#but this episode surpassed them all

[wield-the-mighty-pen]

“I’m not Jealous, I just wish I was in Luka’s place”

Who’s gonna tell him

#sir that is the literal definition of jealousy #so glad the episode ended with him no longer being in denial #i always have high expectations for miraculous episodes #that i know wont always be met #but this episode surpassed them all #ahhh i cant anymore #just wake me up when the lovesquare's cannot #adrinette #adrienette #ml determination #ml determination spoilers #mlb #ml spoilers #ml season 5 #miraculous ladybug #adrien agreste #marinette dupain cheng #ml #kagami tsurugi #miraculous

[nicepersondisorder]

guess who's splitting on his one and only friend. 😁😁 just guess. 😁😁

#i hate them i love them they hate me they love me #who knows ! #and on top of that ive got a depressive episode. great 👍 #almoqt surpasses one of summer several years ago which is honestly impressive #all hail the mood swings i guess . eyeroll #vent #☆.txt

[prickly-paprikash]

Pushing aside the fact that I am, quite possibly, a Kendrick fan—disregarding my biases, I think Drake needs to stop. Push Ups was a good diss. Surface level, vapid, but it possessed that mean, petty spirit that carries a diss track all the way. Even bringing up accusations that are, realistically speaking, unlikely still works because a diss is supposed to show just how much you hate a person and how cleverly you can bring it.

Taylor Made was weird. I get that it was a strategy. Drop the main diss first and then drop this one to really prod at Kendrick. Using Pac and Snoop AI voices sucks though. Distilling Kendrick as Taylor's underling also doesn't work because Kendrick only collaborated with her once (twice when they remade Bad Blood) and that's it. Meanwhile Drake is out here always looking for new, up and coming artists to pounce on their trends or cling to established artists. Then it got taken down, because of course it would have been. You used 2Pac's voice. Did you really think his estate, his family, wouldn't do anything?

So he bought Pac's ring and used his voice without permission. More and more we see just how much of a vulture Drake is.

And then Euphoria drops.

Your first diss was met with solid reactions. Your second got taken down. Kendrick drops on a random hot Tuesday, and in a matter of hours surpasses your numbers that took weeks to accumulate. Kendrick did that. Euphoria was also harsh, clever, and sounded so good that people kept replaying it over and over again. Once more, Kendrick schools you.

A few insiders then say that Drake will drop that night. Right after. But he then allegedly gets cold feet. A few hours later from when Drake was supposedly ready to drop but backs out, Kendrick drops 6:16 in LA.

In your previous disses, you begged Kendrick to drop something with quintuple entendres. Euphoria did that. But he took it a step further by naming his second diss 6:16 in LA.

June 16: Father's day. Referencing the fact that Drake has been proven to be a deadbeat father.

June 16, 1971: Tupac's Birthday. Kendrick idolizes him. Drake steals from him.

June 16, 2019: First episode of Euphoria drops. A show Drake is listed as a producer on. A show about underage girls entering a life of sex, substance abuse, and more. Things that Drake has been accused of repeatedly in the past.

June 16, 2011: in June 2, 2011, Kendrick posted on his twitter that there will be a concert at Toronto on 6/16. Allegedly this is where Drake and Kendrick first met.

6:16 AM: The time of release for this track.

6:16: Multiple possible Bible verses, given Kendrick's Christian background.

Other claims felt like reaches though, so I'll stick to that.

The final two lines of 6:16 also reference the Michael Jackson, R. Kelly, and their song "You Are Not Alone". Drake, who has always claimed he is Michael Jackson or at the very least his equal/successor, is now tied to him in a way he does not want. Because we know all of the dirt that came out after MJ's death. We all know what R. Kelly was sent to prison for. And we all know what Drake has been accused of multiple times.

Kendrick also alludes to the fact that you have a leak in your circle, Drake.

So Drake drops Family Matters. A scathing 7 minute song that makes fun of the GKMC van. Saying that Kendrick's daughter isn't his. Saying that his wife cheats on him with security. Saying that he beats his wife.

Now, these are enormous accusations levied. But Kendrick has responded before, years ago, that the DV accusations were false. He has also always been open about his faults. Adultery. Sex addiction. Insecurity. God complex. Kendrick, for better or worse, has always laid out nearly every aspect of his younger life on his songs. This also helped by the fact that in both Euphoria and 6:16, Kendrick says that Drake has spent millions on finding dirt on him but came up with nothing. Again, these accusations can still be proven true and if so, Kendrick needs to be held accountable for them.

But if not? Then Drake just adds another to the pile of "He's a liar and a master manipulator."

Drake also posts a Parody on his Insta that gains little to no attention because 30 minutes after dropping Family Matters and supposedly going on his victory lap, Kendrick drops meet the grahams.

Another thing. 6:16's cover was a glove. That meant nothing to us, the audience. meet the grahams makes it make sense by zooming out of the glove and showing off a shirt and drugs that Drake supposedly uses. Drake has not had any receipts with his accusations against Kendrick. Kendrick puts Drake's supposed prescription, his full name, on a bottle of Ozempic. Kendrick, for now, seems to make good on his threat. OvO, Drake's company, is full of leaks. And they're leaking it straight to Kendrick Lamar.

Nearly 24 hours later, Kendrick drops Not Like Us.

Euphoria was a general character dissection and assassination of Drake: Insecure about his identity as a biracial man. Culture Vulture. Blaccent user. Code switcher. Fake abs. Womanizer. Misogynist. Using black features just to feel black enough. A deadbeat dad that knows nothing of raising a child. And even revokes Drake's ability to use the N-Word (I have no stake in that I am Asian so I will keep my brown mouth shut for that).

6:16 in LA was an ominous threat that slowly reveals that Kendrick has insider information on Drake. That he is ready to leak so much more should Drake continue.

meet the grahams is a brutal open letter to Drake, his parents, and even to Adonis, Drake's son. Saying that Kendrick could be a better mentor to Adonis. Saying that Drake abandoned you and that's not your fault. Don't be like your father—whatever anyone says, for better or worse, you are a black man and don't code switch just to make yourself feel better. He says that Drake failed his mother for what he did to women. Saying that Drake's father is the cause of his gambling issues. Drake is a body shamer. Leaving the mother of his children to rot. And of course, the reveal that Drake has a secret daughter, the same way Pusha T revealed Drake has a son. Adonis.

And of course, now. Not Like Us. Where Kendrick goes all in on one topic that he has alluded to in every diss track before. Drake is a groomer. A pedophile.

I am sick. I should not be tuning into this beef. But my fever can go ahead and end me, I need to know how this ends.

#kendrick lamar #drake #music #hip hop

[risestarkiss]

The “Ba” in “Baja”

Rise Ramblings #628

Mikey and Leo. Baja Blast. The Tide Pod Duo. Although this duo has limited dedicated screen time, they are an absolute joy to watch. First and foremost, you can’t help but notice how Leo does nothing but try to protect the little bean.

He’ll bend over backwards just to keep his baby brother safe.

Leo will also offer emotional support in very dire times.

It’s just so nice to see them together. Plus, you can tell that Leo loves Mikey to pieces.

Even when Leo’s being annoying.

All of these traits are expected from big brother Leo. However, it’s the other side of this relationship that I find intriguing.

Let’s discuss Mikey and how he interacts with the blue one.

I’ve summarized my thoughts about Mikey’s half of their relationship into two parts: “Emulate” & “Outdo.”

As the youngest of the four, it’s natural for Michelangelo to look up to his older brothers. Yet, throughout the show, I believe that Mikey seems to emulate Leo the most.

This thought leads directly into the “Outdo” portion of my hypothesis.

I've noticed that a competitive streak emerges in Mikey when Leo is in the picture, a streak that I cannot say I’ve seen him express with any of his other brothers, April, or even their rivals. It’s unique just to Leo.

It’s almost as if there is some driving force within Mikey that wants to prove something to Leon.

When it comes to Leo, Mikey is suddenly determined to see who’s the strongest, best, or fastest between them.

(I compiled all of the Air Hockey scenes from the episode, “Mrs. Cuddles”)

The most compelling aspect of their relationship is that this competitive streak seems to be one-sided, at least initially. It's almost as if Leo feels like he doesn't have to prove anything to Angelo.

Eventually, though, Mikey goads Leo into competing with him, and Leo gives in if not but to defend his title, satiate Orange, and give his antagonizer what he’s looking for. (It’s a “you mess with the bull, you get the horns” type of thing.)

Why does this dynamic exist? Who’s to say. But I believe that the dissonance between these two comes from Leo seeing their relationship as “Protector – Protectee” while Mikey sees Leo as a rival, or more specifically, Leo is the goalpost that Michelangelo has tasked himself with surpassing.

In my opinion, the concept of Mikey seeing Leo’s accomplishments as something he needs to “Emulate” & “Outdo” is a compliment in it’s simplest form. Mikey thinks that Leo is so great and awesome that he wants to be just as awesome, and even better than the brother he respects and looks up to so much.

…Or maybe Mikey just wants to knock Leo down a peg or two.

I can’t say that I’d blame him.

Also, do you know why Mikey is the “Ba” in “Baja?”

Because Leo is the "Jajajajajajaja" *laughs in Spanish*

All right. I’m done.

#starkiss ramblings #rise analysis #rottmnt analysis #character analysis #Michelangelo Ramblings #rise mikey #rise michelangelo #mikey #michelangelo #rottmnt michelangelo #michelangelo hamato #rise leo #rise leonardo #leonardo #rottmnt leonardo #rottmnt #tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise of the tmnt #tmnt2018 #tmnt 2k18 #tmnt 2018 #save rottmnt #unpause rottmnt #unpause rise of the tmnt #save rise of the tmnt #save rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles

[tiffanys-aus-and-headcanons]

Terrible Visions

A scrambled timeline is a timeline that has proceeded much like ours, except that some particular facet has been mixed up all over the place. For example, in the scrambled timeline we will consider today, our world's fictional stories have been told by different people, and in different ways.

Bryan Lee O'Malley, in this alternate timeline, is best known as the cartoonist responsible for Homestuck, a popular comic series about a group of children who become embroiled in a cosmic-scale video game known as Sburb. Although Homestuck is probably most often associated with the cult classic Edgar Wright-directed film adaptation released in 2016, the comics themselves are highly-regarded, and the film brought a new audience to them. Netflix has commissioned an animated continuation, The Homestuck Epilogues, which is due to be released soon.

Andrew Hussie, on the other hand, is a figure you're likelier to know if you're overly online. His "MS Paint Adventures" series - most notably including Scott Pilgrim Vs The World, which is kind of like Homestuck but weirder and hornier - have firmly remained a fixture of obsessive Twitter fandom culture. It doesn't help that the best-known iteration, Scott Pilgrim Vs The World, is infamous for stretching thousands of pages of meandering digressions out of a simple and focused narrative starting point. Scott Pilgrim fans have developed something of a toxic reputation, which is not entirely deserved - although of course Knives discourse is interminable, and back in the fandom's heyday there were reportedly incidents of fans assaulting each other "for being evil exes".

Scott Pilgrim fandom was very big back in the day, though, and consequently it was a nexus for other creative figures who would go on to surpass Hussie. Perhaps foremost among these is indie developer Toby Fox. He was literally living in Hussie's basement when he produced ROSEQUARTZ, a universally-beloved retro Goonies-like RPG about a human hybrid boy born to a race of gem-based aliens. He's now developing an episodic spiritual successor, RAZORQUEST, with more overtly dark themes. It revolves around an inheritance dispute among a demon-summoning family.

Other foundational figures in this timeline's internet culture include Alison Bechdel, who helped get the webcomic scene started. Although she's now more seriously acclaimed for her personal memoirs, her gaming webcomic Press Start To Dyke, which premiered in 1998, was once everywhere. It had a broad appeal, and at its height, it was common to see even straight guys sharing pages from it. Time has not been especially kind to it, though, and at this point its main legacy is test.png, a meme spawned by one of the comic's most ill-advised pages.

Then there's John C. McCrae, more often known by his pseudonym Wildbow. A prolific and reclusive author of doorstopping "web serials" - long-form fiction published online - McCrae's best-known serial is still his first, Wind, a noir superhero story set in an alternate history where capes are mostly just a subculture of unpowered vigilantes. Wind landed in a culture already rife with comic book deconstructions, like Alan Moore's 2002 graphic novel Worm Turns, but it nonetheless managed to stand out from the pack with its extensive cast of characters and its themes of coordination problems and the end of the world. Later McCrae web serials include Part (the first "Otherverse" serial; an urban fantasy story about a couple who die in a car accident and find that they have become ghosts), Tear (a "biopunk" story set in a collapsing underwater city), Warn (the controversial Wind sequel), and Play (the second "Otherverse" serial, set in a small Indiana town that helps hide a psychic girl from the CIA).

Last and perhaps least, we should discuss J. K. Rowling. Far and away the most famous of any of these authors, Rowling's name is inseparable from the YA series that she debuted with, the Luz Noceda books, which remain her one successful work. Although it was heavily derivative of older fantasy novels - like Jill Murphy's Academy For Little Witches, or Philip Pullman's Methods Of Rationality trilogy - Luz Noceda was still a monumental and unprecedented success in the publishing industry, and the film adaptations were consistent blockbusters. The final book, Luz Noceda and the Watcher of Rain, contained some allusions to a romantic relationship between Luz and her recently-redeemed associate Amity. Rowling confirmed that this was her intent in subsequent interviews and indicated that she had fought her publishers for it; the film would then go on to escalate matters slightly further.

There have been many lengthy and heated online arguments as to whether the references in the book itself constitute text or mere subtext. Whatever your stance on this discourse, a new complication has been introduced recently: although she has put out no official statement on the matter as of yet, it has become quite apparent from Rowling's shrinking network of contacts and her conspicuous silences that she is certainly TERF-sympathetic, and likely an outright TERF herself. For many, this is leading to a critical reevaluation of the social values inherent in the Luz Noceda series; others, to say the least, are holding off on that kind of reappraisal.

Anyway, Scott Pilgrim just beat Luz Noceda in a Twitter poll for Most Gay Media, and people are piiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiissed

#the scrambled timeline

[communistkenobi]

every other episode Spock will experience profound racism from his coworkers and sometimes he’ll be presented with an opportunity to betray the Enterprise crew for personal gain and he ultimately doesn’t do it but they never know how close he comes and they’ll never know the amount of restraint he shows to keep them safe and not act with the same contempt they show him because he keeps all of it inside, only reinforcing how truly alone he is in the world, shunned by both Vulcans and humans, doomed to live up to a standard nobody else is forced to endure and even when he surpasses it it’s still not good enough. and then in the next episode an evil cloud will attack them

#star trek lb

[fandomsandfeminism]

So we have now surpassed the 96 hour "best case scenario" amount of oxygen point (if they had been alive and didnt just implode, they arent alive anymore), and I just keep thinking everything about this story, and really the story ABOUT the story, is fascinating.

Like, the situation itself has that incredible blend of tragedy voyeurism and schadenfreude that adds a level of absurdity. (The Logitech controller, the camping world lights, the fact that they probably didn't have their shoes). The way this story touches on issues of deregulation and tragedy tourism and billionaire hubris and a condemnation of wreckless start up mindsets. How much money has been spent looking for them, how much the tickets cost - the extreme absurdity of all of it.

But also the WAY this story has been covered. I keep seeing this compared to the horrific disaster in the Mediterranean this week which killed over 500 refugees and the disparity in the coverage and interest. And yeah, I think the issue is that the disaster in the Mediterranean is transparently horrific- it is a terrible tragedy, the result of systemic and complex geopolitical issues that are complex. So many people, and the weight of that is just so big. It's not funny. It's just awful.

The Ocean Gate Titan thing? It's a simple narrative that was obviously avoidable. It feels like a movie with REALLY obvious themes. It's been covered like a movie. It's been dragged out and every single possible update, the viral video of the tour of the sub, the possible noises detected by sonar, the whole side story about the billionaire step son going to the Blink 182 concert- the cast is so small and the level of abstraction away from normal people and their lives? Makes it feel completely unreal and so it can be consumed like the newest HBO miniseries.

Even now, we are getting updates on how they could stretch the oxygen out longer- like a fan theory prediction of the next episode. Like a headcanon for the season finale. (Oh God, do you think AO3 has fics yet?) Tiktokers making videos about plot holes (why not attach a tether to it?). Discourse over whether it's problematic to say one thing or another about it.

It reminds me of how it felt when the Ever Given got stuck in the Suez Canal, but with the added "oh my god, the OCEAN ate the rich" and Logitech Playstation controller jokes.

I'd put money on implosion. These men have been dead since Sunday. It's likely that we won't actually know for a long time though, if ever. But the way this story was covered is worth contemplating.

#the titan #titanic submarine #but also the wreck of the titanic is a grave we should leave it be

[thelastofhyde]

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

pairing. narcos!javier peña x fem!reader

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

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

word count. 14.3k

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

if you see any typos, no you didn't 🫣

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

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

The year moves too fast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He’s a show-off, that boy.”

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

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

“Hmm?”

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

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

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

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

He’s fast, agile, stealthy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ve made worse attempts in the past.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It happens when you’re finally being served.

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

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

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

Friendly.

Too friendly.

Till it crosses the border into flirty.

You’re not interested.

At all.

But it’s flattering, to feel wanted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gasps fill the air.

Half the crowd boos.

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

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

Turning on your heal, the scene unfolds.

The ball, abandoned on the ground.

The players, scrambling to grab it before one another.

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

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

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

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

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

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

If you don’t love me, What was April?

You’ve always been organised.

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

You compartmentalise.

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

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

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

Caution tape holds the lid shut.

Fragile stickers cover every corner.

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

A late night.

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

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

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

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

Go still.

Worry you’ve woken him.

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

He’s tired. Exhausted.

Work was getting to him as of late.

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

You know him. You can read him.

Can tell in the way he moved slower against you.

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

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

Unlike other nights, you’re trapped awake.

Something feels off, makes you queasy.

There’s something nagging at your mind.

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

You just know its absence is wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not fair, you think.

Sleep is usually where you see him at his calmest.

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

His grip loosens, though slightly.

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

So you do your best to slip out his hold.

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

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

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

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

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

Then, you open the tap.

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

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

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

Your hair frames your face, though messy.

Your eyes are bloodshot, yet carry less bags.

Your cheeks are rounder, fuller.

You look different.

You feel it too.

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

Has he noticed a change?

Is he the reason for it?

Does he feel different, too?

Your stomach flips.

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

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

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

You don’t remember.

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

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

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

The stir in your stomach becomes more intense.

Eyes refocusing, you find yourself in the mirror again.

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach.

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

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

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

It feels like you’re suffocating.

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

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

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

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

There’s a soothing motion over your skin.

Up, down, up, down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He calls your own name back to you.

“I’m late.”

You await the sharp inhale.

And the unwinding of arms.

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

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

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

Then he’ll turn the blame to you.

That’s what men do, right?

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

None of it arrives.

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

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

He dries you off, delicate drags over your skin.

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

Only, this time you’re wide awake.

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

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

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

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

After all, the blame is yours, surely.

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

“But I-”

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

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

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

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

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

Lips press against your own, soft and subtle.

A quiet greeting, a wordless goodmorning.

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

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

You don’t want him to leave this bed.

Or this apartment.

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

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

Eventually, he peels himself away from you.

You watch him dress.

Tell him which tie to wear.

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

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

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

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

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

He presses a kiss between them, hums in enjoyment.

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

“Good,” you reply.

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

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

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

Leans down, brushes his lips against it.

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

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

He keeps his word.

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

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

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

The thought has you pressing a hand against your womb.

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

With a grimace, you admit you haven’t.

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

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

“I’ll probably just have toast.”

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

The call goes on a little longer.

It’s mostly him talking.

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

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

“I’ll be home soon, okay?”

That sounds nice coming from Javi.

Home.

Not his home, just home.

A place he feels his soul at rest.

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

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

He keeps his word, again.

Comes home barely three hours later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod, then audibly reply.

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

The drive is quiet.

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

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

You welcome it, covering it with your own.

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

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

He’s right.

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

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

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

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

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

You smile, and thread your fingers between his own.

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

The clinic is bright.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A confused sound leaves Javier.

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

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

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

“You hoping for a boy or a girl?”

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

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

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

But you don’t want to ruin the moment.

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

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

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

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

Javi’s still not correcting him.

It makes you nauseous for a whole new reason.

“Mr. Miller?” A voice calls out.

A nurse, you imagine.

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

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

He takes a few steps, till Javi interrupts him.

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

“A girl.”

Eventually, it’s your turn.

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

Shuffled into some room, reluctantly separating from Javi.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re not pregnant.

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

This time, the drive is silent.

Not quiet.

Silent.

You watch him drive past the turning into your street.

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

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

Over your empty womb.

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

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

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

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

You played a game But I run the table

You’re avoiding your dad’s calls.

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

See, you know why he’s calling.

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

He’s hosting another poker night.

He wants you there, as always.

Some baseless theory of you being his good luck charm.

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

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

“Fill in for me, will ya, kiddo?”

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

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

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

He turns out to be no threat.

None of the officer’s are, really.

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

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

But, taking from Javi?

That’s something else, entirely.

Each time you win, he gets more agitated.

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

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

And intoxication.

And something else.

Something you know all too well on Javier.

Lust.

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

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

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

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

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

He’s on the younger side.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe, he’ll offer you a sip.

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

He asks about college.

You ask about working with your dad.

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

He tells you about a new bar, downtown.

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

It’s light, it’s easy, it’s friendly.

You’re enjoying his company.

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

His hands grip his sides.

You’re clutching your chest.

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

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

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

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

You both gather some decorum.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then two steps, which you also match.

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

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

It’s alarmingly gentle for his stoic features.

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

“What’s going on with you, huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s worked up, frustrated, angry.

And it’s hot. A turn-on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wonder what positions he put them in.

How many rounds he lasted with them.

How often he made them cum.

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

That single action changes the game, entirely.

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

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

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

The grip tightens.

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

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

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

Every ounce of feminism evaporates within you.

Who could deny such a tentative offer?

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

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

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

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

Your panties, soaked.

His jeans, tight.

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

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

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

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

“C’mon, don’t be shy.”

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

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

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

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

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

He has his mother’s eyes, you notice.

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

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

A picture of Javi, and you.

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

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

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

There was no point risking your father ever finding it.

But this picture, this one you do not remember.

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

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

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

He does good to bring you back into the room.

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

They sit in the sink, growing wet.

And you are too, frozen on the spot.

You glance down, count over the different bills.

Five dollars.

Twenty dollars.

Hundred dollars.

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

In the mirror, he’s watching.

Not the sink bowl, no.

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

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

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

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

The card is plucked out your hand.

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

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

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

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

Desirable.

And attractive.

And pretty.

And smart.

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

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

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

Javi hisses, muttering something to himself.

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

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

A few seconds pass. 

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

You feel the air tickle your skin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Smack!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hear a cheer.

From the basement.

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

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

If you can hear them, they could hear you.

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

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

It’s not a pleasurable act, in itself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For him, you can do it.

“Fitting big things in your little pussies?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The unbuckling of a belt.

The unzipping of teeth.

The shucking down of-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A hand, reaching up to cup your cheek.

A kiss, gentle and longing against your mouth.

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

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

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

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

“I’m a very patient man, corazón.”

You scoff.

“Just not when it comes to you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You feel lightheaded.

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

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

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

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

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

He consumes you, mind, body and soul.

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

There’s just Javi.

Beautiful, gorgeous, deserving Javi.

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

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

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

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

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

Hands hurry off your waist, slipping between your thighs. 

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

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

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

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

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

He’d catch you, if you fell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You both crash and burn, together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damn Javi and all the memories he haunts you with.

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

Days grow colder.

Nights grow longer.

You change your bedsheets, stuff a comforter back inside.

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

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

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

Lights, baubles, action.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is this some tactic of yours?”

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

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

“Some what?”

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

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

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

Bare legs, messed hair, smudged lipstick.

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

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

“You weren’t complaining earlier.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When he offers the cigarette your way, you hesitate.

Picture your father, disappointed to see you smoke.

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

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

You and Javi were never meant to happen.

Sure, the line had already been crossed weeks ago.

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

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

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

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

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

Until tonight.

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

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

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

He’d offered to take you home.

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

He squeezed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which brings you here, fifteen minutes later.

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

“Huh?”

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

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

“Is that what you want?”

He shrugs.

Pulls in another breath of his cigarette.

Stubs it out on the arm of the chair.

And says nothing.

You assume it’s a yes.

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

Silence falls upon you both.

You twist in his lap.

He tightens his hold.

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

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

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

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

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

Each year, it’s the same.

The station, decked out in decorations.

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

It’s not just Christmas.

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

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

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

Their spouse, their mothers.

Anyone, and everyone, is welcome.

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

It’s the part you look forward to most.

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

Fishing out a pen, some paper.

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

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

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

This year, there was none of that.

No list of pros and cons for each gift option.

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

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

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

Hinted at it, slightly.

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

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

Hold it up to his ear, shake it.

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

The whole room stops.

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

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

Fades to grey.

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

He knows.

Of course he knows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next time you see Javi is hours later.

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

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

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

You say you’re tired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Javi plays it cool.

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

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

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

Well, better than anyone but you.

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

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

Your dad stares at you.

Your mum stares at you.

Javi stares at you.

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh! Yeah, I- Sorry, I meant that I-”

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

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

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

At least that’s the reason you give yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your hands, brushing.

Your eyes, meeting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it isn’t, and you’re not.

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

His lips brush your cheek like an autumn breeze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You and Javi don’t spend time alone anymore.

You and Javi do not exist together anymore.

Maybe you never did.

“It’s okay, I already called a cab.”

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

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

For a second, he just looks at you.

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

“Get home safe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

First, just a little extra weight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One more glance in the box.

There’s a note, tucked at the bottom.

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

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

#javier peña smut #pedro pascal smut #javier peña x reader #javier peña fanfiction #javier peña oneshot

[amevello-blue]

Things in Rise that Echo 2003 TMNT

Hi Ame here back on my bullshit-- getting right into it. I can't remember where or who said it, but one of the creators of Rise mentioned that 03 was their favorite iteration, and it really shows sometimes. Spoilers for 03 and Rise below ;)

The first thing that comes to mind is Shredder. "But Ame, 03 Shredder was a little alien guy-" NO I'M TALKIN ABOUT THE ORIGINAL SHREDDER. In 03, Ch'rell took on the mask of a well-known boogeyman at the time; the Shredder, who was a demon that had lived 1,000 years ago. Oroku Saki was a man who defeated the demon alongside the rest of the Ninja Tribunal, and after he defeated it, became possessed by it after falling prey to its promise of power.

The most obvious I think are their markings. In 2003 they use 'chi' to give them mystic abilities. It's the act of becoming one with the world around you, but it also seems to work when you are connected to the people around you. Even the medallions over their chest mimic the Hamato symbol that glows on Rise's chest when activating their ninpo.

Their markings even mimic each other (except for Raph, whose Rise version doesn't have any markings, which is a travesty). Leo has slash-like marks, Donnie has geometric marks, and Mikey's got a lot of circles!

NOW OKAY THIS ONE'S A BIT OF A STRETCH, BUT-- Leo has made portals with his sword before! Specifically, he held one open with it.

It's the little things <3

Like the ghost of dead Hamatos coming back to assist their rat sons in the final moments :)

Some more small things! Raph and Donny's brains being rifled through! (Which also happens to 2012 Mikey)

Raph's and Leo's shoulder! (Hard to get a good shot of Leo's, thanks 4kids) Ironically both happening at a moment where Leo has "failed" to protect his family.

Rise Mikey being the "greatest mystic warrior" reminds me a lot of what is alluded to many times with 2003 Mikey; he's very good at what he does! He's a Battle Nexus Champion! He's the one who can channel chi the best! He could surpass Leo even in skill if he actually applied himself, but he doesn't. Because he just doesn't find it fun. But it's shown a little in the episode Same as it Never Was, where he's able to dispatch a whole group of guys with guns all on his own, including three armored cars and a HELICOPTER.

Also making comparisons between 03 SAINW!Mike and Rise F!Leo losing their arms is kinda a stretch but I'll point it out anyway.

And speaking of the movie. My absolute FAVORITE thing to compare is the Krang of Rise to Sh'Okanabo of 2003's Fast Forward season. It's like they took all the concepts of Sh'Okanabo and made it BETTER. Everything was executed SO MUCH BETTER.

Gooey tentacle villain? Check

Weirdly organic flesh ship? Check

Alien invaders turning people into drone versions of their species? Check

(Also side note about that one, I think it's hilarious that in 03 Raph's the only one who DOESN'T get Kanaboe'd but in Rise Raph is the only one who DOES get Krang'ed.)

Taking over structures with their goop? Check

And finally. Small boy son that is a descendant of Casey Jones. Check :)

#tmnt #tmnt 2003 #rise of the tmnt #rottmnt #ame talks

[destinationtoast]

Toastystats: Ted Lasso S3 on AO3

I took a look at a look at some of the fandom's reactions to each episode, and to the season overall, based on the number and types of fanworks that people were posting to AO3. You can read a detailed explanation on AO3, as well as corrections and clarifications. (Edit: and image captions!)

I'll share a few highlights below the cut. But first, a few gentle pleas, because I don't want any of my stats to stir new fandom drama, ship wars, etc: Please be curious, not judgmental as you look at the data. (Don't be harsh toward fellow fans if they like different things than you.) And if anything about S3 disappointed you, take heart in the MANY fanworks the fandom is creating! The fandom overall, as well as the characters and ships I investigated, are all increasing in popularity in terms of the number of fanworks devoted to them. So it's a great time to be in the Ted Lasso fandom -- so many fanworks to enjoy!

That said, here are some highlights of the data:

The fandom has been more active throughout S3 than it was even at the height of its activity in S2, and it has so far has been very active post-S3 as well.

36% of fanworks deviated from canon following the S3 finale, using a tag like "Fix-It" or "Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence." 😅

All the characters and relationships that were popular before S3 continued to be very active throughout S3. But Jamie Tartt and Trent Crimm saw the biggest increases in fandom attention (as measured by the percent of fanworks with those character tags) -- to the point where Jamie was tagged in more AO3 fanworks than Ted was some weeks! (Whereas I'm pretty sure Ted has always been the most tagged character before.) Ted and Rebecca each had sizable decreases in the percent of works they were tagged in, with Jamie and Roy surpassing Rebecca in relative popularity during S3, but they remained extremely popular characters. Among the AFC Richmond players, Colin, Dani, Isaac, and Sam also surged in popularity.

Roy/Jamie, Trent/Ted, and Keeley/Roy/Jamie were all on the rise in terms of percent of works that tag them, and they all had weeks when they were the most active ship. Ted/Rebecca decreased in relative popularity during S3, but it is still the biggest ship in fandom, and the biggest ship most weeks. Plus it seems to be surging post-finale.

Fluff continued to be the biggest tag during S3 (consistent with AO3 overall), but Angst, Hurt/Comfort, and Fix-It are among the tags with the biggest increases in use during S3.

Read more data and more detailed explanations on AO3.

#ted lasso #jamie tartt #trent crimm #royjamie #royjamiekeeley #tedependent #fandom stats #toastystats #op #lol those may have been unnecessary pleas up front #but you would not believe the drama I've had in the notes on some of my stats posts #😅 #50 #100 #500

[bangtanflirt]

Wait, Little Rabbit! (Part 2)

fluff, angst, smut

Bunny Hybrid (Fem) Reader x Human Seokjin x Dog Hybrids Jimin and Hoseok x Cat Hybrid Yoongi x Wolf Hybrids Namjoon, Taehyung, & Jungkook

NSFW. 18+

Part 1 > Part 2 > Part 3

Summary: You, a meek little bunny hybrid, find family amongst six predator hybrids and their lovely human caretaker.

Warnings: vaginal fingering, slight nipple play, sexual teasing, mentions of heats, prejudices against prey hybrids

____

The next day starts out like a typical day: you’re holed up in the room with the two dog hybrids while Jin is off at work. Everything goes by as usual when Hoseok gives you breakfast, when Jimin makes you watch every episode of Haikyu!!, and when the two men break another one of Jin’s collectibles while playfighting. It’s all going as usual until evening hits, because that’s when they’ve got you sandwiched between them again. To them, it’s nothing out of the ordinary since they’ve cuddled with you on the bed before. However, what they don’t realize is that this is the first time they’ve done so when you weren’t A) in pain, or B) scared. Now, you’re not in heat, but you are a bunny hybrid—and your species is infamous for your high sex drives. So now that you’re feeling healed and somewhat safe again…your innate rabbit urges are kicking in pretty hard. You can barely register the conversation between Jimin and Hobi, eyes too focused on Hoseok’s long fingers.

“Y/N? Are you okay?” Jimin’s voice breaks you out of your trance.

“Oh, yeah, sorry I just zoned out a little.” You chuckle nervously, trying to hide your dirty thoughts. But neither men can ignore the flushness of your cheeks or the way your eyes are on nothing but Hoseok’s hands. Jimin and Hoseok exchange a knowing glance, smirks adorning their lips when they realize what’s going through your head.

“You like hyung’s fingers, Y/N?”

You sputter at the comment, eyes as big as saucers.

“I think she does, Jimin”

You attempt to use the covers to hide away from the conversation, but it’s no use as Jimin’s quick to pin your hands above your head.

“Nuh uh little rabbit, can’t hide this time”

You flail around in the younger man’s grasp, looking everywhere except at the two of them.

“If you want us to make you feel good, you’ll have to use your words and ask for it.”

You’ve never thought your sweet Hobi could be cruel enough to demand something like that. The embarrassment, however, is quickly surpassed by your growing sexual frustration.

“P-please touch me!”

Hoseok wastes no time to get off your pajama shorts, while Jimin releases his grasp on your hands and focuses fully on enveloping your lips with his. His kisses are soft and slow, gently exploring your mouth. It feels warm and nice, the taste of his cherry chapstick being shared between the two of you. You get momentarily lost in his taste, wanting to do nothing but kiss him forever—that is until you feel one of Hoseok’s digits go under your panties, swiping over your needy clit and causing you to mewl into Jimin’s mouth. The older man brings the finger down and dips it into your heat, pulling it out and bringing it up to eye level with the three of you.

“Look how wet she’s got my finger, Chim. Such a dirty girl.”

Your cheeks grow to a violent shade of red, and your just about to cover your face when Jimin leaps forward and takes the sticky finger into his mouth. The obscene act affects Hoseok as much as it does you. “You taste so good bun.” And with that, he dives back into your mouth, now mixing the taste of your cum with his chapstick. Hoseok works over your clit with medium-paced figure eights, finding a nice rhythm to make you squirm. Your hips thrust forward into his movements, heightening the sensations. You break once again from Jimin’s mouth when he starts sliding a hand under your shirt, kneading your breasts and pinching your nipples.

“Jimin!” You exclaim at the first pinch, causing both him and his hyung to laugh.

Hoseok’s index finger dances between your folds for a second, before settling into your heat. He takes his time pumping the one finger before deeming you stretched out enough for two. The second finger, aka the longer middle finger, curls up perfectly to hit that spongey spot that makes you see stars. The men are quick to notice your breath shortening and the way all of your muscles seem to tighten; you’re close. Jimin brings a finger down to play with your clit, rubbing fast and hard in comparison to what his hyung was doing there earlier. The feeling of your clit being rubbed in tandem with the two fingers hitting your g-spot send you well over the edge—bliss taking over every cell in your body.

The boys’ demeanor changes after you’ve reached your high, the lustful look on their faces now filled with tenderness and care. Your sure they’re hard right now, but they don’t make any move to ask you for help. You’re grateful because you don’t think you even have the energy to help them. Built up anxieties and lack of recent sexual action has left you’re usually high stamina in need of a serious recharge. After cleaning you up, they do well to persuade you to eat dinner outside again. You’re still shaken up by yesterday’s incident, but you make an effort for the dog hybrids nonetheless.

The scene is different from yesterday’s dinner prep: the three wolves are helping in the kitchen today. Seokjin is on a weeklong business trip, which means Yoongi is the head chef in charge. He stares the three of you down, spatula in hand, while the wolves watch.

“Keep it down next time, some of us are trying to cook here,” as if that wasn’t enough, he also starts scowling as he smells the sex in the air.

You and Jimin may be embarrassed, but Hoseok isn’t one to give in to the cat hybrid.

“Y/N has pretty moans, don’t you think hyung? They kind of resemble yours. Cute and whiny.”

Now it’s Yoongi’s turn to be embarrassed, ears turning red as he mutters under his breath and turns away to face the stove. Taehyung bursts out into laughter, with Jungkook following. Namjoon keeps his face straight, attention on an onion he can’t seem to cut. Jimin immediately takes the knife from the Alpha’s hands, making some quip of how he needs to stay out of the kitchen for world peace—this does elicit a tiny laugh from the wolf’s lips.

You can’t help but feel endeared by the smile. The pretty dimples briefly distract you from how this is an apex predator who has both the means and desire to rip your throat out.

This time you sit between Jimin and Jungkook. Hoseok makes his way beside Yoongi, making playful conversation that the cat hybrid pretends not to be interested in. Unluckily for you, by Jungkook is his Alpha, whom he lovingly is making a plate for. Jungkook watches Namjoon with reverence, doting on any and every need of his leader. When he’s sure Namjoon is taken care of, the wolf diverts his attention to you. He watches you fondly as you dig into the mash potatoes and pasta. You make sure to tell Yoongi multiple times how much you enjoy his cooking; the cat acts nonchalant but it’s obvious he likes the validation.

“Joonie, aren’t you going into heat soon?” Hoseok inquires casually, in between mouthfuls of food. You’re taken aback at the bluntness of the question, but no one else seems to be making a big deal out of it.

“Yeah, the day after tomorrow.”

“Are you going to spend it with the wolves?”

“I think he should spend it with Y/N this time” Taehyung jokes, putting his hands up in defense when no one else is laughing. Jungkook’s glare is especially intense.

“Yeah, I’ll spend it with the pack.”

The youngest wolf hybrid seems to notice the worry on your features. “Don’t worry Y/N, we don’t spend heats here. There’s another room that’s separate from the main house where we all go for heats.”

You just give a tiny nod, but Jungkook is happy seeing your shoulders relax.

___

The three days of Namjoon’s heat are the most peaceful days you’ve had in a long while. With no Alpha to keep you on your toes, you’ve been carefree in roaming around the house. Consequently, you’ve been talking to Yoongi a lot more. He seems to be warming up to you the more you two lounge on the sofa together. You’ve learned that he loves watching Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, and he particularly loves pausing every five minutes to explain some interior design term to you. He likes how you listen intently and ask for clarification when needed. You don’t miss the way his chest puffs up with pride every time you look amazed or tell him how knowledgeable he is. For a moment, you get spooked by the sound that comes out of him after hearing a compliment—you mistake it as him growling at you—but then you realize that the cat hybrid is content enough to purr around you now. He’s easier to win over than he looks.

The bond between you, Hoseok, and Jimin is only growing stronger. The two even laugh at your existential crisis when you dive in to fetch a ball Hoseok threw for Jimin. They tease you nonstop about how dog-like you’re becoming after that incident. You stick out your tongue and thump your feet in rebellion, protesting that you are a still as much of a bunny hybrid as you were before you got here.

Jungkook and Taehyung only come into the main house for food and water throughout the three days, looking exhausted and drenched in sweat every time they come. You ask Jungkook why the two of them don’t alternate to let the other rest. Taehyung laughs at the naïve question and decides to answer it instead.

“Namjoon hyung would break us if we went in alone! Even us together can barely handle his heat.”

The answer startles you, and you promptly excuse yourself to go back into yours (a.k.a Jin’s) room.

Suffice to say, you’re thoroughly bummed out when Namjoon enters the main house again, prey-instincts going back into overdrive. It’s even worse since Jin isn’t around. You know the dog hybrids have your back, but they’re not any match for him. And no matter how sweet Jungkook’s sentiment of looking out for you might be, you’d be a fool to think he’d go against his Alpha if something were to actually go down. That’s why you’re beyond petrified when the wolf walks straight towards the couch…standing right in front of you.

“We need to talk. Alone.”

Everyone in the house goes silent, watching the interaction with wide eyes.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

Namjoon looks at you expectantly, but your body is unable to react. It’s only when Jungkook comes over and gives you a reassuring rub on the back that you find your footing again. “It’s okay Y/N, go with hyung.” You have no idea how you get your feet to move, but somehow you do end up in the wolves’ room, alone with the Alpha. Meanwhile, Jungkook and Taehyung do their best to appease the restless dog hybrids outside, assuring them that you were in no harm.

“You can sit on the bed.”

You nod but can’t find it in you to do so. His scent is strongest on the bed. Instead, you plop down on the rug, knees close to your chest to protect your organs.

He sighs, taking a seat on the floor opposite of you; he leaves as much space between your bodies as the size of the room allows. The two of you just sit like that for a while.

“I want to apologize to you.”

You don’t know what you were expecting (well, actually you do know what you were expecting), but it was most definitely not an apology. It’s the first time you truly hold his gaze, out of pure shock and confusion.

“Jungkook and Taehyung…they talked to me a lot after my heat ended. They seem to be really fond of you.”

The mention of Jungkook’s name doesn’t surprise you, but hearing Taehyung definitely does; all he’s ever done is tease you and make you feel uneasy.

“They got me thinking of what kind of Alpha I’m currently being versus what kind I want to be. I’ve never wanted to lead them with fear—I know you’ll find it hard to believe, but that’s not who I am. Their opinions mean the world to me. I want to be someone they can respect, and I can tell that my prejudices towards you are making me lose that respect. I can’t have that. I realized I need to really change how I think if I want my pack to be happy.”

You see the sincerity in his eyes, feel the genuine intentions behind his words.

“I don’t even know why I have these stupid notions in my head in the first place. The reason me and my pack are here at all is because we were being chased by wolf-hunters. I know what it’s like to be hunted, to be prey, but for some stupid reason my ego made me think I was better than you. I’m not. Can we start over?”

You would never have guessed someone like Namjoon could relate to you in that way. His admission makes your heart weep, hating the world for being so cruel to him and his pack.

“I’d really like that.”

That’s the first time he smiles at you—dimples and all.

You don’t miss the giant sighs of relief when you come out of the room in one piece, trailing behind Namjoon.

Yoongi’s quick to speak, “So, can we all finally stop walking around eggshells around here?”

Namjoon flashes an apologetic smile, rubbing the back of his neck in guilt.

___

The atmosphere of the house is heavenly after your conversation with Namjoon. Everyone is visibly less cautious, and you’re allowed to actually be comfortable in his presence. It’s not like you two are best friends, heck you still barely talk to each other, but now the air is breathable. You’d be a fool to think his prejudices would disappear after one conversation, and you can still see flashes of judgement when you’re too clumsy or prey-like; however, it’s obvious that he is trying to warm up to you. He doesn’t ignore your presence or glare at you with those glowing wolf eyes anymore and backtracks every time he's about to make a snide remark. The most surprising development is that he even helps you sometimes—guiding you on where certain things in the house are or what you can do to help out during chores. His natural leader-tendencies do wonders for someone like you, who always needs directions.

Seokjin, in particular, is in awe with the new atmosphere once he’s back from his business trip. He watches with doubt at first, unable to process you and Namjoon folding the laundry together. Namjoon senses his worries and promptly runs over to his hyung, resting his head on the human’s shoulder while apologizing for his previous actions. Jin pets the wolf on the head, telling him how proud he is of him. It’s bewildering just how Seokjin can make the Alpha behave like a puppy with a few pets and praises; the moment is impossible to watch without hurting yourself smiling.

____

A/N: The support for part 1 has been amazing and I hope part 2 makes you smile. Reblogs/comments are always appreciated as they motivate me to keep writing!

#bts hybrid au #bts hybrid x reader #poly ot7 #ot7 x reader #hybrid jungkook #hybrid jimin #hybrid taehyung #hybrid namjoon #hybrid yoongi #hybrid hoseok #caretaker seokjin #bts smut #bts fluff #bts angst

[cat-hesarose]

Izzy Hands and broken promises

Now that I've had a day to digest the ending, I'm still in the "Izzy should have lived" camp but can better understand why it soured an otherwise great season finale for me.

Keep reading if you like rants about storytelling and queer catharsis from people with a Bachelor degree's worth of overconfidence and strong opinions.

Bar a handful of icks (Zheng Yi Sao getting outsmarted by Ricky, etc), I loved this season and don't see a wealth of problems that would not have been solved by two additional episodes. That said, Izzy's death is one of the things I can't see making any more sense if they had more time to explore his journey because his journey is what problematizes djenk's stated reasoning for his death.

In that one interview (and to be fair, we only have a brief window into his intentions as of right now), djenks positions Izzy as two things, specifically to Ed: a mentor and a father figure. And yeah, mentor figures often die. Their student surpasses them, or acquires a new narrative drive from their mentor's death to continue a quest.

Neither of these things feel like a fit for Izzy and Ed's dynamic nor their respective arcs. Neither does "father figure". Izzy was a love interest. He was described as a love interest. He confessed love to Edward. His mentor relationship was more established with Stede, if anything, who is an unreliable narrator and may well have been lying about Edward claiming that Izzy taught him everything he knows.

The journey that Izzy went on this season was parallel to Ed and Stede but it was with the crew. It's one big queerplatonic love story essentially, of him finding himself as an individual through the support they give and the space they hold for him. Season 2 Izzy Hands is, among other things, a love letter and showcase of the queer community's power to revive hope and purpose.

Izzy has the world's messiest breakup with Ed when they're both at their worst, and his healing begins with the crew of the Revenge. He only interacts with Ed again after bonding with, and growing through, the crew. So yes, it absolutely makes sense that his journey would proceed towards making peace with/saying goodbye to "Blackbeard". But it does not make sense that it would end there, with his death.

Djenks says that they're pirates, and people die. And yeah they do. But in the hand-wavy logic universe of OFMD it feels dismissive to say that about the death of a major character. And odds are, David "Izzy is my favourite character" Jenkins is not dismissive of Izzy, so that leaves tragedy.

My issue with that is, season 2 Izzy is no longer an innately tragic character. If you told me at the end of season 1 that season 2 would end with Izzy dying in Edward's arms telling him to go forth and change and accept love, I would've gone "that's sad but it makes sense." Because it would have, at the time. Season 2 Izzy departed from the trappings (so I thought) of the doomed fate of the bitter old repressed grimdark pirate when he put on the gold-painted wooden hoof and embraced his new role as First Mate of Stede Bonnet's gay floating kindergarten.

His death feels like a betrayal because, in a show that does queer characters Really Well, Izzy's arc feels like a broken promise. To say nothing of the politics of having a character attempt suicide, begin to heal, then say "I want to go" before dying, I wanted Izzy to want to live. It really felt like that was where his character was going, where his character was supposed to go.

Death for a character who is showing all this potential is only a natural ending in a tragedy. It isn't presented as peaceful or to punctuate another character's growth. Season 2 Izzy Hands had ceased to be reliant on and subject to Blackbeard. If anything, he was tied to the crew, who all stood back and felt much more removed from his death than they probably would have been if the show had more time to show their emotional responses. Having him die in Ed's arms, apologising for fueling Ed's destructive tendencies and encouraging him to be himself and accept love, feels like he got shunted off his new arc and back onto the old one. It feels like he went through all of that just to take a last-minute huge step back and re-subjugate himself to this character who does not reciprocate his devotion.

It makes me wonder if his death scene was one of the first ones written, before all that energy was spent giving him a new life and new connections and new, you know, new reason to live.

Anyway, that's how I feel about it. TL;DR Izzy's growth should have included LIVING HIS HARD-WON NEW LIFE and if I ever see djenks i'm going to cross the road and avoid eye contact.

#ofmd #ofmd meta #ofmd spoilers #ofmd season 2 #ofmd season 2 spoilers #izzy hands #storytelling #comedy and tragedy #why yes i am participating in #discourse #media literacy #fandomposting #stede and izzy should have fucked

[prince-liest]

Hey just curious: Vox and Alastor are engaging in very extreme kinks in 666 and so far the aftercare has been ok, but do you think they've gotten good enough at it that they know how to prevent subdrop? Vox mentioned that he's not that great at aftercare in one of the installments and Alastor hasn't really done any research on the topic... I'm a bit worried about them 😅

*subdrop AND domdrop actually

It's funny that you ask this because I was planning on referencing it a bit in... [counts on fingers] 666 #8 that both of them have just been letting that happen and fucking dealing with it on their own (or not) like it's a normal thing, lmao. Alastor has absolutely just been assuming that feeling like shit after sex is a standard experience, and a non-zero part of his reasoning for not really enjoying getting off unless he's getting very specific things out of it is related to that. Vox, on the other hand, has been crawling into Valentino's bed for cuddles, which is not necessarily bad... but certainly not great when the worst of it happened after the episode where he feelings-dumped all over the place, because the person he fundamentally needed to debrief with was Alastor. There is a reason he ghosted Alastor for weeks! They have both 100% been failing at aftercare this entire time, but that's pretty expected considering the lack of communication (or even self-understanding on Alastor's part).

My personal headcanon is that Vox can drop no matter what role he's in and it's fully preventable, whereas it's pretty inevitable for Alastor to drop if he's taking on a submissive role (and pretty much never happens in any other context). A lot of what Alastor enjoys in that kind of play in 666 is rife with "I would like you to take my hypothalamus and pituitary glad and just wring them out like a sponge, thanks," which is an A+ way to end up feeling, well, wrung out after you've finished abusing your own endocrine system. Vox, on the other hand, can coast along easily on the warm and fluffies of post-coital affection because he gets just as emotional about Alastor (and Valentino) outside of sex as he does during.

The thing is, Alastor's preferences during sex are a deliberate violation of boundaries that he has outside of sex, so once sex is done, he does not actually want to cuddle or get touched very much because he's far surpassed his preferred limit on those things. What he really needs is to learn to go home, bundle up, and spend some time with a cup of coffee, something sugary, and a good book with some nice jazz playing on the radio, with the assurance that nobody is going to bother him for at least a few hours.

#ask #personal #liulith #nsft #hazbin hotel #radiostatic #666 live on air #also everything I'm saying about alastor is Subject To Change with the application of alcohol

[allyallyorange]

Something a little silly for the AT AU! I’m starting on my next comic thing which will be a more “intense” scene but a show like AT is 95% silly episodes so I gotta make sure to explore the fun and goofy moments too!

In the AT AU neither woosan or Yunho can cook when they were living at the treehouse, they could cook meat but that’s pretty much all they knew how to do, mostly they just lived off whatever rewards they got for going on quests, stopping monsters, rescuing people and saving villages etc. so they never really needed to learn. Wooyoung could make them vegetables too so they could have an apple every now and then if they wanted.

Seonghwa teaches Wooyoung how to cook when he shows interest in learning, Wooyoung quickly surpasses Hwa’s cooking ability and he likes to cook for everyone whenever he gets the inspiration to try making something new.

Also. In reference to these doodles: Yeosang isn’t super thrilled at first when woosanho decide they like Seonghwa (and his house). He’s never had to share Seonghwa’s attention before throughout the over 800 years he’s spent with him, so it takes a lot of getting used to!

Master Post Link!

Patreon ⭐️

#doodle doo #ateez #ateez at au #park seonghwa #seonghwa #jung wooyoung #wooyoung #choi san #san ateez #ateez san #kang yeosang #yeosang

[ddesertmoon]

Star Wars Fic Recs Feat. Time Travel

I think this is my favorite Star Wars trope… maybe just because sw is a tragedy and i want the characters to be happy.. maybe because I’m a sucker for the “reveal moment”… i don’t know.

Hopefully you all enjoy these as well!

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(All fics are Gen unless otherwise specified!)

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Back From the Future: Episode VI The Clone Wars by Ariel_Sojourner

“In which Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader travel back in time together to the Clone Wars era, have amazing adventures, and save the galaxy.”

Basically, Luke and Vader time travel and take over a clone battalion to change the major battles of the war. This is. A masterpiece. It’s insane. It feels like an actual, published story when you read it. It is told in a nonlinear way, so if you’re not into that, you probably won’t enjoy this. But I promise it’s one of the greatest fanfictions I’ve ever read, and there’s a reason it’s first on this list.

(Padme/Anakin and Obi-Wan/Satine, though neither ship is a focal point of the story)

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there but for the grace of god by wanderlove

“There’s nothing particularly remarkable about Sullust.

Well, except for Obi-Wan’s time-traveling son. But, you know. Apart from that.”

I LOVE this fic. Young Luke is sent into the clone wars, and since he’s been raised by Obi-Wan on Tatooine, everyone assumes that he’s Obi’s kid. His appearance changes everything by causing the people around him to reveal deep secrets that would otherwise have led to the fall of the Jedi.

(Padme/Anakin and referenced Obi-Wan/Satine)

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Old Masters, New Tricks by soft_but_gremlin

“Sixteen-year-old Obi-Wan Kenobi finds himself on Lothal in the middle of the Imperial Era. He has no idea why he's here or what all these white-clad troopers are for, but after a rocky start with a little Mandalorian, he finds out that his friend Luminara is in trouble and vows to rescue her.

Sabine Wren has no idea what this other Mandalorian is doing on Lothal, but he looks just like former rebel Korkie Kryze and he's got lightsabers on his belt. He's either going to be a fierce but foolish ally, or the Empire's paying bounty hunters to track down Jedi.”

One of the few SW fics I’ve read where characters are sent FORWARD in time! This one is really great, and I reread it all the time. The heartache Obi-Wan feels when he remembers that all his friends are dead and the heartache KANAN feels when Obi-Wan does something that reminds him of the Jedi…. Amazing.

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Free Jedi to Good Home by soft_but_gremlin

“Jango Fett expected several things from this hunt on Galidraan. Three hypothermic Jedi children stumbling into his camp was not one of those things.”

Obi-Wan, Anakin, and Ahsoka (and maybe a few others, later on 👀) are sent back in time to change the outcome of the massacre at Galidraan. This one is REALLY great and I especially love the sequel (which is currently unfinished but very suspenseful and exciting)

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The Making of Mavericks by AppoApples

“Master Obi-Wan Kenobi couldn't let her just walk out into the galaxy without a lifeline. With Commander Cody and Captain Rex at his side, Obi-Wan tries to give Ahsoka some well meant advice. But the Force was listening and decided these four souls needed to blaze a better path. With all that has happened to them, waking up twenty-five years in the past shouldn't be a big deal, right?”

Time travel with Obi-Wan, Ahsoka, Rex, AND Cody! FOUR people. Crazy. The classic “Obi-Wan is sent back to his childhood to change things before Anakin ever enters the picture” fic. It greatly surpassed my expectations for a time travel fic though! One of the best for sure.

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Legacy by myrlendi (thehistorygeek)

“Three months after the Battle of Endor, Luke Skywalker goes in search of a rumoured Jedi temple in a secluded part of the Mid Rim. He finds within the temple nothing but a strange artifact, which unexpectedly brings him much closer to the Jedi of old than he ever thought he would be.

When Luke fails to return from his mission, Leia goes after him, retracing his steps to the ancient temple — and to the past, to the time of the Clone Wars and the waning years of the Old Republic. Under suspicion by the Jedi Order, the twins struggle to find a way back to their own time while trying to keep their knowledge of the future from affecting the past.”

Okay, time travel with Luke Skywalker is great (one of my favorite things!), but time travel with Luke AND Leia??? Perfect. I love when she’s included.. it usually leads to some very interesting interactions between her and Anakin.

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Luminous We Are by AppoApples

“Master Obi-Wan Kenobi is filled with regrets when the Padawan he chooses is assigned to Anakin. When he discovers that it was Yoda's meddling that had prevented him from being a Padawan in his own youth, the betrayal runs deep. Wondering what could have been, a trick of the Force throws him back in time, where he learns to put his trust in the Force, not the High Council.

Redemption of Qui-Gon Jinn had he not been forced to take a Padawan before he was ready, and where the Order learns to take another course that put quite a wrench in the Sith plans. Start of the Clone Wars to 44BBY AU of the Apprentice books. Cheeky Obi-Wan and Mandalorian shenanigans.”

Obi-Wan Kenobi being adopted by Mandalorians is QUITE a popular trope in this fandom for some reason… I think it’s actually a tag on Ao3 now (don’t quote me on that). Anyway, this fic is one of the few where the time traveler is unable to rely on (very much of) their knowledge from the future.

(Obi-Wan/Quinlan)

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The Kenobi Scandal by AppoApples

“One moment they are speeding on their way to Mos Eisley, only to be hit by a Force instigated sandstorm, and the next thing Ben Kenobi knows is he wearing his old armour with the Jedi insignia and Luke can't find the droids. What's a Jedi to do when he finds himself back before the fall of the Republic? Come up with a cover story more scandalous than time travel: ‘Luke, this is Anakin Skywalker. Anakin, this is my son, Luke Kenobi.’”

Amazing! I really like when we see the potential Luke has with some formal Jedi training. And although there is a cover story for Luke’s (and Obi-Wan’s, technically) time travel, there are still some lovely emotional outbursts :)

(Obi-Wan/Satine and Luke/Ahsoka)

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Gone Are The Days by theycallmesuperboy

“While investigating an ancient Jedi distress signal in the Outer Rim, Luke Skywalker and Wedge Antilles are mysteriously sent back in time to the last days of the Republic, and stranded on Naboo, meeting two people Luke could only have ever dreamed of meeting: his parents.

Only, due to Luke's "quick thinking," the two are lead to believe that Luke and Wedge are just like them: a secretly married couple, due to Luke's status as a Jedi.”

Luke gets an opportunity to really get to know his dead parents, and Wedge gets to kiss Luke. I’m a sucker for the fake dating trope lmao, and combined with time travel? Zoo wee mama!

(Luke/Wedge and Padme/Anakin)

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Significant Brain Damage by AppoApples

“Luke Skywalker finds himself in the past as Anakin Skywalker. Obi-Wan finds himself retraining his old apprentice who has permanent amnesia while also taking on Anakin's Padawan, being a General, a Council member -during a Galactic Civil War, and fighting for a Republic he's beginning to lose faith in. Clone Wars, no paradox, no easy fix it.”

I love this one so much. Luke has to kind of pretend to be Anakin.. but everyone around him just thinks he’s had some amnesia and a major personality change. I LIVE for the “why is Anakin so much nicer now” moments.

(Padme/Sabe and Obi-Wan/Satine)

Also you may notice that this is the FOURTH fic by AppoApples on this list… I love their ideas so much.

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May Death Find You Alive by Must_Be_Thursday

“Anakin finds himself trapped in a nightmare, reliving the same day. He tries. He tries to change things, but it always ends the same.

With a broken bond and a dead best friend.

He's not sure how many times he'll be able to watch the life leave Obi-Wan before he loses his mind.”

Let’s switch it up! Groundhog Day style time loops are always fun, and this one saves the universe! So yay! Fr though, Anakin learns to trust Obi-Wan and it changes everything.

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The More I Live The More I See This Life is Not About Me by K_R_Closson

“After touching a mysterious artifact, Cody's general is suddenly a child with the memories to match. Cody has to coax a suspicious adolescent back to base without alerting the nearby Separatists of their presence.

Reversing his general's age an easier fix than Cody thought it would be, but he didn't factor in the possibility that Obi-Wan might not want to give up his self in order to become General Kenobi again. It'd be easier to think if he didn't have an insidious voice in his head, whispering to him to distrust the Jedi.”

This one is technically just de-aging, with Obi-Wan becoming his thirteen year old self, but I consider it similar enough to time travel to be included, and it has a lot of the same tropes. It’s very well written, and the dialogue flows excellently with the descriptions.

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what is necessary (for love and war) by hellowkatey

“His fingers reach for the hilt that has become as familiar as his own after that three-day journey back from Melida/Daan. He couldn’t stand to put the boy's saber down until he reached his quarters and reality finally set in.

Obi-Wan didn’t come back with him. Once again, he is without a Padawan.

The moment cool durasteel meets his fingertips, the overwhelming presence of Obi-Wan slams into him so hard the room begins to spin. Qui-Gon sinks to the floor, saber clutched in both hands and pressed tight against his chest as though it’s actually Obi-Wan he’s hugging.

‘You have to go back.’”

This time it’s Qui-Gon who is sent forward through time, into the clone wars. The time travel in this fic doesn’t really change anything (as in, it’s not a fix-it), but it gives some great insight into Qui-Gon’s character.

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Chosen One (derogatory) by annathecrow

“Asajj Ventress, the chosen savior of the galaxy. Force help us all.”

VENTRESS is the one to go back in time. Isn’t that crazy??? Isn’t that an insane premise?????? It was SO fun to read.

(Ventress/Shmi)

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One Step Forward, Two Steps Back by K_R_Closson

“Ahsoka Tano told Din to bring Grogu to the Seeing Stone on Tython, and Grogu would be able to call out to other Jedi. Ahsoka Tano did not say that other Jedi might call out to him or that the pillar of blue light was actually a type of planetary transportation.

Din ends up on a planet he's never heard of with nothing but his armor and his child. A lot has changed but his mandate hasn't. He must reunite Grogu with one of his kind. But first, he has to help these ade win a civil war against the dar'buir who abandoned them.”

Din travels back to the war on Melida/Daan, where one of our favorite padawans was struggling to lead the Young to victory (hint: he’s a fan favorite who almost always ends up being adopted by Mandalorians). I really like this one! It’s less about changing the past, and more about character growth and relationships.

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Bonus: Incomplete Fics

I wanted to separate these from the fics above, which are all complete.

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from this moment hangs eternity by EvanHart

“If Luke – Force, his son – was talking about slave chips, something must have gone wrong in the future.

Or, a six-year-old Luke ends up in the middle of the Clone Wars, meets his father, and changes the fate of the galaxy on the way.”

I’m a real sucker for child Luke. Gotta say. He’s ADORABLE. and moments of gut-wrenching sadness interrupted by his little sunshine smiles?? Oh my god?

Chapters: 10/15

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Oya Manda’lor! by Cloud__Chaser

“After giving up his child to Luke Skywalker, Din Djarin has found himself without a purpose. Filling in the gaps by completing bounties for Boba Fett, Din comes across a strange artifact that leaves him stranded in time.

Who knows, maybe Din's complete lack of knowledge of the world outside of the outer rim will lead to the fall of the empire before it even begins...”

Din basically becomes the most admired person on Mandalore in the span of like. A week. after he travels back in time. It’s really funny, and something I like to read when I’m in a good mood!

Chapters: 38/?

(Din/Jaster)

Also, it’s been over a year since this updated (as of the date I’m posting this), so beware, it may or may not be abandoned.

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Sith Lord Swell by AMournfulHowlInTheNight

“‘Well, looks like we're all Sith Lords, now. I hope you've all been practicing your most menacing laughter for our first run in with the Jedi Council.’

Ben could only sigh and raise a distasteful eyebrow at the cross shaped, red lightsaber he was given. Down the line other students were also handling their new weapons and robes with a raised eyebrow here and quizzical expression there.

‘Really, uncle?’

‘Really. I don't want to compete with the local Jedi population.’

Why did Jedi politics and time travel have to be so difficult?”

Like most Star Wars fans, I’m not a big fan of the sequels (‘somehow, Palpatine returned’ my ass), BUT! This fic, involving a young Ben Solo and old Luke Skywalker, was a lot of fun to read.

Chapters: 13/?

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There is another Skywalker by WabiSabi

“‘They couldn't narrow down the precise relationship due to some strange contamination in the sample. But when they launched a search in the DNA databank they found a match. Reliability of 50%, which only happens between parent-child and—’

‘Siblings,’ Master Kenobi completes, voice faint. ‘Full-blood siblings.’

The clone nods. ‘She was estimated to be around 30-years-old, so by process of exclusion, Leia Solo would be General Skywalker’s older sister by 9 years.’”

This time, it’s just Leia who’s sent to the past! Technically Luke lives as a voice in her head, but it’s pretty much just Leia. Also, I really like the premise that the temple runs a DNA test and assumes that she’s Anakin’s sibling. It’s a lot of fun!

Chapters: 10/?

Also, it’s been over a year since this updated (as of the date I’m posting this), so beware, it may or may not be abandoned.

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Companion of the Ancestors by Omegarose

“Ahsoka finds herself in a strange place, out of contact with Obi-Wan and alone with the twins. The Force feels like it hasn't in years, and she runs into a man who has to be an idiot for the way he's acting like a Jedi two years after Order 66.

((Dooku, Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan, Anakin, and Ahsoka all meet each other when they're 19 years old. With the addition of the Skywalker twins and a slightly-younger (than Ahsoka remembers him) Yoda.))”

I love Ahsoka, I love Luke and Leia, I love Obi-Wan… I love this fic. All of the secrets and reveals and drama! So much fun!

Chapters: 10/?

You’re not able to read this fic unless you have an Ao3 account, but those are easy to make. If anyone doesn’t know how to make one, I’m happy to make a post explaining the process!

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That’s all, folks! 20 fics is… a lot. And there are A LOT of characters in all that… So, sorry for the exorbitant amount of tags I’ll be using here. Happy reading!

#star wars #sw #fic rec #star wars fic rec #time travel #time loop #the clone wars #sw tcw #sw fic rec #obi wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #ahsoka tano #darth vader #luke skywalker #leia organa #captain rex #commander cody #jango fett #jaster mereel #satine kryze #star wars rebels #din djarin #baby yoda #ezra bridger #kanan jarrus #asajj ventress #fanfiction #ao3 #fix it fic

[cocogum]

“The Great Wave” wakfu manga FINALLY has a summary :

Back then, it didn’t show up but now that we’re closer to the date episode 0 drops (April 14), they finally revealed what the first volume of the manga will be about.

Here’s the translation :

“ Thanks to the will of the Sadidas and the Eliatropes, Toross Mordal and his army of Necromes were defeated. Amalia became queen of the Sadida Kingdom alongside her husband, Yugo, king of the Eliatropes. But just as life seems to be returning to normal, Yugo has increasingly disturbing visions and Aurora, the wife of Amalia's brother who died in battle, returns to the kingdom to claim the throne. ”

Alright so first of all, I’m loving the fact that Ankama labelled Yugo as Amalia’s husband cuz it just feels so nice to hear it again 💕💕

Second of all, these visions with Yugo better not be Toross or else I’m gonna throw hands at this crusty ass mummy.

AND THIRD OF ALL, i did not just read that Aurora would come back. Like I knew that we would see her again but did she really just have THE BALLS to come back?? To a land that she fled??? During the middle of a WAR that could have WIPED THE ENTIRE RACE SHE WAS SUPPOSED TO LEAD if they would have lost???

What is she trying to prove here??? Does she really think the sadidas and eliatropes are gonna welcome her with open arms and pretend she didn’t just do shit during the fight and left like a little bitch???

Omg the nerve of that hoe.

She’s trying to take back the throne?????? Gurl according to who??? Why are u coming back???? Did ur daddy also tell you to do that??? You just listen to ur daddy and never actually act like a woman with a brain???

I hope she gets jumped. I hope she gets spit on. No seriously I hope that wave annihilates her so she can be part of Yugo’s body count.

Cuz honestly who is brain-dead enough to come back to a kingdom who they fled during the middle of a war and have the audacity to claim that you will take it back from the people who saved it and almost lost their lives for it???

Is she an actual bimbo???

Wait no, not even bimbos would do this shit.

She’s just a trophy wife omg….

She’s so constipated, I have literally never hated a character like this in my life.

She’s trying to take away what belongs to Amalia like bitch who tf asked you to come back???? Also what makes you think people WANT you to come back??

How can you convince the people to come to your side when you’re known as the coward queen who didn’t do shit and left??? How can you convince them when you’re competing against a literal god-king who possesses artifacts that can surpass the gods such as the six eliatrope dofus AND the Eliasphere, and a productive queen who’s already doing so much and has been loved by her people since she was fucking born??

I’m far confident to say that the people would rather have a deity and a heroine than literal garbage.

#this whole thing was supposed to just be an announcement but it turns out I had more to say #Aurora’s biggest hater here 🖐☺️🖤🖤🖤 #wakfu season 4 #wakfu s4 #wakfu amalia #wakfu amalia sheran sharm #krosmoz #ankama #yugo #wakfu yugo #wakfu yugo sheran sharm #wakfu #yugo sheran sharm #amalia sheran sharm #wakfu manga #wakfu webtoon #waven #wakfu news #wakfu manga news #wakfu season 5 #wakfu s5 #wakfu eliatrope #wakfu eliatropes #wakfu sadida #wakfu sadidas #sadida #sadidas #eliatrope #eliatropes