here. I'm sorry," I apologize again. All I ever do is apologize to this man when really I want to punch him.

He holds up a large, murderous hand, shaking it side to side. "It's fine," he snaps. "You do what you have to, I don't care. Just leave me be. Got it?"

Without his eyes meeting mine for even a second, I nod, scurrying down the halls as fast as I can without breaking an ankle in my heels. I'm once again greeted by the warmth of the air and sun, surprisingly able to breathe better out here than I was inside.

"You're here," a British voice says beside me.

My head turns to see the charming, dashing Harry, my father's right hand man. "Oh, hi, Harry." I spot the gun sticking out of his belt, making me swallow hard.

He stuffs his ring-clad fingers into his powder blue suit pockets, a small smile settled onto his pink lips. "What are you doing here today?"

I point to the lake over the hill. "Gonna sun tan for a while. Need to not look so—gringa."

Harry chuckles lightly. "I think your skin is perfect as it is."

His words make my cheeks feel hot, and I turn my face away briefly. "Thank you."

"How's business? Anybody need correcting, darling?" he asks with a hint on concern.

I've only known Harry for about a month, and he's been nothing but lovely since I met him. He's always had a bit of protectiveness towards me and I'm not sure why. We've done nothing but have conversations with each other, and he worships my father, a man who seemingly can't stand me. Maybe he feels like he needs to protect me just because he's obsessed with my dad. That reminder always turns me off to him, even if his dreamy looks and refreshing accent do the exact opposite.

"No," I shake my head. "Not everybody knows who I am, but those that do are very—respectful."

"If there's ever a time when somebody isn't," he lifts his suit jacket to flash the grip of his pistol, "you'll tell me, yeah?"

"Yes," I nod. "Thank you."

Harry tosses me a dimply grin, his teeth neat and white. "No need to thank me, y/n. You should always be respected."

I go to tell him that I'm respected by everyone except for my father, but I refrain. Do I think Harry would ever hurt me? Probably not. But that one percent of uncertainty is enough for me to keep my mouth shut.

When I'm settled near the lake, I strip off my dress, kicking my heels to the side shortly after. Being laid out in only my matching black bra and thong with the sun licking my skin is more euphoric than any sex I've had in Colombia.

The men haven't really interested me in the slightest. Of course there's been the few attractive ones who have approached me, but even if it feels good, it's not often that I'm pushed past that delicious precipice. I've yet to have a client who cared about my pleasure, but they're not paying for mine. They're paying for theirs and theirs alone.

My eyes are closed as I relax my shoulders into the grass, allowing my body to be consumed by the intense rays. Being here with nothing but the sound of nature puts me so much at ease that I sometimes fall asleep. The birds that sing their songs proudly above are all giving me unique, individual lullabies, and I love every single one.

The distant sound of shouting makes me sit up, looking up towards the house for any indication on what could be happening. I abandon my dress and heels, my pulse immediately rising from the anticipation of what is unfolding at the top of the hill.

My body freezes as I see several men on their knees in front of my father with Harry standing beside him. He has his pistol tucked underneath both of his hands that are crossed over his front. My dad has his large pistol pointed at one of the men's heads.

Even if I spoke Spanish, there's no way I'd be able to tell what they're saying. They're too far away. I do my best to stay out of sight as I move in closer, creeping behind a shrub that lines the pool, giving it a green privacy gate.

I jump involuntarily at the sound of a single bullet being emptied from the chamber, one of the men falling back into a puddle of his own blood and brain matter.

My sweaty palm flings to my mouth, tears unable to escape from the shock I feel in my body. Of course I know that my father kills people, but I've never actually seen him do it.

He presses the barrel to the next man's forehead who is speaking with a trembling voice to my cold-faced dad. It's eerie how he has no empathy or emotion, only wrath and strategy. I've been convinced that he's a psychopath since I was a kid, but now I truly believe it.

There were nights before my mom died that they'd argue, and he'd slap her around like he does to me. It always made me furious, but what the hell is a kid supposed to do in that situation? The only thing I could do was imagine I was somewhere else that was far away, like a tropical island.

But here I reside in a tropical land, not at all living the way I'd imagine when I was a child. This is hell simply being disguised by pretty packaging and a sparkly bow.

The next man falls back after a shot, the third one not even being interrogated before my father shoots him dead, tucking his gun into the back waistband of his pants. A few men begin to get to work moving the bodies as my dad walks away, Harry looking down at them.

He shifts as if he's thinking, his own gun being wedged between his hip and his pants. I fall to my bare knees onto the soft blades of grass, curling up behind the bush as I hold myself tightly, still not having shed a single tear. Why can't I cry for the dead? Am I as psychotic as my father?

As I stand to walk away back towards my things at the bottom of the hill, a voice stops me in my tracks, my body freezing in place as if Medusa herself has turned me to stone.

"Y/n?" Harry comes into my view. "What are you doing up here?"

Panic. The only thing I can do right now is panic.

"Please don't hurt me," my voice wavers. "I'm sorry."

His green eyes soften, his hands stretching out towards me. His palms graze my arms, my eyes squeezing shut from fear. "Hey, I'd never hurt you. Look at me," he says gently.

Reluctantly, my eyes flip up to his, meeting his delicate gaze. "I heard yelling so I came up here. I didn't mean to see anything."

"Shh," he coos calmly. "Let me walk you back down to the lake."

With reluctant, frozen feet, I begin to tread down the hill with Harry's hand gingerly gripping the crease of my arm. I'm not sure why I feel so terrified of him right now. He's obviously killed people before, too, but I'm just the most concerned about him killing me. What if he tells my father that I was snooping? I don't know what he'd do to me.

My dress and heels lay lifeless beside the lake, my eyes fixed on them instead of the tall man beside me.

"Please don't tell my dad," I plead quietly. "I don't know what he'd do to me, Harry."

Harry tilts my chin up, giving me a comforting smile. "I never saw you, darling."

"Who were they?" I ask softly.

"Rats," he answers firmly with a furrowed brow. "They were giving information to the DEA that just got into the country. You know it's serious if America is getting involved."

I swallow the lump in my throat. "Will you be caught?"

"Not if we're smart."

"Okay." My arms wrap around my midsection. "Thank you for your discretion."

Harry chuckles, nodding. "I'll always protect you."

My brows furrow. "Even against my father?"

He stands gazing at me for a moment before letting out a small sigh. "It depends on the circumstances."

Fuck, that's disappointing.

"Right," I nod, picking up my dress. "I think I'm gonna head out. I've had enough of the cartel for today."

Harry grazes my face with the side of his finger, the cool metal of his ring electrifying me. "Please know that I want to protect you from everybody, including your dad. It's just in certain situations, my hands would be tied."

"Like if I was a rat?"

He nods. "Exactly. I'd lose my head too if I protected you."

"I'd never do that, though. I know better."

Harry leans in and presses a delicate peck to my cheek. "I know, darling. You're too lovely."

"Why are you so nice to me?"

He beams, stroking my hair and tucking it behind my ear. "I like you, y/n. You're fucking beautiful and incredibly bright. I love any time that we talk."

Butterflies settle into the pit of my stomach, making my face turn hot. "And you don't care that I'm a prostitute?"

Harry shakes his head. "You didn't ask to be one in the first place."

I sigh as I sit down beside the lake, looking at the glimmering water. "I begged not to be, but he just—"

Harry rests beside me, tossing his arm around my shoulders. "I know. I'm sorry I can't protect you in those moments, either."

"I'm used to not having protection, Harry. It's fine."

He sighs, gently easing my head to rest on his shoulder as we both gaze at the water. My body relaxes in his embrace, my face turning to nuzzle into the crook of his neck. Harry lifts my head up by my chin, quickly and suddenly capturing my lips against his, making me gasp in my throat.

It's not at all that I'm opposed to this, but rather it was extremely unexpected.

"What are you doing?" I ask, his hands on my waist.

He pulls away, his eyes having darkened. "Do you want me to stop?"

With a small smirk I shake my head, pushing my head forward for more of his delectable lips.

We lay on the field naked and breathless, my legs shaky and weak from my orgasm, and my body glistening with sweat just like Harry's. I had no idea that today would turn out like this, but I can't say that I'm disappointed.

I gaze up at him from his tattooed chest, his golden cross necklace buried in his sprinkling of chest hair. He peers down at me, smiling as he pulls me up for another sweet kiss.

"I have to go," he says softly. "He'll be wondering where I went."

"Okay," I answer quietly, sitting up.

Harry slides on his briefs and pants, handing me my things with a gentle grin. "Let me walk you to your car."

Once we're both fully dressed, we make our way up the hill, Harry's hand in mine the whole way. He's being rather romantic about it which is not at all something I'm used to. And he actually made me have an orgasm, another thing that isn't ever achieved for me.

He pulls me in for a swift kiss, his hand at the small of my back as I giggle, my fingers twisting into his soft brown curls.

"Oh," he says quickly as if remembering something. Harry pulls out his wallet and hands me a thousand dollars all splayed out, a bashful smile on his face. "I don't want to take advantage of you, y/n. Please take it."

"That's way too much, Harry. And also, clients don't ever make me orgasm."

He chuckles, pulling me in for another kiss. "Consider me the best client, then."

Reluctantly, I take the money, shaking my head. "This is the most I've ever been paid for one session."

"God, I'd give you more if you wouldn't make fun of me."

I laugh, shaking my head. "You're sweet. You didn't have to pay me."

He pulls my hand up to his lips, kissing my knuckles. "I wanted to."

With one last glance to the handsome British man, I get into my car, Harry giving me a small wave as I drive away, his figure disappearing in my rear view mirror.

The encounter with him has left me feeling giddy and excited. Not only was he thoughtful towards me, but also just thoroughly romantic the entire time. I wasn't expecting Harry to ever become a client, but god, I'll look forward to the next time that I see him.

Later on, I decide to head to a bar near my house, just wanting to get a couple of drinks in my system for the night. I'm definitely not interested in anybody soliciting me since it's my day off, and I'm hoping nobody does.

I'm perched on a barstool, ordering myself a drink by only saying the names of the alcohols since I don't know how to make it more complex of a request. I've had to acquire the taste of neat tequila and vodka, which now I don't mind. The buzz comes on fast and it doesn't require me to know any Spanish of any kind.

A man sits beside me, saying something in Spanish to which I ignore, pretending as if he's not talking to me.

Then, in perfect English, he says, "No Spanish then, huh?"

With surprise and shock fixed onto my face, I turn to look at the man beside me. He has tanned skin and soft brown eyes with a dashing smile that sports a black mustache above it. His hair is also a slightly shaggy, shiny black that is flipped to the middle of his forehead. He's truly very attractive, but I really wanted to take the night off.

"No," I laugh slightly. "Hardly any."

The man chuckles as he sips his drink, a lit cigarette in the other hand. "Then what are you doing in a Spanish-speaking country?"

I wiggle in my seat, not wanting to give him any information about myself. "I could ask the same thing about you. You don't sound like you're from here."

"I'm not," he beams. "I was born in Chile, but then moved to America shortly after."

"And what are you doing in Colombia?" I ask with my head propped up on my hand.

"Vacation. I'm here with a few friends."

My head turns around to scan the bar. "Are they here now?"

"No, they're at their hotels with their wives."

"And you don't have a wife?" I laugh.

"No. It's hard to with my job."

My brows raise. "Oh, yeah? And what exactly is your job?"

"Would you be impressed if I told you I'm a pilot?" he chuckles with an arched black brow.

"Very," I giggle, "but only if that's the truth."

"And why would I lie?" he asks as he leans in, his voice low.

"Fine, Mr. Pilot. You wouldn't mind paying for my drinks then, would you?"

"Not in the slightest."

I giggle, shaking his hand as I stand off my barstool. "Then you have a good night."

With a victorious smile on my face, I leave the bar, making my way back to my apartment that isn't too far away. I thought it'd be better to walk rather than drive in case I drink too much, which in this case I haven't. Maybe a little tipsy, sure, but not enough to be impaired while driving.

There's a brief moment where I think I hear someone behind me, but I turn and nobody is there, making me shrug it off. I come up to the next alleyway, instinctively turning to look down it to find it empty. Perhaps it's the alcohol or the unsettled feeling that nighttime gives me, but I can't help but feel like I'm being followed.

I make it back to my apartment safely, climbing up the stairs in the building with groans of disapproval, my feet aching from my heels. At my door, I push the key in, being greeted by my shitty apartment that still somehow envelops me with a sense of comfort.

Even though it's a rather run-down section of town, and a less than adequate building, I still feel the most at ease here.

My tight dress slides off my body with a gentle tug, slipping on a nightgown before I tuck myself into bed. My mind flicks back to Harry being thrust inside of me, and his beautiful face twisted with pleasure. It causes me to clench around nothing just from the memory of him, and I know that he's going to be my new addiction.

As I shut my eyes, there's a knock on my apartment door to which I groan. Who the hell is here this late at night? With a wobbly, tired and tipsy walk to my front door, I pull it open, a man bursting inside suddenly.

"What the fuck?" I ask, watching as I can now make out the man to be one of my father's associates, José. "What are you doing here?"

"We were raided," he says with his back turned to me, holding several keys of cocaine in his arms. "I'm hiding this here."

"What? No the fuck you're not!" I shout.

José pulls his gun out and draws it on me, making my hands fly up immediately. "How about you shut your stupid bitch mouth and listen to me?"

"I'm gonna tell my dad—"

He scoffs, stuffing the cocaine beneath my couch cushions. "Who do you think cleared me to come here? Ever think that maybe your dad just doesn't give a shit about you?"

My emotions are once again held at bay. Why the fuck can't I cry?

"Just please hurry up and get out."

He finishes hiding the rest of the powder, finally lowering his gun. "You're lucky I don't fuck you right here for being such a bitch."

I swallow, my eyes staying on the floor as I decide to not answer him.

"Don't act like you wouldn't love it," he laughs. "It's your job to be a whore." José gives me a rough smack across my face, making me fall to the floor as I grip it. "Be happy that's all I'm doing before I leave." He slams my apartment door.

For a bit after he leaves, I'm sat against my living room wall gripping my cheek that throbs with a stinging pain. This isn't a feeling I'm unfamiliar with. The burn in my face only reminds me that I really am worthless here, and nothing more than a prostitute with no life worth living.

****

[lieutenant-amuel]

Oooh sunflower, marigold and winterberry for Valerio, please!!!

I actually didn’t plan on taking those asks, but thank you, Blue!!

Sunflower - What name(s) were you originally thinking of calling your OC?

I… don’t remember. Most of my characters got their names as a result of me scrolling through the lists of Spanish names with their meanings, so I believe I had several options for Valerio but I don’t remember them.

The thing I can say is that there was a short period when I thought of renaming him because to be fair Valerio is more an Italian name than Spanish, so it started bothering me a bit.

But it happened when Valerio existed for a very long time and his name was mentioned literally everywhere, on both fanfiction platforms, on Tumblr, on Discord, and he was one of the main characters, so changing his name would be too much trouble and I had to accept it.

Anyway, he was born in Nueva Vista that’s based on Venice or whatever, and even if it isn’t, I love the name Valerio, generally and for my character, so he’s Valerio until his last breath.

Marigold - Describe your OC in three words or less

Not necessarily adjectives/personality traits? I have something for this ask then.

***

Valerio walked down the corridor towards his classroom to prepare for the lesson. A normal day like any other, except he didn’t flinch every time Emilio was around him anymore.

He left him alone.

It was something that Valerio desired the most but something still felt wrong. He remembered every instant of his conversation with Emilio, how his eyes were filling with tears, how the words of repentance flew off the strings of his trembling voice. It was exactly what he wanted to see. The pain of someone who put him through an unbearable nightmare he couldn’t wake up from.

Emilio deserved it.

Emilio deserved—

Emilio—

His exultation was drowned out by a feeling of gnawing guilt as he remembered everything Matías told him. What he’d done wrapped around his neck like tentacles of the sea beast that dragged him down, back to his past to the dark bottom never touched by the sun rays.

Indecisive. Pathetic. Cruel.

He felt like a monster. There was no better word to describe him.

Valerio swung the door wide open and threw his bag on the desk as he flopped down on a chair. He carelessly took out the books as he kept gazing at his gloves. Things could be much easier if he didn’t wear them. Who would care about his scars? Who would care about how he got them? He was loved by everyone, from teachers to students, in this school. He wouldn't get anything but sympathy if they knew he was a fire victim.

But he was scared. Because the fire wasn’t the thing he hid.

Valerio put his hands together and was going to remove one of his gloves but suddenly a voice rang out in the doorway.

“Hey, Señor Álvarez!” Valerio sharply turned his head and saw Ángel, “Are you busy? I need your help with something.”

Ángel walked in without waiting for him to reply, and Señor Álvarez cleared his throat to greet his student, “Sure, Ángel. What’s up?”

Ángel sat down opposite him and dumped a bunch of papers on the desk.

“I wanna learn how to write poetry! And I need advice.”

Señor Álvarez chuckled, “But why have you decided to come to me? I think Señor Serrano knows more about poetry than I do.”

Ángel shrugged, “You were the first person that came to my mind.”

Señor Álvarez smiled a bit and took the papers Ángel handed to him.

“Can you read it, please, and tell me what you think?”

Señor Álvarez’s eyes skimmed through the lines, and Ángel carefully watched his expression to understand his thoughts but he wasn’t sure that his gentle smile really meant anything. Once he finished, he looked at Ángel who impatiently tapped his fingers as he awaited Señor Álvarez’s review.

“It’s great! You seem to know how to find the right words, plus you have no trouble with rhyming. Those are your first works, right?” Ángel nodded with an awkward smile, “In this case I’m even more impressed. The only thing I’d advise is to work on the rhythm of your poems. And I have a little trick for that. Look.”

As Señor Álvarez read Ángel’s poem out loud, he tapped his finger at every syllable. It created a smooth melody until it tripped over a long word that didn’t fit the pattern of the rest of the poem, and Ángel even winced when he heard it.

“Always read what you write out loud. It will help you expose awkward mistakes that are hiding in your head.”

Ángel nodded and took the poem to cross out the unfitting word and replace it with something else.

“Okay, maybe it’s better now,” Ángel began to read it out loud and as he followed Señor Álvarez’s advice, he tapped his finger on the desk.

It was perfect this time.

“Woohoo! It worked!” Ángel exclaimed cheerfully and looked at Señor Álvarez, “Thank you so much!”

He chuckled a bit and silently nodded.

“Can I ask you how you created this thing, Señor Álvarez?”

“One person I knew taught me. She was a great poet,” he fell silent for a moment with a sad smile, “And can I ask you why you’ve decided to start writing poetry? Your poems are very emotional. It feels like you’re writing them for someone dear to you.”

Ángel dropped his eyes, “My parents are divorced, but I keep in touch with Mamá and I want to write something special for her. But… I don’t want anyone to know it, so please, don’t tell anyone. Especially Papá and my friends.”

“You can count on me,” Señor Álvarez stuck out his little finger for a pinky swear, and Ángel laughed.

“Now I know why I’ve come to you, Señor Álvarez!”

They released each other’s fingers, and as Ángel glanced at Señor Álvarez, he suddenly felt a surge of warmth radiating from his smile. He was so encouraging and kind, and Ángel still couldn’t get used to it since those were the qualities that Señor Bravo, his previous history teacher, lacked.

Being around Señor Álvarez felt like being wrapped around a soft cozy blanket that could keep him from the cold. He knew it was weird to feel that way about his teacher but he couldn’t help it. Señor Álvarez was a lot more than just a teacher.

“Thank you for always inspiring me to do new things, Señor Álvarez,” he said as he got up from the desk, “You know, you’ve actually been doing it since the first day we’ve met.”

“Good luck with your poems, Ángel. I’m sure your mother will love them when she reads them.”

They both exchanged broad smiles, and as Ángel left the classroom, Valerio exhaled peacefully.

Warmth. Kindness. Inspiration.

Yes. Those words described him well, too.

***

Have I just spoiled Valerio’s entire arc? Perhaps.

Winterberry - Use one or more photos that encapsulates your OC's clothing style.

Oh no. I’m horrible at choosing clothes for my characters x) But something like this, I guess.

Gloves 1000000%

Something black, because this is currently his main color, and sorta elegant? I suppose I’m thinking too much about Valerio as a teacher now, but I’m really not sure what he wears casually.

And he wears a crystal necklace :D You can try to guess why.

And when he was younger, something like this? He’s a sea guy after all, and I think this is actually the closest what he wears in the 13th chapter (aka young Valerio chapter). I also can imagine him wearing something more colorful but it looks way too modern XD

Thank you again!

Flowery OC Asks

[firethekitty]

(about the fic bingo) personally i count the “livio but no razlo” as a negative because i love razlo and people with DID, and i desperately want to know your hottest takes. please Please i’ll even share one of my own, there’s a few fics where Vash gets put into this weird white savior position where he’s The Good White Man and not like his brother who is apparently a big fan of slavery? which in turn ends up giving vashwood this gross slavemaster/slave vibes WHILE they’re making sure to explicitly write wolfwood with darker skin and it’s so. it tastes so bad

actually some of the bingo boxes are the exact same on the hater version! including “no razlo”!

so, on the non-hater version, i acknowledge that sometimes there isn’t enough livio screentime for razlo to make an appearance, or the author just doesn’t feel like they’re able/allowed to write a character with DID. i think this is perfectly understandable and i’d much rather someone say “i don’t know enough about this subject to feel confident writing about it” than someone just reinventing jekyll and hyde again

however, in a hater context, i can count the number of times i’ve seen razlo in a vashwood fic on one hand. i get not having the space to include him in shorter fics but i’ve also seen 40k+ word (WITH livio as a main character!!) fics that never even mention him and i think it’s lame as hell. don’t have DID? consider talking to people (who have given you permission to ask questions of course) or research from well-trusted studies or how people talk about their experience with DID. otherwise don’t just pretend it doesn’t exist?

i just hateee when aus get rid of characters’ disabilities and disorders and trauma. to me it’s kind of the same thing when people write aus and vash has both arms, or wolfwood is just like some random guy with no problems at all. i think these things are such intrinsic parts of characters, ALL characters, and it doesn’t make sense to leave them out or even get rid of them altogether. like, why would you do that? are you “healing” them? are they somehow “better” if they’re able-bodied and neurotypical? how interesting 🤔

anyway GOD that is horrible😭😭😭i can’t say i’ve ever seen Slavery Knives (mostly bc i don’t trust anyone to be normal about him and avoid most fics with him in it LOL) but i see a TON of weird fetishy wolfwood depictions, even more prevalent in fanart. any fic that has him speaking gratuitous spanish like that one tumblr post (si i recognize your señorita, she trabajo'd here) or goes out of its way to talk about how brown his skin is i’m immediately nope-ing out of

[metalor-headquarters]

9, 10, and 11 if youre still doing these!

Thank you anon for the ask! And yes I am still doing them, for as long as this blog is active! 😊

Also since you didn’t specify anything else, I’ll go with the SFW ones.

9 - Is someone multilingual? Do they try to teach another language to the other? How does it go?

Ooooh, hohohoho, glad you asked! Actually, I headcanon both know more than one language! Magolor obviously knows Halcandran language, and learned the language most spoken in Dream Land! Fun fact: in the Japanese version of Return to Dream Land, Magolor speaks with an accent (since katakana is a writing system often used for words from other languages… or something like that, go read his wiki lmao), so I thought it would be neat if he also did in the "English" version (even though I HC English is used only for us to understand, and the Dream Landers actually speak their own language too… haha, alien languages my beloveds <3).

Meta Knight speaks many languages, including Dream Land’s language, his native language (I have my own sets of headcanons for where he is from, of course the obligatory "rebelled from Nightmare" one, but also his whole childhood and character arcs…!), and the many languages he learnt from when he grew up and where he went to help, go on missions or just studying in general. Of course he doesn’t master them all, but he can introduce himself and hold a basic conversation in a lot of languages. I’d say he’s the most comfortable in his native language, DL’s language and the one he learnt when he was a child/teen. SPECIAL NOTE: I am not so sure why I am so attached on this, but I’ve always been very against the idea canon Meta Knight speaks with a Spanish accent, I don’t know why… 😭 But yeah, while I do think he maaaay have an accent, it either is very small, or it’s completely different from what we expect since technically, as I said before, they speak non-human languages, so Spanish, English, French, Japanese, etc. wouldn’t actually exist as they do in our world.

Of course, both would be VERY interested to learn the languages the other speaks. Magolor would be really eager to teach Meta words in Halcandran and would realize (way too late) that he gave Meta the power to flirt with him in Halcandran 👀

Since Meta’s native language is tightly related to Nightmare, he’d probably rather teach Magolor the language he learned as he was raised by his adoptive mother (this too would need a post on its own hahaha…), and trust me, Magolor would probably instantly go, “Can you teach me how to swear” and Meta would glare at him 😆😆😆

I think that Meta Knight wouldn’t have too much trouble learning Magolor’s native language, and Magolor would also end up learning Meta’s language, even though it would take more time, since it’s “only” his third language 👀 (Disclaimer: as someone who has only learnt to master two languages (and partially a third), learning languages is hard, and it would probably take them both months, years even to speak fluently in new languages!!)

They would probably use these languages as a code, or just switch languages for fun. It would also help them keep their languages “fresh”, since yeah, sometimes you start to forget languages you don’t practice!! 😵‍💫 Bonus headcanon: Magolor is not as used to speak DL’s language as much as Meta Knight is so, while I can see Meta Knight, over time, learning to use Dream-lander’s “fuck”, Magolor definitely swears in Halcandran when he is really pissed. And since he taught his boyfriend his language, well he has to live with the fact he now understands every single horrible word that comes off his mouth 😭🤣

10. Any pets? Or plants?

That is something I’ve never really thought out to be honest, but if that isn’t the point of doing asks! 🤣

A few days ago, however, I had quite a silly idea, who stems from a really cursed running gag from my Kirby server. Well, I kinda just took the characters and did something completely different with them: basically, my idea is that Meta Knight has a Bronto Burt as a pet.

Otherwise, I’m not so sure they’d be the types to own pets. I know some people headcanon Magolor has Sphere doomers as pets, but I’ve never really stuck to that. Weren’t they the ones to keep the Energy spheres away from Magolor’s ship? 🤨 Anyways.

And if we go in the “plant” direction… let’s be serious. Let’s be real. First of all. Let’s assume (wrongly) that they would actually be interested in having, of all things, plants in their respective ships. Do you really think they can keep a plant alive? Of all the people, Meta Knight would probably be too busy (either by work, friends/family and, of course, Magolor~) to think of a plant and, remember, Magolor has ADHD (totally not projecting at all, you can 100% trust me on that 😇), so he would totally forget to water it, marking quite quickly the end of that plant’s sorry life 😖

Okay, okay, let’s say they do want to have plants, and let’s say either Meta delegates the job to care for it to some of his crew, or the Lor Starcutter regularly reminds Magolor to water the plant, then we can think of what kind of plants they would have. Well, bad news, I ain’t really a plant nerd. So I won’t spurt out words in latin, but I can muse on what types of plant they would have. Probably cacti because they can have funny shapes, climbing plants because it would give their respective ships cool colors, or plants that give food, like pepper, peas and herbs.

11. Baths or showers? Together or separate? Any bubbles or bubble fights?

Magolor is definitely more of a shower type. He isn’t a fan of water; while he can handle it, he doesn’t really like the feeling of having a wet fur. On the flip side, he also enjoys to have a clean fur, so he sees it as a necessary evil. He does try to skip it sometimes, but he tries not to for obvious reasons. And since I am a fu….. trash, of course I give Magolor cat-like features and traits, so of course I think that sometimes, he will groom himself like a cat 😵 But he doesn’t do it in front of people. So yeah, he still takes showers because it’s more convenient to him.

Meta Knight prefers baths, but he will take a shower if he is in a rush. He likes to swim, and overall quite enjoys water, so a bath is always really appreciated after a long day of work. He likes to light a cinnamon-scented candle during the bath, it makes it even more relaxing.

Meta would like to sometimes share this moment with his love, but as said before, Magolor doesn’t accept often because he won’t stay long in the bath most of the time. Furthermore, they have very different life schedules, so trying to find time for a shared bath and some more time together often feels like a puzzle! Finally, when Magolor gets out and dries himself, his fur poofs up and he doesn’t like when he looks like that (even though Meta Knight finds that super cute), so he tries to avoid it as much as possible… but remember that Meta too is determined when he wants! (They’re both stubborn gay idiots 💖)

So yeah, that’s all for this ask! Thank you so much for reading until here, and I hope you enjoyed these silly little headcanons! Feel free to send some more Metalor asks if you want, I would love to answer them! 😊

[blue-eyed-bloodstains]

1. Do you enjoy Jim Carrey movies? HELLLL YES! ALLLLRIIIIGGGHHTTYY THEEENNNN! :D 

2. Don’t you love to eat watermelon on hot, sunny days? I’ll eat it anytime really

3. Does your hair change color with the seasons? it gets natural blonde highlights the more it’s in the sun 

4. Have you ever made a CD with music that reminds you of someone/something? yep several times

5. Do you watch Saturday Night Live? What do you think of it? not really I’ve seen it in the past and I’ll see occasional clips but I was more a huge MadTV fan. I think it’s alright, some are funny and some aren’t. 

6. What is your favorite sporting event to watch during the summer Olympics? What about the winter ones? I never really watch em but if I do, I definitely love the gymnastics and snowboarding...curling too

7. Do you play the Sims? Would you say you’re addicted to it? I used to so much in the early days of it I’m so far behind!! I wanna play it so bad to see how different it is!

8. Name the last five artists you listened to. Jesse McCartney, Eppic, Michael Jackson, Tyga feat. Chris Brown, Skillet

9. Do you know anyone who is lactose intolerant? Do you know anyone who is allergic to wheat? I mean I don’t think so personally, at least they never told me or made it obvious for either one? 

10. Do you usually make plans for the week ahead, or do you just make them as the days come? nope never really make plans at all except figure out what I’m craving for dinner to DoorDash...I play it by ear

11. Is there an animal in the same room as you? yeah my passed out with full belly cat 

12. What language do you take in school? Is it boring to learn it? I took mandatory Spanish like everyone, and once I was able to choose my own I took Italian for a few years. It wasn’t boring really, I loved it...just wish I remembered more than a few words :(

13. Do you remember what the last kind of gum was that you had? Ice Breakers Cubes, Spearmint

14. Do you tend to grow out of things fast? ...meaning like, emotionally and mentally? unfortunately I lose interest in a lot of shit I normally love due to my severe depression so I guess in a way yeah...

15. Do you like to eat cinnamon rolls, or do you find them disgusting? I love em especially if they’re real moist and creamy

16. What is the approximate time and date? May 19, 2023 Friday, 8:10am EST

17. When was the last time you went on Facebook? a few days ago I’ve been too sick

18. Who is your favorite survey maker on Xanga? What about layout maker? I think I’m the only person I know who never went on Xanga! *hides*

19. What is your favorite kind of salad dressing? tie between ranch and balsamic vinaigrette 

20. Do you know where your favorite band/singer originated from? If so, where? Which one? JoJo from Mass., Tay Swift from right here in PA, Eminem from Detroit, Alexz Johnson and Avril Lavigne both from Canada...

21. Do you tend to take or make more surveys? take

22. Isn’t it revolting when big hairy old men walk around with their shirts off? And also when women wear clothes that don’t fit them? Fuck this question???

23. What color are your earphones? white

24. Do you remember the last photo you took? What was it of? What about the last photo you put on a website? I believe it was a selfie on FB, and took was of my cat

25. Do you like long surveys or short ones? long

26. Have you ever used a silver Sharpie? What’d you think of it? no I’d like to though

27. Do you enjoy Japanese anime? Have you ever seen the Miyazaki films, like Howl’s Moving Castle, Kiki’s Delivery Service, or My Neighbor Totoro? hellllll yessssssss omg don’t get me started!!

28. Do you like to eat out more or eat in? Which do you do more often? I love getting take out or going out to eat but we mostly DoorDash and stay home...

29. Do you believe you’ve gotten better at making surveys? I’ve never made any, only taken em

30. Do you enjoy watching shows about survival? Why/why not? meh not really, just not my thing really...I’m more about the crime shows and docs so complete opposite :P

[x-i-l-verify]

[ A playlist for the Torturer, the Prisoner, and the Warden, the various ways they irrevocably broke themselves and each other within the obsidian walls of Pandora’s Vault, and the malignant, toxic, dysfunctional bond that inextricably intertwines the three of them together. ]

(Full tracklist below the cut)

~

Intro: Dramatis Personae 

1. “A Rain of Brass Petals (Three Voices Edit)” by Akira Yamaoka [“I am the first / A shadow at the end of the hallway / I spin the carousel, the laughter recedes away / (...) I am the second / Alone in a faceless crowd / A human caught in monochrome dreams / (...) I am the third / A master / a sentinel of awakeness”]

2. “Heathens” by Twenty One Pilots (First to Eleven Full Band Rock Cover) [“You'll never know the psychopath sitting next to you / You'll never know the murderer sitting next to you / You'll think, "How'd I get here, sitting next to you?" / But after all I've said, please don't forget / All my friends are heathens, take it slow / Wait for them to ask you who you know / Please don't make any sudden moves / You don't know the half of the abuse”]

-

Act I: The Torturer

3. “Guns & Roses” by Paradise Lunch

4. “Eyes on Me (Vox’s Song)” by Paranoid DJ [“I'll corrupt, manipulate, control what they see / I am the master of obscuring through our technology / I'll sell your every single weakness back to you for a fee /  Don't be a fool and stand there droolin' / Get those eyes on me / Take a chance, play my game, get the rush in your veins”]

5. “Chandelier” by Sia (Spanish cover by Kevin Vasquez)

6. (@ the Warden) “The Pit” by Silversun Pickups [“ I'm sure you recognize my noise and you heard about the Pit / Been told to be afraid of everything that lives within / But it's much worse where you are / So will you go for it? / I have a feeling you might / Feeling you might / Somebody somewhere / Will clean out your wounds / With dirty fingers / We'll bury the lie”]

7. (@ the Warden) “Addict” by Silva Hound (NateWantsToBattle feat. Leeandlie cover) [“So what if I misbehave? / It's what everybody craves / You already know / So come if you're feeling brave / And fancy yourself a mate / You want it, I got it, see what you like? / We could have it all by the end of the night / Your money and power, my sinful delight / A hit of that heaven and hell, a hell of a high”]

8. (@ the Prisoner) “Eyes on Fire” by Blue Foundation [“I'll seek you out / Flay you alive / One more word and you won't survive / And I'm not scared / Of your stolen power / I see right through you any hour / (...) I'm taking it slow / Feeding my flame/ Shuffling the cards of your game”]

9. (@ the Prisoner)  “King of the World” by Porcelain and the Tramps [“I'm the fucking king of the world / Get on your knees / I'm the fucking king of the world / Do as I please / So get up and get out and I'll show you / What it means for me to control you”]

10. “Magnum Bullets” by Night Runner feat. Dan Avidan  [“Running in shoes that shine / With blood that isn't mine / A stinging trophy of the battles I've survived / No longer I defend / The choices I pretend / Could make amends that heal the loss of precious time / My conscience paralyzed / Against the rising tide / Of haunting memories that drown a wasted life”]

-

Act II: The Prisoner 

11. “Wybie” by Bruno Coulais

12. “Nightmare” by Halsey [“Kindness is weakness, or worse, you're complacent / I could play nice, or I could be a bully / I'm tired and angry, but somebody should be /  (...) Someone like me can be a real nightmare, completely aware / But I'd rather be a real nightmare than die unaware”]

13. “Therapy” by All Time Low [“In a city of fools I was careful and cool / But they tore me apart like a hurricane / A handful of moments I wished I could change / But I was carried away / Give me therapy, I'm a walking travesty / But I'm smiling at everything”]

14. (@ the Torturer) “The One Who Laughs Last” by Downplay [“I am used to these black eyes / To be bruised, antagonized / But it overwhelms my mind / To believe that I called you a friend / This knife that's in my back keeps twisting / Anxiety attacks”]

15. (@ the Torturer) “Skyscraper” by Demi Lovato (David Hodges cover) [“Would it make you feel better to watch me while I bleed? / All my windows still are broken / But I'm standing on my feet / You can take everything I have / You can break everything I am / Like I'm made of glass / Like I'm made of paper / Go on and try to tear me down / I will be rising from the ground / Like a skyscraper”]

16. (@ the Warden) “Hurricane” by 30 Seconds to Mars [“Tell me, would you kill to save a life? / Tell me, would you kill to prove you're right? / (...) No matter how many deaths that I die I will never forget / No matter how many lives I live I will never regret / (...) Do you really want? Do you really want me? / Do you really want me dead or alive to torture for my sins?”] 

17. (@ the Warden) “Saints” by Echos [“You were standing there like an angry god / Counting out my sins just to cross them off / Saying that my tongue was too loud to trust / And that my blood couldn't keep you / My dear, you're not so innocent / You're fooling Heaven's gates / So you won't have to change / You're no saint, you're no savior”]

18. “Sleep” by My Chemical Romance [“A drink for the horror that I'm in / For the good guys and the bad guys / For the monsters that I've been / Three cheers for tyranny / Unapologetic apathy / 'Cause there ain't no way that I'm coming back again  / And through it all, how could you cry for me? / 'Cause I don't feel bad about it / (...) The hardest part's the awful things that I've seen”]

-

Act III: The Warden 

19. “Theme from Ameteria” by Jack Wall 

20. “I Stand Alone” by Bryan White [“I know the sound of each rock and stone / And I embrace what others fear / You are not to roam in this forgotten place / Just the likes of me are welcome here / Everything breathes / And I know each breath / For me it means life / For others it's death / It's perfectly balanced / Perfectly planned”]

21. “The Strength to Go On” by Rise Against [“Our shoulders bear an awful weight / But still we trudge on just the same / Our colors run then leave a stain / They blacken our once honest name / How can we argue, tell me / Over the fury and the fire / How many times can we tell you that we / Are not like you”]

22. (@ the Prisoner) “I Know Where You Sleep” by Emilie Autumn [“I know the sickening thoughts that slither around your head / I know the gluttonous guilt that buried me in your bed / Manipulate me if you can, go on and fool me like your biggest fan / (...) You play the victim very well / You build yourself indulgent hell / You wanted someone to understand you / Well be careful what you wish for because I do”] 

23. (@ the Prisoner) “Breath” by Breaking Benjamin [“I know nothing of your kind / And I won't reveal your evil mind / Is it over yet? / I can't win / So sacrifice yourself and let me have what's left / (...) You take the breath right out of me / You left a hole where my heart should be / You got to fight just to make it through / 'Cause I will be the death of you”]

24. (@ the Torturer) “How You Remind Me” by Nickelback [This is how you remind me / Of what I really am / (...) And I've been wrong, I've been down / Been to the bottom of every bottle / These five words in my head / Scream "Are we having fun yet?"] 

25. (@ the Torturer) “Carousel” by Melanie Martinez [“This horse is too slow / We're always this close / Almost, almost, we're a freakshow / Right, right when I'm near / It's like you disappeared / Where'd you go? Mr. Houdini, you're a freakshow”]

26. “Control” by Halsey [“They send me away to find them a fortune / A chest filled with diamonds and gold / The house was awake, the shadows and monsters / The hallways, they echoed and groaned I sat alone, in bed till the morning / I'm crying, "They're coming for me" / And I tried to hold these secrets inside me / My mind's like a deadly disease“]

-

Outro: The Vault 

27. “True” by Akira Yamaoka

~

( @theminesbecraftin​ I saw your c!Prison Trio playlist post a week ago, blacked out, and when I came to, this was in front of me. :V I hope at least a few of the songs seem fitting! 🙏 )

[blackwoolncrown]

”This essay has been kicking around in my head for years now and I’ve never felt confident enough to write it. It’s a time in my life I’m ashamed of. It’s a time that I hurt people and, through inaction, allowed others to be hurt. It’s a time that I acted as a violent agent of capitalism and white supremacy. Under the guise of public safety, I personally ruined people’s lives but in so doing, made the public no safer… so did the family members and close friends of mine who also bore the badge alongside me.

But enough is enough.

The reforms aren’t working. Incrementalism isn’t happening. Unarmed Black, indigenous, and people of color are being killed by cops in the streets and the police are savagely attacking the people protesting these murders.

American policing is a thick blue tumor strangling the life from our communities and if you don’t believe it when the poor and the marginalized say it, if you don’t believe it when you see cops across the country shooting journalists with less-lethal bullets and caustic chemicals, maybe you’ll believe it when you hear it straight from the pig’s mouth.”

>>Copied here in case anyone gets paywalled when they click the above. The full article is...a lot.<<

WHY AM I WRITING THIS

As someone who went through the training, hiring, and socialization of a career in law enforcement, I wanted to give a first-hand account of why I believe police officers are the way they are. Not to excuse their behavior, but to explain it and to indict the structures that perpetuate it.

I believe that if everyone understood how we’re trained and brought up in the profession, it would inform the demands our communities should be making of a new way of community safety. If I tell you how we were made, I hope it will empower you to unmake us.

One of the other reasons I’ve struggled to write this essay is that I don’t want to center the conversation on myself and my big salty boo-hoo feelings about my bad choices. It’s a toxic white impulse to see atrocities and think “How can I make this about me?” So, I hope you’ll take me at my word that this account isn’t meant to highlight me, but rather the hundred thousand of me in every city in the country. It’s about the structure that made me (that I chose to pollute myself with) and it’s my meager contribution to the cause of radical justice.

YES, ALL COPS ARE BASTARDS

I was a police officer in a major metropolitan area in California with a predominantly poor, non-white population (with a large proportion of first-generation immigrants). One night during briefing, our watch commander told us that the city council had requested a new zero tolerance policy. Against murderers, drug dealers, or child predators?

No, against homeless people collecting cans from recycling bins.

See, the city had some kickback deal with the waste management company where waste management got paid by the government for our expected tonnage of recycling. When homeless people “stole” that recycling from the waste management company, they were putting that cheaper contract in peril. So, we were to arrest as many recyclers as we could find.

Even for me, this was a stupid policy and I promptly blew Sarge off. But a few hours later, Sarge called me over to assist him. He was detaining a 70 year old immigrant who spoke no English, who he’d seen picking a coke can out of a trash bin. He ordered me to arrest her for stealing trash. I said, “Sarge, c’mon, she’s an old lady.” He said, “I don’t give a shit. Hook her up, that’s an order.” And… I did. She cried the entire way to the station and all through the booking process. I couldn’t even comfort her because I didn’t speak Spanish. I felt disgusting but I was ordered to make this arrest and I wasn’t willing to lose my job for her.

If you’re tempted to feel sympathy for me, don’t. I used to happily hassle the homeless under other circumstances. I researched obscure penal codes so I could arrest people in homeless encampments for lesser known crimes like “remaining too close to railroad property” (369i of the California Penal Code). I used to call it “planting warrant seeds” since I knew they wouldn’t make their court dates and we could arrest them again and again for warrant violations.

We used to have informal contests for who could cite or arrest someone for the weirdest law. DUI on a bicycle, non-regulation number of brooms on your tow truck (27700(a)(1) of the California Vehicle Code)… shit like that. For me, police work was a logic puzzle for arresting people, regardless of their actual threat to the community. As ashamed as I am to admit it, it needs to be said: stripping people of their freedom felt like a game to me for many years.

I know what you’re going to ask: did I ever plant drugs? Did I ever plant a gun on someone? Did I ever make a false arrest or file a false report? Believe it or not, the answer is no. Cheating was no fun, I liked to get my stats the “legitimate” way. But I knew officers who kept a little baggie of whatever or maybe a pocket knife that was a little too big in their war bags (yeah, we called our dufflebags “war bags”…). Did I ever tell anybody about it? No I did not. Did I ever confess my suspicions when cocaine suddenly showed up in a gang member’s jacket? No I did not.

In fact, let me tell you about an extremely formative experience: in my police academy class, we had a clique of around six trainees who routinely bullied and harassed other students: intentionally scuffing another trainee’s shoes to get them in trouble during inspection, sexually harassing female trainees, cracking racist jokes, and so on. Every quarter, we were to write anonymous evaluations of our squadmates. I wrote scathing accounts of their behavior, thinking I was helping keep bad apples out of law enforcement and believing I would be protected. Instead, the academy staff read my complaints to them out loud and outed me to them and never punished them, causing me to get harassed for the rest of my academy class. That’s how I learned that even police leadership hates rats. That’s why no one is “changing things from the inside.” They can’t, the structure won’t allow it.

And that’s the point of what I’m telling you. Whether you were my sergeant, legally harassing an old woman, me, legally harassing our residents, my fellow trainees bullying the rest of us, or “the bad apples” illegally harassing “shitbags”, we were all in it together. I knew cops that pulled women over to flirt with them. I knew cops who would pepper spray sleeping bags so that homeless people would have to throw them away. I knew cops that intentionally provoked anger in suspects so they could claim they were assaulted. I was particularly good at winding people up verbally until they lashed out so I could fight them. Nobody spoke out. Nobody stood up. Nobody betrayed the code.

None of us protected the people (you) from bad cops.

This is why “All cops are bastards.” Even your uncle, even your cousin, even your mom, even your brother, even your best friend, even your spouse, even me. Because even if they wouldn’t Do The Thing themselves, they will almost never rat out another officer who Does The Thing, much less stop it from happening.

BASTARD 101

I could write an entire book of the awful things I’ve done, seen done, and heard others bragging about doing. But, to me, the bigger question is “How did it get this way?”. While I was a police officer in a city 30 miles from where I lived, many of my fellow officers were from the community and treated their neighbors just as badly as I did. While every cop’s individual biases come into play, it’s the profession itself that is toxic, and it starts from day 1 of training.

Every police academy is different but all of them share certain features: taught by old cops, run like a paramilitary bootcamp, strong emphasis on protecting yourself more than anyone else. The majority of my time in the academy was spent doing aggressive physical training and watching video after video after video of police officers being murdered on duty.

I want to highlight this: nearly everyone coming into law enforcement is bombarded with dash cam footage of police officers being ambushed and killed. Over and over and over. Colorless VHS mortality plays, cops screaming for help over their radios, their bodies going limp as a pair of tail lights speed away into a grainy black horizon. In my case, with commentary from an old racist cop who used to brag about assaulting Black Panthers.

To understand why all cops are bastards, you need to understand one of the things almost every training officer told me when it came to using force:

“I’d rather be judged by 12 than carried by 6.”

Meaning, “I’ll take my chances in court rather than risk getting hurt”. We’re able to think that way because police unions are extremely overpowered and because of the generous concept of Qualified Immunity, a legal theory which says a cop generally can’t be held personally liable for mistakes they make doing their job in an official capacity.

When you look at the actions of the officers who killed George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, David McAtee, Mike Brown, Tamir Rice, Philando Castile, Eric Garner, or Freddie Gray, remember that they, like me, were trained to recite “I’d rather be judged by 12” as a mantra. Even if Mistakes Were Made™, the city (meaning the taxpayers, meaning you) pays the settlement, not the officer.

Once police training has - through repetition, indoctrination, and violent spectacle - promised officers that everyone in the world is out to kill them, the next lesson is that your partners are the only people protecting you. Occasionally, this is even true: I’ve had encounters turn on me rapidly to the point I legitimately thought I was going to die, only to have other officers come and turn the tables.

One of the most important thought leaders in law enforcement is Col. Dave Grossman, a “killologist” who wrote an essay called “Sheep, Wolves, and Sheepdogs”. Cops are the sheepdogs, bad guys are the wolves, and the citizens are the sheep (!). Col. Grossman makes sure to mention that to a stupid sheep, sheepdogs look more like wolves than sheep, and that’s why they dislike you.

This “they hate you for protecting them and only I love you, only I can protect you” tactic is familiar to students of abuse. It’s what abusers do to coerce their victims into isolation, pulling them away from friends and family and ensnaring them in the abuser’s toxic web. Law enforcement does this too, pitting the officer against civilians. “They don’t understand what you do, they don’t respect your sacrifice, they just want to get away with crimes. You’re only safe with us.”

I think the Wolves vs. Sheepdogs dynamic is one of the most important elements as to why officers behave the way they do. Every single second of my training, I was told that criminals were not a legitimate part of their community, that they were individual bad actors, and that their bad actions were solely the result of their inherent criminality. Any concept of systemic trauma, generational poverty, or white supremacist oppression was either never mentioned or simply dismissed. After all, most people don’t steal, so anyone who does isn’t “most people,” right? To us, anyone committing a crime deserved anything that happened to them because they broke the “social contract.” And yet, it was never even a question as to whether the power structure above them was honoring any sort of contract back.

Understand: Police officers are part of the state monopoly on violence and all police training reinforces this monopoly as a cornerstone of police work, a source of honor and pride. Many cops fantasize about getting to kill someone in the line of duty, egged on by others that have. One of my training officers told me about the time he shot and killed a mentally ill homeless man wielding a big stick. He bragged that he “slept like a baby” that night. Official training teaches you how to be violent effectively and when you’re legally allowed to deploy that violence, but “unofficial training” teaches you to desire violence, to expand the breadth of your violence without getting caught, and to erode your own compassion for desperate people so you can justify punitive violence against them.

HOW TO BE A BASTARD

I have participated in some of these activities personally, others are ones I either witnessed personally or heard officers brag about openly. Very, very occasionally, I knew an officer who was disciplined or fired for one of these things.

Police officers will lie about the law, about what’s illegal, or about what they can legally do to you in order to manipulate you into doing what they want.

Police officers will lie about feeling afraid for their life to justify a use of force after the fact.

Police officers will lie and tell you they’ll file a police report just to get you off their back.

Police officers will lie that your cooperation will “look good for you” in court, or that they will “put in a good word for you with the DA.” The police will never help you look good in court.

Police officers will lie about what they see and hear to access private property to conduct unlawful searches.

Police officers will lie and say your friend already ratted you out, so you might as well rat them back out. This is almost never true.

Police officers will lie and say you’re not in trouble in order to get you to exit a location or otherwise make an arrest more convenient for them.

Police officers will lie and say that they won’t arrest you if you’ll just “be honest with them” so they know what really happened.

Police officers will lie about their ability to seize the property of friends and family members to coerce a confession.

Police officers will write obviously bullshit tickets so that they get time-and-a-half overtime fighting them in court.

Police officers will search places and containers you didn’t consent to and later claim they were open or “smelled like marijuana”.

Police officers will threaten you with a more serious crime they can’t prove in order to convince you to confess to the lesser crime they really want you for.

Police officers will employ zero tolerance on races and ethnicities they dislike and show favor and lenience to members of their own group.

Police officers will use intentionally extra-painful maneuvers and holds during an arrest to provoke “resistance” so they can further assault the suspect.

Some police officers will plant drugs and weapons on you, sometimes to teach you a lesson, sometimes if they kill you somewhere away from public view.

Some police officers will assault you to intimidate you and threaten to arrest you if you tell anyone.

A non-trivial number of police officers will steal from your house or vehicle during a search.

A non-trivial number of police officers commit intimate partner violence and use their status to get away with it.

A non-trivial number of police officers use their position to entice, coerce, or force sexual favors from vulnerable people.

If you take nothing else away from this essay, I want you to tattoo this onto your brain forever: if a police officer is telling you something, it is probably a lie designed to gain your compliance.

Do not talk to cops and never, ever believe them. Do not “try to be helpful” with cops. Do not assume they are trying to catch someone else instead of you. Do not assume what they are doing is “important” or even legal. Under no circumstances assume any police officer is acting in good faith.

Also, and this is important, do not talk to cops.

I just remembered something, do not talk to cops.

Checking my notes real quick, something jumped out at me:

Do

not

fucking

talk

to

cops.

Ever.

Say, “I don’t answer questions,” and ask if you’re free to leave; if so, leave. If not, tell them you want your lawyer and that, per the Supreme Court, they must terminate questioning. If they don’t, file a complaint and collect some badges for your mantle.

DO THE BASTARDS EVER HELP?

Reading the above, you may be tempted to ask whether cops ever do anything good. And the answer is, sure, sometimes. In fact, most officers I worked with thought they were usually helping the helpless and protecting the safety of innocent people.

During my tenure in law enforcement, I protected women from domestic abusers, arrested cold-blooded murderers and child molesters, and comforted families who lost children to car accidents and other tragedies. I helped connect struggling people in my community with local resources for food, shelter, and counseling. I deescalated situations that could have turned violent and talked a lot of people down from making the biggest mistake of their lives. I worked with plenty of officers who were individually kind, bought food for homeless residents, or otherwise showed care for their community.

The question is this: did I need a gun and sweeping police powers to help the average person on the average night? The answer is no. When I was doing my best work as a cop, I was doing mediocre work as a therapist or a social worker. My good deeds were listening to people failed by the system and trying to unite them with any crumbs of resources the structure was currently denying them.

It’s also important to note that well over 90% of the calls for service I handled were reactive, showing up well after a crime had taken place. We would arrive, take a statement, collect evidence (if any), file the report, and onto the next caper. Most “active” crimes we stopped were someone harmless possessing or selling a small amount of drugs. Very, very rarely would we stop something dangerous in progress or stop something from happening entirely. The closest we could usually get was seeing someone running away from the scene of a crime, but the damage was still done.

And consider this: my job as a police officer required me to be a marriage counselor, a mental health crisis professional, a conflict negotiator, a social worker, a child advocate, a traffic safety expert, a sexual assault specialist, and, every once in awhile, a public safety officer authorized to use force, all after only a 1000 hours of training at a police academy. Does the person we send to catch a robber also need to be the person we send to interview a rape victim or document a fender bender? Should one profession be expected to do all that important community care (with very little training) all at the same time?

To put this another way: I made double the salary most social workers made to do a fraction of what they could do to mitigate the causes of crimes and desperation. I can count very few times my monopoly on state violence actually made our citizens safer, and even then, it’s hard to say better-funded social safety nets and dozens of other community care specialists wouldn’t have prevented a problem before it started.

Armed, indoctrinated (and dare I say, traumatized) cops do not make you safer; community mutual aid networks who can unite other people with the resources they need to stay fed, clothed, and housed make you safer. I really want to hammer this home: every cop in your neighborhood is damaged by their training, emboldened by their immunity, and they have a gun and the ability to take your life with near-impunity. This does not make you safer, even if you’re white.

HOW DO YOU SOLVE A PROBLEM LIKE A BASTARD?

So what do we do about it? Even though I’m an expert on bastardism, I am not a public policy expert nor an expert in organizing a post-police society. So, before I give some suggestions, let me tell you what probably won’t solve the problem of bastard cops:

Increased “bias” training. A quarterly or even monthly training session is not capable of covering over years of trauma-based camaraderie in police forces. I can tell you from experience, we don’t take it seriously, the proctors let us cheat on whatever “tests” there are, and we all made fun of it later over coffee.

Tougher laws. I hope you understand by now, cops do not follow the law and will not hold each other accountable to the law. Tougher laws are all the more reason to circle the wagons and protect your brothers and sisters.

More community policing programs. Yes, there is a marginal effect when a few cops get to know members of the community, but look at the protests of 2020: many of the cops pepper-spraying journalists were probably the nice school cop a month ago.

Police officers do not protect and serve people, they protect and serve the status quo, “polite society”, and private property. Using the incremental mechanisms of the status quo will never reform the police because the status quo relies on police violence to exist. Capitalism requires a permanent underclass to exploit for cheap labor and it requires the cops to bring that underclass to heel.

Instead of wasting time with minor tweaks, I recommend exploring the following ideas:

No more qualified immunity. Police officers should be personally liable for all decisions they make in the line of duty.

No more civil asset forfeiture. Did you know that every year, citizens like you lose more cash and property to unaccountable civil asset forfeiture than to all burglaries combined? The police can steal your stuff without charging you with a crime and it makes some police departments very rich.

Break the power of police unions. Police unions make it nearly impossible to fire bad cops and incentivize protecting them to protect the power of the union. A police union is not a labor union; police officers are powerful state agents, not exploited workers.

Require malpractice insurance. Doctors must pay for insurance in case they botch a surgery, police officers should do the same for botching a police raid or other use of force. If human decency won’t motivate police to respect human life, perhaps hitting their wallet might.

Defund, demilitarize, and disarm cops. Thousands of police departments own assault rifles, armored personnel carriers, and stuff you’d see in a warzone. Police officers have grants and huge budgets to spend on guns, ammo, body armor, and combat training. 99% of calls for service require no armed response, yet when all you have is a gun, every problem feels like target practice. Cities are not safer when unaccountable bullies have a monopoly on state violence and the equipment to execute that monopoly.

One final idea: consider abolishing the police.

I know what you’re thinking, “What? We need the police! They protect us!” As someone who did it for nearly a decade, I need you to understand that by and large, police protection is marginal, incidental. It’s an illusion created by decades of copaganda designed to fool you into thinking these brave men and women are holding back the barbarians at the gates.

I alluded to this above: the vast majority of calls for service I handled were theft reports, burglary reports, domestic arguments that hadn’t escalated into violence, loud parties, (houseless) people loitering, traffic collisions, very minor drug possession, and arguments between neighbors. Mostly the mundane ups and downs of life in the community, with little inherent danger. And, like I mentioned, the vast majority of crimes I responded to (even violent ones) had already happened; my unaccountable license to kill was irrelevant.

What I mainly provided was an “objective” third party with the authority to document property damage, ask people to chill out or disperse, or counsel people not to beat each other up. A trained counselor or conflict resolution specialist would be ten times more effective than someone with a gun strapped to his hip wondering if anyone would try to kill him when he showed up. There are many models for community safety that can be explored if we get away from the idea that the only way to be safe is to have a man with a M4 rifle prowling your neighborhood ready at a moment’s notice to write down your name and birthday after you’ve been robbed and beaten.

You might be asking, “What about the armed robbers, the gangsters, the drug dealers, the serial killers?” And yes, in the city I worked, I regularly broke up gang parties, found gang members carrying guns, and handled homicides. I’ve seen some tragic things, from a reformed gangster shot in the head with his brains oozing out to a fifteen year old boy taking his last breath in his screaming mother’s arms thanks to a gang member’s bullet. I know the wages of violence.

This is where we have to have the courage to ask: why do people rob? Why do they join gangs? Why do they get addicted to drugs or sell them? It’s not because they are inherently evil. I submit to you that these are the results of living in a capitalist system that grinds people down and denies them housing, medical care, human dignity, and a say in their government. These are the results of white supremacy pushing people to the margins, excluding them, disrespecting them, and treating their bodies as disposable.

Equally important to remember: disabled and mentally ill people are frequently killed by police officers not trained to recognize and react to disabilities or mental health crises. Some of the people we picture as “violent offenders” are often people struggling with untreated mental illness, often due to economic hardships. Very frequently, the officers sent to “protect the community” escalate this crisis and ultimately wound or kill the person. Your community was not made safer by police violence; a sick member of your community was killed because it was cheaper than treating them. Are you extremely confident you’ll never get sick one day too?

Wrestle with this for a minute: if all of someone’s material needs were met and all the members of their community were fed, clothed, housed, and dignified, why would they need to join a gang? Why would they need to risk their lives selling drugs or breaking into buildings? If mental healthcare was free and was not stigmatized, how many lives would that save?

Would there still be a few bad actors in the world? Sure, probably. What’s my solution for them, you’re no doubt asking. I’ll tell you what: generational poverty, food insecurity, houselessness, and for-profit medical care are all problems that can be solved in our lifetimes by rejecting the dehumanizing meat grinder of capitalism and white supremacy. Once that’s done, we can work on the edge cases together, with clearer hearts not clouded by a corrupt system.

Police abolition is closely related to the idea of prison abolition and the entire concept of banishing the carceral state, meaning, creating a society focused on reconciliation and restorative justice instead of punishment, pain, and suffering — a system that sees people in crisis as humans, not monsters. People who want to abolish the police typically also want to abolish prisons, and the same questions get asked: “What about the bad guys? Where do we put them?” I bring this up because abolitionists don’t want to simply replace cops with armed social workers or prisons with casual detention centers full of puffy leather couches and Playstations. We imagine a world not divided into good guys and bad guys, but rather a world where people’s needs are met and those in crisis receive care, not dehumanization.

Here’s legendary activist and thinker Angela Y. Davis putting it better than I ever could:

“An abolitionist approach that seeks to answer questions such as these would require us to imagine a constellation of alternative strategies and institutions, with the ultimate aim of removing the prison from the social and ideological landscapes of our society. In other words, we would not be looking for prisonlike substitutes for the prison, such as house arrest safeguarded by electronic surveillance bracelets. Rather, positing decarceration as our overarching strategy, we would try to envision a continuum of alternatives to imprisonment-demilitarization of schools, revitalization of education at all levels, a health system that provides free physical and mental care to all, and a justice system based on reparation and reconciliation rather than retribution and vengeance.”

(Are Prisons Obsolete, pg. 107)

I’m not telling you I have the blueprint for a beautiful new world. What I’m telling you is that the system we have right now is broken beyond repair and that it’s time to consider new ways of doing community together. Those new ways need to be negotiated by members of those communities, particularly Black, indigenous, disabled, houseless, and citizens of color historically shoved into the margins of society. Instead of letting Fox News fill your head with nightmares about Hispanic gangs, ask the Hispanic community what they need to thrive. Instead of letting racist politicians scaremonger about pro-Black demonstrators, ask the Black community what they need to meet the needs of the most vulnerable. If you truly desire safety, ask not what your most vulnerable can do for the community, ask what the community can do for the most vulnerable.

A WORLD WITH FEWER BASTARDS IS POSSIBLE

If you take only one thing away from this essay, I hope it’s this: do not talk to cops. But if you only take two things away, I hope the second one is that it’s possible to imagine a different world where unarmed black people, indigenous people, poor people, disabled people, and people of color are not routinely gunned down by unaccountable police officers. It doesn’t have to be this way. Yes, this requires a leap of faith into community models that might feel unfamiliar, but I ask you:

When you see a man dying in the street begging for breath, don’t you want to leap away from that world?

When you see a mother or a daughter shot to death sleeping in their beds, don’t you want to leap away from that world?

When you see a twelve year old boy executed in a public park for the crime of playing with a toy, jesus fucking christ, can you really just stand there and think “This is normal”?

And to any cops who made it this far down, is this really the world you want to live in? Aren’t you tired of the trauma? Aren’t you tired of the soul sickness inherent to the badge? Aren’t you tired of looking the other way when your partners break the law? Are you really willing to kill the next George Floyd, the next Breonna Taylor, the next Tamir Rice? How confident are you that your next use of force will be something you’re proud of? I’m writing this for you too: it’s wrong what our training did to us, it’s wrong that they hardened our hearts to our communities, and it’s wrong to pretend this is normal.

Look, I wouldn’t have been able to hear any of this for much of my life. You reading this now may not be able to hear this yet either. But do me this one favor: just think about it. Just turn it over in your mind for a couple minutes. “Yes, And” me for a minute. Look around you and think about the kind of world you want to live in. Is it one where an all-powerful stranger with a gun keeps you and your neighbors in line with the fear of death, or can you picture a world where, as a community, we embrace our most vulnerable, meet their needs, heal their wounds, honor their dignity, and make them family instead of desperate outsiders?

If you take only three things away from this essay, I hope the third is this: you and your community don’t need bastards to thrive.

RESOURCES TO YES-AND WITH

Achele Mbembe — Necropolitics

Angela Y. Davis — Are Prisons Obsolete?

CriticalResistance.org — Abolition Toolkit

Joe Macaré, Maya Schenwar, and Alana Yu-lan Price — Who Do You Serve, Who Do You Protect?

Ruth Wilson Gilmore — COVID-19, Decarceration, Abolition [video]

[drifting-pieces-blog-blog]

What We Believe - Part 4

Part three to the “What We Are” series.

‘What We See’ starts here.

‘What We Do’ starts here.

-

Summary: The discovery that Khonshu is back hits hard for a system that is still trying to learn to trust one another, let alone live with one another. Some old wounds get ripped open and Trust is a word filled with pain.

Warnings: I don't know. You watched the show. All of that. (emotional damage and discussion of self harm/suicide/mild violence)

Pairing: The trio are all friends here. Layla saves the day.

Word count: 2241

Part 1 Here.

Part 2 Here.

Part 3 Here. 

Part 4: Steven attempts to uncover the past and instead finds a painful reality. Jake refuses to admit to his own past guilt, leading Marc down a path he can't ignore. The past hurts. 

Steven stared at the phone. He reached out and picked it up, flipping it open then flipped it shut again. 

He knew time was limited. He had waited until Marc fell asleep before he had fronted and put up his own wall. He had never blocked anyone out before. Not like this. He only hoped that Jake was still deep down below because he wasn’t sure if his wall was enough. 

He had checked the time zones five times before he was confident that he wouldn’t be calling in the middle of the night. 

He opened the phone again and pulled up the contacts in Marc’s phone. “DuChamp, Layla, Steven… Marc you need to make more friends…” He scrolled to the bottom and stared at the name. 

All these years he had imagined a mother worth loving. Someone to talk to and tell his day to. Someone who didn’t mind listening to him ramble and natter on. It had never occurred to him that there was someone else in the picture. Someone else who was still alive. 

He had been hesitant to ask Marc about their father. A man that Marc never spoke to or of.

Steven was honestly terrified that whatever mental image he had of his father was also all a lie. Was he as soft spoken as he remembered? He always pictured a sad smile and tired eyes. A man that did his best to teach the Kosher life. 

Steven took a deep breath and dialed. 

The phone rang three times before a tired voice picked up. “Hello?” 

Steven froze. This was a mistake. What was he supposed to say? What was the script? 

“Hey, you alright?” Steven fell back on familiar terms. 

“Who is this?” Confusion came back at him. 

“Hey Dad, it’s Steven. With a V. How are you?” He nervously got up and paced. He thought better if he was moving. 

He could hear his Dad breathing on the other side. “Marc? Marc what is this all about? I haven’t heard from you since…Your mother…” His voice cut out and cracked. “You should have come inside. Everyone asked about you.” 

“Yeah, I know.” Steven tried again. What was it Jake had called it? Masking? He had no idea how to do any of that. In theory he should be able to fake an American accent, but he just couldn’t get his mouth to work right. He chewed his lower lip for a moment then pushed ahead. “It’s Steven. Marc isn’t here right now. I thought I’d just check in. See how things are going, yeah?” 

“A bit old to keep up those games, don’t you think?” His father cleared his throat loudly on the other side as if clearing the air of something foul. “Marc, I’d like to see you. We could talk about things. About your time abroad. Must have seen some things over there in Europe, huh?” 

“It’s Steven.” His face fell. “I’m not playing any games. I just wanted to ask you some questions… Did you ever know a Jake? Jake Lockley? He might not have told you his name, but he speaks Spanish.” 

“If this is about changing your name, Marc, you know I don’t approve. You’re an adult, though. You can do what you wish. As for this Jake character, I don’t know what you’re talking about. What is all this? Is this about that time when you went to the retreat?” His father sounded stern, but not angry. It was the kind of stern that came with denial and the refusal to listen. 

“Retreat? What retreat?” Steven circled the fish tank, watching the three goldfish float around without care. 

“For your health. We all agreed you needed some time away. Especially after your accident. You were talking about a Jake then too. All this nonsense. Are you alright, Marc? Are you in trouble?” It was genuine concern and Steven felt so taken back by the shift that he stopped pacing. 

“I… Dad, listen. I’m Steven Grant. I have this disorder and… Well I can send you some books on it actually. Dissociative Identity Disorder. Maybe you thought it was strange when I was little, but I’m also Marc and sometimes Jake. It’s not bad, though. We’re all friends. We look out for one another so it’s okay!” He forced a smile and suddenly he understood what Jake had meant by masking. It hurt to smile. “It can be a lot to take in. It’s all very new to me too. I had no idea until just a bit ago. But I can help explain it if you like.” 

“Listen, Marc. I’m glad you called. It is good to hear from you, but I can’t entertain this sort of delusion. The doctors said it wasn’t good for you. Steven isn’t real. He’s just a figment of your mind. How about you call me back later when you’re feeling more yourself?” He sounded so kind. So caring and like he honestly thought he was helping. 

“Yeah, alright.” He found the script at last. “Nice chatting with you. I’ve gotta run. Real busy here. Talk to you later then, alright?” 

“Bye Marc. Take care, son.” He hung up and the phone clicked off. 

Steven slowly closed the phone and set it down. He took a slow breath and slowly let go of the old memories. “He was kind.” He worried his hands together over his heart, imagining that he could worry the pain away if he just squeezed hard enough. “He sounded like he cares for us so much…”  

Steven let out a trembling breath and remembered that he was not alone. He let the walls fall away. “Marc…” His voice was small, terrified that maybe he wouldn’t get an answer. 

Marc came to in a flurry of confusion as he found himself fronting in an upright position when just a moment ago he had been snug in bed. “What the hell?” 

Marc was at least relieved that they were still in the flat. “Steven? What’s up buddy?” 

“Nothing.” Steven relaxed as he heard Marc. “I just… Just felt a little bad. Must have been something we ate? Will you sit up with me a bit?” 

Marc looked around the apartment suspiciously. Something was up. Steven sounded so down. “Yeah. Of course. I’m always down for a game or whatever. Want to try checkers?” 

“Yeah.” Steven relaxed as Marc pulled out the board and set it up. “I’m not going to let you win this time.” 

“Yeah yeah. I call red.” Marc glanced at the phone sitting by the fish tank. It wasn’t where it belonged. He made a mental note to check it later. 

–

Jake watched as the game ended and Steven at last fell asleep. Marc lay in bed for a few minutes before he got up and went to the phone. 

“He put up a wall.” Jake supplied. “I didn’t see what he did, but he’s in pain. Who did he call?” 

Marc jumped at first when he heard Jake’s voice then he sighed and opened the phone. He pulled up call history. “Haven’t heard your pleasant voice in a few days. Been busy?” 

“Cleaning up after you mostly.” Jake shrugged. “Thank you for at least not trashing the place fully.” 

“Nothing from the bird?” Marc glanced around as if expecting him to manifest just to spite him. 

“No. No new missions yet. Should I even let you know when I get one? You never have to even know if you let me play it my way.” Jake glanced at the phone. “Mierde.” 

Marc felt his free hand tighten into a fist. He wasn’t sure if it was his doing or Jake’s. The call log put the call at just under five minutes. “Why would he do this?” 

“Call him back.” Jake fumed. “I want to know what that pendejo said. I want to know what he said to make Steven hurt like that!” 

“I’m not calling him. I don’t want to speak with him. You don’t get to speak with him either!” Marc closed the phone and tossed it to a side table. “I don’t want to hear his voice. I don’t want to hear his guilt trip or his apologies for all the things he didn’t do!!” 

Jake watched Marc start to pace. It was with heavy steps and clenching and unclenching fists. The walk of a man that wanted to hurt something, or that was expecting to be hurt. 

“You can’t keep Steven from being curious.” Jake sighed in frustration. “He gets even the smallest idea of a mystery and he has to know. He doesn’t like being left out.” 

“I know that!” Marc sat down and tapped his foot. “He saw what happened. He knows what he was like. How he stood by and did nothing! Why the hell would he call him?” 

“Might be my fault.” Jake looked down. “He’s curious about things that happened. Things that maybe he doesn’t feel that he can ask about.” 

“Great.” Marc sat forward, leaning on his knees heavily. “Maybe he should just ask us next time. Why does he always have to see for himself? Why can’t he just take our word for it?” 

“Would you be honest with him?” Jake crossed his arms. 

“Of course I would!” Marc snapped. “Why would I lie to him?” 

“To keep him safe.” Jake looked down at his hands. 

“Like you would know what that means.” Marc got up and started to pace again.

“I keep you safe.” Jake waved a hand. “I try to anyway.” 

“Safe from what? You know you owe me answers too. How long have you been here? What do you do? I keep us safe. I protect Steven.” Marc circled the fish tank in agitation. 

“Steven protects you from the things you can’t face. I protect you from yourself.” Jake ran a hand through his hair, pushing the curls back. “Steven doesn’t need to know everything, but maybe we should tell him why I’m here. Are you afraid of what he’ll think of you? Or do you honestly not remember?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. From myself?” Marc scoffed. “I know you were in the hospital. I’ve managed to work that bit out myself. Fun times were had by all. You didn’t protect me from shit. I still remember the ‘help’ they gave me.” 

“How did you get there?” Jake stepped closer. 

“Dad.” Marc scowled. “He locked me up because I couldn’t cope with what our Mother was doing. Because I was best friends with an English boy that lived in my head!” 

Jake looked down. “You don’t remember. Guess I did my job well enough.” 

“What are you talking about? Spit it out already! I hate how much you beat around the bush!” Marc moved to look at Jake fully in the mirror. “What did you do? Why did I need you?” 

Jake looked down. He couldn’t look Marc in the eye. He couldn’t stand to see the pain that was there. “Hermano… Maybe we do this later, huh? I don’t want to discuss this yet. I don’t think you are ready.” 

“Tell me. Stop hiding shit from me. Just tell me what happened. Was it her? Did she do something? I can believe it. All the things she said and did. What else could she have done to me?” His eyes were full of fire, yet also scared. 

Jake shook his head. “Goodnight, Marc. Just forget about it.” He stepped back, slipping into the shadows where Marc could not follow. It was easier back there. He didn’t have to see those scared eyes pleading with him for help. 

“Jake? Jake!” Marc grabbed the mirror and threw it across the room. “Tell me what happened you coward!” 

The mirror shattered across the floor. A sound he knew well. Marc took a few deep breaths to calm down then moved to clean up the mess. 

He wouldn’t drink this time. He’d show Jake just how much he didn’t need him. He didn’t need anyone to protect him. He was the protector. He took the hits so Steven didn’t have to. 

His finger slipped on the glass and blood ran down his hand heavily. “Damn it.” 

A memory struggled to the surface. “You couldn’t even do this right, could you?” His mother sat in the chair next to his bed. Her eyes were cold and piercing. “I don’t know what I was expecting. You can’t do anything right. You can’t even die right. Couldn’t even die with your little brother back then. You just keep crawling back like a worm. Do us all a favor and get it right next time.”

Marc dropped the glass and backed away. 

His father’s face floated into memory, worried and tired. “Son, it was just an accident. You didn’t mean to do that, right? You just have to tell them that and we’ll work this out. There’s this nice place that’s agreed to see you. A nice get away from home, huh? Like a retreat.” 

His next memory was of him waking up in the mental hospital, confused and scared. He had no idea how he had gotten there or where he was. 

He had blacked out. 

“It was you.” Marc sank down to the floor. “You put me there.” 

“No, Hermano…” Jake sank down, feeling as if his sins were finally manifesting against him. “You put us there. I just failed to stop you.” 

[lholland14]

Do You Wanna Build a Snowman? (Jill Roord x Reader)

Jill Jamie Roord rarely got jealous. She knows Y/n is hers and only hers. Besides who in the world could possibly be an upgrade from her.

It was December 20th when Jill and Y/n boarded the flight to Oldenzaal, Netherlands to spend Christmas with her family. Not only was it Jill's first time home for Christmas, but it was also Y/n's first time meeting Jill's family.

~~~

When we finally landed Jill bounced up from her seat grinning, energized by the smell of the Dutch air. While she was excited to come home, I was dreading it.

Let's get things straight, I'm from Spain I speak Spanish, and English not Dutch. My girlfriend's family is Dutch. I don't know Dutch. I- ugh. This is going to suck.

As we drove to her home Jill pointed out landmarks, her favourite places, and just places in general. I could see her brimming delight at the prospect of seeing her family after so long.

~~~

When we finally arrived she bounded to there front door and didn't even knock twice before an older man opened the door with a smile.

"Dad!" Jill shouted hugging the man I presumed was her father

"Jill! Hallo, hoe gaat het? "Jill! Hello, how are you?"

"Ik voel me goed." "I'm good"

I awaited awkwardly for Jill to be finished greeting her dad so she could introduce me, but along came to boys bonding out the door.

They both looked very similar to Jill, so I guessed they were her brothers Jill told me so much about. The one with the moustache (who I presumed was to be Davy) hugged Jill and proceeded into conversation, the other brother, Boyd, walked over to me.

"So, you must be Y/n" He grinned sticking out his hand.

As I shook it I matched his grin and replied "You must be Boyd"

~~~

It was December 22th when Y/n was fully accepted by the Roord's. However Jill wasn't as pleased as she thought she would have been, it all started in the morning, or rather at 3am

~~~

I couldn't sleep. No matter how perfectly perfect my body temperature, no matter how comforting Jill's hand was around my waist was, I couldn't sleep. And it all because it was snowing, lightly, beautifully, like a perfect winters day. I had to go out and see it.

I put on a sweatshirt and sweatpants, and quietly walked out the door, only to run into Boyd.

He cursed as he dropped some of his hot chocolate he was holding onto my sweatshirt.

"Schijten" He cursed. As he tried to dabb at the already stained shirt I stopped him since I knew it was useless.

He sighed and looked at me apologetically before offering his own sweatshirt.

"Here," He handed me his own sweatshirt, but when I tried to refuse he continued speaking "Take it. It's only fair since I ruined your sweatshirt."

I thanked him and put it on. We were both silent until I made an offer that I presume would cause this whole debacle.

"Do you wanna build a snowman?"

He grinned before taking my hand and walked quickly to the door.

~~~

It was around 6 when we decided to actually build a snowman. We called him Billy, because Boyd liked the name.

After we created Billy we sat in the snow just talking, telling stories, spilling the tea on Jill.

Not noticing Jill had walked outside looking for me.

~~~

Jill's prov

When I walked outside I was worried until, I saw how close Boyd was to my girlfriend.

They were laughing, Y/n looked happy. Suddenly all the self doubt I had when we started dating resurfaced.

Was I enough?

Is she happy with me?

Would she be happier with someone else?

I simply tapped Y/n's shoulder to direct her to the door, since I knew she must be freezing. Maybe that's why Boyd had his arm around her.

She was cold. Thats all. She doesn't like him, she loves me.

I hope she still loves me.

The self doubt rose as Y/n sped her way around me to walk with Boyd while chatting with Davy.

~~~

It was December 24th when Y/n was getting the cold shoulder from her girlfriend. She thought it couldn't get any worse, but noooo it did. This time it all started at night or rather in the late evening.

~~~

I unlike many people I throughly enjoyed being in the kitchen. I loved to bake, but my true passion was cooking. I enjoyed it because no matter what you always get a result, and sometimes the result may vary, from burnt cakes to light Mac-n-Cheese.

Turns out Davy just happened to share my passion. So if someone shares your passion, its only reasonable to do that passion together.

So we decided to cook for the family. We kicked everyone out of the kitchen (except for Boyd because he wanted to help) and got ready. Of course we needed ingredients so Boyd and I went shopping together.

After an hour of kinda shopping and more joking around we came back to the house to start cooking.

Finally after a couple of hours and almost burning the house down thanks to Boyd, everything was ready. We made the rest of the family sit down while we presented the food.

While we ate Davy told me all about his girlfriend and Boyd joked that if Jill doesn't marry me soon he might. Jill abruptly left after that comment.

She later told me it was just because she was tired, but I didn't believe her.

~~~

It was December 25th when Y/n finally figured out the problem. This time it all started at promptly at 3pm.

~~~

"Whats wrong with you?"

Jill turned at the sharp voice of her younger brother Boyd.

"Nothing." She replied quietly

"No Jillie. I know you, why are being so distant to Y/n?"

"Just leave me alone."

"Did Y/n do something?"

Abruptly Jill turned around in order to face Boyd. He shrunk back when he saw the anger in her eyes.

"We're not having this conversation."

"Why not?" He replied starting to become angry. He had grown close to the kind girl and felt like an older brother towards her.

She scoffed "Why don't you have this conversation with Y/n? You two seem close."

"Wait a minute," His eyes widened as he understood the root of the problem "You're blaming me?"

"Of course I blame you!" She argued "You're the one that is stealing Y/n away from me."

Just as Boyd was about to argue back Y/n came in the room. She looked terrible, like she hadn't been sleeping there were also tear stain under her eyes as well. I looked over at Jill and saw her entire facade start to crumble.

Immediately she pulled Y/n into her room and shut the door.

~~~

Y/n prov

Jill gently pulled me into our room, shut the door then walked me over to the side of the bed for me to sit down. After I sat she went to the bathroom to get a cool wet clothe to wipe my face.

All this was done in silence as I stared at her while she gently wiped my face.

Finally I decided to speak up.

"You okay

"I'm fine," Jill replied, but you knew she wasn't.

Jill always said she was fine, but you could see past that. Whenever she was angry their became a paradox between her personalties. Usually she was sweet and extroverted, when she was angry she became introverted and snarky.

Sure you got angry with each other but the only difference was, Jill would act on her emotions. You were the rational one in the relationship, she was usually emotional but you could always figure out why. This time however, you were completely and utterly complexed.

You still didn't understand that she was scared of losing you, even more than you were scared of losing her. You thought she knew that you were hers and only hers.

"No it isn't. Jill, please something is obviously bothering you," I pleaded and Jill sighed. "Just talk to me! Please."

"Fine," Jill sat on the ground in front of me and you gave her a little smile. "Um, okay, I want, no I need you to know that I love you," She started, stumbling over her words. "You know that I'm yours and only yours. I'd like to think that you're mine, but sometimes I get insecure. You're this amazing person and player. You're smart, kind and everyone loves you, but that's the problem I guess. Everyone loves you. Everyone." She admitted. "It's just hard. Sharing you like that."

Finally she stopped ranting and stared at me. The silence thickened as I thought about what to say, then I decided to do something that didn't involve talking and was Jill's favourite pastime.

I kissed her. I kissed her like I was leaving for a year. I kissed her like she won the world cup. I kissed her.

"I promise you that there hasn't been a day that I stopped loving you, that I stopped wanting you. I promise you that no matter what you have always stayed in my head since the first time I played eyes on you. You are mine, and I am yours. Thats it, I will always choose you, no matter the time, the place, the situation. I. Choose. You." I told Jill when we parted.

She grinned before climbing into me lap to kiss me again.

"Besides you were the main topic of conversation." I admitted to Jill

She looked at me before looking outside again "Its still snowing out. Do you wanna build a snowman?"

[archived-kin]

petty ghost haunts their murderer but doesn’t actually do anything vengeful, more at eleven

note from kin: i don’t even know what this is myself to be honest but the simple way of putting it is that you were accidentally killed by one of satan’s fits of rage and now your ghost follows him around and messes with him at any given opportunity out of pettiness

basically i came up with the prompt ‘vengeful spirit is more of a slightly miffed and extremely petty spirit who doesn’t actually do much but inconvenience their hauntee, shenanigans ensue’ and ran with it

(as a heads up, reader is not mc in this situation, and this takes place before any of the exchange program stuff, so belphie’s not in the attic and solomon and the angels aren’t in the devildom)

fandom: obey me!

character(s): gn!reader, satan, beelzebub

pairing(s): satan/reader (though it isn’t particularly romantic since you’re, y’know, dead, so it’s more of a satan & reader)

warning(s): references to death, beel eats an entire rotisserie chicken

genre: crack (with a bit of fluff i guess???)

“For the last time, [Name], put the knife down.”

“Bite me, bitch-boy.”

Satan lets out a long-suffering sigh and sets down his mug of coffee, then reaches out and carefully pushes the floating butter knife pointed directly at his jugular back down onto the table. “I don’t know why you keep trying that. You do know it wouldn’t actually get through my skin even if you did manage to hit me, right?”

“It’s the thought that counts,” comes your disembodied voice from somewhere near the ceiling. You’ve probably decided to float up there to sulk like you always do after a failed attack.

“I’d prefer you didn’t think about it at all.”

A still-wet towel pulls itself from the rack on the wall and hits him square in the face. Satan gives an exasperated groan as it slides down his face and lands on the table with a soft splat.

“That’s what you get,” You sniff indignantly, finally materialising in front of him with a scowl. You’re floating upside down in a way that makes it look like you’re standing on the ceiling. “Buttface.”

“Come on, you can come up with better material than that,” Satan shakes his head, pushing back his chair and picking up the wet towel you’ve just flung at him to hang it back up again. “Where did all your creativity from yesterday go?”

“Six feet under with the remains of my body, probably,” you reply with a scowl. Then, as an afterthought, you add, “Confounded cheese wheel.”

“Oh, that’s a new one,” He comments, mildly surprised. “Where’d you pick that up?”

“Made it up myself. Ha!” You bob past him and through the wall, most likely to go terrorise Mammon by making his lights flicker on and off again. “Guess my creativity isn’t as dead as I am after all.”

“You still haven’t gotten over that, I see.” He sighs.

Your head immediately pops back out of the wall and glares across the room at him. “Excuse me?”

“It’s been weeks now - months, even,” Satan explains carefully as he sits back down at the table, not wanting to aggravate you further. The last time he'd brought something like this up, he’d ended up making you so angry that you’d managed to become physically corporeal enough to fling him across the room. “I would have thought you’d have passed on by now, that’s all. Surely it doesn’t take this long for the gates to the Celestial Realm to open?”

You consider his words, apparently appeased by their logic. “...I guess. Maybe I’m not passing on because I can’t rest in peace yet, like the ghosts do in horror films.”

“They’re films, you can’t expect to apply what happens in them to reality,” Satan replies flatly. “Besides, even if that was the situation, you've met all the criteria to 'rest in peace’, haven't you?”

“Are you trying to tell me, the dead one here, what merits as ‘resting in peace’?” You counter, floating back through the wall so that your entire body is in the room again. “My murderer’s still walking about like he doesn’t dress in the entire green colour spectrum and think it’s a good idea. How am I supposed to rest in peace knowing that?”

Satan looks down at his outfit, a little offended. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

“What’s right with your clothes?” You shoot back, drifting over to him and passing a ghostly hand through his shoulder, apparently too lazy to muster up the energy to make your hand physical enough to touch him. “Look at it! Your blazer doesn’t even have lapels!”

“It isn’t a blazer.”

“Jacket, then.” You make a move as if to pinch at the fabric, but your fingers just pass right through it like a hot knife through butter. “It doesn’t even fit you. The sleeves are too short.”

Satan resists the urge to roll his eyes. “I wouldn’t be able to wear it if it didn’t fit me. Besides, why does it matter to you?”

“The demon I might be doomed to be attached to for the rest of my afterlife has the worst fashion sense in all three realms is the matter,” You sigh dramatically and float up to the ceiling again. “Why do you even wear rip-off jeans if you’re going to put a belt over it?”

“First of all, they aren’t rip-off jeans,” Satan tells you as you start idly making the kitchen light flicker. He should probably tell you to stop doing that whenever you get bored, but he’s gotten so used to it at this point that he can’t really be bothered to. “And, second of all, why does it matter if I’m wearing a belt on it?”

“Rip-off jeans are meant to be ripped off,” You explain with all the patience of a mother explaining something to a curious child, completely disregarding Satan’s first point. “Putting a belt on top of it kind makes that redundant.”

Satan thinks about it for a moment and begrudgingly comes to the conclusion that your statement is correct - not that it makes a difference to him. “...they’re still not rip-off jeans.”

“Think whatever you want to think, burro verde.”

“What?”

“It means green donkey in Spanish.”

He raises an eyebrow at you. “Where’d you get that from?”

“I took Spanish for, like, three years when I was in high school,” You shrug, and the light brightens and dims slightly with the movement of your shoulders, as if it’s shrugging with you. “Failed all the exams, but at least I got something worthwhile out of it.”

“Three years of linguistic lessons and all you learn is how to string together bizarre insults,” Satan shakes his head. “You really are incorrigible.”

“That’s a big word. You sure you know what it means?”

“Of course I do,” He gives you a slightly disgruntled look. “I wouldn’t use it if I didn’t. What do you take me for?”

“Someone who doesn’t know what incorrigible means, obviously.” You pretend to aim a kick at the spider perched quietly in the corner of the ceiling, but Timothy ignores your efforts to boot him from his web. After a moment, growing tired of bothering the little guy, you ask, “...what does it mean?”

Satan snickers, then answers, sounding as if he’s reading the definition directly out of a dictionary, “In reference to a person or their behaviour, unable to be changed or reformed.”

You contemplate his words for a few seconds. “Is that a good thing?”

“Not usually when that particular word is used for it, no.”

“Oh. Bitch.”

He pauses at that, moving his mug of now marginally cooler coffee away from his mouth again, having been in the middle of taking another sip when you decided to insult him again. “Where did that come from?”

“You called me incorrigible, which you just said is not a good thing to be,” You explain as if it’s obvious, frowning down at him. “So I’m taking it as an insult and insulting you back. Bitch.”

“You didn’t have to say it again.”

“I didn’t, but it’s fun to call you names.” You snort and glide down from the ceiling to float above the table, crossing your legs and pretending to sit down on it. “It’s not as fun as it used to be, though. You never get all puffed up about it anymore.”

“That’s your own fault for doing it so much that I got used to it,” Satan reproaches. “Besides, it was pointless getting angry. It’s not like I can do anything to you in return.”

“You could ignore me and pretend I don’t exist or something.”

“Is that what you want me to do?”

“No!” You hurriedly throw up your hands in a gesture of surrender and shake your head so hard that Satan swears he actually feels a breeze - an even more impressive achievement considering that your body isn’t even tangible. “Please don’t. You’re the only being in the entire universe that I can actually interact with.”

“Sometimes I wonder if that is a good thing,” Satan mutters.

“It’s a good thing for me, and that’s all that matters,” You reply, unfazed.

No one other than Satan appears to have the ability to see you, which is an odd thing in and of itself. Ghosts aren’t a foreign thing to the Devildom - they’re so common that you could probably just walk into a convenience store and find one shelving cans of soup - but you don’t seem to follow any of the rules that they do. Sometimes Satan wonders if you’re able to actively choose to not allow his brothers to see you as you drift around the house, but then again, he’s pretty sure that, if you had the option to make Lucifer watch you pretend to fist fight that weird skeleton hanging in his room, you definitely would.

Satan doesn’t pretend to understand the laws of your otherworldly existence - he’s read so many variations on the rules behind lingering spirits like you that he can scarcely tell the difference between pure fiction and actual logical hypothesis. It’s easy enough to wrangle you into behaving for a day so that he can observe you properly by promising to leave his radio on for you while he’s out, but the observations themselves never seem to lead to anything. He knows that you’re able to pass through any physical object (as far as he knows), can make lights (of both the electronic and candle variety) flicker at will, can muster up enough physicality to move and touch things if you try, and can phase in and out of perceivable view, but he doesn’t know why you can do any of those things.

“Quit trying to come up with explanations for everything,” You’d told him wisely a month or so ago, when you’d floated in on him muttering to himself about the possibility of something called ‘ether energy’. “You’re just gonna give yourself a headache.”

Then you’d started making his candles flicker like disco lights until he stopped.

“...but I don’t think he spotted me, since he probably would’ve commented on the floating meat cleaver if he did, and— hey, big guy!”

That last exclamation is aimed at Beel, who has just walked into the kitchen and is now rummaging unceremoniously through the fridge, most likely in search of something to eat. At this point Satan’s pretty sure that you still don’t know any of his brothers’ names - at the very least, even if you do, you’ve never called them by them.

Beel continues to sort through the various already empty boxes and containers in the fridge as you start zooming back and forth through him, marvelling over the sheer broadness of his chest and shoulders. It isn’t the first time you’ve done this to him - or indeed any of the brothers - but Satan can tell that it’s more innocent awe than any kind of objectification or intent to harm, so he doesn’t mind. As mischievous as you are, he’s pretty sure you don’t have a genuinely malicious or wanton bone in your body... well, you don’t have any bones anymore - or a body, for that matter - but the point still stands.

“Hungry?” He guesses, but it’s honestly more of a statement. It is Beel, after all.

The Avatar of Gluttony withdraws from his search briefly to offer a nod. “I didn’t get to finish all of my lunch.”

“Well, there’s a surprise,” You comment as Beel sticks his head back into the fridge, finally tiring of buffeting yourself back and forth like a pendulum and choosing to start hovering just over the second youngest’s shoulders to watch his hunt. “Wonder what he was up to that got him to stop eating.”

Satan opens his mouth to reply, then stops and closes it again. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Beel with the not-really-a-secret of your existence, but he’s sure that at some point or another, Beel will end up letting it slip to Lucifer, who would most likely want to know why your death ended up attaching your spirit to his brother, and Satan’s already gone to great lengths to make sure that the oldest won’t find out about the rampage he went on that cost you your life in the first place. It'd just be a waste of that effort for Lucifer to find out anyway. Besides, it isn’t like the information will make much difference to Beel - he can’t see or hear you, and you’re pretty harmless, so there wouldn’t be any need for him to get involved in the situation anyway.

You, meanwhile, are well aware that Satan isn’t going to be saying anything to you while one of his brothers is in the room - you don’t really understand his reasoning for it, since you like to think that you’re a pleasure of a ghost to know, but you suppose you can’t really force him to make any decisions. Besides, you’re pretty content with the way things are right now; you don’t want to complicate the situation by bringing in another demon who, as far as you know, might just smite you on the spot if they find out about your existence.

Instead, you busy yourself with watching in fascination as Beel somehow pulls what looks like a rotisserie chicken from the very back of the fridge and shove the whole thing in this mouth. You exchange slightly disturbed looks with Satan as he begins to chew - you’re pretty sure you’ve just seen him dislocate his jaw like a snake to fit it in there.

“You might want to calm down, Beel,” Satan advises after a brief moment’s stunned silence, though even he knows that it’s a fruitless warning. “You’ll end up choking.”

Beel nods, but makes absolutely no move to slow in his aggressive chewing.

“This must be what the peak of evolution looks like,” You say in bemused awe as Beel finishes eating. The entire chicken has disappeared down his throat - bones and all. “How the hell does he manage that?”

Satan doesn’t answer, but his subtle shrug says that your guess is as good as his.

Much to your surprise and Satan’s resignation, Beel immediately goes back to the fridge, apparently unsatisfied by the copious amount of fowl he’s just eaten. To be honest, you feel sorry for the guy - while the you from when you’d still been able to eat would have done some unspeakable things to be able to consume as much as he does and still remain that fit, you’re sure that the black hole he calls a stomach must be an awful thing to have to deal with. At least he gets to enjoy a lot of food because of it, though you suppose it’s a double-edged sword if he’s also constantly being scolded for it. Personally, you don’t understand the reasoning behind telling someone off for eating as much food as they need, but they are demons. You probably shouldn’t expect them to have that level of compassion.

By the time you break out of your train of thought, Beel has found something else to eat amidst the many empty boxes in the fridge. It’s much smaller than the rotisserie chicken - some kind of pastry with a dollop of snowy white cream on top, decorated with a few lines of melted chocolate to look like a cat’s face. In fact, it looks almost identical to…

“Hey, wait!” You swipe a useless hand through Beel’s arm as he raises the pastry to his mouth. “Don’t eat that—!”

Too late. The pastry disappears into Beel’s mouth, and you drift backwards again, letting out a defeated groan. Satan shoots you a curious look - you can’t eat, after all, so why are you so upset about Beel eating that pastry? Is there something special about it?

His question is answered when he actually turns to look at his younger brother. The Avatar of Gluttony has gone rigid on the spot and is blinking rapidly, his eyes the size of moons.

“Beel…?” Satan questions hesitantly. “Are you feeling alright?”

Beel takes a long moment to respond, nodding slowly. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Satan takes a closer look and realises that Beel’s pupils seem to have dilated to an almost impossible degree, resembling a cat’s eyes when it’s about to go absolutely feral. Whatever it is was in that pastry, it’s definitely hit him hard.

Now, Satan isn’t one to interrupt good fun when it’s about to happen, so instead of stepping in and performing some sort of spell that might help on his possibly-high brother like a good guy, he sits back and watches as Beel’s head swings around the room as if he's never seen anything in it before like the mischief-loving little shit he is. Beel himself doesn’t appear to be negatively affected, so it can’t be that bad, right?

You float cautiously around the giant as his hands ball into fists. His entire body is trembling slightly with pent-up energy. Then, a split second later, as if he’s been zapped by some catalystic bolt of lightning, he abruptly snaps back on his heel and positively zooms out of the room. You can practically see the cartoony cloud of dust that he’s kicking up as he disappears down the corridor.

“He’s absolutely zooted right now,” You comment, flipping upside with a resigned sigh and crossing your arms a little grumpily. “I told him not to eat it.”

“He couldn’t hear you, you know,” Satan says, moving over to the fridge and slamming it shut, since Beel has neglected to. “What was even in that thing?”

You shrug. “Don’t know. I’ve just been calling it demon-nip.”

“I suppose that it does to demons what catnip does to cats, then?” Satan doesn’t even wait for you to answer before continuing - rude. “How did you even get a hold of it? Never mind that, how did you manage to get it in a pastry and put it in the fridge?”

“I got some help from one of the poltergeists downtown to make it,” You wave your hands about dismissively. “You should pay more attention when you go out. I disappeared for, like, five hours, and you didn’t even notice.”

“When even was this?”

“Tuesday, I think. Remember when you bought that giant bag of cat paw-shaped biscuits and then accidentally dropped the bag in the hall and got them everywhere?”

You don’t miss the way that the tips of his ears go slightly pink as he coughs subtly and averts his gaze. “...why would the poltergeists help you? They hate humans.”

“I don’t know, actually…” You ponder for a moment, then decide, “...probably because I’m cute.”

“Are you?” Satan deadpans. “Cute is what you’d call a cat. You’re just… tolerable.”

“Oh, fuck you, I think I’m adorable.” You huff, flying over and poking him hard in the side of the head. Satan hisses in pain and reaches up to rub the sore spot, but he supposes he should have seen that blow coming - you’re never too humble to make yourself physical enough to hit him after an insult.

“Where did that idea even come from?” He asks quickly, not wanting to take another attack. You may be a mere imprint of a dead human, but your fingers are sharp, and he’d prefer not to provoke you further if he can avoid it.

His change of subject is so abrupt and obvious that it’s almost laughable, but you choose not to call him out on it. As much as you’d like to set him on fire or something, he hasn’t given you a really good reason to commit arson yet, and you’d just end up feeling bad for doing it. Well, to be fair, he did kill you… but still, you don’t want to keep holding that over his head.

“I read it in a book.” You answer. Satan’s eyes light up slightly.

“Do you remember the title?” He asks almost eagerly, and you disguise a snicker. His intentions are practically painted in bright red paint across his face - he’s hoping that there’ll be more schemes like the one you’ve performed that he can use against that sadist of an older brother of his.

Unfortunately for him, the book doesn’t exist. “Yeah. It’s called One Hundred Ways To Get Back At The Ass That Killed You, Free Of Murder and Actual Crimes That Might Get You Persecuted And Sent To Super Hell.”

Satan clearly isn’t thinking very hard today, because for a moment he actually looks as if he believes you - you suppose it’s because he’s grown desensitised to the oddness of such long titles after hearing so many weirdly specific anime titles from the otaku brother that you still have yet to see come out of his room. (You’ve floated in a few times to have a look around and appreciate the decor, but other than that, you’ve barely even seen his face. You’re not even sure what his name is, to be honest…)

He realises what you’re getting at after a moment, though, and immediately frowns at you in disapproval. You just grin, pleased with your small victory.

“You're insufferable,” He says, shaking his head with an long sigh.

“No, I'm cute,” You counter, frowning. “Weren't you listening to me earlier?”

He throws his hands up hastily as you drift forward with a hand brandished and a nasty glint in your eye, unwilling to get jabbed at again. “Okay, okay, I get it.”

You, however, don't relent. Eyes narrowing, you float even closer - so close that, if you'd been physical, he’d have been able to feel your breath on his face. “Say it.”

Satan may be one of the seven most powerful demons in the Devildom (below Diavolo, of course, and possibly Barbatos), but the aggression of a pissed-off ghost, especially if that ghost is you, isn't anything he wants to be on the receiving end of right now. “Fine, fine! You're adorable, you're cute, whatever. Now will you leave me alone?”

You finally pull back, beaming in a gratified fashion. “That's all I wanted to hear!”

Satan gives you an irritated look as you drift back across the kitchen, a satisfied grin on your face. “You’re insufferable.”

“You’ve said that already,” You sing back, laughing in victory when you see his eyebrow twitch slightly in annoyance. “And you had the nerve to lecture me about creativity earlier! Why don’t you come up with better material, Mr Shoes-Up-My-Ass?”

He doesn’t reply for a good moment, attempting to think of a insult to counter your admittedly slightly juvenile one. Try as he might, though, all of his good jibes seem to have evaporated. “...shut up.”

His pathetic response, of course, immediately compels you to take the piss out of him. Clutching your chest dramatically, as if Satan’s just stabbed you with the knife you’d been waving about earlier, you wail, “Oh, thy words do wound me! 'Tis like thou hath rip’d my heart out with thy own hands!”

Satan glares you for a long moment, but he doesn’t have the heart to keep it up when you’re grinning so brightly. Honestly, you’re a nuisance and a brat sometimes, sure, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t consider you his closest friend at this point. “...do you even know how to use those words?”

You drop the act faster than Asmo throws it down on a Saturday night, shrugging and floating back over to hover just above the chair across from Satan’s. “Nope. It sounded right, though, right?”

“I haven’t read enough works in Old English to know,” Satan admits with a shake of his head. “But it did, I suppose…”

It’s kind of weird that he’s agreeing so easily, you think. Has he just had enough of your bullshit and is complying with to keep you quiet? Or has he just finally seen the light of your brilliance?

...well, you suppose it doesn’t matter. You grin and move to ruffle his hair, but forget to make your hand physical and instead end up flying right through his head. Satan shudders slightly - though he doesn’t feel it, it’s still weird to have an entire hand and arm go through his cranium.

“Could you not?” He complains as you right yourself and pull your hand back again. “This feels weird.”

“Baby.”

“Pet names aren’t going to do anything,” He sighs, pulling his chair to the side so that he’s no longer half-inside your torso. “Hands to yourself.”

“No, it was an insult,” You correct him. “I was calling you a baby. Though bitch-boy works too.”

Satan lets out a long sigh. Now you’re just back where you started.