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dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night · 1 year

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Eden

TW: kidnapping, captivity, creepy/intimate whumper, pet whumpee, referenced drugging, referenced stalking, emotional manipulation, referenced depression

As he roused from a deep sleep, Ezra found himself curled up on the sofa in his living room.

He racked his brain as his senses slowly reaserted themselves, but found no recollection of where he had been the previous night, or how he had gotten home.

The cloying smell of lavender perfume overwhelmed him. Ezra didn't wear perfume.

As more sensations flooded his body, he realized his head way laying on someone's lap.

Someone who was running their fingers through his hair.

None of his friends were this affectionate. They all knew him to be severely touch averse. They wouldn't try something like this.

Trying to sit up, he found his arms to be bound behind him with soft, but tight strips of fabric.

This finally spiraled Ezra into panic. He thrashed, struggling to get away from whoever was with him, putting his full strength into breaking his bindings.

Despite his best efforts, his sluggish body couldn't move enough to fall off the stranger's lap, let alone escape.

The stranger had no problem pushing Ezra down by the shoulders and holding him in place.

"No," they said in a deep voice, firm but gentle. "Stay still."

Ezra scanned the room. The clean beige carpet, new looking brown sofa, and sea scape paintings certainly weren't his.

"Where am I?"

Ezra's heart raced, fuelled with fear and andrenaline, pounding against his ribcage in a mockery of a ceremonial drum.

"I didn't give you permission to speak," his captor said.

Ezra stayed silent. The humiliation of being treated like a lap dog wasn't enough to render him stupid.

His captor could have a gun or some other sort of weapon. Fighting back simply wasn't worth the risk.

Ezra needed answers before he could decide what to do. There wasn't any point in getting himself killed.

Music played softly in the backround, the melody much too pleasant for such an occasion. A woman sang softly from the spinning record, but was not loudly enough for Ezra to make out her words.

Turning his head slightly, Ezra got a look at his captor. He looked to be in his thirties, fair skinned with mousy brown hair, wearing wire framed glasses and a small smile.

He tucked a lock of hair behind his captive's ear, before leaning down to kiss him on the cheek.

Ezra flinched and tried to pull away.

"Tsk tsk," his captor said. "That is no way to treat your master. I'm just being friendly."

Ezra opened his mouth to retort, but swallowed his complaint before it could escape his lips.

"You're being such a good pet," his captor continued, petting Ezra's curly hair. "Now, if you had something you wanted to ask me, you may. So long as you're respectful about it."

"Where am I?"

"Call me sir."

"No way in-" he broke off, remembering his position. "Yes, sir."

He tried his best to sound vaguely ticked off, but still compliant. Judging by the look on his supposed master's face, he succeeded in only the second part.

"You may ask that again."

"Where am I, sir?"

"My home. You are still in the United States, but I took you over state lines."

None of this was helpful in the slightest, but Ezra figured it was the best he was going to get.

He lived near enough to the borders of Idaho, Oregon, and even Montana that he could have easily been taken to any of them.

"Why am I here, sir?"

"Because I thought you would make a good pet."

Ezra's stomach dropped.

"Oh, don't look at me like that. It isn't anything horrid. I'm not going to hurt you, unless you harm me or attempt escape. You should be grateful, really. I'm a lot kinder than most of the masters you could have gotten stuck with."

The term human trafficking sprung to Ezra's mind. He had never thought to worry about such a thing happening to him. It always seemed so removed from his normal suburban life.

"Can you tell me what happened, sir?"

Sir. How he loathed that word. It was meant to refer to a person he respected, and his captor sure as hell didn't qualify.

But he needed information. And he needed a plan. Faked respect was his best bet, and he would use it to its fullest extent.

"Well, let me see..." His captor considered for a moment how best to explain. "I saw you at that shopping mall. Do you remember?"

Of course he remembered. Ezra hung out in that concrete, capitalistic place of congregation every week.

It had always seemed so...pleasant.

Graphic t-shirts, warm pretzels, loose change jangling in pockets, luke warm carbonated drinks, bad hair dye, and casual socialization.

Sure, it was only a way to cope with the dreaded outside world. Spend five bucks on a drink to pretend you aren't in credit card debt, buy a fun piece of clothing to make yourself feel better, avoid becoming an alcoholic by gorging on salty pretzels that only ever seemed to make you hungrier.

The mall was routine. It seemed safe.

What he didn't remember was being kidnapped.

"I don't remember you," he said. "I mean sir," he hastily added. "The last thing I remember was feeling ill from a bit of food poisoning in the food court and walking out to the parking lot."

"It wasn't food poisoning. I drugged you. It was so easy too. You kept leaving your drink unattended. I noticed that habit in you for weeks."

This remark set off a phantom cascade of crushed ice falling under Ezra's shirt collar and sliding down his back.

"You always seemed like such a sweet thing. Tipping cashiers and complimenting every other person. Such a sunny disposition too. I am very surprised that I was the first person to sink my teeth into you, so to speak."

Was that it then? He had seemed "sweet," so some stranger decided to drug and kidnap him? Had every good deed only brought him closer to this insane fate?

No. This was not going to be his fate. He was going to cooperate, and then, when his captor finally trusted him enough to let his gaurd down, he would make his escape.

There was no point in rushing, not if his captor wasn't going to hurt him. He just had to bide his time.

"And you're so pretty too," his captor continued. "I know a few men who would wear your face as a mask sooner than saying hello. No, no, you're much better off with me. I'll take care of that pretty face of yours."

He trailed his fingers down his captive's cheek.

"I've admired your smile from afar for much too long. Waiting for my golden opportunity was simply torturous."

Ezra wasn't smiling.

"I was so paranoid that someone else would find you. I considered taking you from your bed, of course. But I didn't want to leave any evidence. So many people go to the mall, a few of my stray hairs won't mean anything to an investigation. And I didn't take you until you were already in the parking lot. No security footage. I checked."

Hot tears pricked the corners of Ezra's eyes. Despite all his pragmatic reasoning, he still found himself overwhelmed by the enormity of his situation.

He didn't know where he was. There wasn't any evidence of kidnapping. He had ghosted his friends all too often, mostly out of depression. They wouldn't be concerned by him not responding to their messages.

In short, he was completely screwed over by a demented stalker and his own poor social skills.

"Oh, don't cry." His kidnapper pulled Ezra's head up, so that it was resting on his chest.

Despite Ezra's best efforts, hot tears continued to roll down his cheeks. He hated not being able to move his hands and wipe them away.

"Angel," his captor whispered. "I should have realized that this would be too much for you. Oh, I tried so very hard to be kind. To make waking up as easy for you as I could. These first few days are going to be rough. I know that. But you'll learn to be happy with me, just give it time."

Ezra sobbed and melted into his captor's warm embrace, allowing his lavender perfume to smother him.

Despite its obvious falseness, the comfort was pure bliss. He wanted to ignore his troubles for a few hours and cry himself asleep in his captor's arms.

His captor began undoing the knot holding Ezra's arms behind him, pull the strips of fabric off, and drop them on the living room floor.

To his relief, Ezra's sore muscles were finally allowed to move. He fought the urge to run, knowing that it would only cause him more suffering.

Instead, he hugged his captor, still an uncontrollable sobbing mess.

A familar, detached sense of pain overcame him. This all was a dream. It had to be.

But still he wept, unable to bring himself to do anything else.

His captor held him close.

"I love you," he whispered soothingly. "I want you to know that. You will be happy here. I'll keep you clothed, clean, and fed. You won't have to worry about anything. No twenty-four hour news cycle. No war, famine, and disease. No abuse and neglect. I will treat you with all the kindness, affection, and care you have always deserved. And I'm only sorry that I didn't give you the chance to come willingly. I was so afraid of scaring you off."

That sounded like hell and heaven all rolled into one. It reminded Ezra of the best promises weaved by fascism, while it went about ignoring its bloody history.

His captor didn't love him. He couldn't delude himself on that point. All his captor had was obsession and mental health problems. What he needed was serious help, not a human pet.

But it was tempting to stay like this forever. Warm and comfortable. Letting his captor keep his promises. Not having debt and the constant risk of homelessness. Living somewhere his toxic friendships and familial connections could never bother him again.

Ezra felt truly pathetic. Had his depression and anxiety really gotten bad enough that he was considering becoming a pet to his kidnapper? And for what, cuddling and empty promises?

He took control of his breathing and was, at long last, able to wipe the tears from his face with his long sleeve.

"Please," he whispered, his voice breaking.

"Please what?" his captor asked, his voice drenched with sympathy.

"Please let me go...sir. I know that you mean well. But I can't stay here. I have to leave."

Another sob choked him, and sent him collapsing into his captor's open arms. The act betrayed a nonexistant lie.

"Oh, darling. I'm afraid not." He squeezed his new pet in another suffocating embrace. "I can't lose you. Not after everything I've been through to get this far. You're far too perfect to be damaged and discarded by the outside world. I'm not doing this out of cruelty. I'm doing this because I love you. Just give me time. That's all I want."

"Well, I want to go home."

Ezra's body didn't match his words, clinging desperately to his captor, seeking any semblance of comfort from this torment.

God, maybe he would make a good pet, needy and compliant. Sitting on his master's lap, cradled in his arms.

No. He wasn't going to give up. It would be absolute insanity. He had to stay strong internally, even if he showed his captor every sign of weakness.

"I'll give you everything you need," his captor promised. "Our own little Eden."

Ezra's mind felt like it was stuffed with barbed wire, every wicked point concealed by a cotton ball.

His friends would report him missing eventually, even if it took them a few months to realize he wasn't intentionally ghosting them.

Patience, he simply needed patience.

@elim-flower @thedarkmongoose @devourerofcheesecake

If you want to be added to or removed from the taglist, ask me.

#Whump #Whumpee #Whumper #Creative writing #Pet whump #Pet whumpee #Intimate whumper #Creepy whumper #Kidnapping whump #Captivity whump #Stalking whump #Modern whump #Pathetic whumpee #Compliant whumpee #Fearful whumpee #Manipulative whumper

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palmofafreezinghand · 5 months

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eavesdropping.

twilight advent calendar day three: Pick one deceased Twilight character to draw or tell us more about. How would the Twilight universe be different if they were still alive? (prompts here).

1927. Great Falls, Montana.

After eleven years and a handful of moves, Edward still could not fathom why Carlisle insisted on forcing the two of them to travel by train. It was torturous, the heartbeats pounding against his skull for hours and hours, incessant thoughts, the smell of intoxicating blood rising at a fever pitch. This failure to understand Carlisle’s motivations meant he had refused to speak to Carlisle for the past six hours. When the train finally lurched into the station Edward hardly glanced back to see if Carlisle followed as he bounded through the car and onto the platform, desperate for fresh air.

Edward made his way through the platform of the small train depot, working his way through businessmen with irritating thoughts. He was unable to focus in on anyone in particular’s thoughts, or any specific conversation, nor did he care to, this is how he found a toddler nearly colliding with him.

He managed to dodge the small child in the nick of time, saving the child’s skull from shattering against his kneecap. Where was this child’s parents? The child instead face-planted on the brick platform. The sickeningly sweet smell of blood came seconds after the snap of cartilage.

He gulped down venom, he would not murder a toddler in cold blood.

“My apologies, sir,” a woman said behind Edward. He turned to glance at her, she was kneeling to pick up the child. Ah, there was the child’s parent. “He fails to watch where he’s going when he is excited,” she explained, examining her son’s face. She wiped his tears with a maternal fondness Edward longed to remember and Edward found it difficult to continue to blame the child for being careless in his excitement.

“It was my fault. I was the one who failed to be observant” Edward said as she got to her feet, the child on her hip. She gave him a grateful smile, her attention still on her injured son.

“Do we know each other?” She asked. “Your face is quite familiar.” Her thoughts were thinking of his gold eyes in particular, the face she recognized was not his but the man who created him. It was clearly Carlisle’s face, even if it was an image clouded by decades of human memories and fairly inaccurate.

‘Say no, please,’ Carlisle thought, closer than Edward thought.

“I don’t believe so,” Edward smiled. The woman thought it was terrifying, he thought the blood gushing out of her child’s nose was terrifying. “I must have one of those faces. Have a nice day.”

“You as well. Apologies again,” she said as he began to walk away.

Edward found a spot in the shadows, along the station wall, as he waited for Carlisle who was currently trying to hide his face with a scarf, while also trying far too hard to see the mystery woman’s face.

“Does your nose still hurt?” The woman asked her son, whose nose was thankfully beginning to stop bleeding. He nodded, burrowing his head into his mother’s shoulder. She kissed the top of his head, paying no mind to the stain that would tarnish her dress.

Most days the grief for parents he had long forgotten was an ignorable ache, in moments like that it felt like a gaping wound.

‘Was it me she recognized? ’ Carlisle thought, a hand on Edward’s shoulder breaking him from his thoughts.

Edward nodded, watching as two more children rushed to the woman as she approached. The oldest, a boy, could not be older than six. The second oldest was maybe four, a blonde girl, who strongly resembled the man standing against the station wall. She greeted the children with pure glee, thoughts full of how different they all looked since she had last seen them. She knelt to properly hug them, letting the broken-nosed toddler free as he squirmed. The eldest two children elbowed each other to be the first to greet their mother.

“A former patient?” Edward asked, realizing the rosy interpretation of this scene was not solely his own but also belonging to the man standing next to him.

‘Yes,’ Carlisle mentally responded, thoughts of a teenager with a broken leg and a boisterous laugh. ‘Frankly, she is one of the ones I have wondered about most often. Her aspirations were quite admirable.’

“What’s her name?”

‘Esme Platt. Although I presume it’s no longer Platt,’ Carlisle thought, his eyes focused on the man greeting her. If Edward did not know better he would say Carlisle was judging the man. ‘At least she made it out West.’

The two stood unnoticed on the opposite side of the platform, for some reason content to watch the family exchange pleasantries and ‘I missed you’s from afar. When the greetings were done the three children, now tired of the novelty of their mother’s return took off into the depot, arm in arm.

“Goodbye,” Esme laughed, turning her attention to the man who was still waiting to greet her.

"Walk calmly and stay in the station," the man called sternly after them. The children stopped running and proceeded in a polite pace. “I may have promised them we would stop for ice cream if they would be nice to each other,” he explained. Esme laughed, as he took her luggage.

"I thought you did not believe in bribery."

"Lillie hid a frog in Joe's pillowcase, which preceded to start a battle. I was desperate."

‘Where did she travel to? ’ Carlisle mentally asked. Edward refrained from teasing him over the sudden interest in humans’ lives, more accurately the sudden interest in one human’s life, a human he had self-admittedly ‘wondered about most often.’

“Her family, an emergency of some sort. I can only see glimpses of a woman who looks like her sobbing.”

‘For how long?’

“A month, I believe.”

‘And her husband did not accompany her,’ Carlisle thought to himself, Edward was confident there was judgment behind that thought.

“How is Mary?” Esme’s husband asked, throwing her bags over one shoulder, offering her his free elbow which she immediately took.

Esme sighed. “I believe she will be fine, eventually.”

“I am sure she will. And how are you?” He asked as they began to walk into the depot.

Without a word to each other Edward and Carlisle began to slowly trail behind the couple, staying far enough away they could not be accused of eavesdropping or stalking.

“Deliriously happy to be home. I missed you all terribly,” Esme smiled.

“Despite the children’s short greeting, we are all glad to have you back."

“Were they awful?”

“They were fine. On an unrelated note, I do believe we have too many of them. I suggest we sell Lillie,” he laughed, glancing down at his wife, pausing when he saw her face, “What does that expression mean?”

“I am not wearing an expression," she said, but well aware her lie was unconvincing she quickly added, "we will discuss it later.”

“Esme.”

She sighed, chewing her bottom lip as she decided the best manner to break her news. “In a few months, we may, potentially, have too many children… by one more.”

“Are you positive?”

She nodded, seemingly unenthused by this news. “I did not wish to tell you here but, I fainted one evening and Mary dragged me to the hospital, and it appears we will soon have enough children to form a baseball team.”

The man stopped in his tracks, finding the confines of proper society quite limiting at that moment and the urge to kiss his wife quite strong. He pressed a quick kiss to her cheek.

“Arthur, we are in public,” Esme chided, her feigned dismay betrayed by her own smile. “You are not cross?”

‘Why would he be cross?’ Carlisle thought.

“Heavens no. Why would I? This is a gift.”

She scoffed as if her reasons for dismay could not be any plainer. “We can hardly afford the three we have. I am dreadfully old. I could not work for months when I was pregnant with Henry. And now, everything with Mary and her children.” She waved a hand to represent all the reasons he should be upset about the situation.

“It will work out, Esme,” Arthur said definitively, leading them to where their three children were playing peacefully on a bench.

“Since when are you an optimist?” Esme laughed.

Before Arthur could respond the children launched in to a chant for the ice cream they had been promised. The couple laughed, Esme lifting the blood caked toddler onto her hip, as the two oldest led their parents outside both prattling on about the dessert they were looking forward to.

“I surmise Montana is no longer an option,” Edward said after a minute of silence.

“I suppose not,” Carlisle sighed, turning to look at the large map on the wall. “Would you like to choose our next destination?”

#twilightadvent23 #esme platt #esme's son #carlisle cullen #edward cullen #my stories #this isn't telling you any more about esme's son but more about what esme's life would have been like i suppose oops #i'm hoping hirsch doesn't feel like a watered down carlisle he appears in the piano teacher and is of course in the au draft i've been #working on but six years in i think he would be less grouchy than in the piano teacher but also i'm still figuring out his role

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melis-writes · 10 months

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Blood Money (Tony Montana x Reader Multichapter, 18+ Smut) Chapter 2 – The Strings of Fate.

Chapter 1 / Read on AO3 / Chapter Masterlist.

18+, explicit smut read.

“The American dream, huh? You’ll see. It all goes up from here, man." / "The one who did the killing was Tony, Tony Montana. His friend’s name was Manny Ribera. Do those names ring a bell?"

Your return back home to to Miami is marked with bitter disappointment but an insatiable curiosity about this Tony Montana you met, whose world continuously moves to collide with yours. Migrating to Miami with Manny, Tony has leverage "knowing you" that he intends to take advantage of. Your heart simply aches and remembers too much to let go of the incident back in Havana and you find yourself almost wanting to see Tony again, but the thought of what you'd say and do next to a stranger holds you back. Tony on the other hand is bound to make his fate intertwine with yours no matter what it takes.

[WARNINGS]: Mentions of blood & violence.

[AUTHOR'S NOTE]: Another update/chapter just as promised for the Tony Montana girlies!! 🤗🤩 Long overdue but it's here at last and I couldn't be more happier with it. 🥴 Blood Money is definitely one of those fics I want to take my time with piecing and weaving the story together. It's building up just as the film would, so there's a looooot of excitement coming together and a gradual, authentic feel and touch of intimacy to Tony and Celeste's upcoming relationship! 🤭

With a taste for success and dollar bills, Tony Montana’s drug empire grew in vast wealth, power and influence by your side as the kingpin’s lover. From sharing an intimate history in Cuba, you and Manny Ribera were the only ones to believe and support Tony from rags to riches. Embroiled in the same lifestyle and sharing enemies, you and Tony come to build your empire and world together with the threat of it collapsing from the inside. As partnership turns to betrayal and thrill to danger, you find yourself in-between ultimatums and sacrifices for the man you love.

[ Havana, Cuba ]

‘Oh my God,’ you blink, almost staggering back into the hotel lobby—unable to stand remaining outside for a moment longer in Havana.

Taking a deep breath, you place your hand over the small splatter of dried blood that landed over your jeans; a strange relief washing over you to know it’s not your blood, but still a reminder of what your trip to Havana has gotten you into it.

Keeping your head down to avoid drawing suspicion or attention of any kind to yourself, you move past the front desk and quietly enter the elevator.

The elevator doors slide open with a ding only a few seconds later as you slip inside, hitting the fourth-floor button.

You lean your back against the elevator wall, tilting your head up to stare at the lights on the ceiling, taking another deep breath.

The initial rush of adrenaline and surprise you felt just fifteen minutes ago has worn off but sinks realization back into you.

The only thing you can focus on is getting back into your hotel room without doing anything else—attempting to process everything that just happened and what it means to you.

You’re out of the elevator and speed walking to your suite from the moment the elevator doors slide back open, wasting no time.

Unlocking the door, you step inside and shut it immediately behind you—giving your head a shake. You move your hand off of your jeans, checking your palm to see if any dried blood smeared over it only to see nothing.

Raising your head, you look around your hotel room before slowly stepping forward; taking everything in bit by bit.

It’s as if absolutely nothing’s happened; just as calm and normal as you left it this morning but you’ve returned back to your hotel room with someone else’s blood over your clothes and the vision of brains splattering over the ground for your memory.

The blood of the man on your clothes is the same one who attempted to mug you almost an hour ago, then got shot in front of your face at close range by two men you’ve never seen before—conveniently there at the wrong place but the right time.

‘It wouldn’t be the first time, would it?’ You frown, moving towards your hotel bed.

There’s too much to think about; how you ended up in that situation, to begin with, leaving empty-handed, then coming across two men named Tony and Manny when you least expected it.

‘Still…’ You slip off your shoes and sit over the edge of your bed, clasping your hands together in your lap as you let your mind continue to think.

At the very least, your business is concluded in Havana. You have nothing else to do or look forward to here, and now without much of a choice you realize the danger you can find yourself in going forward here.

You don’t know what you expected. You flew down to Havana to find proof of your mother’s claims of a family estate, which was transferred to your name after her divorce with your father was finalized only to find crumbling rubble and a mugging lurking around the corner.

You’ve come from Miami with something to return with nothing and no reason to call home or your father right now as you’d prefer to let him know in person.

Not to mention the political tensions rising in Cuba only insists your best options now are to get back to Miami and never look back.

You move off your bed, approaching your half-opened luggage propped up next to the television, and stuff back the loose pieces of clothing sticking out as your mind continues to wander.

Truthfully, you’re not shaken by the mugging since it isn’t the first time you’ve been followed or provoked, but you’re not desensitized to crude, spontaneous violence either.

Had nobody else been around, you still could have dealt with the situation yourself and defended yourself just fine; you can handle a knife swiftly and well and you know how to use a gun.

Almost everything you’ve come to learn in terms of defending yourself one way or another has been because of the nature of your father’s business.

Even with bodyguards, you refuse to have someone else fight your battles, especially if it means business rivals gone rogue or inconspicuous assassins sent your father’s way.

Where Manny didn’t notice your relaxed state and lack of hesitation in your defensive prowess, Tony did. In just the sight of seeing you quickly calculate your moves with your flight or fight instinct, Tony easily discerned you from any other woman he’s met before in Cuba.

In fact, Tony liked nothing more than seeing how you held your ground before he made his presence clear, but your first impression of Tony is far from anything similar to what he thought of you.

It’s not that you think this Tony figure is some sort of show off whose trigger happy or a slum lord, but much closer to a truly born killer whose made peace with his own violence. Tony did what he did back there for you, after all.

You’d rather just forget the whole thing and move on, but your mind continues to linger on Tony with unease.

‘Those two…’ You stare down at your suitcase. ‘If all of that wasn’t bullshit, they’ll be on their way to Miami too.’

At the very least, your father will want to know everything that’s happened and hasn’t happened since you landed in Havana and you don’t plan on holding back any details either. Maybe the names ‘Tony Montana’ and ‘Manny Ribera’ will mean something to him.

When your eyes land back on the little splatters of dried blood upon your jeans it only reminds you that you’ll be telling your father everything.

You’ve come to remember Tony’s comment about him not being a name or face to forget, but you know you can’t say more or think more on the matter until you return back home at least.

Still, Tony’s come off as bold, confident—cocky even to you and you barely know who he is. You’re completely unaware that if you don’t see or find him in Miami, he’ll certainly come to find you again.

You almost find yourself blushing a little remembering the sight of him; although both men before you are very attractive in their own ways, there’s just something else about Tony that’s rubbed off on you differently.

Putting your hair up in a loose bun, you check the time on the alarm clock by your bed before leaning down and beginning to zip up your suitcase.

Regardless of finding anything for your family heritage or not, you’re finally ready to go home.

If you’re meant to see Tony again after all of this, you will. Either way, it’ll give you something to think about for the rest of your life.

[ Next Day, 5:02 AM]

Up at the “ass crack of dawn” or as Tony puts it, Tony and Manny are but two in a crowd of hundreds of Cubans preparing to board on boat to finally immigrate to the United States first thing in the morning.

Having barely slept the night before due to excitement, Manny can hardly keep his eyes open and finds himself consistently rubbing over his eyelids or scratching at his arm just to stay focused and awake.

Tony on the other hand slept like a baby, snored throughout the night, and knew what he’d come to expect at the “ass crack of dawn”; lineups, paperwork, and being kept under a watchful eye by guards for order.

“Think they want us gone more than we want to be gone,” Manny grumbles, rubbing his eyes again.

Just across from Tony and Manny are dozens of boats designed to carry hundreds of passengers, already beginning to pack on crowds of sweaty men bumping into each other—hollering to get a decent place to sit.

Regardless of the chatter and noise, the guards patrolling and policing the nearby area and the docks maintain order and peace well; shoving those around who lash out or are deemed disobedient to ensure security is kept in line this morning.

“We all going to one place this early in the morning,” Tony looks around his environment, appearing annoyed by Manny’s sleepy state. “That’s why I told your ass to sleep early last night, but no—you didn’t listen to me.”

“I tried man, I tried,” Manny whines back, slowly moving up in line with Tonny. “But I got too excited. Look, we’re finally leaving this place, man. Don’t blame me.”

“Yeah, finally,” Tony mutters to himself as he looks up at the boat closest to his and Manny’s lineup. “That could be the one.”

“Maybe,” Manny’s eyes light up.

“Your ass gonna be packed on there with me like a sardine anyway. Then you can sleep,” Tony comments.

“Shut up, man,” Manny chuckles, playfully smacking Tony’s arm.

“NEXT!” The officer sitting at the makeshift desk at the very front of the lineup calls, leaving Tony and Manny next in line.

Tony steps up first, staring back at the officer as he hands over his passport and crumped up documents upon the table.

“State your name,” the officer takes Tony’s passport without breaking his cautious gaze over Tony’s face.

“Antonio Montana,” Tony replies.

“You go by ‘Tony’?” The officer asks, staring at Tony’s passport pic and squinting his eyes.

“Yeah, sometimes,” Tony shrugs his shoulders.

Tony appears nonchalant in his passport photo, but the officer’s trained eye knows it’s no fake or forgery; this is the very man in front of him now only appearing handsomely crude.

The officer stamps Tony’s passport and hands it back to him only a moment later, gesturing to the very boat behind him. “That one will take you to go. Go to the next line ahead.”

Tony glances over his shoulder to give Manny a smug smirk before taking back his passport and papers and being nudged toward the next line by another officer.

Manny’s passport check is no longer than Tony’s and bound for the same boat, now standing in the same and last line to sail off from Havana.

“This is what I need, man,” Manny grins as the two walks aboard the boat at last, squeezing through a small crowd. “We gonna be in Miami before you know it, man. America! Sweet Miami!”

“The American dream, huh?” Tony crosses his arms, looking out towards the docks with an amused expression on his face. “You’ll see. It all goes up from here, man. That’s what I’m talking about, now—” Tony taps Manny’s arm, pulling him back from near the edge of the boat. “Stay close, man. You gonna barely have room to breathe in here and I’m not looking for your excited ass if you fall into the water.”

“Okay, man, okay,” Manny bursts out into laughter, moving aside. “Let’s go, let’s go. I wanna get out of here already. Miami, here we come, man!”

Unlike Manny, Tony doesn’t even bother to look back once at the life he was leaving behind, whether it was to say goodbye to Cuba one last time, reminisce about his childhood or think about where he came from.

Tony’s mentality and future are already settled in America; embroiled in the American dream without even being entirely aware of it. Tony can’t see anything else or past it.

All Tony knows now is he’ll no longer have to toil under a regime while being under a watchful eye in case any of his words or actions are warranted as “counter-revolutionary”.

Tony will no longer have to think his life has no meaning in Cuba but build his future elsewhere; one that doesn’t involve slaving away working at the docks and catching octopus ten hours a day only to be fucked by the government on the daily.

Tony always knew that if he couldn’t feel like he’s come to accomplish anything in Havana, he wouldn’t give up and decide this is how he has to live.

Even now, Tony keeps his eyes affixed on the waters ahead of the boat as security on the docks gives the all-clear to keep sailing onward while Manny watches the distance growing between him and Havana.

What Manny sees in Havana and what he’ll always remember is his home; the city he grew up in and had no intention of leaving until the Castro regime.

Manny grew up with Tony on the streets of Havana; it’s where he attended education all the way through high school, got his first job, had his first kiss, learned how to drive—just about everything.

Nothing else happened in Tony or Manny’s life outside of Cuba before it all went to shit; neither Tony nor Manny felt welcome in their own home anymore.

Still, optimistic and excited enough for the future, Manny welcomes the new chapter in his life. It’s just like the way it’s always been, of course, still side by side with Tony doing anything and everything they can just to make a living.

Before Manny can turn to tell Tony, “we’re really going, man”, he sees Tony already moving in line to get into the living quarters without a care for anything he’s leaving behind.

Tony’s already had one too many times to gaze out towards the sea and wonder how he’d get away from Havana and actually start living his life; he has no reason to do it to himself again.

“Aww, man,” Manny mumbles under his breath, cringing as he tenses his muscles and squirms through the packed crowd with Manny just to get inside the living quarters of the boat.

“What I say?” Tony pipes up, having reminded Manny well one too many times over as to just how crowded the trip to Miami will truly be.

“Yeah, yeah,” Manny and Tony get ushered towards one room by a guard, noticing six more men inside the crammed living space before the doors shut behind them.

Four of the sweaty men are already on their bunkbeds, reading newspapers and making quiet conversation with one another while the other two sit at a small, worn-out end table with flimsy, plastic chairs playing a game of cards.

With nothing but a rag as a makeshift rug in the middle of the room separating the bunkbeds from one another, Tony and Manny notice the bunk beds themselves are made of cheap stiff metal consisting of thin, very worn, old, and yellow-stained mattresses.

The crushed-looking pillow on each bed is in the same stained and sorry state as the mattress with a pilled-up, wrinkled wool blanket in the middle of the bed.

Manny cringes at the filthy sight of discomfort before him he has no choice but to spend hours with whereas Tony raises his brows for a moment, but accepts it.

“You go up,” Tony points up at the bunk bed before moving towards the lower bed. “I’m staying down here.”

Nodding, Manny begins to carefully climb up to the top bunk; wary of every step he takes up the shaky metal ladder with complete distrust and caution.

“Jesus,” Tony mutters under his breath, picking up the scent of body odor reeking from the other men in the room mixing in with the humidity and clear lack of proper ventilation.

Grunting quietly, Tony lays flat on his back—feeling no different from laying down over concrete or anything else stiff and guaranteed to cause back pain only to see a few of the men in the living quarters beginning to peek over at Tony and Manny, even letting their conversations fade out to do so.

“What?” Tony furrows his brows, immediately agitated by the staring as he smacks his pillow—attempting to fluff it.

The men immediately look back away to mind their own business from Tony’s gruff response.

“Tsk, tsk,” Tony shakes his head, resting his head back down on the reeking pillow.

“Hey, man,” Manny’s eyes peer down on Tony, catching his eye.

“Enjoying the kingdom up there?” Tony asks sarcastically.

“Please,” Manny whines quietly, “my ass hurts, man. This feels like a brick.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Tony rolls his eyes, looking up at Manny. “But it gonna be over before we know it.”

“Right,” Manny rakes a hand through his hair with a strained sigh, “like a whole day of travel.”

“Nobody else complainin’ here but you, man,” Tony points out. “What did you expect?”

“I dunno, man,” Manny plops back down on his bed. “Just thought your new friend would help.”

“What are you talking about, man?” Tony yawns, closing his eyes. “What friend?”

“Oh, sorry,” Manny lets out a soft laugh, “I mean your new girlfriend.”

The other men in the room begin to curiously look back over at Manny and Tony again, listening to their conversation.

“Or did you realize you can’t talk to a woman like that?” A playful grin crosses over Manny’s lips.

“Like what?” Tony’s eyes snap open as agitation begins to grow in his tone of voice. “Because I was good. I always am.”

“Yeah, you a real ladies' man, alright,” Manny scoffs, “if I didn’t know better man, I think you knew that American girl for a thousand years.”

Tony almost feels immediately possessive at the very mention of you; his muscles tensing up in response.

“Got tired of digging through old rocks, now you chasing women, huh? What I tell you, huh?! This is

my neighborhood, so if you fuck with it, you fuck with me!”

There isn’t a single detail of how Tony encountered you with Manny that Tony can’t remember; your face and voice are still etched in his mind with no intention of Tony wanting to forget just how he met you in the first place.

From how quickly everything happened and how Tony took the heat knowing your life was very much at risk right then and there out on the street, Tony can’t let go of meeting you. It’s like in a way, you were already his. What kind of coincidence could that be?

“I bet your girlfriend on a nice, fancy plane right now flying to Miami,” Manny continues, chuckling to himself. “She waiting for us or something, man? ‘Cause you said she gonna remember your face and all that shit for some reason.”

“Hey, shut up, man!” Tony snaps, leaning up on his elbows. “Shut up!”

Manny holds back his laughter by clasping a hand over his mouth as the other men in the room once again begin to stare at the two from the sudden yelling.

“What?!” Tony scowls towards the other men in the room; his voice sharpening. “What you all looking at, huh?! Nobody minds their own business in here, huh? Stop fuckin’ staring at me!”

This time, all heads are turned away sharply, pretending as if nothing ever happened.

“God,” Tony grits his teeth, rubbing his temples gingerly. “I’m in a goddamn mental asylum here…”

“I just asked a question, man,” Manny’s voice pipes up again.

“Yeah, I answer,” Tony snaps back, “we gonna see her again. I got a name, you forgot? What you think? I’m gonna mention her name when we get to Miami; when we talk to customs.”

“Wait, seriously?” Manny’s eyes begin to widen.

“Yeah,” Tony nods, “I do her a favor, she do one for me. Maybe she don’t know it’s coming but I know she not like that. If she really the big shot in Mami and not lying, then we see her again. She owes me.”

“She don’t have to help us, man,” Manny points out, “what if she don’t want to do nothing for us?”

“Then she gonna have to explain to the customs why she know our name,” Tony mentions with complete confidence in himself. “I told you, easy way out. I gonna thank Celeste for all she done, don’t worry, man. She need me, I need her. She’ll see.”

On your return flight back to Miami two hours later in first class, you remain indifferent and rather nonchalant about the trip home; doing well in getting your mind off of it.

Enjoying the comforts of first class and having a much-needed drink, you’re easily able to distract yourself and indulge in a book—curled up on your seat with a faux fur throw over you.

When you land back in the United States, your father’s private chauffeur as expected and scheduled picks you up to drive you back to his estate.

You’re grateful for the rest and relaxation you were able to get on your trip back, feeling the lasting effects of travel exhaustion only minorly over you.

In any case, the news of your trip to Havana and just what happened may surprise your father a bit, but it won’t cause him to become upset to any degree.

Only when your step outside of your chauffeur’s vehicle and make your way towards the guarded, front gates of your father’s estate do you feel a numbing ache inside of you desperate to be back at home.

You don’t plan on delaying the news of everything to your father a moment longer.

“Celeste!” Your father’s eyes light up at the sight of you entering the grandiose living room from the foyer. “Welcome back, sweetheart,” your father rises to his feet with a smile.

Standing in the first of many living spaces in your father’s estate with the floors polished in marble, a flair of Roman and Spanish architecture decorated with silver and gold finishings but also inspired by modern American interior design greets you once again.

“Father,” you can’t help but find yourself smiling back at him.

Your father extends out his arms, holding a glass of bourbon in one hand as he begins to approach you. “How was your flight, honey? You’re back almost just as scheduled—impressive.”

“As well as it could be,” you hug your father as he sets down his drink, embracing you back. “I’m just so tired,” you groan out over his shoulder, “every single time, and it always hits me at home.”

“It’s only ever so comfortable,” your father chuckles, patting your shoulders before pulling away. “Well?” His eyes fill with amusement, “I won’t have to guess too much as to how it went. I can see the disappointment in your eyes.”

“That obvious, huh?” You sigh softly.

“Mhmm,” your father nods, “it makes me even more curious. Let me just assume that…” Your father purses his lips, leading you towards the velvet couches to sit down together. “There was just nothing there?”

“Yeah,” you answer back.

“Figures,” your father moves towards the bar table across the room as you take a seat first. “But it’s also no surprise. Here…” Your father pops open a cask of whiskey, pouring some over ice in a glass and mixing half of it with a bottle of coke. “You could use the relaxation. I’m sure you’ve got more than enough to explain.”

“Thanks, Dad,” you lean up to take the drink from him before both of you sit side by side. “But you know I didn’t expect to come back empty-handed myself.”

“Sure, I know what you mean,” your father shrugs. “We can’t say it was entirely for nothing but it was no vacation either, huh?”

“Please,” you shake your head. “Havana is beautiful and lively but some parts... Well—that can be said for just about anywhere, including Miami.”

“Absolutely,” your father reaches for the drink he set aside.

“There was something, though,” you mumble, staring down at your drink. “Mom didn’t entirely lie to us.” You slouch down on the couch, taking a glum sip of your drink. “I don’t know how long it’s been or what happened to it, but there was something.”

“Your mother’s estate was there as she said?” Your father raises his brows. “It actually exists?”

“It did at some point,” you nod, “it’s demolished now, along with every other decent-looking villa I could have found there. Gone. It’s destroyed, just rubble.”

“I see,” your father frowns. “Grim news then.”

“I don’t know what happened to it, and it’s not like I could ask anyone,” you swallow down another sip of your drink. “The villa was right around the outskirts of something like a ghost town.”

“The rebels must have done some work to it,” your father rolls his eyes. “I’m not surprised. The villa must have been standing there for many years prior.”

“If Mom never told you about it, maybe it was only up and around when you two first married,” you suggest.

“A lie is a lie, isn’t it?” Your father raises his drink to his lips. “Your mother kept many things from me since we began dating; her family estates being one,” your father emphasizes the plural of an estate. “Although, I suppose it would be hard to legally prove it was destroyed when and how she owed us this much from the divorce.”

“I don’t know why she did this to us,” you swallow hard, continuing to drink. “First the lies, then the divorce—all of this. She just… She tore our family apart.”

“Yes,” your father agrees, “but it’s her fault and hers alone. She chose to do that to us, so we have no choice but to let it be. The same goes for her so-called villa—estate, whatever you wanna call it. I never wanted any of it for myself, but she owed you.”

“If it’s just a piece of history rotting there now, so be it,” you point out, “I don’t care, Dad. It’s not important to me. I just don’t want you to be upset by it because it’s…” You bite your lip, sighing again. “It was just another lie. Ugh, I can’t take this anymore.”

“And you don’t have to,” your father finishes his drink, exhaling quietly. “Neither of us do. We can leave it at that.”

“Only we can’t,” you lower your glass down to your lap—remembering just how you came across Tony and Manny back in Havana.

“My first American friend and she wanna help me. All Americans like you must be so nice.”

“I met someone,” you say, “two people, actually…”

“You think they may have known something about your mother’s estate?” Your father raises a curious brow.

“Well, they definitely knew more about where I was than me,” you shrug your shoulders. “They were two Cuban men. I assume they probably grew up around or in that same neighborhood from how they spoke of the street and knew it so well. “

“Hmm, interesting,” your father muses, listening to you explain. “And they helped you find the estate or at least what was left of it?”

“More like they saved my life,” you shake your head. “There was some other street rat lurking around, preying on me. I don’t know how long he was stalking me when I was there, but he snuck up on me good.”

“Are you alright? Did he do anything to you?” Your father’s eyes begin to grow with worry. “That man didn’t hurt you or anything?”

“Honestly, Dad, no. I’m fine, really. It was more of a question of what I was going to do to defend myself.”

“I know that sweetheart,” your father chuckles to himself. “No doubt you could, but it doesn’t make you any less concerned.”

“I know,” you purse your lips, “then those two men showed up like nothing. They must have been around. One of them… He…”

“The least you two could tell me are your names.”

“Tony. Antonio Montana.”

“He shows up, then he shoots my stalker right in front of me. Killed that guy like nothing; mocked him first and got him fearing for his life first. It was…something. His friend next to him just stood there like he’s seen this sort of thing every day.”

“He may have,” your father suggests. “What were their names?”

“The one who did the killing was Tony, Tony Montana. His friend’s name was Manny Ribera. Do those names ring a bell?”

“Hmm, no,” your father smoothens out his dress shirt, “I can’t say that they do. Should I?”

“I honestly don’t know,” you laugh a little to yourself, “they just seemed awfully convinced they’d see me again as if they already knew me.”

“And you’ve never seen or met these men at all before?”

“Never,” you reply.

“I’d just assume these men may be well known in Cuba,” your father rests his back against the couch.

“Or they could just be two guys in the right place at the right time,” you sip your drink again. “Either way, I do owe them. They didn’t have to do anything for me back there.”

“No shame or harm in that. I’ll keep their names in mind,” your father rakes a hand through his hair, “but how can they be so convinced that they’ll be seeing you again? You’re back in Miami now.”

“They’re migrants,” you point out, “and from everything going on in Cuba, I’m not surprised that they’re leaving like everyone else.”

“Now there’s something,” your father’s eyes light with curiosity. “So they’re coming to Miami.”

“Mhmm,” you swirl around the ice at the bottom of your drink. “They’ll be here eventually. Whatever part I seem to play in that doesn’t make sense to me.”

“You know you don’t owe either of these men anything, Celeste,” your father tells you. “You’re not obligated to do anything, although I can understand your appreciation towards them for what they’ve done for you.”

“I know,” you shrug, setting your drink down, “I’m just as much of a stranger to them as they are to me. Their words mean nothing to me anymore. We’ve forgotten each other already, it’s just… When I think of Havana, I’ll remember them again. I can’t forget that. It’s like I have to remember.”

“Celeste, honey…” Your father frowns, looking down at his hands for a moment as he ponders how to phrase his next words. “I do believe you’re getting a little too desensitized to all of this, sweetheart. All of the blood and carnage… This isn’t good for you whatsoever.”

“It’s not like that, Dad,” you murmur, denying it. “I was still shaken too and it’s not new, is it?” Your eyes meet with his. “We see it all too often ourselves.”

“Mm, that much is true,” your father notes. “I’m intrigued about these men because of what they did for you so I’ll keep their names in mind, but that is as much as I’ll do. Like you said,” your father begins to rise up from his seat, “you’re as much of a stranger to them as they are to you.”

“It’s all over now, Dad,” you scoff, slouching on the couch. “I’m never going back to Havana again. There’s nothing now.”

“I’m sure they’ve come to understand that too.”

[ Miami, Florida: Cuban Migrant Camp ]

“Okay, Tony,” The immigration officer sighs in annoyance, wishing to get done and over with this mandatory questioning held with high suspicion and an even higher rate of being refused a green card and full entry into Miami.

“So,” The immigration officer lets the file folder holding Tony’s documents plop down onto his desk with a smack, eyeing Tony carefully. “What’s your full name? What do you go by?”

“Antonio Montana,” Tony’s reply is as smug and confident as always; more like he’s at a job interview he knows he’ll get through anyway instead of being questioned about every aspect of his life in Cuba by US officials. “But everybody call me Tony.”

“Tony,” the other cop repeats, “and whose ‘everybody’?”

“Everyone,” Tony shrugs his shoulders. “Everyone who know me; my friends, you know. And you? What you call yourself?” The playful grin on Tony’s lips begins to grow.

The immigration officer rolls his eyes, avoiding the small talk invitation. “Okay Tony, where’d you learn to speak English like that?”

“In school,” Tony’s tone of voice begins to grow more serious. “Then my father taught me. He was from The United States. Just like you guys, you know, but he was a Yankee. He used to take me a lot to the movies, so you know, I learn a lot of English from there. I always knew one thing,” Tony points back at his chest, “coming to the United States. That’s what I wanted to do.”

“And where’s your old man now?” The police officer asks, picking up his clipboard.

“He dead,” Tony replies plainly. “He died somewhere, sometime. We not close after I began growing up. He left the family.”

“And your mother?” The immigration officer raises a curious brow.

“She dead too,” Tony answers, convincing enough.

“Tell us what kind of work you did back in Cuba, Tony,” the cop moves on to his next question.

“I worked in construction business,” Tony begins, “trades stuff. I work a lot with my hands. I build things. I was in the army too.”

“Hmm…” The immigration officer muses, opening up Tony’s file before exchanging an unamused glance with the police officer. “Interesting enough but far too convenient. What do you think?”

“I think he’s full of shit,” the cop answers, looking Tony dead in the eye. “You really don’t have any family in the United States at all? No cousins? Not even a brother-in-law or something?”

“No,” Tony remains unphased by their comments. “Nobody. Like I said, man, they all dead.”

“You ever been to jail, Tony?” The immigration officer sits on the edge of the desk directly in front of Tony.

“Me?” Tony blinks, almost appearing offended by the very question. “Jail? No. No way, no.”

“Been in a mental hospital?”

“Oh yeah,” Tony lies jokingly, “on the way coming here.”

Holding back his own laughter, neither the immigration officer, the cop or the guards in the corner of the room seem the slightest bit amused or entertains Tony’s jokes.

“What about homosexuality, Tony?” The immigration officer begins to slowly pace around Tony’s seat. “You like men, huh? You like to dress up like a woman?”

‘The fuck?’ Tony thinks to himself, shaking his head in disbelief. “The fuck is wrong with this guy, man? Are you kidding me or what?”

“Just answer the question, Tony,” The cop sighs out of impatience, shifting in his seat.

“Okay, no. Fuck no.” Tony answers. “No, okay?”

“Have you ever been arrested for anything? Marijuana? Heroin? Drugs of any kind?”

“No, no. No way, no,” Tony denies.

“Cocaine?” The cop narrows his eyes, growing increasingly suspicious.

“No, man.”

“Uh huh,” unconvinced, the immigration officer suddenly grabs Tony’s face, pointing at the glaringly obvious scar over Tony’s left eye. “Where’d you get that beauty scar, tough guy? Eating pussy?”

Tony is all the more wildly entertained by all of this. “Eating pussy?” Tony points up at his scar, “how am I gonna get a scar like that eating pussy, man? It happened to me when I was a kid. Mhmm, yeah, you should see the other kid, you know.”

“Then explain this,” the immigration officer lets go of Tony’s face, snatching up his hand again to show a small poorly tattooed, stick and poke heart pierced by an arrow. “The hell is this?”

“Ah, that’s for my sweetheart—” Tony begins, but neither of the officials are buying it.

“Sweetheart, my ass,” the immigration officer rolls his eyes, “we’ve been seeing a whole lot more of these lately. It’s some kind of code you and your friends used back in the can, huh? This is what? A pitchfork of some kind? Means an assassination happened, huh?”

“You wanna tell us about it Montana or should we take you on a little trip to the detention center?” The cop crosses his arms.

Tony pauses for a moment, remaining calm. “Okay, okay. You got me. I was in the can one time. One time, okay?” He holds his free hand up in surrender. “Nothing crazy though. I was buying dollars. Fake dollars.”

“Funny,” the cop begins to rise to his feet, alerting the attention of the guards in the corner of the room.

“No, it’s true,” Tony continues his story, “I got it from a Canadian tourist. Didn’t know it was fake.”

“Let me guess, you mugged him first?” The immigration officer appears all the more frustrated, thinking now’s his chance to brush Tony aside with the dozen others he’s interrogated already today. “Get him out of here!”

“So I fucked up, what’s to it?!” Tony protests, nudging back the immigration officers that begin to attempt to restrain him. “Wait—wait! Wait, man, hold on. Just hold on. Let me talk to this guy, okay!” Tony holds both of his hands up in surrender once the officers pull away. “Let me ask you something, man,” Tony points at the immigration officer, wetting his lips. “Are you a communist? Huh?” He asks completely calmly.

The immigration officer crosses his arms, staring back at Tony with a mix of disgust and disappointment in his expression.

“How’d you like it?” Tony scowls. “They tell you all the time what to do, what to think, what to feel. Do you wanna be a sheep like all those other people, huh? BAAA, BAA!” Tony bleats, beginning to loudly imitate a sheep.

“I don’t have to listen to this bullshit!” The cop fumes, rising up from his seat abruptly.

“You wanna work eight hours a day; you owe everything, you got nothing?” Tony redirects his attention to the cop, pointing at him as he speaks. “You want someone standing on the corner of every street watching everything you do and say, man? You wanna live and work like that? That’s what I did, okay? That’s what I did,” Tony gestures to his chest, “I made nothing. They make me clean octopus eight hours a day, every day! I got fucking octopus coming out of my ears, man!” Tony gestures to his ear. “I got holes in my shoes and they work me like that every fucking day. How’d you like that? What did you want me to do, stay there and do nothing? Huh?” Tony’s voice sharpens as he continues, “What could I do, man? What would you do?”

Nobody answers, but Tony’s words are well-heard and understood. As petty and difficult as the immigration officers and officials are, let alone completely unsympathetic to the sob story of any Cuban migrant, Tony’s explanation can’t be argued against.

“It make anyone go fucking crazy,” Tony’s voice begins to calm, growing serious. “I’m no thief, no criminal, okay? I’m Tony Montana, a political prisoner from Cuba, and I want my fucking human rights!” Tony slams the palm of his hand down on the table. “Right now!”

“I don’t believe a word of this shit,” the cop speaks up, surprising the others. “All of you sound the same. You know that son of a bitch Castro is shitting all over us. Send this bastard to Freedom Town where they’ll take good care of him.”

Tony scoffs, bursting out laughing as he doesn’t resist being restrained. “You know something? You can send me anywhere. This, there, here—it don’t matter.”

The officers begin to haul Tony towards the door of the interrogation room by force.

“There is nothing you can do to me that Castro has not already done,” Tony attempts to halt in his tracks, pushing his back against the cops. “I have someone who can vouch for me, you know that?”

Immediately, the cops trying to restrain and shove Tony out let go and take a step back, staring at the immigration officer in shock as if Tony’s words have rendered them completely helpless.

“What?” The cop furrows his brows. “What the hell did you just say?”

“That’s right,” a wry smirk returns over Tony’s lips. “I know somebody. She’s an American, and she live here in Miami. She know me, I know her. You don’t believe me? Fine, but you gonna believe her.”

“You said you had no family here, Tony,” the immigration officer presses.

“It’s true,” Tony confirms, shrugging his shoulders. “That no lie. She not my family, but she know me. I can prove that to you.”

“Who is she?” The immigration officer rolls his eyes, taking a seat back down at his desk. “Go on, tell us about this supposed woman you know. I call bullshit. You’ll say anything to save your own ass now. Just so you know I’m fucking serious, I’ll call her over here to see if you’re telling the truth.” He leans over the desk, lowering his voice. “And she better look me dead in the eye and say you’re her fucking best friend.”

Tony leans back in, resting his palms over the immigration officer's desk with a mocking, sweet smile on his lips. “Trust me, she will. Go ahead. She know my friend Manny too, so what are you doing? Call her already. Go on, ask her. Ask.”

“Ask who?” The cop interrupts. “Give us your American girlfriend’s name.”

“Celeste Navarro,” Tony answers. “That her name.”

The room immediately falls with silence and expressions grow extremely concerned.

One police officer standing by the door chuckles to himself, but with one death glare from the cop, he too falls quiet.

The immigration officer clears his throat, “Celeste Navarro?”

“Yeah, I bet you know her, don’t you?” Tony crosses his arms, cockiness growing in his demeanor.

“And I bet you don’t,” the cop spits back. “Do you have any idea what you’re fucking saying? How much weight the Navarro family name carries?”

“Sure,” Tony grins devilishly, “that’s why I just said it.”

“You better not be fucking with me, Montana,” the immigration officer slams his documents down on the table. “I’ll look into it—”

“You have to,” Tony pressures. “So just do it now, man. Quit wasting time. I miss her and I wanna see her again.”

“If you’re lying, Montana, you’ll be in a whole separate pile of deep shit from that alone,” the cop threatens.

“Then I’m in no shit at all,” Tony brushes them off, sitting back down comfortably in his seat and slouching before gesturing to the telephone upon the center of the cop’s desk. “Go ahead, call Celeste, man. Tell her Tony’s here and he misses her.”

#scarface #scarface 1983 #al pacino #tony montana #tony montana x reader #tony montana x reader smut #tony montana x oc #tony montana smut #scarface x reader #scarface x reader smut #blood money fic #blood money fanfic

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cositapreciosa · 3 months

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Of wolf and sheep

Alejandro Gillick x gn!reader, (the usual for the movies, nothing too graffic) 1793 words

a/n : another Alejandro Gillick fic??, I hear you say, and to that I respond, do you mean sexy Alejandro fic, eat my children

Tagging the besties-that-might-like-this as usual @narcolini @drabbles-mc @anunhealthydoseofangst @hausofmamadas

‘’ Are you here to kill me? ‘’

You haven’t turned on the lights yet, boots still on, waiting in the entryway. Silence is heavy in your apartment, but you know he is here, Alejandro, you can sense it, waiting in the dark at your expense. You are not surprised you are next, not when you know how they handle deserters, when you know too much, when they are scared you might talk. It makes your heart beat faster, especially because you know they hold Alejandro in a tight lease like a dog.

If he hears you he doesn’t answer, and so you keep moving, what else is there to do? Removing your shoes, dropping your bag. Maybe you are just tired, maybe the doormat wasn’t that crooked, maybe the fingermarks on the handle were yours, maybe-

‘’ You know I couldn’t. ‘’ Alejandro sits on your sofa, his back against the cushion, your cat purring on his lap. ‘’ Such a pretty thing like you… ‘’

It is meant as a joke, probably, but it doesn’t make you laugh, doesn’t make your insides warm up like they used to. All you feel now is cold, a deep, freezing cold that seeps inside your bones, and tense your shoulders, making bile pill up in your mouth.

‘’ Can I feed the cat? ‘’

A simple question, one that he nods to, one that he understands means you are not jumping on a hidden gun or making a b-line for the bedroom window. The cat is up as soon as he hears the pantry open, rubbing on your legs, wet nose meeting your ankles. You put more kibble in the bowl, just in case.

‘’ Wasn’t easy to find you. ‘’ He continues, ‘’ Montana is large, it was pretty hard to track. You could have moved countries. ‘’

‘’ Just to have you catch the flight log? ‘’ You move to the armchair in front of him, taking a seat, ‘’ I thought I did well, everyone makes mistakes. ‘’

You cross your legs, tucking your feet. He watches your every move, like a hawk, barely moving. Alejandro doesn’t look much different than he was a year ago, black still looks great on him, his arms are bigger, the beard slightly longer too.

Your first mistake was getting recruited by the CIA, a consultant they had told you, something up to your added value. Talent, Matt had called it later down the line, interrogation is what makes the world turn. In a way it did, they all talked, and you went home, cashed your check, just to fly back out whenever was needed. A few months later, you met Alejandro on base, near the Mexican border. You liked his eyes, how he didn’t speak much, didn’t move air, a peacefulness to his presence, weirdly.

And then one day your contract changed hands, no CIA, just Matt, and whoever held the chains. Your second mistake was to accept it, not to ask for a transfer, and join the team. You could sense the heaviness in the interrogation rooms now, notice the dangerous glint in Alejandro’s eyes. The hours would be longer, the pay better, dirtier. Sometimes, Alejandro would join you, make you leave the room halfway in, cutting the camera before closing the door behind you. Everything was more hands-on, no more slowly gnawing at it, no more psychological tactics, just raw human nature, animals in cages. Most days would end with you screaming at Matt that you would quit, that this wasn’t what you had signed up for. Oh, but it is, sweetheart, do you know what happens to you if you break this contract?

Threats, every day, all of it, but you couldn’t allow yourself to find out, not after Kate, not when you had heard words here and there of what had happened. You had gotten to know Alejandro better pretty quickly after that. Maybe you had eventually gained his respect by being so out of bounds every time.

Between the long hours, the endless plane rides, inevitably running into him at the motel bar, even when you thought there was no way something would come out of it, you kept finding him around every corner. And then you kissed him one night, or maybe he did, one drink too much, pressing on you, bringing you up against the bed. Your third mistake. It felt different to be able to touch him, how he would accept it, initiate it even. A breath of fresh air compared to those stuffy interrogation rooms.

You found comfort in Alejandro’s arms, in the dark of night, letting him wrap around you, letting the sound of his breathing ease the voices in your head, letting him trace figures on your back with his fingers until you would fall asleep.

No one knew, no one suspected a thing, and you liked it better that way, as you are sure he did too. Matt wasn’t blind, though, you could see the crease between his brows when you would get on the plane together, how he had started to comment on your outfits, your hair. You could tell he was going fishing, throwing the bait, waiting to see if the wolf would bite. Still, he was always your colleague first, a good one, never late, easy to work with, and then he was something else. Something you couldn’t name, something you couldn’t exactly pinpoint, not lovers, not friends.

Then one day you cracked, like an egg, somewhere in the middle, slicing you in half. A long time coming. I can’t do this anymore, you had told Alejandro, sobbing, huddling in the tub, under the water. You could feel the water in your lungs, the tightness of your chest, in your throat. I can’t breathe, I can’t, I- You don’t remember him turning off the water, gently pulling you out, but you remember him wrapping the towel around you, hugging you to warm you up, brushing your wet hair with his fingertips, rubbing the water of your back. You can, of course you can.

You remember telling him you were done, that when Matt would receive your resignation letter tomorrow you would be long gone. You owed him that, the truth, the why, before leaving and never seeing him again. You couldn’t bear the thought of him wondering, the pain it could cause of losing someone again. Don’t do this, you know what they think when people leave, what they will do.

What they will make me do, he meant, and here he is.

You let yourself sink into the pillows, feel the tightness in your throat, let your shoulders drop. Now that you are closer, you notice more grey in his hair, a sign that time hasn’t stopped for him either.

‘’ Now what? ‘’ You breathe. The air is thick, the room dark. What will you do now?

‘’ I’m not here for you. ‘’ His eyes soften, and he readjusts himself in his seat. ‘’ I killed Alarcón. I’m here because I’m done, it’s over. ‘’

I’m not here for you. I killed Alarcón. It is just Alejandro in your living room, plain, simple, soft Alejandro, no wolf, no sharp teeth, waiting to pounce. Him, here, after that, you think maybe he wants to talk about it. A shoulder to rest on, after all the stress from those years, the hard work, repressing everything down.

‘’ How do you feel? ‘’

‘’ I don’t know ‘’ His dark eyes are back on you. ‘’ Relieved, I guess. ‘’

You are still not over the fact that he is not here to kill you, only looking for comfort, friendship. Your fingers are still tightly wrapped around the armrest, and the fabric bristles as you let go.

‘’ You want a beer? ‘’ A peace offering.

‘’ Hmm. ‘’

You can tell Alejandro is somewhere far away now, deep in thought, going back to caress the cat as it snuggles back into him. He must be there, you think, where Alarcón was that day, he probably feels the gun in his hand, hears the bullets hit the ground. You know the way he remembers those things so clearly as if he was hovering, watching. He had told you so one night on the jet, when Matt was fast asleep on the couch, when you were seated across from him, when you had asked him if he had dreams too, as vivid, as bloodied. I don’t, he had said, and then motioning to his temple with a finger, but it’s in here, I’m always there.

You are alone in the kitchen for a minute and then you aren’t, turning around, knocking into him who is now in front of you, with so little space to spare. Alejandro takes the beer from your hand, gently discarding it on the countertop. You let his eyes run over your face, let him observe for whatever he is looking for. He opens his mouth and then closes it, swallowing words that he decides are not meant to be said.

‘’ I came here because I’m not sure what to do now. ‘’

After all of it, he means, now that his goal is achieved, that debts are paid and revenge is cold and done.

‘’ You’ll figure it out, you always do. ‘’

You don’t flinch when his palm reaches up, his thumb brushing against your cheek as he cups his hand around your face, cradling your jaw between his fingers. You let his fingers warm up your skin, letting the familiarity of it submerge you.

‘’ I meant it, ‘’ he whispers, ‘’ so pretty… ‘’

‘’ I think you need sleep. ‘’ You caution back. It feels overwhelming, having him here, so close, after so many months.

‘’ I guess. ‘’

He trails off, but he is not listening, there is a hunger in his eyes, and you remember all the nights he would look at you like this, soft, tender, something you could mistake for affection. The tip of his fingers caresses your hair, running down the side of your neck, feeling your pulse underneath his touch. He knocks out of it after a few seconds, letting his hand rest on your shoulder instead.

There is a seriousness in his eyes, an int of doubt, something different.

‘’ I know what I need. I’m going to Bogotá, and I want you to come with me. ‘’

I need you to, he means, you’ll be safe with me. You feel as if the wind has been knocked out of you, the blood pumping in between your ears is loud and heavy, you can’t hear yourself think.

I can’t, I-

You can, of course you can.

#alejandro gillick x reader #alejandro x reader #sicario imagines #sicario imagine #benicio del toro x reader

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lochlander · 3 months

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After some misadventures with the stove, Guadalupe is ready to introduce herself and her fellow future homesteaders.

Guadalupe Herrera Cruz grew up in Texas. Her father was the type to insist on Texas's independence--Señor Herrera had fought in the Texas Revolution against Mexico, a badge of glory that he kept with him long past the days when Texas traded in its independence for the support of the United States. One of the strongest principles of the leaders of that Revolution, which he passed along to Lupe and her siblings, was his opposition to slavery of any kind. When the Civil War started and Texas joined on the side of the Confederacy, Lupe knew she could no longer stay in the Lone Star State. She worked as a housemaid in Boston throughout the war, befriending a young teaching student. When Éireann told her she was bound for Montana, Lupe decided she was ready for her own fresh start.

Did you know that Filipinos were the first documented Asian travelers to North America? I didn't, until this challenge, but Maria Divina Hilaga could have told you. Her great-grandfather settled in Louisiana a decade before the Revolutionary War; her grandfather served in New Orleans during the War of 1812 (though the battle was in 1815). Divina has never seen the Philippines--she was born in Baton Rouge--but her family and her community have taught her a lot. She's fluent in English, Spanish, and Tagalog, knows enough French to tell you what for, and has passing use of Malay, Cebuano, Chavacano, and Mandarin. Divina's a knowledge sim who is always looking to learn something new; when she heard that local legend Antoinette Benoit had succeeded in her foolhardy plan to settle a parcel of land in Montana Territory, she knew the next place she wanted to learn about.

With all that his companions have been through, Alessandro Rossi's journey to Kainai is relatively underwhelming. He didn't fight in any wars, he didn't flee any conflicts, he and his brothers had their own bedrooms in a well-furnished house next to the vineyard his Sicily-born father managed in Connecticut. Maybe that's why Alessandro came West--he felt he was too comfortable. If that's the case, then he's the latest in a long line of middle class people underestimating how much work the farming life takes; an old-fashioned cottagecore influencer, if you will. He's easily been at the host house the longest--and while he's building his hope chest, he's still figuring out what he plans to do with his future. Apparently frigid winters aren't great for wine grapes.

#kainai homestead #ts2 #homestead challenge #historical sims

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3rdeyeblaque · 4 months

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On Dec 10th, we venerate Elevated Ancestor & Saint Maȟpíya Lúta aka Chief Red Cloud on the 113th anniversary of his passing 🕊 [for our Hoodoos of First Nations descent]

Red Cloud, Chief of the Oglala Sioux, was a political leader, a negotiator of peace, & fierce warrior who fought tirelessly to save his people from colonizer expansion into the midwest.

Maȟpíya Lúta was born near the forks of the Platte River, in what was at the time known as the Nebraska Territory; to his Ogala Lakota mother & Brulé Lakota leader father.

He showed great courage, strength, & leadership in battles against the Oglala's traditional competitors once he came of age; the Pawnees, Crows, Shoshones, & Utes. This ultimately earned him Chiefdom. He also successfully killed the usurper rival to his uncle's political leadership. This divided the Oglala for years to come.

Once European invaders discovered gold in Montana in the 1860s, they began dessimating habitats, sacred lands, & territories to build a road from Fort Laramie in present-day Wyoming to the gold fields. They constructed a series of forts to protect the road from interference, which became known as the Bozeman Trail. In 1865, Chief Red Cloud led the Ogala & their Cheyenne allies into a 2-year war against the colonizers along the Bozeman Trail. They were successful. The soldiers, miners, & others were forced to abandon their operation.

Being the peaceful negotiator that he was, at the end of the war, Chief Red Cloud signed the Second Treaty of Fort Laramie, which bound the U.S. to the promise that it would abandon the Bozeman Trail & return - what is now the western half of South Dakota, along with large parts of Wyoming, & Montana - to Lakota Sioux possession. In return, Red Cloud agreed to end his assault & relocate to a reservation in Nebraska known as the Red Cloud Agency.

In his older age, the great warrior became a diplomat of peace. In 1870s, Chief Red Cloud, along with several other First Nations leaders, traveled to D.C. to meet with U.S. President Grant. He later met with Grant again in 1875, when Grant has the caucasity to offer $25K to the Lakota if they would give up their rights to hunt along the Platte River in the Dakota Territory. Red Cloud, and other leaders, vehemently refused.

While Red Cloud pursued the path of peaceful negotiation & passive tactics, many other Indian leaders (including his own son) wanted to fight for their territory & ways of life. Red Cloud & President Grant sought to avoid war, but it was inevitable. After Sitting Bull's crushing defeat of a U.S. 7th Calvary in June of 1876, Whites began perpetuating aggressively negative campaigns & propaganda against First Nations in the West. Even still, Red Cloud resisted the call to war. He pursued diplomacy. In 1878, he successfully lobbied for the removal of the Indian agent at Pine Ridge Agency due to poor treatment. He returned to D.C. several more times to lobby for his people & defend the rights of all First Nations. This led him to become the most photographed Native of the 19th Century.

Red Cloud continued his work to preserve native lands & to maintain the authority of traditional First Nations leader until he was removed from political power; this may have been influenced by his shifting views in favor colonialism via Christianity & adopted the first name, "John". He later died on the Pine Ridge Agency with his wife; blind & ailing. There he rests in the cemetery so named after him.

"The Whites are the same everywhere. I see them every day. They made us many promises, more than I can remember, but they never kept but one; they promised to take our land, and they took it. " - Chief Red Cloud.

We pour libations & give him💐 today as we celebrate him for his spirit of resistance & immense peace. May we look to him for wise counsel, peaceful resolutions, & as a lesson in the influential power of colonialism.

Offering suggestions: River water, peace pipe, Lakota music, bison meat served with wild potatoes & prairie turnips

‼️Note: offering suggestions are just that & strictly for veneration purposes only. Never attempt to conjure up any spirit or entity without proper divination/Mediumship counsel.‼️

#hoodoo #hoodoos #atr #the hoodoo calendar #ancestor veneration #Elevated Ancestors #Chief Red Cloud #Red cloud #Lakota #First Nations #Plains Indians #Oglala #Oglala Lakota #Lakota Nation

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 5 months

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Blackfeet camp at night 2. Montana. Early 1900s. Glass lantern slide by Walter McClintock. Source - Yale Collection of Western Americana, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library.

[Native American History]

* * *

"The next morning, I travel the highway north to my Potts reservation home. I’m having flashes of poignancy. Everything that I am seeing—the pines, the maples, the roadside malls, insurance companies and tattoo joints, the ditch weeds and the people in the houses—is all physically balanced on this cusp between the now of things and the big, incomprehensible change to come. And yet nothing seems terribly unusual. A bit quiet, perhaps, and some sermons advertised on church billboards are more alarming than usual.

Endtime at Last! Are You Ready to Rapture? In one enormous, empty field a sign is planted that reads Future Home of the Living God. It’s just a bare field, fallow and weedy, stretching to the pale horizon. I pull over, take a photograph of the sign, and keep driving. A car passes me bearing the bumper sticker Come the Rapture Can I Have Your Car? Oh good, not everybody’s getting ready to ascend. I love driving. Thinking while I shoot along. If it is true that every particle that I can see and not see, and all that is living and perhaps unliving too, is trimming its sails and coming about and heading back to port, what does that mean? Where are we bound? Is it any different, in fact, from where we were going in the first place? Perhaps all of creation from the coddling moth to the elephant was just a grandly detailed thought that God was engrossed in elaborating upon, when suddenly God fell asleep. We are an idea, then. Maybe God has decided that we are an idea not worth thinking anymore."

Future Home of the Living God: A Novel

Louise Erdrich

[alive on all channels]

#Native American #Native American History #Blackfeet camp #Montana #early 1900s.#Turn of the Century #quotes #Louise Erdrich #Future Home of the Living God #Alive on All channels

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jawritter · 1 year

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If It’s Meant to Be Pt. 3

Summary: Bad things happen to good people, that’s just the rule of thumb. But sometimes, things happen for a reason, and that reason is so you can find the person you’re meant to be with…

Pairing: Alpha!Beau Arlen x Omega!Reader

Warnings: Alpha in Rut, Language, Angst, maybe even flangst? Cliff hanger ending!!! (Y’all gonna @ the fuck out of me lmao)

Word Count: 2K

A/N: This fic is completely unbeta’d, so all mistakes are mine! Please do not copy my work! Enjoy!

My Masterlist Series Masterlist

Y/N’s POV:

Y/N sat for a long, long time just staring at the silver Airstream trailer at the end of the driveway in the middle of the woods, one that seemed to lead to nowhere, with her heart racing so fast she could feel it in her ears.

She made sure to stay downwind of him, so that the likelihood that he’d catch her scent before she was ready to deal with him face to face was very unlikely, but it gave her time to think, and to weigh her options.

Of all the places she thought she’d go in life, of all the things she had planned to do, finding an Alpha was not one of those things. It just wasn’t in her plans. The likelihood that Beau was her Alpha was greater than him not being her Alpha, and that was terrifying to her. It meant no longer just having herself to worry about. It meant being bonded and tied to someone. Somemuch so that their wellbeing mattered, and not just her own, and that wasn’t something she’d prepared herself for mentally, or physically for that matter. It meant no longer just thinking for herself, but thinking for him too. It never really mattered to her if she didn’t have enough money to pay the phone bill, or if she didn’t have enough money to go to the doctor if she got sick. But what if Beau got sick, and she didn’t have the money to take him to the doctor? That meant more to her than herself, because whether she liked it or not, his well being really mattered to her more than her own, elsewise she would not be sitting here at the bottom of his driveway, watching the light from the TV flash in the small window, weighing all her life options that lead her to this moment in time.

She was scared.

The Omega in her, she wanted to go to the Alpha just up the hill. She wanted to make sure that he was okay. She wanted to give in, and let him make her his own. She wanted a life with a family and security that an Alpha would bring. This was what biology intended, and that’s what she needed out of her life.

Y/N wasn’t totally in agreement with her own nature. If she took him on as her Alpha, whether she consented to the claim or not, she was no longer her own person, via Montana state law, she was his property. He had the final say over everything about her. From medical decisions, or God forbid something happened, and she wasn’t able to make decisions for herself. He could have her put away. There would be nothing she could do about it, she knew that. It scared her because she did not know Beau Arlen. Sure, people say he’s this great, upstanding citizen. An officer of the law, bound to serve and protect. But what if he was all that in public, and a real dick behind closed doors, like all those horrible Alpha horror stories parents told their Omega children to make them weary of things they might get themselves into… Was it a risk she was willing to take?

Just then, a breeze blew her way, and she caught his scent for the first time through her suppressants, probably because it was so strong due to his rut. He smelt like home. A scent she hadn’t smelt in a long time. There was a comfort there in it. There was a hint of pine in it, and a strong, deep amber whiskey, with the warmth of a december campfire against the bitter cold, it made her shutter in her seat. The hint of his scent only made the pull that much stronger, and she gripped her steering wheel tightly, forcing herself to stay seated until she was absolutely sure this is what she wanted to do, because something in her deep, deep down, deeper than biology, told her once she took that step, there was no going back. Not now, not ever. She debated on this, knowing that she couldn’t even walk away now if she wanted too. But in her mind, it was HER decision, and not biology. She prided herself on being a strong, independent Omega, giving up that independence, even for someone as handsome as Beau, wasn’t going to be easy.

Finally, Y/N, still somewhat indecisive, swallowed thickly as she put the car in drive, and started to make her way down to what Beau considered his home.

Most people would not have found this little place he’d created himself much of a home, but the quiet little trailer and patio, with his string lights and chairs sitting about, it was more homie than she thought she’d find it when she finally discovered where it was. She might have even stopped to appreciate it more, had her nerves not been bouncing around in her head like a rough ping pong ball.

“You can do this Y/N,” she coached herself as she put the car in drive with her eyes glued to the closed, silver door. “He’s not a mean Alpha, he’s a sweet, caring Alpha. One you’ve even waited on a handful of times since he’s become Sheriff. It’s going to be okay.”

Even she didn’t believe herself as she opened her car door slowly, and on shaky legs stepped out of the car, and slowly made her way up to his patio and door before coming to a halt. Surely, he could smell her, and her suspicion was proven correct when a loud, deep, warning growl sounded from just on the other side of the door.

“Go away Omega,” he warned, sending a shiver down her spine at the use of her title in his voice. “You’re not safe here.”

Now, normally, that would have sent her running, screaming in the other direction. But she was nothing if she wasn’t stubborn, and fuck if he didn’t smell amazing, and the way his deep voice rolled over made her heart hammer so loud against her ribcage that she seriously thought he could probably hear it through the door. There was no way she could run now if she wanted to. The Omega had gotten his scent, and she knew what she wanted. She wanted her Alpha. Beau was her Alpha, she knew it, she just knew it.

“Alpha, please, open the door,” she pleaded and he whined as she placed her hand on the cold silver steal of the door. “Jenny said you’ve been sick for days now. I can help. Just let me in.”

“Darlin, you don’t want to be tied to a man like me, and if you come in here, I’m not gonna be able to stop. Leave, please, while I still have the composure to let you,” he tried again, and she flinched at the rejection in his voice.

He was standing closer to the door now, probably leaning on the other side, because she could swear that she felt the heat of his body coming through the thin steel.

“You’re not gonna scare me off Beau,” she stated matter of factly, rooted in her own stubbornness. She never was one to give up very easily and walk away, especially not when it took all the self convincing to even come all the way out here to see him.

“I’m not trying to scare you, I’m telling you the truth,” he growled through the door. “I’m telling you the truth. I’ve got more baggage than I can even handle on a good day. My job is dangerous, I’m more likely to die on the end of some asshole’s gun than I am to retire. I’ve got a child with another woman. I live in a goddamn tin-can that I call a trailer. I’m old enough to be your dad. I’m action packed with issues you will hopefully never see. I’ve got trust issues, and separation anxiety. I talk to fucking much. I promise you Omega, you don’t want me. No one does.”

Y/N leaned her forehead against the cold door, and closed her eyes to fight against the sudden pit that had begun to form in the pit of her stomach. His scent had changed to an almost sour, oppressively sad scent that could have been suffocating, and it told her that he believed every word that had just come out of his mouth. It made her heart ache for him. No one deserves to feel that way. No one deserves to be that alone.

“Beau,” Y/N tried again, there was something deep down inside of her that wouldn’t let her give up, she just couldn’t walk away from him. “I got to work every day at a restaurant owned by a fucking drug cartel, and you know that, I’m not stupid.” She was met with a deep, agitated growl on the other side of the door, but continued anyway.

“It’s likely that I might end up dead one day because of it, because all it will take is one pissed off supplier to walk in, and we’re all done for. I don’t care that you have a child with another woman, or have had a life besides me, that child is a part of you, and I’m going to care about her just as much as you do IF you will let me. I’ve met Emily, and she’s an amazing kid with some of your best qualities. That isn’t gonna send me screaming in another direction. Your place here is gorgeous and peaceful. Honestly, I don’t need a lot, you’re more of a home to me than a building and four walls, I know you can sense it too. I really could care less how old you are, I never liked guys my age anyways.”

Y/N side down the trailer door and sat on the step, leaning her back to it as she continued. His scent was overpowering, and honestly, her legs were shaking so hard it was getting hard for even her to stand as the first signs of those ever so familiar heat cramps started to roll in. His scent was starting to affect her more and more the longer she was there, but she didn’t care. She just wanted him to open the damn door.

“I’ve been on my own since my dad kicked me out of their house when I was sixteen years old. So, I got my share of Abandonment, and trust issues. But if we’re gonna be alone, might as well do that together, because I know you feel the pull Beau, or else you would have run me off for real. As far as you talking too much? Well, I’m so shy half the time and intimidated by things that most people don’t even notice or care about that I can’t get a world out edgewise, and it would be nice to have someone around that knows what to say when I just don’t. I promise you Alpha, you would be the best thing that’s ever walked into my life if you’d have me, whether you believed me or not.”

For a beat, neither of them made a sound. The only thing she could really hear was the sound of her own heart racing, and the crickets off in the distance, and she thought maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t going to ever open the door. That maybe he didn’t want more baggage. He’d said he’d already had enough, and maybe she was wasting her time and no matter how bad it hurt, it was either leave him here to go feral and die alone, or sit here and die right along with him…

Until she heard the latch unlock on the door….

Forever:

@as-lost-as-sams-shoe

@jensenslady79

@wittysunflower

@spnwoman

@stoneyggirl2

@unabashed-lover-of-fictional-men

@deanssliceofcherrypie

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Jensen and Dean’s Babes

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@siospins2 @herstarburststories @mimaria420

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#beau arlen #beau arlen x reader #alpha beau arlen x omega reader #alpha beau arlen #omega reader #abo #abo fanfiction #abo fanfic #x reader inserts #beau arlen x y/n #jensen ackles #jensen ackles x you #jensen ackles x reader #if it's meant to be #jawritter

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