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#and I read them all but also at this point it's just different phrasing of the same evidence every time bc y'all have gone through canon

pouletaulait · 3 days

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"Do you even intend to quit – not really" 🧐

After reading Chapter 58 I thought about this exchange between Yashiro and Kage for a bit:

At first sight this might suggest that Yashiro actually considers staying in the Yakuza. I think based on what we know and how this statement is framed though, I come to the conclusion that this suggests the exact opposite in fact; Yashiro’s reluctance to stay in the Yakuza shines through yet again.

Granted, in the above scene Yashiro does in fact say that he doesn’t really want to quit BUT what he said before that stood out to me. Confronted by Kage about how he’s still affiliated with the Yakuza he first diverts his question by saying „don’t say things as if you’re an ordinary person“; I think this points out that Yashiro doesn’t like to think of himself as that different from Kage (or „civilian“ people in general, probably), he’s sorta putting the two of them onto the same level… outwardly he appears to lower Kage’s „status“ as a law-abiding citizen to his own, but, objectively speaking they both know that Kage is not in fact a shady person (at least from what I can tell, after all, he doesn’t appear to be affiliated with any „shady“ people apart from Yashiro and Kage always complains about Yashiro dragging him into these affairs). So, what this ends up doing is lifting Yashiro’s status up (I hope I’m phrasing this in a way that makes sense). Anyway, I think what this conveys is that Yashiro still looks down on Yakuza members (he’s definitely not proud of being one) and that he’s still not fully comfortable with people viewing him as a member or even acknowledging his Yakuza-status himself. He then goes on to say that it’s not easy to leave. Now, this could suggest a) that it has been on his mind (which we already know to be true) and b) that he feels the need to justify the fact that he’s still affiliated with them. Only when Kage questions him again Yashiro finally says that he doesn’t REALLY want to leave. His way of phrasing it doesn’t sound super convincing and he probably says that to get Kageyama off his case and also because, if he is honest with himself, he still can’t see himself actually taking that step after all. I know I might be reading too much into this but it stood out to me that Yashiro didn’t just throw Kage a snarky comment like „why the hell wouldn’t I still be a member?“, in the same vein as his first comment „what kind of upstanding guy runs a shady illegal casino?“ Instead he is somewhat opening up to Kage in his own way.

Anyway, this conversation is yet another puzzle piece that plays into the theory I’ve had from the beginning, that Yashiro will leave the Yakuza eventually. From all we know so far, Yashiro has never really come to terms with being a Yakuza and has generally a very negative opinion of them. The topic of Yashiro struggling to accept this role and the re-occurring questioning of what makes a Yakuza, who’s a good Yakuza, who’s not fit to be one, etc. strongly suggests to me that this is an integral part of this story as a whole and is most probably gonna be relevant to the conclusion of the story. It’s made clear that Yashiro never wanted to be Yakuza in the first place and he’s still reluctant, like… some 20 long years later 😯. I don't want to include too many quotes here because there are far too many instances that could be mentioned and this post is already getting too loooong, as you'll see 🫣, but there are some I'd like to mention. First I'd like to point to one quote from Yashiro that leads me to believe that to him being a Yakuza is not in fact his real identity but rather a role he is playing. He says to Ryuuzaki in Chapter 5:

He sees himself more as an actor rather than a real Yakuza and interestingly enough, that’s what he had aspired to become as a teenager: (aspire might be too strong of a word here but I think in a way he really did):

Now, I know that I'm arguing that Yashiro is talking about himself here ,even though, he's not just referring to himself in his comment to Ryuuzaki but the fact that he talks about Yakuza being just like actors in general and then further generalizing his statement to „people spend their lives acting“ still plays nicely into Yashiro's perception of his own life which will become relevant in a bit *bear with me*; it suggests that he thinks that people are not really free to be themselves because they have to play their role which emphasizes his passive approach to life in general „I have lived my life accepting it all“ (I reference this quote further down).

Every time Misumi tries to drag him in deeper, Yashiro is acting completely reluctant. We first saw this in the very beginning of the story when Misumi and Yashiro talk about the succession and Misumi says to Yashiro „be mine once more“ (Yashiro doesn’t want to give him an answer), when we learn through Hirata’s secret recordings about the details of another conversation between Misumi and Yashiro in Chapter 14 (Yashiro still doesn’t give a straight answer) and we see it again in Chapter 36 when Misumi basically says to Yashiro „don’t forget what you are“ after the time-skip (Yashiro distracts Misumi from the conversation by provoking him). He doesn't agree to anything but he never outright refuses either (he's completely passive).

His reluctance is further demonstrated by the fact that after the time-skip Yashiro’s not really a full member anymore. He used what happened after Hirata’s attack on him to the best of his abilities in a way to distance himself from the group but he couldn’t take the last step. But this clearly points to Yashiro wanting to get out for good.

I think it’s noteworthy that the only time he completely rejects the idea of quitting (as far as I remember), is in Chapter 27 when he speaks to Ryuuzaki in the back of the police car:

This stands out to me because he says this after he’d made up his mind that he was gonna die. So why keep fighting it at this point? (I’m so glad our cute boy is not in such a dark place anymore 😭)

Yashiro has also tried to keep Doumeki out of this world because he cares so much about him. Unfortunately, he wasn’t successful but the statement Yashiro made about the Yakuza in Chapter 22 becomes relevant again, now that Doumeki got a back tattoo (which as we all know made Yashiro furious beyond belief). Yashiro said something along the lines of „do you have any idea how many upright citizens walk around out there with full body tattoos? And how many Yakuza wear normal business suits?“( I hope this translation is somewhat accurate . I had to take it from the official German translation which is not the most exact at times but the only English translation I could find, didn’t seem to be correct 😅) Basically he’s saying, it’s never too late to quit. This was some unfortunate foreshadowing if you ask me but it gives me hope that Doumeki’s status as a full-fledged member and him getting a tattoo won’t prevent them from leaving the Yakuza world behind.

I just cannot imagine Yoneda-sensei making this aspect such an integral part of Yashiro’s character and bringing this topic up again and again if it isn’t gonna be relevant in the end… I know it might be a red herring but I really doubt it at this point. I read the manga as a story of a traumatized survivor of SA finding happiness in life (yes, I’m very hopeful that both Doumeki and Yashiro are gonna make it out alive because anything else would be too cruel🫣). For Yashiro the Yakuza is a hindrance to his freedom and happiness because it’s not who he truly is as a person and as long as he stays he’s going to be under Misumi’s control and Misumi is gonna try to use him, just like his stepfather and all the other men who SAed him when he was a teenager used him. In a way he’s still this powerless child getting used by others. He was an easy target for Misumi because Yashiro was „completely indifferent about himself“ as Misumi put it. This indifference stems from the abuse he suffered. When Yashiro got shot he remembered the SA and he says: „I have lived my life accepting it all. I’ve felt no sorrow. I’ve blamed no one. My life can’t be said to be anyone else’s fault.“ This expresses exactly what Misumi saw in Yashiro: He’s so broken that he doesn't even feel anger, he is beyond caring about himself, his well-being, his future. Putting it differently; he doesn’t love himself and he doesn’t think that he deserves love or a different, better life. This is why he doesn’t really put up a fight against this fate. He’s still passively accepting everything.

To sum this up, it’s mainly his trauma that prevents him from quitting, just like it keeps him from being able to accept Doumeki’s love. Since I believe this story is about Yashiro overcoming his trauma and finding happiness, I think it would only be fitting that once he’ll be able to accept that he is deserving of love, hope and happiness, he’d finally find the courage to take control of his own fate and break away from the path that he felt forced to follow.

And yes, I'm aware that quitting won't be that easy because of Misumi's obsession over Yashiro BUT even though I don't like Misumi too much and I think he's a creep, he's in his own way quite lenient when it comes to Yashiro, I have to give him that. So, I have high hopes that he actually meant what he said about "caring about Yashiro as a person" and will let him leave without too much trouble.

Of course we don’t know much about Doumeki’s plans for his future but if Yashiro and him end up together (which is what I’m hoping for) he’ll most likely go along with Yashiro’s wishes, I guess 😉 And I know, sweet Nanahara would be disappointed but I bet Yashiro and Doumeki would still find a way to adopt their big baby boy into their little family 😜

maybe they’re gonna open up a beach bar in Hawai’i and Nanahara would flirt with the guests and give away all the drinks for free 🤣

On a more serious note, I hope I didn’t get any of the quotes completely wrong. Nuances tend to get lost in translation so it’s kinda "risky" to base a theory like this solely on translations but most of it comes down to my personal interpretation of the story anyways. And I’m sorry if most of this seemed too obvious but I got the impression that I seem to feel more strongly about the fact that Yashiro might gonna leave his days as a Yakuza behind than others in the fandom and I felt the need to present my case 😉

If you actually made it through my ramblings to down here, you deserve some 🍪🍪🍪 😘

#saezuru chapter 58 #saezuru #saezuru tori wa habatakanai #twittering birds never fly #saezuru analysis #spread your wings and fly away yashiro #fly away far away #spread your little wings and fly away far away #now I can't get that song out of my head #spare me mr mercury #don't stop me now I'm having such a good time I'm having a ball

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3hks · 4 months

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How to Get Better at Writing Without Actually Writing

Are you looking to improve your writing without needing to write? I'll admit, I am definitely that kind of person--I have the hardest time even finding something interesting to write--despite that, I have noticed that my writing has vastly improved over the past year or two when it was hardly a hobby, and here's how I did it!

ANALYZE DIFFERENT WORKS

Yes yes, everyone tells you to READ, READ, and READ, even I will agree. However, unlike what some people tell you, you don't actually have to read all those classics like Heart of Darkness or The Hobbit. Of course, those books are very beneficial, but if you find no interest in those types of books (like me), then don't read them!

If you prefer reading casual stories posted by online authors, whether it be a fanfiction or their own, original story, it still qualifies as reading! As long as you are able to find a work that you particularly enjoy, that's all you need!

When reading, the key to improving at writing is to always study the story. Take a moment to look at certain words or phrases that stick out to you. How does the author use them? What do they mean? Keep track of the characters' development and how it affects them. Additionally, note things like powerful scenes, dialogue, and more to have an idea of how you can create something just as impactful. For example, if a text made you cry, think about how and why you reacted like that. This can actually help you re-create events that hold the same effectiveness, if not more!

To add on, if you really dislike reading just that much, then you can always analyze things like shows, movies, etc. However, this will prove to be less efficient because you often don't get access to the text behind the shows. Still, it's a good way to study the plot, characters, character developments, dialogue, and relationships!

2. PROOFREADING

No, I'm not saying that you should be an editor; this actually ties back to my first tip. Remember how I said that if you don't want to read classics, then don't? Well, this is because forcing yourself to read them is completely unnecessary (unless you like them or want to write like the author, of course). As a matter of fact, reading poorly written stories can be very helpful for improvement!

When we read books or novels that have obvious grammar errors, repetitive words, and choppy sentences, we will realize these mistakes and point them out to ourselves. Being able to scout out faults means that we are able to learn from them and grow! Noticing these things will also help prevent you from making the same or similar mistakes!

3. STUDY TIPS ONLINE

I used to go search up websites on Google whenever I wanted help with a certain topic. Of course, not all of the sites are reliable and/or helpful, but some point out good ideas that a couple of us just need! This can be especially useful regarding the things that we are unfamiliar with when writing. They can offer a base foundation and tips on how to start and finish!

They can also serve as a great inspiration for fresh ideas and new perspectives!

Yes, these three tips are pretty simple; however, I have found that they work very well for me! People vary from person-to-person, so it can't be guaranteed the same effect, but this is the best I got! HAPPY VALENTINES DAY! <3

Happy writing~

3hks :)

#writing #writeblr #writerscommunity #writing tips #creative writing #writing advice #improve at writing #improve at writing without writing #writers on tumblr #writer tips #get better at writing #get better at writing without writing

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improbable-outset · 4 months

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📄 𝐋𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐡 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤

Miguel O’Hara x Fem!Reader

𝐀𝐎3 | 𝐌𝐲 𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬 | 𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐒𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐇𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.2k

𝐓𝐖 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐖: Use of syringe and needles in the beginning, Wife!Reader, SMUT, Miguel rutting, heavy mentions of your pheromones, olphactophilia, Lab sex, overstimulation, breeding kink. You’re driving him nuts…all puns intended lol

𝐀/𝐍: I was planning for this to be in the same universe as For Biology. But it can be read by itself too. Also lmk if the Spanish phrases need fixing 🥹🥹

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You catch Miguel doing something he shouldn’t while dropping off his lunch. Now you both have to face the consequences.

The lab was bathed in a sterile glow of fluorescent lights as Miguel loaded the syringe gun with a shimmering liquid— Rapture.

The fluid inside the vial danced with an underlying glow as he positioned the syringe over his forearm with practiced precision.

The needle neared his skin and with one steady breath, he pushed it in. The liquid filled his bloodstream and a rush of power coursed through his veins.

Once the vial was bottomed out, he withdrew the syringe from his arm. The lab's stagnant atmosphere couldn’t overshadow the electric charge that was now enveloping him.

Miguel didn’t register the hiss of the lab doors open until your voice tore through the silence in the room. “Is that the second shot you’re taking?!” Your voice demanded clarity and answers from him.

Miguel didn’t turn to look at you, instead he silently put the empty syringe gun on the desk in front of him.

He could rapidly feel the effect of the Rapture in his bloodstream— the tingling sensation through his nerves and the blood rushing in his ears.

“What if I said it wasn’t,” he replied, though he knew where this would go.

“No me mientas, Miguel,” you resorted back. Miguel knew there was no point in lying to you when you saw him take the first Rupture shot this morning.

Despite not having any spider senses, he could smell your scent getting stronger as you stepped closer towards him with a heavy stride.

The Rapture was used to enhance his powers, that included his senses and strength.

But it was also a double-edged sword with its side effects. A gamble with his own equilibrium.

Your pheromones spiked his heart rate and the familiar rush of heat reached his cock. But he quickly dismissed it before it clouded his senses.

Now was not the time.

“Lyla, why didn’t you tell me she was coming?” He called out before Lyla’s marigold hologram appeared on his shoulder.

“She wanted to surprise you,” Lyla shrugged before quickly disappearing.

He craned his neck to see you hold out a paper bag in front of you. “And you forgot your lunch. But I think I came here just in time.”

You gestured at the empty syringe gun. He let out an exasperated sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose.

He wasn’t mad.

He could never be mad at you for visiting while he was on the clock— especially if you were delivering your homemade food. He just hated the predicament he was in right now.

It was obvious you weren’t going to drop the subject of his second Repture shot. You’ve been married to him long enough to know the side effects if things weren’t regulated properly.

Though, part of him was grateful that you understood his situation and that he could be this vulnerable with you.

You placed the paper bag on his desk before you started searching frantically through the lab.

“Lyla, where are the neutralisers? He always puts it in a different place whenever I come here and I could never find them,” you huffed in annoyance as you tried to locate the vials. The neutralisers helped to maintain his hormones and any side effects he could have from the Rapture.

The rest of the conversation with you and Lyla became a blur. As you bent over to reach the lower cabinets, Miguel’s eyes were glued on you— a captivating figure— and the dress you were wearing.

He had seen you wear that specific dress before but for some reason he couldn’t stop himself from noticing the small details and how the dress fitted you.

The skirt of the dress gave you a more feminine appearance. The balloon sleeve gave a visual flair to the whole outfit.

But he couldn’t tear his eyes off of the way it accentuated your hips and your curves.

It could be the side effects of the Rapture that was making him see things that he hadn’t noticed before, but now the neutraliser was the last thing on his mind.

He craved nothing more than to hike up your dress with his hands and reach the delicate part of you between your legs.

No!

Right now really wasn’t a good time for you to be here.

No matter how much he pushed those thoughts away, he could still feel himself lose his senses dangerously fast.

Suddenly, the night you confessed that you wanted to have a baby was reeling in his mind relentlessly— all he could focus on now was to breed you. And the way the dress was lifting up to reveal more of your legs as you bent over was only adding to his torment.

“Found them!” You exclaimed. After searching most of the lab cabinets, you found the vials with the neutralisers.

As Miguel stepped closer to approach you, he saw you held one of the vials out in your hand.

He seized your wrist and forced you up from the floor so you looked up at him.

“Necesitas irte,” The statement was punctured with authority, devoid of any room for negotiation.

Even if you were fully aware about the effects of his Rapture, he still couldn’t have you here. Not when he was in such a compromising position right now.

You frowned while still holding the vial in your grasp.

“I’m not leaving until I see you take the neutraliser,” Of course you were unfazed by his hard expression. You could easily break his assertive mask, but right now was a terrible time for your stubbornness.

“Amor…” It took every fiber of him to make himself sound as convincing as possible. Yet, he could still feel himself crack.

He could feel your pulse throbbing under his fingertips, even after he loosened his grip around your wrist. A vital sign of his wife’s consciousness and presence.

He imagined what it would be like having another heartbeat growing inside you, being nurtured and carried by you. He groaned at the mere thought.

“You…you threw away your birth control pills, right?” He already knew the answer but he had to be sure. He needed to hear it from you. Your scent was getting stronger by the second and his breathing quickened.

Your face scrunched in confusion by his question, completely oblivious to where the conversation was going. “Yes. What does that have to do with anything?”

Your simple answer made his dick twitch desperately under the digital suit. If he kept his sex drive at bay any longer, he will combust. He needed to be inside you.

He decided he wasn’t going to hold back his desires anymore. He was going to have his way with his wife.

“Let me breed you…please,” His voice was low in an attempt to conceal his faltering demeanor, but he knew you could easily see his weakness right through him.

“Mig…what…” the words lodged in your throat before he saw the change in your expression.

You quickly picked up on what was going on and realised that he was rutting. But you probably didn’t anticipate it to happen so quickly, otherwise you wouldn’t still be here.

He rolled his hips once against your lower body so you could feel his hard on, earning a gasp from you. He was deliberately rubbing against your clit through the skirt of the dress.

You still haven’t granted him permission, but he could see the way his request was churning in your mind. He pressed his forehead on yours and you looked up at him. He couldn’t read your expression but he could smell your pheromones and how much this was turning you on right now.

“Por favor,” he whispered before he kissed your cheek. He didn’t expect himself to sound so needy.

“Yeah…alright,” you answered. He sighed in relief, a fraction of his tension gone just from your permission alone.

He scooped you up before quickly placing you on one of the benches. His hands lifted the hem of your dress up, revealing more of your bare legs.

He noticed from his peripheral vision the glass vial slipped from your grasp and rolled off the bench before it shattered on the floor. But he paid no mind to it.

His hands halted once he reached your rear before pulling down your panties. He moaned when he saw the fabric candy wet from your arousal, emitting more of your scent.

Your pheromones were overpowering him now and it was driving him insane. You were soaked.

He wondered how long your clit had been throbbing for, how long you’ve been aroused by this. Perhaps you purposely wore a dress with only your panties underneath.

Once the panties were off, he got you to lean back further until your back was pressed against the bench. He lifted your dress higher to reveal your pussy. You were all slick and ready for him.

With a few taps on his watch, his digital suit vanished, leaving him with only his lab coat. His dick was throbbing pathetically with precum leaking from the tip.

He closed the gap between the two of you until his tip pressed against your opening and his precum mixed with your wetness.

He pushed himself in, feeling the resistance from your tight walls, until he was balls deep. Your mouth hung open as you were taking in everything from him.

The warmth from your pussy that was now engulfing his cock felt like a lifeline. He quickly kissed your temple because he knew we weren't going to hold back now.

Before you could lean into his touch, he started ramming himself into your poor cunt. Your eyes shot up in shock before you grabbed onto his biceps for support.

His pace was relentless and driven by the thought of filling you with his cum until they would finally stick. Your moans and the wet sounds filled his ears as he kept plunging himself into you.

You walls were squeezing his dick in all the right places and he couldn’t bring himself to slow down.

Each slap of his hips rocked your body on the bench further, threatening to slip away. But he held a tight grip on your waist so you would stay in place.

“I’ll get you knocked up, so everyone will know…You’re. With. Me.” He ended the last few syllables with a snap of his hips against your rear, adding emphasis and weight to his words.

You let out a breathy laugh between each thrust, amused by his statement.

“Miguel, I think the wedding bands give it away— ohmygod-” your sentence was cut off by a sudden hard thrust from his dick.

“That’s not enough and you know it, I need you full with my babies.” His words came out as a growl and his pace didn’t falter a fraction.

A few locks of his hair drooped from his head as he kept moving, sticking to the film of sweat that formed on his forehead.

He felt the contractions of your walls and he knew your orgasm was just a few thrusts away. You fists gripped the sleeves on his lab coat as you moaned loudly. He watched as your eyes squeezed shut and your climax came crashing down with each stroke from his dick.

He stopped momentarily to move your legs that was wrapped around his waist and rested them on his shoulders. He had better leverage and could reach deeper inside you.

The change in position had you crying out helplessly as he pressed himself into you more. You just reached your peak and you were still riding out your high but he didn’t give you a chance to recollect yourself.

“Miguel-!”

You were overstimulated in bliss as his dick was hitting the bundle of nerves that he knew would drive you over the edge. You could only utter fragments of his name along with your low moans.

Miguel watched with pride as his wife was falling apart under him.

“That’s it, clench onto me. Just like that.”

He could’ve sworn this was the best thing he had experienced with you and he fucked you many times before.

Perhaps the Rapture made him twice as sensitive to all the pleasure he was receiving and more aware of how you were snug around him.

His pace was becoming sloppy and staggered and he could just about feel the edge of his orgasm. Just a little longer of him being soaked in your cunt that always fit to his size perfectly.

His hips flinched into yours one last time before his cum was pouring into the depths of your womb in hopes that you will get pregnant.

Bred by him until it stained you.

Your legs were limp and slipped off of his shoulders. He groaned at the sheer force of his own climax.

He thrusted himself a few more times while more cum was spilling from him. He eventually came to a halt with his dick still half way inside you.

Your breathing was still erratic but you still managed to lift your head up to see where your bodies were meshed together.

He caught a flicker of surprise in your face as you noticed the mess before you under your dress. You gazed back up at him again.

“So…are you satisfied? Do you want me to give the neutralisers now?” you managed to huffed out, still breathless.

Miguel responded by pushing the remaining half of his dick back into your swollen cunt with a wet slap. You let out a broken moan in shock.

“Not yet…”

His lips curled up slightly as he started to plunge himself into you again…

The neutraliser forgotten.

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: @thealleydog @lazyjellyfish300 @club-danger-zone @farrowroyale @idk1341 @tinauh14 @mybvalentine @migueloharastruelove @ghost-lantern @ginanet @miguels-aranita @francesca-the-1st @monarchberrysblog @ruby-rubes26 @loosecan @oharasfilipinawife @miguelzslvtz @pxtched @hwasoup @the-pan-liquid @homewreckingwreck

I don’t think this one ate :( …I suck at writing dialogues. But I’m so fly when it comes to writing inner conflicts, like with Miguel’s chain of thoughts in this story, and body language. That’s why there isn’t a lot of dialogues here. Maybe because I’m an overthinker and it’s easy to write a lot when it comes to what the character is thinking lol

Idk what it is I’m starting to fucking hate using tumblr now, it just feels a little miserable being here. That’s why AO3 >>> literally anything else

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janmisali · 1 year

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what do you think of tone indicators in general?

unfortunately my thoughts on tone indicators are somewhat nuanced. fortunately, this is tumblr not twitter, so I can just write out my full thoughts in one post and be as verbose about it as feels necessary.

speaking as an autistic person (and I know there are other autistic people who don't hold this same view, this is just my perspective), I think as an accessibility tool, the extended set tone indicators in current popular use is fundamentally misguided.

the oldest ones, /s for sarcasm and /j for jokes, make sense. their notation isn't the most intuitive thing ("does /s mean sarcastic or serious?") but it's not too difficult to explain what they mean. I've had to spend my whole life learning by brute force what different tones of voice mean and what they change about how I'm supposed to interpret something, so I already know what "read this in a sarcastic voice" and "read this as a joke" are supposed to mean. my existing skills can be translated into the new form without too much effort.

the same thing applies to emoji and emoticons. I know what facial expressions mean, because I had to learn what they mean. figuring out if :) is sincere or not from context is a skill I've already needed to develop. it doesn't come naturally for me, but it's something I already at least somewhat know how to do.

most of the tone indicators in current use uh. don't work like this.

tone indicators like /ref or /nbh don't correspond to specific tones of voice. I don't have a "I'm making a reference" voice or a "I'm not talking about a person who's here" voice that I can picture the sentence being read in. these do not indicate tones, they're purely disambiguators. they clarify what something means without necessarily changing how it would be read out loud.

and on paper, that's fine, right? like, it's theoretically a good thing to take an otherwise ambiguous statement and add something to it that clarifies what you meant by it. the problem is that these non-tone tone indicators are not even remotely self-explanatory. it's up to me, the person who is being clarified to, to know what all these acronyms are supposed to mean, and how they change the way I'm supposed to interpret what something means.

it's, quite literally, a newly-invented second set of social cues that I'm expected to learn separately from the set that I've already spent my whole life figuring out, and it works completely differently.

sure, these rules are (in principle) less arbitrary than the rules of facial expressions and tones of voice and how long you're supposed to wait before it's your turn to speak, but they're also fully artificial and recently invented, which means they're currently in a constant state of flux. tone indicators go in and out of fashion all the time, and the "comprehensive lists" are never helpful.

in theory, I appreciate the idea of people going out of their way to clarify what they mean by potentially ambiguous things they post online. if it worked, that would be a really nice thing to do.

however, sometimes I imagine what the internet would be like without them. what if instead of using /s, the expectation was that if you're sarcastic online there's no guarantee that strangers reading your post will know what you meant? what if instead of inventing more and more acronyms to cover every possible potentially confusing situation, we just... expected one another to speak less ambiguously in the first place?

so, I on paper like the idea of tone indicators. I think it's good that some people are trying to be considerate by being extra clear about what they mean by things. but if tone indicators didn't exist, and people who wanted to be considerate in this way instead just made a point of phrasing things more clearly to begin with, I think that would be vastly preferable to even the most well-implemented tone indicator system.

also /pos sucks because there's something deeply and profoundly wrong for an abbreviation that means "I don't mean this as an insult, don't worry" to be spelled the same way as an acronym that's an insult

#tone indicators #jan misali

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ask-the-prose · 11 months

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Do Your Research

This phrase is regularly thrown around writeblr and for good reason. It's important to research what you are writing about to know what to include, what can be fudged, and how to depict whatever you're writing. I see "do your research" most thrown around by well-meaning and highly traditionally educated writers. It's solid advice, after all!

But how do you research?

For those writers who don't already have the research skills necessary to write something comfortably already downloaded into your brain, I put this guide together for you.

Where do I even start?

It's a daunting task, research. But the best place to start is with the most basic, stupidest question you can think of. I'm going to talk about something that I already know a lot about: fighting.

When researching fight scenes, a great way to start is to look up what different weapons are. There are tons out there! So ask the stupid questions. What is a sword? What is a gun? How heavy are they?

Google and Wikipedia can help you a lot with these basic-level questions. They aren't great sources for academic articles, but remember, this is fiction. It doesn't need to be perfect, and it doesn't need to be 100% accurate if you don't want it to be. But knowing what is true to life will help you write well. Just like knowing the rules of writing will help you break them.

You may find in your basic research sweep that you have a lot more specific questions. Write them all down. It doesn't matter if they seem obvious. Write them down because they will be useful later.

How To Use Wikipedia Correctly

Wikipedia is a testament to cooperative human knowledge. It's also easy to edit by anonymous users, which means there is a lot of room for inaccuracies and misleading information. Wikipedia is usually pretty good about flagging when a source is needed or when misleading language is obvious, but Wikipedia itself isn't always the most accurate or in-depth source.

Wikipedia is, however, an excellent collection of sources. When I'm researching a subject that I know nothing about, say Norse mythology, a good starting point is the Wikipedia page for Odin. You'll get a little background on Odin's name and Germanic roots, a little backstory on some of the stories, where they appear, and how they are told.

When you read one of the sentences, and it sparks a new question, write the question down, and then click on the superscript number. This will take you directly to the linked source for the stated fact. Click through to that source. Now you have the source where the claim was made. This source may not be a primary source, but a secondary source can still lead you to new discoveries and details that will help you.

By "source-hopping," you can find your way across the internet to different pieces of information more reliably. This information may repeat itself, but you will also find new sources and new avenues of information that can be just as useful.

You mean I don't need a library?

Use your library. Libraries in many parts of the US are free to join, and they have a wealth of information that can be easily downloaded online or accessed via hardcopy books.

You don't, however, need to read every source in the library for any given topic, and you certainly don't need to read the whole book. Academic books are different from fiction. Often their chapters are divided by topic and concept and not by chronological events like a history textbook.

For example, one of my favorite academic books about legislative policy and how policy is passed in the US, by John Kingdon, discusses multiple concepts. These concepts build off one another, but ultimately if you want to know about one specific concept, you can skip to that chapter. This is common in sociological academic books as well.

Going off of my Norse Mythology example in the last section, a book detailing the Norse deities and the stories connected to them will include chapters on each member of the major pantheon. But if I only care about Odin, I can focus on just the chapters about Odin.

Academic Articles and How To Read Them

I know you all know how to read. But learning how to read academic articles and books is a skill unto itself. It's one I didn't quite fully grasp until grad school. Learn to skim. When looking at articles published in journals that include original research, they tend to follow a set structure, and the order in which you read them is not obvious. At all.

Start with the abstract. This is a summary of the paper that will include, in about half a page to a page, the research question, hypothesis, methods/analysis, and conclusions. This abstract will help you determine if the answer to your question is even in this article. Are they asking the right question?

Next, read the research question and hypothesis. The hypothesis will include details about the theory and why the researcher thinks what they think. The literature review will go into much more depth about theories, what other people have done and said, and how that ties into the research of the present article. You don't need to read that just yet.

Skim the methods and analysis section. Look at every data table and graph included and try to find patterns yourself. You don't need to read every word of this section, especially if you don't understand a lot of the words and jargon used. Some key points to consider are: qualitative vs. quantitative data, sample size, confounding factors, and results.

(Some definitions for those of you who are unfamiliar with these terms. Qualitative data is data that cannot be quantified into a number. These are usually stories and anecdotes. Quantitative data is data that can be transferred into a numerical representation. You can't graph qualitative data (directly), but you can graph quantitative data. Sample size is the number of people or things counted (n when used in academic articles). Your sample size can indicate how generalizable your conclusions are. So pay attention. Did the author interview 300 subjects? Or 30? There will be a difference. A confounding factor is a factor that may affect the working theory. An example of a theory would be "increasing LGBTQ resources in a neighborhood would decrease LGBTQ hate crimes in that area." A confounding factor would be "increased reporting of hate crimes in the area." The theory, including the confounding factor, would look like "increasing LGBTQ resources in a neighborhood would increase the reporting of hate crimes in the area, which increases the number of hate crimes measured in that area." The confounding factor changes the outcome because it is a factor not considered in the original theory. When looking at research, see if you can think of anything that may change the theory based on how that factor interacts with the broader concept. Finally, the results are different from the conclusions. The results tell you what the methods spit out. Analysis tells you what the results say, and conclusions tell you what generalizations can be made based on the analysis.)

Next, read the conclusion section. This section will tell you what general conclusions can be made from the information found in the paper. This will tell you what the author found in their research.

Finally, once you've done all that, go back to the literature review section. You don't have to read it necessarily, but reading it will give you an idea of what is in each sourced paper. Take note of the authors and papers sourced in the literature review and repeat the process on those papers. You will get a wide variety of expert opinions on whatever concept or niche you're researching.

Starting to notice a pattern?

My research methods may not necessarily work for everybody, but they are pretty standard practice. You may notice that throughout this guide, I've told you to "source-hop" or follow the sources cited in whatever source you find first. This is incredibly important. You need to know who people are citing when they make claims.

This guide focused on secondary sources for most of the guide. Primary sources are slightly different. Primary sources require understanding the person who created the source, who they were, and their motivations. You also may need to do a little digging into what certain words or phrases meant at the time it was written based on what you are researching. The Prose Edda, for example, is a telling of the Norse mythology stories written by an Icelandic historian in the 13th century. If you do not speak the language spoken in Iceland in 1232, you probably won't be able to read anything close to the original document. In fact, the document was lost for about 300 years. Now there are translations, and those translations are as close to the primary source you can get on Norse Mythology. But even then, you are reading through several veils of translation. Take these things into account when analyzing primary documents.

Research Takes Practice

You won't get everything you need to know immediately. And researching subjects you have no background knowledge of can be daunting, confusing, and frustrating. It takes practice. I learned how to research through higher formal education. But you don't need a degree to write, so why should you need a degree to collect information? I genuinely hope this guide helps others peel away some of the confusion and frustration so they can collect knowledge as voraciously as I do.

– Indy

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fairyhaos · 8 months

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How To Fucking Write: a guide by fairyhaos

[masterlist]

this post details:

DIALOGUING INTERESTINGLY

hi gays and gals! the first post on starting and pacing a story did really well, so "how to fucking write" is back, with yet more advice and tips for everyone ^^ please feel free to let me know if there's something you want me talk about, because i'll be more than willing to see if i can help. also a reminder that i have a taglist for this series as well, and please reblog if you find this helpful :)

# - HOW TO DIALOGUE.

.. bullet point one : grammar

okay guys, as a native english speaker, i'll be the first to tell you that this language fucking sucks in terms of its grammar, but when it comes to dialogue, understanding how it works even to some extent will help you branch out and vary the way you write dialogue, which makes it so much more interesting.

with dialogue tags (said, asked, etc) if the punctuation mark in the dialogue is not a ! or ? then it should be a comma.

example : [junhui + castle]

as you can see in the first line, a comma is used rather than a full stop, because the sentence hasn't been finished yet. there's a dialogue tag, ('you correct'), that comes after it. and since the pronoun 'you' isn't a proper noun (i.e. a name) then it shouldn't be capitalised, because, again, the sentence hasn't been finished.

with action tags however, (he smiled, he stood up, etc) then it should be a full stop.

example : [i just made one up bc i don't use this a lot lmao]

"I disagree." He stood up, and walked over to close the door. "This isn't safe. You shouldn't go alone."

and now, since there is a full stop, it indicates that the speech is a sentence all by itself. that means the next word ('He') ought to be capitalised.

but the key part when grammar-ing dialogue in order to make it interesting depends on where you put the action and grammar tags.

if you constantly have lines that are just:

"dialogue," he said.

"dialogue," she said.

"dialogue but a bit longer," he said.

... then it can get repetitive, and annoying. by varying your dialogue structure, it can create more interesting dialogue.

example : [minghao + password]

there's a variety of dialogue and action tags being used with each line of dialogue, preventing everything from sounding too repetitive.

the first line starts with a normal sentence, and an action tag. the second is a standalone line of dialogue with no tags. the second has the action tag in the middle of the dialogue. and the last has a dialogue tag in the middle of the dialogue.

by varying the ways in which you write your dialogue, it makes everything a lot more interesting.

.. bullet point two : verbs and adverbs

the easiest way to make dialogue interesting, though, is to use fancy words.

this can be by replacing 'said' with a range of other dialogue tags (see this really comprehensive list for a whole variety of different words), but i'd advise against overusing these. 'said' is your friend! it's the invisible dialogue tag, helps your reader read through your dialogue in comfort, but of course, if you wanna add a nuanced way of describing the dialogue, then replacing 'said' is the easiest way to make your dialogue interesting.

but don't overuse these. for me, i'd focus on action tags and adverbs.

use interesting adverbs that add description to how a character is saying something can go miles. and using action tags that break through what could have been a long section of characters just talking? it helps so much.

i'd recommend having onelook thesaurus open as you write. you don't have to type in just words: phrases, the overall vibes of the word you're thinking of, all of that can be typed into the thesaurus and they'll provide you with pretty good results each time.

it also really helps when you've forgotten a word and can only remember vague bits of what the word should feel like.

.. bullet point three : voices

the best way, however, is ultimately to create a character. write a personality for them, bring them to life, think about the way in which they would talk and then put that down onto paper.

it's difficult, perhaps the most difficult to do, because it's also so tricky to advise someone on how to do this. it's all about the character you want to create, the personality you envision for them, and the only person who can fully write that is you.

however, i would find a few 'ticks' of theirs and use them as indicators in your writing.

for example, in my seoksoo long fic, seokmin's tick is that he always "chirps" what he's saying. and beams. a lot. this identifies his character, makes him unique(ish), and establishes his personality and differs him to the other characters.

but ultimately, it comes down to word choices, when you're writing a character voice.

like, your character describing something with elegant, floral language vs them going "this is so pretty". or perhaps making them stumble over their words when they're panicked vs them simply just going silent when they're flustered.

it's about being specific. about making choices with your words that would have english teachers analyse and unpick your writing, hundreds of years later.

(even if it's fanfic. especially if it's fanfic: because who knows how many fans may join your fandom in the next few years?)

... and that's it ! if anyone has anything else they want advice on (how to structure, how to write dialogue, how to plan etc) then just shoot me an ask, because i'd love to help however i can :)

tagging (comment/send ask to be added!): @selenicives @stqrrgirle @weird-bookworm @eternalgyu @blue-jisungs (tough luck guys btw but youre gonna be tagged in this entire series ehehehe)

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littlemissayu · 6 months

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“YOU SPOKE!!” – Their kids first words (Night Raven 3rd Years-Malleus & Lilia)

A/n: Yes I ‘m well aware I haven’t updated/posted my other oc request from my event, even though it ended over a month ago BUT it’s getting done and I will try to finish as fast as I can. I ‘m just posting this because it’s been delayed forever and I need something to get my writing juices going.

If you see me mention gender it’s based off of my Twst boys as Parents series that you can find here!!

Warnings: FEM! Reader, pregnancy,domestic fluff, babies(ofc), google translate translations, I’m only doing their first kids/first set of kids

pairing(s):3rd Years x fem!Reader(separate/romantic)

Yummy/Delicious- Hears you say it everytime Trey makes a really good baked treat(aka all the time). Now I know delicious is probably a hard word for a baby to say which is why I also have ‘yummy’. They say it for the first time after Trey gives them a small part of a macaroon. You could just see how Trey’s eyes lit up when he heard his little one speak for the first time!!

Smile!!/Cheese!!- The two of you (mostly Cater) always say these phrases to your kids, so it’s no surprise when their first words are smile and cheese. With the family album(that I 100% believe Cater would start making once you get pregnant). When Cater heard his babies speak for the very first time he got super sentimental and excited calling you over(if you weren’t already there)

Papa!- Now this is solely based on my personal headcanon that Leona’s first kid would be a girl and a total Daddy’s girl. Always with him, even though you carried her for 9 MONTHS, homegirl got evicted from the womb and wanted to follow around papa. I also believe this happened as he was getting something and turned his back to her so she tried to get his attention. His ears immediately shoot up and his eyes open wide. He instantly picks up his cub and rushes over to you to tell you what your daughter just said. But dw, her next word ended up being mama. Is so proud of his little girl~

Pretty!- You’re always saying this to your husband so she eventually just picks up on it. Also hears other people saying it about either you or Vil; not to mention you and Vil do occasionally call her “pretty girl”. So she’s just surrounded by the word so it's no shocker when it’s her first word. Vil just beamed at his daughter, truly feeling the sentiment. His little girl, his pride and joy has spoken for the first time BUTTTT sadly he wasn’t there to witness it. So all that happened when he came back from work. He almost left early after you told him over the phone. But he could be more proud of his kleiner engel.

Up!!- Now this is because this little Hunt loves being picked up, especially when her father is flying on his broom. They love the feeling of being high up and flying through the sky with her father. Rook is always open to giving his petit oiseau what they ask. When his little one said their first words he couldn’t help but outburst with joy. He couldn’t stop praising them for speaking, then when you came in or called out to him/your child, he began praising you for giving this wonderful child.

Play!!/Uh oh- Now 2 things to establish, 1. Ik “uh oh isn’t a word” but I’m just gonna have to count it and I will explain why 2. Why are there 2 different words, well if you read this fic here!!, you’ll learn that I believe Idia has twin boys therefore I wrote 2 different words. Now onto my explanation; for ‘play’ it just makes sense, sitting on his dad’s lap watching him play games that say and display the word ‘play’ on the title screen ofc that would be his kid’s first word it just makes sense. Now for your other twin boy this was his first “word” because whenever Idia gets frustrated on the game at a certain point he hears you say “uh oh”, meaning “Dad’s about to burst”. They also have learnt(bc they're a very smart child) that they can use this for other times when something is about to go wrong so they do say it when something might go wrong. Idia seemed nonchalant at first place but then a smile grew on Idia’s face from his adorable talking twins.<3

Heartsabyul Masterlist

Savanaclaw Masterlist

Pomefiore Masterlist

Ignihyde Masterlist

#twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #fluff #domestic #tw babies #babies #trey clover x reader #cater diamond x reader #leona kingscholar x reader #vil schoenheit x reader #rook hunt x reader #idia shroud x reader

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djpachipikachu · 10 days

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doodle dump of unreleased aus that r still actively in my Brain Often but i dont post shit about them

⚠️warning for old art and blood and injury drawn and death mentions⚠️

———

magic lily au:

main theme -

summary is that leo is transported to the samurai rabbit universe instead of his family’s arms through a trifecta of his ninpo, mikey’s mystics that begged for him to be safe, and the ki stone sensing a hero in need

when leo lands in the world, he doesnt know any japanese aside from simple phrases he grew up with; “thank you”, “please”, “excuse me”, “help me”, “i love you”, etc

him and yuichi fall in love and he remains there for a few years ! however . theyve all known since the beginning that the ki stone would take leo back once he was healed. she was clear on the fact he was only there to be helped , not to live there . so yuichi and leo hold off the inevitable, despite leo missing his family horribly and knowinf they think hes dead , despite knowing how selfish it was to have one more day with each other , they avoided the ki stone until they go to the temple together and leo is ripped from the world without even a chance to reallt say goodbye to everyone

uhhh etc etc they were their first and last loves as they were both on the aro spec and didnt have a need to find that kinda love again they just . wanted each other and blehhh

i have a playlist for it as well ! my oldest au , started since i got into the fandom

UUAU:

[temp name]

my original usagi/tmnt iteration with miyamoto usagi as the main protag ! i still want to create a comic and really officially send this out so i wont spoil a lot, but !

the basis is that usagi lives in a post apocolyptic solarpunk society and is forcibly sent back in time to a cyberpunk city where the seeds of a war have begun to sprout, dropped in the middle of the highest tensions between three turtles and their eldest brother who is on the enemy side

doomed siblings, doomed toxic yaoi, doomed Everything, its inspired by idw and 2003 so what else is there to expect

only showing the beta design for usagi ! i have a lot of other drawings for this but again, spoilers

historical graves au:

this one is the most recent of the bunch, just putting my version of yuichi for rise into a more usagi yojimbo styled setting ! the story is entirely different from the fanfic and im still working on it But

yuichi is the great grandchild of miyamoto usagi instead of a distant ancestor , so the debt of the shogun’s assassination is that much heavier and Far more dangerous to hold. yuichi and his adoptive little sister, hana, have recently escaped the mass murder and pillaging of their rabbit village (the same one that mariko and kenichi and usagi grew up in) and are on a journey to find their aunt for sanctuary

along the way, they run into a lot of familiar faces, such as the hamato clan , who has karai as their jōnin ! also yuichi gets possessed by jei at some point

hes trans too so he “disguises” himself as a boy to be more hidden as they travel

ive got one more original iteration but theres like . nothing i want to share from it rn lmao

SOOO THATS IT basicallt !!umm if anyone wants to know more about any of these aus id be happy to answer ! u can request doodles of them too !

if u read this far ily and im kissing you

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kunikinnie · 10 months

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Hiii! How are you? Hope you are well! I was searching through Fukuzawa X reader's tag and I saw your headcanons for "accidently hurting their SO" and it was soooo cute!! Are your requests open, by any chance? If they are, is there any chance you could write headcanons with the same prompt, but with Dazai, Chuuya, Akutagawa and Atsushi? If they are not, just know that you are a great writer and I just loved your work!!

a/n: HELLO I'M ALIVE! sorry these SO LONG but here they are :) some of them might be ooc but ahkdjsf also if you're curious i was reading Spinning Gears while writing Aku's so ye

warnings: profanity, mentions of violence, blood, very angsty for some, probably ooc

accidentally hurting their s/o during an argument

featuring: Dazai, Chuuya, Akutagawa, Atsushi x GN!Reader

Dazai Osamu

There was something uncertain that stirred something deep within him - something he couldn't bring himself to face.

It could've been anything: the staleness of the air, the lingering aftertaste of the shitty coffee he had that morning, an intrusive thought he left uncontrolled, the sadness of the setting sun...

Not knowing the source bothered him. It bothered him so much that although words were flying exasperatedly throughout the room, he had regressed into his own mind.

It was the wrong move. He had underestimated how powerful the darkness was, and as it continued to grow like a whirlpool, he was swallowed into an ocean of abandoned thoughts.

He hadn't felt like this in years. Memories and voices from those times reverberated so strongly that nothing from the current moment could touch him. He didn't even have any idea what was happening.

Yet just a single phrase had managed to penetrate, and as soon as it hit it had triggered something despicable.

It was the silence that followed that snapped him out of it, not the stinging sensation at the back of his hand.

You slowly slumped down the wall and onto the floor. Not for a single moment did your stunned expression or blank eyes waver - in your silent tears flowed the last drops of your energy.

"I'm sorry," you whispered. Why were you apologizing? It was he who had done wrong, so why-

"Y/N..." he weakly called out, only to be met with another apology.

"Y/N, I'm sorry..."

He fell down to his knees before tightly embracing your whole body. He apologized once more, yet you didn't even stir. Another attempt amounted to nothing. Desperate to feel something from you, his grasp on you tightened further.

"Y/N, I love you-"

How many times had he said that? Countless times at this point, countless. Each and every one was as genuine as it could get - he hoped you knew that - yet none of them seemed to reach the same level of sincerity and regret to those declarations of those moments.

For all the eloquent speech this man had cultivated over the years, there he was, repeating the same three words over and over again - each iteration once more getting twice as desperate - until finally your hand grasped his shirt.

He could still feel your tears flowing freely, but at least you relaxed somewhat, letting him relax somewhat as well.

"I love you too," you weakly replied. "I love you so much... idiot..."

No words were exchanged after that; perhaps none were needed, or rather none existed that could fill in that need. The whole night he never let you go - not even once - as you two reconciled in each other's presence in silence.

Nakahara Chuuya

It's no secret that Chuuya's temper was more volatile than his favorite wine. Depite that, however, he doesn't let his emotions get the better him. Otherwise, he wouldn't have made it this far in the mafia hierarchy.

Today was different. The stressful events of the week left him with hardly any room to breathe, and an argument at home was the last thing he needed.

"Can't you handle that shit yourself, Y/N?!"

He knew that you knew that there were times, such as now, when he should not be approached. So why were you here, being more insistent than ever?

The tone of your voice was already rubbing off of him, and you just had to-

"Fucking hell-"

Without thinking, he kicked the chair beside him. The poor thing managed to take most of his anger, but a piece of debris had unfortunately broken off and flew, hitting you squarely on the face.

It was in such unbelievably perfect timing that Chuuya thought at first his mind had come this stupid situation until he heard your scoff clearly.

"What the-"

Before you could process what had happened, he ran to you and grabbed you into a tight embrace.

"I'm so sorry, Y/N."

You just stood there, still confused. Your forehead stung a bit, but it was nothing compared to the warmth you were enveloped in all of the sudden. You had expected a raging anger and frustration from Chuuya but it just... disappeared.

"Shit- I really didn't mean to, Y/N. I'm sorry-"

Were you relieved to hear that from him? Sure, a bit. But what about the fury that was all-consuming just a while ago? What were you to do with that?

Your silent rumination only unsettled him more. If he clueless as to what you were thinking, he would be just as lost as with what to do.

"Let's go over it again, okay? I'm not going to get mad this time."

More than the chair, it was his words that he flung at you that upset him the most now that he was sober from his emotions.

"I swear I won't get mad. So talk to me. Please. Y/N-"

He was vigorously but gently shaking your shoulder all the while, hoping to get something from you.

And he finally did - but a loud laugh was not what he expected.

"This is so stupid."

It was his turn to be confused. Yes, it was stupid - stupid of him to have done any of that - but he had no idea what you meant by that.

You wrapped your arms around him and buried your head in his neck. "I mean - a flying piece of broken chair? Really?"

"I'm sorry, Y/N-"

"I'm also sorry," you finally said calmly. "I knew you've been stressed recently, but I-"

"It's still my fault. It ain't your fault."

"No. It's mine."

"The heck are you saying?"

You stared at him again, pouting this time yet barely able to contain your laughter.

"Tsk. We are not going to fight over this," he answered playfully.

As quickly as the tension built so did it dissipate - a feature of most of your quarrels that the two of you were grateful to have.

You embraced him tightly once more. "I'm so lucky to have you, Chuuya."

Although you couldn't see his face, you could feel his smile spread. "Same here."

"I love you, Chuuya."

He loosened his grip on you before kissing you on the forehead. "I love you too."

Akutagawa Ryuunosuke

You both knew this would happen eventually. Yet that didn't make things any easier when it did.

The rage had blinded him instantly; he didn't even realize it happen. Within a split second there was a reddish-black flash and a small familiar gasp.

The scent of blood triggered such a vivid vision for him. You had fallen to the floor soundlessly, and there you were lying lifelessly. It was a vision he'd seen many times before - in lucid moments, in delirium, oftentimes in his sleep.

It couldn't be real this time... could it? By instinct, he covered his right eye with his hand. There he still saw the same bloody scene, while on the left eye he saw that there was nothing in front of him: no pool of blood and no motionless corpse. But as what always happened when he tried to disillusion himself, a headache then formed.

Only letting himself relax a bit, Akutagawa began to slowly look for you. He was sure there was blood spilled - although his eyes failed him, his nose never did. The same goes for all his other senses, it seemed, and so he let those four lead them to you.

He landed in front of a mahogany door. The sobbing and shuffling were unmistakable to him despite the thickness of the wood muffling the sounds significantly. He carefully approached and knocked on it lightly before calling out your name.

"Y/N...?"

The whimpering did not stop in the slightest, shaking him further. What if you weren't actually there and his hearing became unreliable as well?

"Y/N, please answer. I need to know you're there..."

His eyes saw fresh blood ooze out of the gap between the door and the floor. No. There was nothing there; his nose and fingers confirmed it. Shit. His delusions were getting worse even if both of his eyes were closed.

"Y/N, please... forgive me-"

There was no way you could, he thought. You shouldn't, you wouldn't, and if it was true that he had hurt you let alone kill you, then he wouldn't forgive himself either.

The gentle creak of the door jolted him despite how soft and slow you opened the door. He was met by a disheveled and tear-stricken you, blood slowly dripping down from your left arm. So many words flashed by in his vision but the only one that came out of his lips was your name.

"Y/N..."

His hand slowly reached for you - although where it aimed to touch it had no idea - as he waited for any sign from you to stop. You seemed fine with it, and his fingers ended up softly landing on the wound. It was just a graze, fortunately, however the bleeding was still continuous.

He unleashed Rashoumon to wrap and put pressure on the wound. "We should get you to a hospital," he said in a low and gentle voice.

You two wordlessly walked to the nearest clinic, almost wordlessly had your wound treated, and just as silently went back home. The entire time his still persistent headache throbbed along with the worries of what exactly it was you were thinking then. How could you still be okay with this? Or were you already planning to leave him then and there? If that was the best for you, then he had no choice than to accept it.

"Ryuu..." It was so affectionate that he thought he was delusional again. "How's your headache?"

His eyes widened at your words. How did you notice that? "It's not so terrible," he replied weakly. Really, it should be him asking how you were.

"That's good."

Before you entered your own room, he pulled on your other arm (gently) to explain himself. His delusions have been getting worse, that's why his instincts targeted you in his anger. That's what happened, wasn't it? But making such excuses was for weak men, and weak as he may be he couldn't bring himself to waste your sanity any further. He decided to apologize, but he ended up staring intensely into your eyes the entire time.

"It's alright. It's really alright."

"It isn't," he quickly asserted. "And it won't happen again."

Your smile, although weak from that night's endeavors, seemed genuine enough to him. It truly must have been real with the way it somehow subsided his headache. Still, it wasn't enough to wipe away the guilt.

And so he had decided to sleep on the couch: a preemptive measure and act of penance. But it wasn't like he could actually sleep after what happened. Most likely he would've spent the entire night reflecting on the incident and on ways to make it up to you.

"What are you doing?" There was a mix of curiosity, confusion, and amusement in your voice. "I've been waiting for you."

Without waiting for him to reply, you pulled on his arm and dragged him to bed. Your arms then wrapped themselves tightly on his waist.

"...isn't it dangerous? I might hurt you again." He was referring to his dreams affecting his physical sleeping, but his mind had pinned a larger meaning to it.

"You might," you answered nonchalantly. "But knowing you, it would never be intentional."

The gentle weight of your head on his chest had always soothed him. "You trust me too much."

"I do. It's because I love you too much, you know?"

You heard a small scoff, but even if you couldn't see his face you knew it accompanied a small smile.

"I don't know how rough you're having it right now, but please know that my love for you is real... just as I know your love for me is real."

Oh, if only you knew how much those words mattered to him- no. It would be too much.

"I love you, Y/N," he whispered as he embraced you tighter.

"I love you too." You then snuggled deeper into his chest. "Good night, Ryuu. Sweet dreams."

Nakajima Atsushi

Atsushi was always afraid that he'd hurt you some way or the other, and so he was always extremely careful with anything that involved you. Even in arguments he did his best to collect himself (not that he got THAT angry anyway - most of the time he just becomes sad) and not break down in front of you spontaneously.

That's why he wasn't sure why he got so worked up this time. Perhaps everything has just been overwhelming recently and you getting angry at him was simply the final straw. Was he truly such a failure at everything to everyone?!

He was grasping a glass of milk to drink and calm himself when the frustration rushed through his blood. His grip tightened and shattered the glass, spilling liquid, shards, and blood everywhere.

Of course, you somehow quickly remained level-headed and tried to attend to his injury.

"Wait let me see your-"

As soon as your hand grazed his, he swatted it away with great force. Leave me alone, it screamed, and you heard the message loud and clear. Too clear, perhaps, since you took a few steps back to counter the impact.

Your silent and intense stare was what brought him out of it. Just the idea of hitting you, let alone that powerfully, was just so unimaginable to him that he began to break down.

It must've been the tiger's uncontrollable strength again - it's always been that. Whenever he loses control himself it's that wild beast that takes over, causing Atsushi to commit acts of savergy.

But there was no ability at that moment. There was no tiger. There was nothing to blame it on, except himself. By instinct, he retreated to himself and fell to the floor, staring at nothing in particular.

"I'm so sorry, Y/N, I didn't know what I was thinking-"

His stammering and shivering were so intense - it was unlike anything you've seen before. Apology after apology came, but did the complete opposite of relieving you.

You slowly approached him, wondering if you should try and touch him again. Usually your gentle shoulder rubs were enough to calm him down.

"Atsushi...?"

More than being hurt once again, you were more afraid that he'd regressed into that place again.

You tried to snap him out of it slowly: gently talking to him, reassuring him, trying to convince him that you weren't going anywhere despite what happened and will happen.

And by some miracle it worked. His tear-stricken eyes met yours, and the softness in them finally returned.

"Are you okay?" You asked once more.

"Y-yeah, I'm fi- No, wait. Are you okay?"

His hand instinctively shot up to check your hand and arm, but it stopped right before it grazed your skin. What the heck was thinking, trying to grab you right after that?

"Oh, don't worry too much. I'm fine. There's no wound and it probably won't bruise."

Atsushi wanted to breathe easily after hearing you say that but there was more to the question that needed answering. Thankfully, you caught on quickly.

"I swear, I'm fine." You smiled at him again and gently pat his head. "You've apologized enough. So let's just clean up this mess, okay?"

Before you could even attempt to stand up, he practically grabbed you and squeezed your whole being as he buried his head in your neck.

"Thank you, Y/N." He whispered before hugging you even tighter. "I love you so, so much. I promise I'll do better next time."

You returned the gesture. Awgh. How much your heart swelled despite what happened. "I love you too, Atsushi."

Taglist: @stygianoir, @irethepotato, @kisara-16reblogs, @thatdazaikin, @dazaee, @menshusband, @celestair, @bloobewy, @kunikida-simp

#bsd #dazai osamu #nakahara chuuya #akutagawa ryuunosuke #nakajima atsushi #wtf did different writers write for these four HAAHAH so inconsistent hori shiet #hope it's fine tho pls don't notice #dazai x reader #chuuya x reader #akutagawa x reader #atsushi x reader

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thelastofhyde · 1 month

Text

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

pairing. narcos!javier peña x fem!reader

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

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

word count. 14.3k

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

if you see any typos, no you didn't 🫣

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

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

The year moves too fast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He’s a show-off, that boy.”

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

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

“Hmm?”

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

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

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

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

He’s fast, agile, stealthy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ve made worse attempts in the past.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It happens when you’re finally being served.

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

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

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

Friendly.

Too friendly.

Till it crosses the border into flirty.

You’re not interested.

At all.

But it’s flattering, to feel wanted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gasps fill the air.

Half the crowd boos.

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

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

Turning on your heal, the scene unfolds.

The ball, abandoned on the ground.

The players, scrambling to grab it before one another.

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

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

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

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

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

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

If you don’t love me, What was April?

You’ve always been organised.

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

You compartmentalise.

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

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

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

Caution tape holds the lid shut.

Fragile stickers cover every corner.

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

A late night.

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

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

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

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

Go still.

Worry you’ve woken him.

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

He’s tired. Exhausted.

Work was getting to him as of late.

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

You know him. You can read him.

Can tell in the way he moved slower against you.

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

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

Unlike other nights, you’re trapped awake.

Something feels off, makes you queasy.

There’s something nagging at your mind.

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

You just know its absence is wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not fair, you think.

Sleep is usually where you see him at his calmest.

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

His grip loosens, though slightly.

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

So you do your best to slip out his hold.

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

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

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

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

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

Then, you open the tap.

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

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

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

Your hair frames your face, though messy.

Your eyes are bloodshot, yet carry less bags.

Your cheeks are rounder, fuller.

You look different.

You feel it too.

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

Has he noticed a change?

Is he the reason for it?

Does he feel different, too?

Your stomach flips.

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

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

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

You don’t remember.

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

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

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

The stir in your stomach becomes more intense.

Eyes refocusing, you find yourself in the mirror again.

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach.

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

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

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

It feels like you’re suffocating.

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

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

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

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

There’s a soothing motion over your skin.

Up, down, up, down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He calls your own name back to you.

“I’m late.”

You await the sharp inhale.

And the unwinding of arms.

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

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

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

Then he’ll turn the blame to you.

That’s what men do, right?

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

None of it arrives.

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

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

He dries you off, delicate drags over your skin.

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

Only, this time you’re wide awake.

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

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

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

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

After all, the blame is yours, surely.

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

“But I-”

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

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

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

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

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

Lips press against your own, soft and subtle.

A quiet greeting, a wordless goodmorning.

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

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

You don’t want him to leave this bed.

Or this apartment.

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

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

Eventually, he peels himself away from you.

You watch him dress.

Tell him which tie to wear.

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

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

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

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

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

He presses a kiss between them, hums in enjoyment.

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

“Good,” you reply.

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

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

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

Leans down, brushes his lips against it.

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

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

He keeps his word.

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

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

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

The thought has you pressing a hand against your womb.

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

With a grimace, you admit you haven’t.

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

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

“I’ll probably just have toast.”

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

The call goes on a little longer.

It’s mostly him talking.

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

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

“I’ll be home soon, okay?”

That sounds nice coming from Javi.

Home.

Not his home, just home.

A place he feels his soul at rest.

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

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

He keeps his word, again.

Comes home barely three hours later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod, then audibly reply.

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

The drive is quiet.

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

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

You welcome it, covering it with your own.

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

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

He’s right.

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

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

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

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

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

You smile, and thread your fingers between his own.

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

The clinic is bright.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A confused sound leaves Javier.

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

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

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

“You hoping for a boy or a girl?”

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

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

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

But you don’t want to ruin the moment.

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

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

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

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

Javi’s still not correcting him.

It makes you nauseous for a whole new reason.

“Mr. Miller?” A voice calls out.

A nurse, you imagine.

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

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

He takes a few steps, till Javi interrupts him.

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

“A girl.”

Eventually, it’s your turn.

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

Shuffled into some room, reluctantly separating from Javi.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re not pregnant.

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

This time, the drive is silent.

Not quiet.

Silent.

You watch him drive past the turning into your street.

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

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

Over your empty womb.

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

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

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

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

You played a game But I run the table

You’re avoiding your dad’s calls.

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

See, you know why he’s calling.

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

He’s hosting another poker night.

He wants you there, as always.

Some baseless theory of you being his good luck charm.

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

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

“Fill in for me, will ya, kiddo?”

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

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

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

He turns out to be no threat.

None of the officer’s are, really.

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

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

But, taking from Javi?

That’s something else, entirely.

Each time you win, he gets more agitated.

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

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

And intoxication.

And something else.

Something you know all too well on Javier.

Lust.

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

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

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

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

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

He’s on the younger side.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe, he’ll offer you a sip.

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

He asks about college.

You ask about working with your dad.

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

He tells you about a new bar, downtown.

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

It’s light, it’s easy, it’s friendly.

You’re enjoying his company.

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

His hands grip his sides.

You’re clutching your chest.

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

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

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

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

You both gather some decorum.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then two steps, which you also match.

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

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

It’s alarmingly gentle for his stoic features.

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

“What’s going on with you, huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s worked up, frustrated, angry.

And it’s hot. A turn-on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wonder what positions he put them in.

How many rounds he lasted with them.

How often he made them cum.

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

That single action changes the game, entirely.

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

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

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

The grip tightens.

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

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

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

Every ounce of feminism evaporates within you.

Who could deny such a tentative offer?

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

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

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

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

Your panties, soaked.

His jeans, tight.

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

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

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

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

“C’mon, don’t be shy.”

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

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

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

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

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

He has his mother’s eyes, you notice.

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

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

A picture of Javi, and you.

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

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

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

There was no point risking your father ever finding it.

But this picture, this one you do not remember.

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

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

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

He does good to bring you back into the room.

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

They sit in the sink, growing wet.

And you are too, frozen on the spot.

You glance down, count over the different bills.

Five dollars.

Twenty dollars.

Hundred dollars.

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

In the mirror, he’s watching.

Not the sink bowl, no.

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

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

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

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

The card is plucked out your hand.

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

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

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

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

Desirable.

And attractive.

And pretty.

And smart.

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

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

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

Javi hisses, muttering something to himself.

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

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

A few seconds pass.

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

You feel the air tickle your skin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Smack!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hear a cheer.

From the basement.

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

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

If you can hear them, they could hear you.

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

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

It’s not a pleasurable act, in itself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For him, you can do it.

“Fitting big things in your little pussies?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The unbuckling of a belt.

The unzipping of teeth.

The shucking down of-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A hand, reaching up to cup your cheek.

A kiss, gentle and longing against your mouth.

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

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

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

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

“I’m a very patient man, corazón.”

You scoff.

“Just not when it comes to you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You feel lightheaded.

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

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

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

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

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

He consumes you, mind, body and soul.

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

There’s just Javi.

Beautiful, gorgeous, deserving Javi.

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

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

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

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

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

Hands hurry off your waist, slipping between your thighs.

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

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

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

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

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

He’d catch you, if you fell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You both crash and burn, together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damn Javi and all the memories he haunts you with.

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

Days grow colder.

Nights grow longer.

You change your bedsheets, stuff a comforter back inside.

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

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

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

Lights, baubles, action.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is this some tactic of yours?”

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

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

“Some what?”

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

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

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

Bare legs, messed hair, smudged lipstick.

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

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

“You weren’t complaining earlier.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When he offers the cigarette your way, you hesitate.

Picture your father, disappointed to see you smoke.

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

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

You and Javi were never meant to happen.

Sure, the line had already been crossed weeks ago.

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

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

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

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

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

Until tonight.

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

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

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

He’d offered to take you home.

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

He squeezed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which brings you here, fifteen minutes later.

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

“Huh?”

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

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

“Is that what you want?”

He shrugs.

Pulls in another breath of his cigarette.

Stubs it out on the arm of the chair.

And says nothing.

You assume it’s a yes.

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

Silence falls upon you both.

You twist in his lap.

He tightens his hold.

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

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

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

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

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

Each year, it’s the same.

The station, decked out in decorations.

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

It’s not just Christmas.

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

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

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

Their spouse, their mothers.

Anyone, and everyone, is welcome.

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

It’s the part you look forward to most.

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

Fishing out a pen, some paper.

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

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

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

This year, there was none of that.

No list of pros and cons for each gift option.

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

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

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

Hinted at it, slightly.

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

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

Hold it up to his ear, shake it.

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

The whole room stops.

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

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

Fades to grey.

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

He knows.

Of course he knows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next time you see Javi is hours later.

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

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

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

You say you’re tired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Javi plays it cool.

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

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

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

Well, better than anyone but you.

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

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

Your dad stares at you.

Your mum stares at you.

Javi stares at you.

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh! Yeah, I- Sorry, I meant that I-”

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

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

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

At least that’s the reason you give yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your hands, brushing.

Your eyes, meeting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it isn’t, and you’re not.

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

His lips brush your cheek like an autumn breeze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You and Javi don’t spend time alone anymore.

You and Javi do not exist together anymore.

Maybe you never did.

“It’s okay, I already called a cab.”

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

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

For a second, he just looks at you.

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

“Get home safe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

First, just a little extra weight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One more glance in the box.

There’s a note, tucked at the bottom.

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

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

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

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blocksgame · 10 months

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Tips on character voices when writing fic

This is written in mind for people writing fic in MCYT/QSMP/DSMP/Life series/etc kind of fandoms. But if anyone finds it useful for anything else, well then, hell yeah.

Character voice is big in all, uh, fiction, and mimicking it in any fanwork is big. But I think it’s especially big in these fandoms where the voices are so distinct – it’s usually how a Real Person Somewhere (the streamer) talks, versus something very scripted that you’d see in a TV show or novel. And it can be a big difference in your character sounding generic versus really feeling true to the original.

Listen to a bunch of your subject talking. If you want to write a character well, watch vods from their point of view, or episodes where they show up a bunch. Take note of what they say and how.

2. If you don’t know how to start doing that: try literally writing down what they say. Transcribe an actual exchange in fic-format. You probably won’t want to publish a literal exchange from canon, but it will give you a sense of how to physically write what they say.

3. If you do this (or just pay attention to how they talk), you will get a lot of: Stumbling, pauses, repeating words, filler words, weird sentence constructions, fragments, etc. I love em! Here’s something that comes through in improv much more than in novels or movies: Most people, even very charismatic people, are not very eloquent when they speak. Writing out conversations or sentences will give you a sense of the unique and delightful way in which your subject is not eloquent. vvvvv way more under cut vvvvv

(People use a LOT of filler/etc when they speak. It’s reasonable to cut back on this if it’s interfering with a nice-looking or readable result. I believe this is the eternal struggle of people who write transcripts – you want the transcript to be accurate, but there are also a lot of things you can obviously simplify and not lose the meaning. So you’ll end up falling somewhere on this spectrum either way. But I do think a lot of mediocre/generic fic dialogue is very stylized – it doesn’t sound like your guy because your guy literally wouldn’t say that. They would say it worse and more confusingly.)

(I’m serious, if you’ve never sat down with a short non-completely-scripted clip or real conversation or whatever and just written out exactly what was said, do it. It will make you better at writing.)

4. Wonda-cat made a really incredible list [link] of characterizing speech patterns for the Dream SMP members. But you can also do your own reconnaissance and come up with your own patterns, common phrases, etc.

5. You do not have to get EVERYTHING right. You’re not going to, like, get so deep into the speaker’s brain that you can produce “exactly what they would have said if they were somehow in your fic.” That is impossible. You’re just trying to evoke a character, and if you get a few turns of phrase to ring true, you’re doing great.

6. A lot of these people are popular because they are hilarious. Include jokes. Yes, even if your thing is angsty or serious. A lot of the most serious lore I can think of from, e.g., the Dream SMP or 3rd Life or the QSMP - the really story-defining, life-and-death moments - were absolutely hysterical. If you’re writing characters who are usually funny, then add some humor. It can heighten angst via contrast and a sense of realism. Ask yourself what a funny streamer would make jokes about if they were possessing a character in this situation.

7. Some people have the mystical ability to “hear” character voices in their head, and read things in their voice. If you can, do this with all of your dialogue during the editing process. This won’t always get you there, but sometimes it can catch things that sound wrong by invoking "that's really hard to imagine them saying". If you don’t have this power, try recruiting a friend who does.

8. So there’s dialogue and then there’s narration that’s still from a character’s point of view. I’ve mostly given you tips about dialogue, but a lot of this is also true for narration. IMO, narration is less about phrasing things the way the subject would, and more about recreating the way they think. I don’t have concrete rules on how to do this, but here is my wisdom:

You can get eloquent again - narration is more of an abstract and artistic process than dialogue.

Spend time with your subject’s source material.

Pay attention to what they notice and care about. How do you think they think?

Don’t be afraid to get weird with it.

That last one also applies to all art ever.

9. MCYT tends to give you a great boon you don’t see in other media: what the speaker says to their chat/audience when nobody else is listening. This can be incredibly characterizing even if you’re writing a story where people don’t have chats. It’s your person talking about their thought processes and feelings! Mine that shit.

10. Some questions that might help guide both characterizing narration and dialogue (that you’d get from dialogue):

How open are they about their feelings?

How often do they lie? What do they lie about?

What kind of metaphors do they use, if any?

How quickly does their mood change?

How can you tell when they’re in different moods?

What kind of things do they pay attention to?

How formal is their speech?

11. Finally, this is a little odd, but I find it’s much, much easier to write a character that sounds good if I, the author, like them and am rooting for them at least a little bit. If a character needs to be there who you don’t love, try to love them. Or at least get a sense of what other people love about them. It just makes everything else easier. I swear to god.

Happy writing out there!

#mcyt fic #fanfiction #writing advice #writing tips #fanfiction tips #qsmp fic #dsmp fic #works for whatever too I'm just not gonna try to tag everything #fanfiction advice

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madlori · 11 days

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If the only thing you can lord over buddie is that bucktommy is canon, then you really didn't care at all about the ship.

7 seasons of being a family unit, being there for each other, having each other's back but hey! Here comes another underdeveloped love interest, but since it's a man this time, you don't care about Buck being stuck in the same hamster wheel, again, because he's kissing a man and that's hot 🙄

Also for all your doom and gloom about buddie not happening, do remember that Tommy/Eddie was an idea in Tim's mind at first, so Eddie can be read as queer, even if it's not in canon yet.

I guess you don't place much value on them being a family unit and always there for each other, and having each other's back...all of which is still true and will continue to BE true. But it's only important to you as a prelude to them kissing, right? It has no value in and of itself. I love their relationship. I love what they are to each other. But YOU are making me not want to see it, because every time they turn to each other, lean on each other, support each other, we have to listen to you shrieking BUDDIE CANON CONFIRMED or whatever, because to a certain genre of shipper (not all buddie shippers, etc) any interaction or feeling they have with each other exists only in service to the ship.

I swear to god, I'm gonna banish the phrase "hamster wheel" from y'all's mouths until I get an actual definition as to what you think it means, because from where I sit, to you it just means "he's with someone who's not Eddie." To me, it means that Buck continually fell bass-ackwards into relationships that weren't right for him, looking for something he wasn't even sure what it was. And heyyyyy, he's currently in a relationship that he actively chose and fought for, having learned something new and important about himself, with someone who makes him giddy and excited in a way we have never seen him be, who the people around him can see gives him contentment. But none of that matters, because it's not Eddie, and that is by definition his only appropriate partner, so he must still be on that hamster wheel. Also if we're going by creator intent here, Tim's said he wrote this relationship specifically to reflect Buck being off of it.

As for underdeveloped love interest? I wrote an entire ass essay about how MUCH we know about Tommy, and it's reams compared to anything we've ever known about Buck's girlfriends OR Eddie's current girlfriend who does not even have a last name. Tommy has been introduced in a way that integrates him with the 118, with multiple interests, a character arc of his own from his first appearance, a set of motivations and emotional arcs that are NOT about Buck, and something to actually offer in a relationship besides existing. Anyone saying he's underdeveloped is determined to read him as such, especially for the limited amount of time we've had him.

And I never said Eddie couldn't be read as queer. He can EASILY be read as queer. I said he WOULDN'T be. Those are two different things. If Tommy and Eddie had gotten together (which I give no more narrative weight to than Maddie and Eddie getting together, which was also a gleam in the eye at one point) I'd equally be saying that Buck would never be queer.

It's hilarious to me that I'm being accused of liking a ship because it's hot (it is, and I do, and that's...fine? there's nothing bad about that?) as if people enjoy Buddie because of the amorphous purity of it all and not at ALL because it's hot (it is and you should say so).

If my thoughts about this are so upsetting to you, just block me, dude. I promise I won't take it personally.

Also, just...learn to enjoy a ship whether it's canon or not. I've done it, we've all done it. It's not that hard, especially THIS ship, which has so much good stuff to it regardless of whether there's romance or not. Those of us who like Buck with Tommy are not taking away from you enjoying Buddie, or anyone doing so. It's not like...the State of Buddie will lose congressional representation if the population falls below a certain level. The existence of another ship does not affect yours.

#9-1-1 #evan buckley #bucktommy #eddie diaz

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sea-owl · 15 days

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I was just thinking about the whole Debling vs Colin thing and I kinda wanted to point this out.

Debling and Colin are actually both perfect for Penelope but different sides to her.

Debling is Lady Whistledown's perfect match while Colin is Penelope's perfect match.

Debling has work he leaves for years to do, passions that take up more of his heart than any living human would. He left behind his own family who he says never understood him but that's all we know. He wants a wife to take care of the estate and the home front. He doesn't read Whistledown, meaning he won't ever see any similarities between Penelope's writing and Lady Whistledown's. If Penelope was truly Lady Whistledown all the time like the switch was flipped and never turned off, then this is a perfect life for her. On her own, left alone, and can run her business without interference. If she wants, she can fudge the numbers a little bit to hide some of her own money away in the estate. She'll have children one day that she'll love. She will be secured. She will also continue the status quo of her life before of being alone in her own home, and I would make the argument becoming more like Portia as time would go on. Now, don't get me wrong. Debling is a good man, but he is also Lord Featherington in a different font. Penelope already knows what life with Lord Debling would look like she's seen it in her parents' marriage, in her father. Lord Featherington put his own passions before his family as well, and while he never physically left, that man completely dissociated around his family. Again this type of life would be perfect for Lady Whistledown but Penelope rightfully so hesitates.

Colin, on the other hand, while he has his own passions, will still put someone he loves first. He's willing to be there to support them if they need it. He has a close bond with his family and wants to open that bond to any potential spouse that may be folded in. Once he knows his feelings, he's not afraid to show them. He's affectionate and sensitive to others. He also I noticed forgives rather quickly meaning he has the ability to see from someone else's perspective. This is someone Penelope has dreamed of for years, and frankly kind of needs. She's been emotionally starved of affection and never has seen or heard acts of love outside the few she's had from the Bridgertons. She was raised on tough love and never really shown softness before. Colin can give her that softness, that love, and happiness. But Colin is also a horrible match for Lady Whistledown. He is always in Penelope's business and space, and if not him, another member of his family would be. All in good faith, they watch out for one another, but it would make Penelope's absence a lot more noticeable. Penelope will also be shoved in the spotlight as well marrying in and while she has craved the potential change it makes her work much harder. His disdain for Whistledown as well has been well spoken to others. He also potentially has the clues to piece together Penelope's identity. He has her letters and Lasy Whistledown is not hard to get either. If Penelope accidentally made any mistakes in either writings, like similar phrasing or she reused something from his letters in Whistledown he could clue it together. He will most likely be angry at first but I also think given time to cool off he be willing to hear her out. He's already shown he's not afraid to fight for her so what's one more round?

And the funny thing is Colin has the potential to be Lady Whistledown's match as well. He's a good writer and has been shown to engage in gossip, too. He moves fluidly around the ton, charming them and easily communicating with them. His strengths compliment can help boost where Penelope has a weakness. They can very easily become true partners, Lord and Lady Whistledown. We first just have to get Colin to warm up to the idea.

#bridgerton #polin #bridgerton season 3 spoilers #lord debling #colin bridgerton #penelope featherington

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sc0tters · 29 days

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Feelings and Fears | Luke Hughes

summary: sometimes it’s better to hide your feelings, until it’s not.

pairing: luke hughes x fem!reader teammate

warnings: drinking, swearing, most scenes take place in the future.

word count: 3.51k

authors note: okay so this ended a lot cuter than I thought it would! there was a lot of writers brain rot in this so it’s not my favourite thing but I really hope it ended up better to read in the end. Feels like I haven’t written for him in FOREVER but it’s only been two months so… also this was a different style I wanted to dabble in so lemme know if it worked or not cause I’m really on the fence.

Have you ever felt like someone is meant to be your person?

Where the world suddenly made sense when you looked at that person? And like your heart was only ever meant to beat for them from that moment on?

That was how Luke felt about you, his perfect dream girl that he needed to have captured in his focus. Yet the only thing that made the desire that much harder to obtain, was the sheer condition of you hating Luke.

Yet that wasn’t always the case, in fact, you were excited that he had come onto the team as you were no longer the rookie on the squad.

September, 2023

Luke grinned as he saw you approach him “Hughesy!” You laughed holding onto Dawson as you ended up at the bar wanting a new drink “hey guys.” Luke had been nursing the same drink the entire night.

You placed your glass on the table “you keep her safe?” Dawson asked Luke as he nodded “yeah I’ve got her.” You were clearly drunk and Luke was never going to turn down getting to spend time with you alone.

Dawson gave your side a squeeze as he left you “happy birthday.” You mumbled realizing that you didn’t say that to him yet “thanks teddy.” It was a random nickname that he had come up with after the video came out of you in a giant teddy suit when you scared the boys.

What you didn’t notice as you looked for the bartender to usher him to make you a new drink was how Luke was looking at you. Sure you had always been pretty but tonight was the first time he had seen you all dressed up “you know you didn’t have to come tonight.” Luke also knew all about how Friday nights were your time watching shitty reality tv shows to fill your time with and you loved it.

But you pursed your lips together as you looked back at him, only now aware of how close he was to you “it’s your birthday, wouldn’t miss it for the world.” You weren’t going to mention that part of the reason why you were there was because Jack was paying for the bar.

His eyes sparkled and before he knew it he dropped his head down to be level with yours as he pressed his lips against yours “wait.” It seemed like your entire body sobered up in that moment as you pushed your hand against his chest.

Luke felt his heart drop as you pulled away “I’m so sorry.” He went to apologize after seeing that his ounce of confidence was stupid and that his guts desire to stay away should have reigned supreme.

But you shook your head “don’t worry about it.” Yet you were so worried about it as you worried that your teammates had seen it “I’m gonna go.” You added, leaving him with red cheeks and silent as he watched you go.

May, 2024

That was now months ago and the two of you hadn’t spoken since. And now it seemed that the world was trying to serve him the ultimate fuck you as you did everything in your power to avoid him.

At most uttering phrases of “move,” or sometimes just having to sent him a glare that left him sliding out of your way before anything could have even been said. It seemed that your relationship was one where you two were barely teammates at that point, the chemistry on the ice had diminished further dwindling whatever was left between you both. The other players picked up on it but as Luke begged them to stay out of it as he still drowned in the embarrassment of your rejection.

But now as it was Jack’s turn to play the role of birthday boy and that meant that you were then forced to be the one place you avoided, Lukes turf. By only being in places with him before that you knew first meant that you had the places to hide, the exits, everything you needed to hold onto for some kind of comfort was now gone after you hadn’t been there into Jacks apartment in over a year. And you stupidly thought that the night would go down with ease.

Yet as some girl found herself obnoxiously on his arm when you arrived, his eyes found yours as he sent you a soft smile as you seemed stuck where you were. Why was it that months on from muttering more than a sentence to him as you swore you could only hate him after he tried to make a move on you, but you were now almost thrown off guard when he was with another woman. You thought you had him written off, that he was a sealed page.

But you could feel the glue ripping at the pages when you watched her whisper something into his ear that made him laugh as he wrapped his hand around her waist “you good?” Nico snapped his fingers in front of your face as he stood with a drink for you.

Your cheeks quickly reddened as you assumed you had been caught “just perfect cap.” You nodded as you pulled the bottle from his hand and quickly took a large sip from it.

In all the time he had known you, not once had he ever seen you flustered “so are you just getting hot stood watching Luke and Daisy?” His tease made her roll her eyes as she flipped him off.

The captain patted her shoulder “you might want to stop staring then.” He trailed off before he left you.

You hated how he was right but you couldn’t shake the weird feeling in your stomach. It had your feet glued to the ground and you felt sick watching the moment between the duo as Luke kissed her head, yet your eyes refused to go anywhere else.

December, 2025

The next year had you instead distancing yourself from Luke for that feeling. You knew it was stupid but after your return to the garden state, you swore you were going back to disliking him for what he had done. Life would have been so much more straight forward if that was the reason why you disliked him.

Yet the moment you two realized your lockers were next to each other, the pit came right back into your stomach. Luckily now you were no longer watching Daisy appear at every event which made you think that maybe you could get through the season quietly.

Yet all of that seemed to come to a halt when the universe decided that it wasn’t good enough for them. You and Luke ended up injured at the same time with his being his collarbone and yours being your ankle.

Your heart was broken after going from the prime of your career and being on par to almost double the last seasons points, to now wondering if you were even going to make it back in time before the end of the season “can I get another?” You called out to the bartender as the news felt like it was best to respond with drowning your feelings in booze.

That’s how you ended up on your fifth brandy and coke in the hour “you got a way to go home?” The other older boy flashed you a look of concern as you turned your phone over “yeah I got her Joey.” The voice sent a shiver down your spine as you looked up.

It was the first time you had seen Daisy in months, she was looking great with her shorter hair and darker hair color that enhanced her features “can I sit?” Her voice was softer as she flashed you a smile.

All you could do was nod as you wondered why she was talking to you “was sorry to hear about it.” She pointed to your cast as she sat down “yeah it was pretty shitty.” You sipped at your drink hoping that it would bring her silence.

But instead she tucked her hair behind her ear “I actually thought that it would finally make something happen between you and Luke.” The words came as your blood turned cold slowly setting your drink down as you tried to keep your cards close to your chest “Luke always tried to deny it but I know he’s in love with you.” She continued on unaware of how you raised your eyebrows.

Daisy was able to speak freely as nobody else was there on the Tuesday night now that her friends had gone home “at first it was something I thought I could ignore but then I saw how you looked at him at Jacks party and knew I might have been his but he wasn’t mine.” Her defeated voice made you grow sorry for her “nothing ever happened-” you tried to push potential cheating concerns away but she raised her hand to stop you.

Her eyes went to the door as someone came into the bar “maybe it’s time you let something then?” She offered as she squeezed your hand before she got up.

You stared at your drink wondering what she meant because she left before you had the chance to ask “you know you’re gonna regret this tomorrow teddy.” Luke sighed as he took his exes seat.

Life felt as if it was getting worse as his eyes burnt your skin “look I can get myself home.” You went to grab your keys but he was all that much quicker than you “you even hop in the drivers seat and Nico would have my head.” The youngest Hughes boy shook his head as he noticed the red Pom Pom that was on your keychain.

Silence gushed over you both as you stared at the table “please just let me drive you home so I know that you’re okay.” Luke’s voice oozed this sense of desperation as his thigh pressed against yours “lemme finish my drink.” One drink became two before it became three as you were delaying the inevitable.

Luke was grateful he had brought his own car as he had no clue where you had parked yours “just sit up f’me okay?” He asked as he helped you into the passenger seat “you’re pretty.” You mumbled as his curls dropped into his face when his hands brushed over your stomach with the seatbelt.

The words made him smile “you are pissed.” He softly laughed to himself as he shook his head trying his hardest to not let your words make him feel like a nervous teen boy “but not wrong.” You shot back as he shut your door quickly making his way to the drivers side.

You couldn’t help but stare at him, taking in the side profile that you spent so many nights thinking about even if you were meant to avoid it “got something on your mind teddy?” Luke didn’t take his eyes off of the road as the red light from the stop illuminated his face.

Your body leaned against the center console as you licked your lips “you are mean.” You confessed making him raise his eyebrows “how so?” Maybe it was wrong to entertain your drunk ideas, as you were more than likely to not remember them in the morning, yet with this being your first proper conversation with him in months he wasn’t going to let it slip through his fingers.

The gentle hum of the cars engine soothed your mind “it would be so much easier to avoid you if you weren’t so nice.” It was true, every time you snapped you always felt that one part of you feel guilty for letting the words hit the boy “could mean I wouldn’t like you either too.” The second part came out as barely a whisper but still it was almost enough for Luke to crash his car.

His eyes widened as he swore he must have misheard you, but when the hoot came from the car behind he knew this was no dream “let’s talk about it in the morning.” Luke shook his head as he used every fibre of his being to push his feelings for you down.

He got with Daisy to forget you and that never worked as the boy would constantly dream of it being you that he would wake up next to this isn’t my apartment.” You furrowed your brows as you turned your attention to see his apartment building “figured it would be a whole lot easier getting you to sleep in here.” He explained as the team was on a roadie and that meant that Jack wasn’t home.

Part of him was surprised to not hear your complaints or any type of argument so he turned to just see you fiddling with your bracelet, he hated seeing you be quiet but fearing that he would ruin the moment of rebuilding a friendship he kept his mouth shut. It was so much easier to do that even as he helped you up the stairs and eventually sat you on his bed “you okay with these for bed?” He asked as he handed you a devils training tee and most shockingly a pair of your black gym shorts you swore you lost.

Luke sensed your surprise as your fingers ran over the label that you had signed “realized that you left them here and then never found the time to give it back.” He explained as you had complained once after a party at the Hughes apartment when John spilt his drink onto your lap ruining your white jeans. After that you always had a pair of shorts that lived in Lukes closet “god I was a bitch.” You brought your hands to cup your face as you groaned letting the good memories between you come flooding back into your brain.

He was quick to crouch down and pull your hands away from your face “we will talk in the morning once you’ve gotten some sleep.” He held his pinkie up to you as he nodded “okay.” You mumbled locking your finger with his before you watched him turn to the door.

Your hand tugged through your hair “where are you going?” You tried to not sound too concerned but he smiled hearing right through it “to sleep on the couch.” Luke spoke in a duh tone, surprised when he watched you push yourself to your feet and almost fell forward with the momentum.

For the second time in the night you were left grateful for his reaction times as he held his hand out to catch you “either we are both on that couch or you are in your bed.” It seemed to be the most sober line you had said the entire night as he could see that you were deadly serious.

Luke felt like he was left at a cross roads when he sighed “you promise not to kick me in your sleep?” He asked as you smiled “only if you promise the same.” You nodded taking it as a victory.

Slumber consumed you quickly as your head hit the pillow and you were gone but Luke struggled to get sleep most of the night, scared he’d wake up and you’d be gone letting it all go back to how it once was. Eventually he did fall asleep and when he woke up you were indeed gone. The side of your bed was cold even as the scent of your perfume was still in the sheets “god you would think that your brother would own a less complicated coffee machine.” You scoffed to yourself walking back into the room with a coffee for you and a tea for him.

Luke’s messy hair made you smile as his eyes took in the sight of you, once to make sure it was actually you stood there, and a second time to notice that his shirt looked massive on you “morning sunshine.” You teased as you handed him the drink before you took your seat next to him as you handed him his mug.

The gesture seemed to screw with Lukes mind and he was so desperate to know what was going on in your mind before he misinterpreted anything “when you said you liked me.” He began as he stared at the murky liquid “did you meant it?” He trailed off when he looked to you for an answer.

It made your throat grow tight setting the mug on the table next to you “yeah.” You nodded as Luke couldn’t help but scoff ‘then why’d you pull away!” He may have not gotten over that incident in the bar as much as he thought he had.

You picked at your nails as you tired to find the right words to tell him how you were feeling “because I’m a woman in the NHL Luke.” You sighed letting your eyes drop to the cast on your foot “fans already think I slept with someone to get onto this team.” He had seen the hate that was sent your way more than once assuming that you had slept your way into the league, especially going as a first round pick in your respective class.

He chewed at the inside of his cheek “and you come from a family of three great NHL talents.” You turned to see him staring right at you “it would be a sprinkle on your career but could ruin mine.” You continued on seeing him remain silent.

Luke ran his fingers over his face “so I thought it was easier to act like I hated you because I could get over it.” You sucked at your teeth and you nodded “but then Daisy came into the picture and I realized I didn’t just think you were attractive but actually thought about you romantically too.” At this point you were silently begging for him to shut you up and take over the conversation so that you could go quiet “I am gonna go.” You announced almost dragging yourself out of the bed.

That seemed to do the trick when he placed his hand on top of yours stopping you where you were “I want you more than this career.” He blurted out making your cheeks go red as he shifted closer to you “Luke you have your whole career ahead of you.” You shook your head knowing that he was just saying what you wanted to hear.

But when he sat up straight his eyes looked darker than you had seen them before “and I would go retire right now if it meant I could have all of you.” Luke’s voice was flat as his thumb ran over your lip “if we do this the world can’t know.” You weren’t being rude but you knew it was what would be best for both of your careers.

He nodded softly “it’ll be our little secret.” His voice was soft as he let his lips graze over yours when he slowly opted to test the waters. As you didn’t pull away the Hughes boy smiled letting his hands grip at your waist bringing you back onto the bed.

February, 2030

Luckily for you both, you were able to keep your NHL careers as you were traded to the Islanders a few months after you started dating and Luke ended up at one of your playoff games as the devils had been eliminated in your jersey. Of course it was the one from your time with the red team but your number had stayed the same and it meant he got to proudly have your name etched onto his back “Teddy wait for me!” You groaned as you pulled your duffel bag from your car.

Your three year old was too excited to care though “I wanna see daddy!” She cheered as she clutched the Canucks teddy that she had gotten when she accompanied you on the west coast road trip as he was on a road trip of his own “I know but remember he might be sleeping.” Your words brought a scoff.

Luke had been waiting at the door to the elevators the moment he realized you were close “and miss the chance of seeing my favorite girls?” Luke’s tone was almost amused as he flashed you a grin “daddy!” Teddy ran to him when he crouched down opening his arms to pull his daughter into a hug after he hadn’t seen her in a week.

Her excited squeals brought a smile to your lips as Luke smothered her face with kisses “now don’t think I forgot about you too.” Luke saw that you were still in the same place that you had been in before “then I think you should come over here and show me that, Mr Hughes.” You teased making your daughter smile as she saw Lukes eyes slightly sharpen.

“Well you of all people should know how I handle a challenge Mrs Hughes.”

#luke hughes imagines #luke hughes x you #luke hughes x y/n #luke hughes oneshots #luke hughes x reader #lh43 #Amber writes fics #hockey imagines #hockey oneshots #nhl oneshots #nhl imagines #oneshots #imagines

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