#i know its long- i promise no one who sees this is required to read it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

undercoverpena · 3 months

Text

1. butterscotch orange

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter one of do me yourself

summary: a meet-cute in a hardware store? impossible, out of the question. except, that's exactly what happens. a need for screws leads you to a broad-shouldered, brown-eyed man who you're sure is about to change your day, never mind your life.

wordcount: 3.3k chapter warnings: [see masterlist for series warnings] meet cute, flirting. fluff. flirting in person and over <redacted>. frankie being a single!dad to a son. coffee date. an: it is finally here! this little thing has rotted me from the inside out and nothing brings me more joy than a romcom. so here we go. buckle in. all hail @secretelephanttattoo for the wondrous idea and support (seriously thank you, i know you know ily, but i don't think I've been this happy writing something in so long). a thank you to @thetriumphantpanda who i forced to read this when we had our sleepover, ily.

key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics [winks]

IF I CAN DO IT, ANYONE CAN DO IT. ALL YOU NEED—

It rings, echoes through your skull.

Has been doing so the whole ride over—your groan doing nothing to dilute it, even as you kill the engine of your car and are welcomed with silence.

There’s an element of regret you feel thrumming in you since discovering that perky voice, her high-pitched excitement becoming the bane of your existence. Forever replaying in your head. Regardless of whether it is actually playing. It remains on a loop in your mind—all light and sweet—grating on you from the amount you’ve had to watch it, just to get to this stage.

Realistically, you know you shouldn’t hate the voice, because it has been helpful—in that effortlessly playful way that’s kind of begun to fuck you off.

But then, you’re not even sure if any voice would fare much better. Because you just don’t feel like it’s just that easy—so possible, all simple and quick to do.

Because DIY apparently isn't that trouble-free for you. The bandaids on your palm, fingers, and forearm are proof of it.

Yet, somehow you’re outside of a hardware store.

One that Google promises will have all you need and more. Not that you know what that is.

The only thing you do know is that it at least gives you another reason to focus on something other than the mountain of boxes that never end. The ones not unpacked. In the home that’s now only slowly beginning to feel more like yours, and not the people you purchased it from.

Eyes flicking over the front of the store, the clutter of things all left outside—in judging various shades of buckets and plastic garden chairs—before your eyes land on the door to Harold’s Hardware.

There’s no breeze, but the door moves ever so slightly. Sitting, slightly ajar, as though once—a long time ago—it fit in the frame perfectly, but now remained warped and unwilling to even try. Then there’s the glass, all smeared and sitting inside (what you assume) would have been a bright-white frame that’s slightly yellowed and has been adorned in scuffs, swinging in its layered overuse.

But, at least it’s visited, you think. Shoving open the door, a bell sounds in some distant corner, ringing, it almost muffled by the voice from the video continuing to play in the space between your ears—a to-do list, a handful of items required, listing themselves on a never-ending loop, the billionth play through since you’d woken up.

It’s so much bigger inside than you banked on. Jaw-ticking to the side, eyes marvelling at the floor-to-ceiling display and the array of things all living and existing under hanging signs that appear worn and peeling.

With each second, more and more of the charm comes to you.

That there’s a radio, crackling away, a song from decades gone by playing with difficulty, as an array of scents swirl, fighting themselves for your attention. But, two stand out, fresh-cut wood and lemon disinfectant. The latter you assume kills dirt but doesn’t make the floor tiles gleam in the way they once did. Scuff marks adorning well-walked paths. But the former, you gravitate more to, wish for it to fill your nose and remain with you long after your visit.

Adjusting the strap of your bag, you glance about again, almost fidgeting your feet in your shoes, before it dawns on you. Slams into you as you flick your gaze from sign to sign—

You haven’t got a clue about where to start.

Listing the things from memory—suddenly distant and difficult to find amongst the dooming overwhelm—as your feet begin moving of their own accord. Choosing an aisle, selecting it—all eeny-meeny-miny-mo.

Because better that, than standing aimless, lost. Watched on some flickering CCTV in the back where you assume the person who works here is.

Dragging your eyes, scanning them up and down, taking in the varying types of paint brushes, different thicknesses, different intentions. Moving from single purchase to grouped, to multi-packs, and landing finally on rollers before you’re turning, heading down an entirely different aisle.

The next isn’t any less overwhelming.

If anything, it’s more, because it’s at least more of what you needed.

Screws, bolts, fixings.

Your brain assessing, attempting to assemble whether a bolt is what you need, a screw or—

“You need a hand?”

It throws you off, the voice.

Cuts through your processing, through the low replays of the video (the ones only in your head) and the cracking radio which has moved into an advert for migraines.

It’s low, a slight gravel that he rids with a clear of his throat as you look over your shoulder, eyes sweeping over the owner of the voice, eventually turning to face him.

And fuck.

He’s broad, dressed in a deep green t-shirt under a tan apron—name badge scratched over, only leaving the lingering marks of a “here to help” and the fading logo you’d seen outside.

You don’t mean to gawk, but yet you do all the same.

Practically swallowing, attempting to whir your brain into gear as you take in the rest of him. The thick loose curls atop his head, the strong nose and the round-brown eyes. His moustache, the wiry facial hair across his chin he slowly begins to scrape at, as he remains waiting for a response.

“Screws.”

“You… you need screws?”

Nodding, you will your brain to work, to function. But, he’s just so—

Lifting his chin, he runs his thumb up and down the underside of his chin, waiting, waiting, until he smiles. “Do you know the kind?”

Think. Think. Fucking think.

And then you do. Somehow able to unspool some thoughts, find sentences. Beginning to explain, in barely-there pauses and animated hand gestures about your move, and your new lease of life, and this video you found and how you felt inspired by it to the point it had led you to order wood cut to size and tools from the internet, but screws, screws and this and that are all that you’d forgotten.

And, he listens. Sliding a hand over the sleeve of his sun-scorched tee as he does. Just nodding on occasion. Thin lines appear along his forehead at certain parts of the story, but nonetheless listening.

“Show me.”

“Show… you?”

Then he smiles. Soft, it slides up in a slow, almost cautious way, but then it’s at his eyes, touching, brushing itself there and sending sparks up into the darker brown flecks.

Licking his lips, he gestures, “The video.”

You do.

A quick shuffle in your pocket, a slide to unlock your phone and then your fingers are brushing his. They’re warm, his. That you can tell.

Heat radiating from them, slowly blanketing yours as his hand and yours cradle the phone like a newborn in an announcement photo.

From there, your chest tightens, more so when you meet his eyes, finding them watching you as intently as you wish to look at him, and it makes your heart stammer, skip—a full chaos of beats following before he’s holding your phone independently.

That’s when a new crisis calls. A new thought is all set to erode your mind.

Because your phone looks tiny in his hand.

The plastic case is almost dwarfed by him as he tips his chin, watching the video, occasionally tapping at the screen to skip ahead before he nods to himself, you all but busy trying not to choke on your own drool.

“I know what you need.”

“You do?”

A foolish question, all escaping without thought or rationale.

He just smiles, in a way that seems to settle your incoming anxiousness.

“I do.”

And he does.

A tilt of his head, his back turned to you, a brief thought crossing your brain at the sight but you quickly rid, and you’re following. Listening as he explains, as he points out things with his long, thick finger, as you nod, as though nothing lives in the space between both of your ears.

It isn’t until you’re back in your car that it hits you. Do you suddenly wish as your engine ignites and your car roars to life, that you had asked for his number—or better yet, his name.

It’s been days, and you’re still wondering if some part of you’d concocted him, made him up—thrown up an illusion of a man and exaggerated how good he looked.

The more you thought about him, the more insane it got. Even hearing yourself explain it to a friend made you question if you'd been dreaming. That maybe you’d let days mould him, shaping perfection in your consciousness.

It has more weight when you walk past the older man at the till, all white hair in a slick-back style and who tips his head and looks more what you’d expect from the decor of the place.

But a part, one fighting, scrapping for a moment to exist, still believes. Hopes.

Forcing your legs to wander down aisles you don’t need, pausing at each corner, desiring to be proven wrong. Hovering, hoping—half-wondering if it was essential that to make him appear, you had to look lost and hopeless—or whether that had just been a coincidence that first time.

With each up and down, you almost give up. Hope almost gone, erasing itself with each step, all but fading.

But there, in the centre of the paint aisle, speckled in dried flecks, it clinging in varying shades—a kaleidoscope dream on his jeans and worn t-shirt—is him. The man you haven't stopped thinking about.

"It's you."

"It's me," you grin, heat flooding your cheeks, growing up into your neck.

Arm lifting, hand brushing the back of his curls not housed in a cap, as he matches your grin. "New project?"

"Something like that."

His gaze doesn't waver, doesn't lessen, not as his grin slopes into a shy smile, before he wipes his hand on his jeans, offering it out. "Realised... I never... I'm Frankie, by the way."

You hand him your name, dropping an octave as you do—all unmeaning, entirely accidental—fingers sliding past his as you shake his hand.

“I don’t… you’ve not got your apron on.”

Glancing down, you find him grinning when he looks up, “Not my day today. Here on personal business.”

“Oh is…” squinting at the paint can in his hand, “Butterscotch Orange on a hit list or something?”

His lips slide into his cheek, a tooth-filled smirk. “Should be, it’s a right bitc—pain in the ass to sell.”

Rolling your lips, you trace your tongue across your teeth as you grin. “It’s no…” eyes squinting. “Mt Rainier Grey.”

His brow arches. “That your shade of choice?”

“I like it—don’t hate the orange though. So, maybe it’s not the paint, but the seller.”

Something twinkles in his eye, lips still cocked to one side, smirk still ever-present.

And it’s a challenge to drag your eyes to look at the floor, you shift your weight. Trying, and failing, to think of an excuse, to leave before it gets weird—before you become too much and ruin this nondescript thing. But, his throat clearing stops you. It forces your chin up. Barely just able to catch it, the whisper, how it’s almost said to the can in his hand than to you.

“You… doing anything right now?”

Shaking your head slowly, you bite your cheek as you grin. “Just talking to a man holding a paint can.”

Tapping his fingers along the top, lips rolling, “You fancy getting a coffee? With me?”

You have to bite your smile, out of fear you’ll show how practically beaming you are. Mouth opening, but he adds an addition of I don’t usually do this that makes your lips curl into a smirk.

“What? Invite random customers for coffee or accost them with paint you can’t sell?”

Biting his upper lip, he shakes his head, tucking a curl behind his ear as your eyes glance over at them. How they glisten under the yellow-fluorescent light.

Letting your heart dance like leaves in the wind. “I’d love to get coffee with you, Frankie.”

It’s nice, the coffee place.

Not a far walk, a few doors down. The charm of it coaxes you in with sounds of crunching beans and strong scents of varying levels of caffeine sliding over and relaxing your shoulders from your ears.

Because suddenly you’re nervous.

A slight shake to your bones, a twitch of your fingers.

“Let me get this.”

Smiling, you find him watching you, not caring to drag his eyes away when you catch him.

“Because you never do this or because you’re hoping to persuade me to buy your unsellable paint?”

Smirking, he traces his eyes over you, “Both.”

The corner of his mouth slides back into his cheek, a dimple appearing, deepening—one you want to brush over with your thumb the longer he keeps looking at you the way he does.

All dark eyes, beedy, but sparkling.

'Who's next?' breaks the spell. Shatters the magic. It forces you both to blink, to focus on the task at hand. Both orders said, whirring and crunching sounding as you admire the place, glaze over the menu until he’s nudging you.

With your order in hand and tucked away in the corner—the large window letting in light and warmth from the sun on your back—you try not to moan at the taste of your drink once it hits your tongue.

Because it’s good. Brilliant, practically everything.

To the point you have to bite back a thank you, one that you feel would be never-ending, a constant swirl of words landing on the circular table between the two of you. Nothing napkins and good conversation could soak up.

Because good coffee is always great, but knowing where to find it in an unknown place is something else.

Distantly, you hear him say your name, chin dipped, eyes focused, realising—in a flood of embarrassment—he’s been talking to you.

“Sorry?”

“I said, I’ve not seen you in the store before…”

Swallowing, you take a steadying breath.

“You don’t have to…”

But, you do all the same. You pour open small bits of truth, words falling, tumbling half-strung together as your history rolls out in a timeline in front of you both. How you’d bought a new place, that it’s a bit run down, seen better days—a determination to prove friends wrong by doing it yourself.

Foolish, you comment with a shake of your head, I know fuck all about decorating.

And he listens—to the fact you’re alone, not even a pet; he listens even as you talk about your work, all boring, not entirely interesting. The two of you simply lost in one another, surrounded by coffee mug swirls and the sounds of sizzling food, coffee shop noises and mumbling daytime talk as you ask him about work, about his love for orange shades.

And your eyes glance down at his phone, how it’s turned over—his all undivided attention given to you—yet your eyes linger on the phone case. The one with a drawing, likely in pencil, a man in a hat on a hill, a child next to him and a sun with a smile on its face.

“I… I have a kid. Luca—shared custody,” he says, nodding, tongue peeking out between his teeth, hands leaving the table and wiping back on his jeans in slow slides up and down. “He… he made it me.”

It’s the grin that makes your heart swell.

Makes your hand cup your mug a little tighter so you don’t offer it out to him to hold, a thing which feels so natural, no thought required. Except you don’t know his last name—barely know a thing about him.

Yet, your body practically leans forward as you mirror the smile—all soft, as another piece of a missing puzzle sliding into place.

“Does he like drawing?”

Laughing, his palm slides along his jaw. “Loves it.”

“How old?”

“Five—does that… does that bother you?”

“That you’re a dad?” He nods, and you lick your lips, you make sure to hold his gaze. “Not in the slightest.”

You smile, watching him mirror you this time. It rushes out, kissing across every bit of his face—a shyness soon fluttering over him before he clears his throat.

“So, you freelance? You like being your own boss?”

“Not especially, but it does mean I can work at night.”

Nodding, he slides his hand around the white porcelain, hand practically dwarfing the mug. It makes you want to ask him to hold things, to see if IKEA pencils or children’s eating utensils look more ridiculous than your iPhone and a regular coffee mug.

“Prefer the night?”

“I prefer the quiet of it... to think. It’s why… why I began trying to do something in the day, needed to still be busy.”

“Sitting still not an option, Rainier Gray?”

Shrugging, you smile. “Says you Butterscotch and your three tins of unsellable paint in the bed of your truck.”

“You got me there.”

“I just… like to be busy, and with the new house, no partner—commitments, I thought why not try a bit of DIY.”

Nodding, he lifts his mug, and takes a sip—eyes remaining fixed on you as he does, as though it buys him time, lets him think up an opinion, an assessment. It makes your skin warm, but for all the uncomfortable reasons, the panicking ones—parts of you beginning to catastrophise that you’ve said the wrong thing.

“Open up your Instagram.”

You stare, blinking.

“Trust me.”

And you do. With another fumble, another slide of your phone screen open, and you follow his instructions as you type in the spelling he gives you. When you click the page, it’s hard not to grin, to not have your face explode into a smile so large it cuts into your cheeks.

“I don’t like to sit still either,” Frankie adds, as though the thousand photos and videos, the tutorials and follower count don’t say that on their own.

You’ve fallen down a hole—willingly.

It cracked open the moment you’d sat on your couch, drink in hand, blanket half over your body.

The moment you’d begun your scroll, you discovered you couldn’t stop. Starting with the latest and moving back, until you realise you’d rather see the story in the way it happened.

Choosing a moment, almost nine months ago, before you work your way forward to the present.

You were cautious, more careful than needed, to not like anything too late—to not give away how deep into his page you’d gone. Even if you were in awe, a little proud—your cheeks a little warm and lips turned up into your cheek—as you saw in real-time his confidence grow. The way he’d look at the camera, began experimenting with angles, all in all being smoother, more happy.

You suppose that’s why you type a comment under one picture:

Is that butterscotch orange in the flesh? 🟠

Stalking me are you?

Getting some tips from Mr DIY himself.

I know you went back some months, Rainy.

How do you know that?

Because as soon as you commented that’s what I did. You looked nice at the beach.

Now who’s the stalker, Butterscotch.

Me. Clearly. I’m being very upfront about it.

Out of interest, do you tutor at all? Gives hands on help to beginner DIYers?

You genuinely asking or flirting?

Big-headed much?

I can help you with something if you need it.

I think I do.

Then I’m yours. Don’t worry, I promise to only snoop in your drawers when left alone.

Think we should get food first, show you what I’m thinking—make sure you’re up to the task.

You asking me on a date?

No. But if you keep showing off tools topless I’ll be tempted to ask you.

Knew you’d gone back further than a month.

FRANKIE’S INSTAGRAM 🌝

NEXT CHAPTER

an: you do not understand how giddy i am about this series. the chapters have flown out of me. i hope you enjoy it half as much as i'm enjoying writing it. see you soon xx

#frankie morales x reader #francisco morales x reader #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales #triple frontier x reader #francisco morales fanfiction #triple frontier fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #francisco catfish morales x reader #catfish morales x reader #pedrostories

772 notes · View notes

moonastro · 4 months

Text

mini message from your fs

pick a picture

left to right(top)-> 1,2,3

left to right(bottom)-> 4,5,6

*this took me quite a bit of time to write and i would appreciate the support that you give me, please enjoy this post as much as i enjoyed making it!*

°DO NOT take this as literal, take everything with a grain of salt as this is purely and intendedly for entertainment purposes. °Don't be afraid to give feedback and opinions about this post (as i would entirely appreciate it). ° This is a GENERAL reading, take what resonates and leave and pass on what does not!

pile 1-

"hi, i haven't done this before so please understand me☺️. i have been focusing on myself lately and kind off forgot about the people around me. i tend to do that sometimes. right now i may not be in the right physical mentality to be in a relationship but i always seem to think about you- literally, even if i don't mean to. please understand that our time together will come one day and there is no rush at all, after all the saying goes, 'good things come to those who wait.' when the time comes i am sure to have healed and be in the right mental space in order to take extra good care of you. i feel like you think about me also, you may even feel strong emotions when thinking of me but hold on just a little longer, i promise our time will come."

aww this person seems to be focusing on themselves at this time and it is important for them to do so. i think that they have went through a heartbreak and they are taking time off from any committed relationships as of now, they may be isolating themselves more than usual and that's just because they are regaining their mentality and energy.

pile 2-

"um, this is a bit awkward, not you but me, i tend to have awkwardness crawling next to me at all times. sorry, for the babbling, i have actually gotten a new job, a job that i have never had any experience in so that's really what I'm focusing on at the moment. it's a job that requires me to be independent and not rely on anyone else which i am very grateful for. this is actually a great time to remind myself to say this to you as i feel like i am quite distant with you sometimes. i dream about you...like a lot. it truly awakens something in me, passion, lust perhaps?? i actually don't know the feeling, its so unique that i only feel it when i see you in my dreams. i secretly want to feel that feeling all the time so i purposely sleep a lot just to see you. i need to pick myself up and sort my life out, I'm in a bit of a mess right now but that's just life you know?? i hope to someday release the feeling that i crave every night and i hope that day is near!"

wow, i feel like this person has strong feelings towards you, you may be connected spiritually and communicate regularly in the higher dimensions. they seem to be learning how to routinise their life and their life seems very busy and tiring. i feel like you guys will meet very soon as both are heading in the right direction.

pile 3-

"hey! oh how i need you in my life. every day i feel like a puzzle piece walking around longing for my other half, i feel very empty. not in a bad way of course, its just i know we are meant to be together and I'm a bit impatient at this point. how long is this going to take?? i guess i have been avoiding meditating and practising my wellness and that's why i have been battling with my thoughts 24/7. thinking of you makes me feel very powerful and secure. when you appear in my mind you clear every last of my bad thoughts, thank you for that!! maybe i can thank you soon? please tell me you are on your way to me? please. please. please... don't make me wait any longer. i do escape my reality, i tend to leave my house and sneak through the window to walk at night. i feel like that calms me? do you prefer night over the daytime too?? i feel like you do, oh we already have one thing in common imagine how many other thousands of things we relate to. i cant wait to talk to you, i really cant."

your person is rather impatient!! like really impatient. but i feel like they need the nurture from someone and they may be lacking that as well. they sound like they are struggling with their thoughts and overthink a lot, especially about the bad things. they are constantly trying to figure out what may be the problem, they may be new to this lifestyle and they are constantly trying to flee their problem instead of confronting them.

pile 4- 18+

"i feel you. i breathe you. i crave you. if you think i don't know you, oh no no i literally think of you all the fricken time. thinking of you makes me cxm. i cant wait to be intimate with you, i don't care if we don't know each other in real life, i want you! you make me want to touch myself, but how can i perform the act without you??? i sometimes think that I'm going insane but deep down i know that you are here with me. i really hope you are prepared for me baby. just a heads up, i may be out of control when things get too intimate if you know what i mean. but i am trying to control that because the last thing i want is to hurt you. i will worship you like a god, i will kneel down and worship you right in front of you, that's how much you mean to me. I'm not a committed relations typa person, i am waiting for you and saving myself for the fun that we will have."

pheww, wowwww wow wow, your person is very sexual. they sound like someone who connects with someone through being intimate and they are waiting for you to do so, sooo don't be surprised if there is crying and lots of raw emotions being released when you two perform the act. this will be very sacred for them, and you will be their art and world and basically their everything.

pile 5-

"hi lovely, just popping in to tell you that i am on my way to you. please don't be afraid, it is time for us to finally become one. i am finally ready!! aren't you excited? because i am so excited. every day i am getting closer and closer to meeting you and that makes me feel like a noodle- absolutely WEAKK. your presence is so strong darling, you wont need to be so strong when i appear in your life. we will grow together and i feel like you learned enough life lessons and that why this is possible in the first place. we have completed our lessons. i am so so proud of us. i am ready to finally settle down and commit to you. you are like the sun and i am the plant, leaning towards the sun, please keep shining my dear! we will make this work, together!!!!"

aw such a sweet message, your person is definitely such a cutie. they are definitely ready for marriage and to have a stable relationship. i do however think that they may speak a different language or are from a different country as i feel like there will be some set backs to your communication, but as your person said, you will make it work!

pile 6-

"hi, i have been daydreaming quite a lot...maybe about you. but that's really not important.. perhaps it is, i have been exploring new ways of expressing my emotions, been practising quite a bit. i think that i miss out on many opportunities because of my daydreaming but that's how i connect with you!! there i said it, do people really want me to break the only connection that we have together? are people that cruel? they just don't understand! music is my go to, i speak to you through music so please listen to music more. i have some things to learn and unfold but please don't worry about me! i don't want you to stress over me, i know you have your own set of problems so please don't add more to your list. can i tell you a secret? i am on a difficult path right now and its all my fault! we cant be together as soon as we would of want all because of my stupidity! but you are the star in this connection so i have my whole trust in you. please wait for me. can you promise me that?"

so your person really blames themselves a lot. it is not their fault at all, it is just that they need to learn more lessons than an average person. they feel hopeless and lost at this time so their energy is all over the place. they do lose their ability to focus as they are distracted by the tempting things in life and that sets them back.

that is it for this post!!

wow, i really enjoyed doing this reading, i had a lot of fun writing this, some messages were so cute and others steamy lol. but i hope you guys enjoyed this as much as i did!!

754 notes · View notes

number1jeonginstan · 6 months

Note

can you write about an au where when ppl meet/see their s/o they instantly feel like they need to consummate their bond? and seungmin meets y/n? (its fine if not tho)

A/N: Thank you for your request and sorry for it taking so long :( I really hope you enjoyed it! While writing this, I started getting an idea of making this into a series, so one for each member meeting their soulmate and stuff. I thought it would be neat, but I don’t really know if you guys want that or not, if you do, please tell me! ALSO, I told you guys I will be back on that writing grind (I always keep my promises!!)

WC: 2.6k

Minors don't interact, 18+

Pairing: College Student!Seungmin x afab! Reader

Warnings: kinda public sex, but not, unprotected sex (are we surprised?), cumming inside of op even though it was their first time, idk what else to add…

The air was thick outside, a light drizzle was hitting the ground as Jeongin and Seungmin were eating their lunch.

“Did you guys fuck?” Seungmin asked bluntly, dipping another fry in the ketchup in front of him. “You know we have to as soon as we touch, it’s so embarrassing though” Jeongin groaned. “How is it embarrassing? She now knows what your dick looks like and you guys can live happily ever after!” he chuckled as Jeongin took a sip of his milkshake.

“Dude, I don’t understand why we have to have sex as soon as we see our soulmate, the world is a twisted place. Like hypothetically, what if the dude is a virgin and the girl isn’t, or the dude has a micro? Even worse if they are both virgins, like imagine losing it to someone you don’t even know and then having to spend your entire life with them”

Seungmin just nodded along as Jeongin continued to go on and on. “Like think about it if I didn’t have sex with them, I would have a painful ass boner until we are either 100 miles apart or until I fuck her, not to mention, I can only have sex with them for the rest of our lives and we barely know each other.”

“I think you are reading too much into it, was she at least nice?”

��Yeah” Jeongin scratched the back of his neck “she was super sweet, I’m actually going to her place after this for a movie date”

“Awww, Innie is finally getting play, even though it is forceful”

Jeongin just rolled his eyes, popping another fry in his mouth. “I better get going, I don’t want to be late”

Seungmin watched him get out of their shared booth, only to almost run into someone and apologize. Seungmin just chuckled, knowing how clumsy his friend was, only to look up and see you.

He knew you from a few classes, you were also taking photography, but he didn’t believe it was your major seeing as you were only taking the required classes with him.

Jeongin profusely began apologizing, telling you he really didn’t mean it, you just giggled, telling him that everything was okay and it wasn’t your fault. As you turned around, you spotted Seungmin, and you stopped and looked at him for a second.

“You are Seungmin from my photography class right?” Seungmin was confused, he didn’t think that you knew him, let alone knew his name. “Oh um, yeah Professor Lee right?” he asked, trying to make it seem like he didn’t know exactly who you were.

“Yeah, I just wanted to say I love your work. When you showed us your portfolio, I was genuinely blown away. Like seriously, the way you capture the essence of everything around you is breathtaking.”

Seungmin could feel his ears getting redder, blushing slightly at the way you described his photos. No one had ever admired them the way you were describing them at that moment. “Thank you so much” he stuttered slightly, still a bit embarrassed.

“That actually leads me to my question,” you said, picking at your nails slightly. “Oh? What’s your question?” He asked, placing his chin in the palm of his hands, trying to show to you that you had his full attention.

“I’m a Journalism major, and I’m trying to work on my photography so I can better capture the essence of what’s going on at that moment in time. That’s why I’m minoring in it, but I feel like I’m just not there. Like sure, I have the camera and everything, but I feel like I’m not conveying the feeling or emotions of the event like you do, so I was going to ask if you could help me?”

You rocked back and forth on your heels waiting for his response, and he simply nodded “Yeah, I would love to help you”

You grinned “Um, do you want to give me your number, or I can give you mine so we can figure out a time if that’s okay, or if you don’t want to give me yours we can always meet up after class” you continued to ramble on.

“Give me your phone, I’ll put in my number and just text me right now so I can make sure it went through”

You simply nodded, handing him your phone. He put in his number, sending a text from your phone to his.

“See, I got it,” he said, holding up his own phone. “Why don’t I text you when I’m free and we can coordinate from there!”

“Thank you so much Seungmin, like seriously, I really appreciate it!”

Just before he could reply, your friend that you were with called you over to your booth, causing you to wave him goodbye and run over to her.

“Who was that?” she asked you, looking over the menu in front of her.

“He’s this really cute dude from my photography class, he said he would help me so I can take better pictures” You grinned to yourself, you had finally got the boy's number you had been fawning over for the semester.

10:21 PM

Hey, it’s Seungmin Wait, you already know that You know what, ignore the first two texts And that one And that one Shit. Ummm I just wanted to say that I am free tomorrow at 2 pm if that works with you. If not, that’s totally fine, we can find another time Anyway, have a good night!

You giggled at the texts he had just sent you, something about him being flustered over text made you so happy.

Seungmin rolled around in anguish waiting for your text, he wanted to know your thoughts. Maybe you thought he was crazy sending all those texts and ghosted him or no longer wanted his help. He was about to give up and go to sleep until he got your text.

10:34 PM

Oh hey Seungmin! Yeah, I think 2 works for me! I’ll bring my camera and stuff, and I’ll text you a good location Also, text me your coffee order, I’ll bring you some

He felt like a schoolgirl with a crush. You were so cute, asking for his coffee order, he just wanted to pinch your cheeks, but that would be weird, right? You guys barely knew each other, he would just watch over you in class and that’s all.

It was the afternoon and you had set up your camera. You had found this abandoned field a few months ago while just walking around listening to music. You thought it was the perfect spot to practice taking pictures with more emotion.

You had placed a picnic blanket in the grass big enough to fit 4 people as well as a blanket since it was getting cooler and you didn’t know how long you guys would be there.

You were waiting for Seungmin, the ice in his Americano slowly melting, the condensation slowly making the cup wetter. When your phone finally showed 2:05, Seungmin showed up. While you were wearing jeans, a white blouse, and a sweater with apples all over it, he was dressed in jeans, a white t-shirt, and a flannel.

“Sorry I’m a little late, I was trying to find this place,” he said, placing his camera bag onto the blanket. He took a step back, fully looking around taking in the view. “How did you find this place? It’s secluded, but absolutely stunning”

“I was just walking around one day and stumbled over this spot”

You handed him his iced americano, and he took it from your hands graciously. “So, I was thinking that we should practice different emotions, but the same scene, so why don’t we do that?” He took a sip of his drink and then placed it back on the grass.

You simply nodded, getting your camera, and waiting for his instructions. He turned to you and pointed in front of him. It was just some dandelions, it was nothing special, but he went on to explain.

“Dandelions are one of the very few plants that can grow anywhere and everywhere. Some might see them as a weed, but others may see them as a beautiful flowers that can withstand thousands of weather conditions. Now, think about what you want it to look like as you take the picture”

You did as he said, trying to fully understand the flower in front of you. You took the picture with the intent you had in mind, and you did it. The flower looked bright and powerful compared to the grass that surrounded it.

“Seungmin I did it!” you jumped up and down, showing him the hug. Before he could react, you gave him a hug, trying to express your gratitude. As you pulled away, it was like a switch had flipped in you.

For some reason, you could feel yourself get wetter. It was something you had never felt before, it felt uncomfortable, and the only thing you could feel was lust. The same was for Seungmin, all he could feel himself get hard the second you touched him. It wasn’t even just a random hard-on, but it felt so painful like he had to cum that second or else he would die.

“Seungmin, do you also feel that way?” You asked, feeling a bit scared, but your entire body was tingling like there was no other sensation. You could feel your wetness slowly drip down your thighs and there was no stopping it. “Yeah, fuck, I think it does”

“Can I please?” he groaned, he couldn’t bear the feeling of not being next to you, on top of you, inside of you. It’s like he could smell your wetness and had to indulge himself in it or else he would die. “Wait, I don’t have a condom, I don’t think we should”

Before he could even continue speaking, you stopped him, shutting him up by kissing his lips. “If you don’t fuck me right now, I think I might just explode”

You continued to kiss him, taking off your own sweater and pants, leaving you just in your blouse and underwear as he took off his flannel and pants. “But, what if?”

You stopped him, “I’m clean and am on birth control, if you are clean too then what’s stopping us? The only way this sensation will stop is if we are a hundred miles away from each other and that will take hours, so please just fuck me”

He groaned, going back to attacking your lips. He laid you on the picnic blanket you had brought, thanking your prior self for bringing it. He moved down to your neck, to the curve of your breasts as he continued to kiss them, pulling down the strap of your bra and blouse in one tug to give him access to your breast.

He began to tease your nipple, pinching it with his finger as he began to bite marks on your neck, claiming you as his. “Seungmin please stop teasing, I need to feel you in me right now”

That was all he needed, he pulled his shirt off, throwing it somewhere in the distance as well as his boxers. His cock was long, slightly thick, with two veins at the underside of it. You could feel your mouth water as he began to smear the pre-cum leaking from his tip onto the rest of his throbbing cock.

“Fuck baby, look at what you did to me just with a hug” he groaned. “I could say the same for me,” you said, pulling down your underwear to show your soaked core.

He looked at your pussy in awe, you were so wet he could easily slip in with no prep. “Fuck, so wet just for me”

You just nodded, playing with your clit, trying to give yourself some sort of stimulation. “Please Minnie, need your cock so bad” you pleaded, your doe eyes looking up at him. Before he could even register what he was doing, he aligned the tip of his cock, with your hole, slowly putting his cock inside of you.

You moaned at the sensation, you had never felt so full in your life. Once he had fully sheathed his cock inside of you, he let out a long and sultry moan. “Fuck baby, this pussy is everything”

Before you could moan in response, he began to fuck you like there was no tomorrow. Your legs wrapped around him, wanting to feel him hit that spot inside of you. “Fuck baby, fuck Minnie you feel so good” you moaned.

He lifted your hips slightly, causing him to hit that one spot inside of you. “Oh fuck, fuck, fuuuuuck” you babbled, feeling so close.

He could feel your walls tighten around his cock, he could tell you were close, so he brought his hand down to your clit, slowly circling it in tandem with his thrusts. That was all you needed to cum.

You came screaming his name, your legs wrapping tighter around him, not wanting him to stop thrusting into you. “Fuck baby, if you keep doing that, I’m going to cum inside, please let me go” he whined.

You didn’t budge, feeling slightly overstimulated, but that didn’t stop you from begging him to cum inside of you, to fill you with his cum. That was all he needed to reach his peak, his load shooting inside of you, causing you to cum once again, your walls milking him dry.

He slowly pulled out of you, covering you with the blanket you had brought and wrapping his arms around you.

You were both covered by the second blanket you had brought. You were thankful for it, it was shielding the both of you from the cool air that would be nipping your skin if you didn’t.

“Who would have thought the dude I was looking at all of class for the past semester was actually my soulmate?” You said out loud, your head buried into his chest.

He cocked his head slightly to look at you. “What do you mean, I was looking at you in class all the time, I never saw you looking at me?”

You turned your head up to look at him “So we are both idiots who could have done this earlier if we actually talked to one another?” You asked, giggling a bit about how stupid the two of you were.

“Yeah, I guess so” he chuckled back, placing a kiss on your head. “Shit, my friends are going to tease me relentlessly for this, fucking my soulmate in the middle of a field” He groaned out loud.

“You guys tell each other when you meet your soulmate?” you asked, a bit confused

“Yeah, we have a group chat, Jeongin was the first to find his and now I’m second, I wonder how the rest of them are going to find theirs”

“You should invite me to them,” you said, kissing his lips once again.

“Baby, if I didn’t they would have kidnapped you and introduced themselves to you”

You just laughed, running your fingers along his face. “Now that we have gotten over the whole “need to fuck like bunnies” how about we do this again?”

Before Seungmin could even realize what you meant, you slowly moved on top of him, slipping his already-hardened cock into your soaking pussy.

“Fuck baby, I’m always ready for round two,” He said, groaning at the way your walls clenched his cock, you were made for him.

#stray kids #skz #straykids x reader #skz smut #ju <3 answers #straykids smut #ju <3 writes #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #stray kids smut #seungmin #seungmin skz #seungmin x reader smut #seungmin x reader #seungmin smut #ju's <3 anons

391 notes · View notes

roosterforme · 7 months

Text

Adult Education Part 6 | Hangman x OC

Summary: Jessica can't catch a break at work, and things are just made worse when she's required to plan an event for alumni weekend. Looking forward to seeing Jake on Saturday was only trumped by a surprise visit from him.

Warnings: Fluff, angst, swearing, eventually 18+

Length: 4100 words

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Female OC

This story is part of the Beer Boy and Sugar universe but can be read on its own! Adult Education masterlist

Seriously, who let Jake on my masterlist!? Banner by @mak-32

The next morning, Jake was ready to go and standing outside with his travel cup of coffee at 7:25 just to be sure he didn't piss off his ride. At this rate, he was going to owe Bradshaw and his wife something really nice for all of their help with his truck. And with Jessica.

When they both pulled up in the Bronco at exactly 7:30, Jake climbed in the backseat with a smirk. "Sorry I interrupted your evening last night."

She smiled at him and shrugged saying, "It's fine. I hope your truck is repairable." But Bradley just glared at Jake in the rearview mirror as he pulled away from the curb.

"Gonna buy a new one, I think," he replied. "Just to be on the safe side."

As the Bronco coasted to a stop at a red light, she turned to face him. "How was your date with Jessica?"

Jake groaned and said, "That's why I'm getting a new truck. I had to run five miles, and I was late meeting her. Almost fucked it all up. I love that shitty, old truck, but I'll need something more reliable if she actually agrees to date me."

Bradley snorted. "Yes. Get something more reliable so you don't inconvenience Jessica." He gestured to his wife in the passenger seat as the light turned green. "She was asleep when I got home last night. Just in case you were curious."

"I wasn't. But thanks," Jake replied coolly, watching as she laughed and leaned in to kiss her husband's cheek. "And thanks for the ride. I owe you. Again." Jake tried to think about what he could even get for Bradley. What did he even like? Wasn't that Grateful Dead cover band coming to town?

"Wait. You ran five miles after your truck broke down?" Bradshaws's wife asked him. "That's actually kind of romantic. I would have been a mess after that."

"It's not as romantic as all the doors," Bradley grumbled. But now they were driving through the college campus, and Jake's eyes caught on the building where Jessica worked as they pulled up in front of it. Jake also had a front row seat to watch the way Bradley leaned across the seat and kissed his wife as if he wasn't going to see her for a week.

"Bye, Sugar. I love you so much," he whispered, handing her a lunchbox with a tie dye pattern. She bid him farewell with a similar sentiment and then waved to Jake. And then Bradley sat there and watched to make sure his wife got safely into the building before putting it back in gear.

"Do you drive your wife to work all the time?" Jake asked awkwardly now from the backseat.

"Of course. As much as I can."

Jake was quiet for a beat, and then he asked, "I know you and she met a long time ago. Were you ever in love with anyone else?"

"No," came his immediate reply. "Always been a little bit obsessed with that one in particular."

Jake could tell. And that level of devotion was starting to sound more and more appealing to him.

------------------------------

Jessica was so tired of the way she always ended up in tears at the end of every department meeting. This time she was sitting next to Leland, and it just wasn't fair that she was always being singled out. They were going to force her to volunteer to be a faculty advisor for an on-campus event for alumni weekend. She could already tell. It was going to be a tedious waste of her time, and Brian Conley would make some vague promises about getting her on a tenure track. But she just knew he'd never let that happen.

"Let's chat when we're done here, Dr. Reed," Conley announced in front of everyone like Jessica was a small child who needed to be reprimanded. And when everyone else was dismissed, she didn't move from her seat towards the back of the room. If he wanted to talk to her, he could do it from there. Because now she was just getting mad.

Almost all of the warm fuzzy feelings leftover from her Chippy's date with Jake were gone and replaced by self loathing. She had fucked up her career. She had fucked up her relationship with probably everyone in the science department. And she would most likely fuck things up with Jake, too.

"Jessica," Conley said softly, shaking his head.

"Please, call me Dr. Reed or Professor Reed," she managed to say without letting on that she was about to cry.

He sighed like she was the biggest inconvenience in his life and raked his fingers through his sexy salt and pepper hair. "Dr. Reed," he said with a sarcastic looking smile. "If you want to even stand a chance at tenure, then you need to comply with my ideas."

"It's so convenient that you are the one in charge of tenure for the department, isn't it? You know how hard I work. You know how much I care about my students. This shouldn't even be an issue."

Then he strode across the room and walked down the row of seats she was sitting in and loomed over her as he said, "You are the one who made it an issue. Not me."

Jessica was torn between the urge to tell him to fuck off and the desire to burst into tears. But she sat there quietly with her eyes trained on his as he added, "Now pick one of the events to manage for alumni weekend, or I can guarantee you'll be an adjunct professor as long as you remain at this school."

It didn't matter which one she chose, he would make it miserable for her. So she grabbed her bag and stood as tall as she could in her high heels. "Just shoot me an email and let me know the details. It doesn't matter which event I have to manage; I'll do a fucking amazing job with it while you try to bring me down."

She didn't wait for a response. She was out of the room and down the hallway to the elevators before he could say anything. The whole day was going to suck now. She could just tell. If only it were Saturday, she could be at Jake's place where at least her past wasn't hanging over her head constantly.

After three lectures in a row, she checked her emails upon returning to her office. The first one made her smile, because Advanced Calculus invited Jessica to stop by her office for lunch. The second was from Conley, letting her know that she was in charge of helping to plan and execute a beer pong tournament at one of the fraternity houses.

"Fuck my life," she moaned, reaching into her desk to get her peanut butter and jelly sandwich and room temperature bottle of water. Now she really didn't feel like having lunch with another actual person, but she didn't want to lose her only friend here. So she slowly made her way down to the other end of the building and the math department.

When she knocked on the door, she was greeted with a cheery, "Come in!" And Jessica once again marvelled at the spacious office with windows and the beautiful lunch spread out on the desk in front of the other woman. Today it was a delicious looking veggie wrap, an array of mixed nuts, and assorted artisan cheeses.

"Your husband always makes my lunch look even sadder," Jessica said, tossing her sandwich in its ziplock bag onto the desk and sinking into the open chair.

She responded with a laugh, saying, "Help yourself. He always packs too much in case I need an afternoon snack. How's your day going?"

"Horrible," Jessica whispered, reaching for some of the nuts. "I'm getting roped into helping with an event for alumni weekend. All because I don't have tenure. And even though I've been assured this type of thing will help me get there, I already know it won't."

"The fucking patriarchy," the other woman replied before biting into her wrap.

"Right?" whined Jessica. "Like I can't win. I'm never going to get ahead here. I wonder if Penn State still wants me. Maybe I should call them." She honestly didn't have much keeping her in California, but Jake immediately came to mind. Which was ridiculous, because they had kissed all of a handful of times last night. But he did run five miles. And he did want Chippy to like him.

"You can't leave me here alone!" Advanced Calculus complained, and Jessica smiled. "Which event do they have you working on?"

As Jessica nibbled on her sandwich, she said, "A beer pong tournament. At a fraternity house." She deadpanned, but the other woman started howling with laughter.

"I might actually be able to get my husband to come to alumni weekend even though neither of us went to school here!"

"Was he in a Kappa Pi chapter? I could probably make him some sort of guest of honor if he wants."

"No. Beta Gamma. We have the fraternity paddles at home to prove it. But he and I used to play beer pong in college, and I just know he would be more than happy to spend the fifty or hundred bucks per ticket to try to relive his glory days."

Jessica smiled tentatively. "Do you want to help me plan the event? I'm sure I could waive the fees for both of you."

She was expecting a loud resounding no. So when Jessica saw her nod and say, "Sure," she thought she might fall out of her seat. "Let me text my Beer Boy right now so he knows not to make any plans for that day. Not that he ever plans anything except a night out at the bar where I have to babysit him and Jake and the others, but you know..."

And then Jessica sat up a little straighter. Maybe Jake could come to the event, too. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad at all if they were all there. Maybe then Brian Conley would get off her back about everything, or at the very least, she wouldn't be alone when he tried to pick apart every little detail.

"Thank you," Jessica blurted out. "Like honestly. Thank you for agreeing to help me. And just for inviting me to eat lunch with you."

The other woman looked up from her phone with a surprised expression on her face. "You don't have to thank me. Now.... why don't you tell me a little bit about your date with Jake. I heard that man ran like a hundred miles to see you."

Jessica felt warmth in her cheeks as she divulged a few details about the evening, but then she realized it was nearly time for her to teach her lab class. "I'm sorry, but I need to run. Maybe we can do this again next week?"

"Sure. And I'll start brainstorming some ideas for alumni weekend. I'll recruit Bradley to help. Or maybe not... everything would be tie dye."

Jessica was still smiling as she walked to the lab.

----------------------------

Jessica was no longer smiling when she was three quarters of the way through her office hours and nobody had stopped by. Her stomach was growling so loudly, she was sure you could hear it down by the elevators. And she was shopping on the Victoria's Secret website for something to do. Really, she just wanted to stop at In-N-Out and head home, but then there was a knock on her open door.

"Reedy," Jake drawled, and she dropped her phone onto her desk with a soft thud. "You got some time for me?"

He looked so damn good in some well worn jeans and a Texas Longhorns shirt. But to make him even more appealing, he was holding some flowers and a container that looked like it was filled with food.

"Jake," she whispered, standing up behind her desk. She felt goosebumps on her arms and legs as a crooked little grin appeared on his face. He headed straight for her and set the container down, and when he held out the flowers, she took them. "Thanks."

Then she noticed his eyes catch on her phone which was next to the container, and Jake's cheeks flushed pink. He swallowed hard and asked, "You doing some shopping?"

Jessica turned the phone over just as the screen faded to black, but it was too late. Her Victoria's Secret shopping cart full of thigh high stockings, a new garter belt, and a pretty green set had been plainly visible to him.

"Maybe," she whispered, realizing that the green bra and thong set matched his eyes perfectly. And now she was thinking about how he might react to her wearing them. Jessica whimpered softly. And then his lips came crashing down against hers. She dropped the flowers onto her desk so she could have full access to his body as she stumbled back a step and hit her chair. But Jake had one arm wrapped securely around her waist, keeping her on her feet.

She let her fingers sink into his silky hair as his tongue met hers, and she whimpered again for him. His kisses were so intentional, so sure. Like he really wanted to be here in this moment. With her. Yet he kept his hands very respectfully on her back. And she realized it had been a year since she'd let anyone touch or kiss her like this. It had been a year since she even tried, and she never expected it to feel this good.

"Wait," she gasped, wrenching her lips away from his and pulling herself from his warm grasp. Jake held his hands up like she'd burned him, and his cheeks grew pinker as she walked around her desk, high heels clicking along the floor.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, his tone bordering on questioning as his eyes followed her across the tiny room. She closed her office door with a soft thud, and then turned to look at him.

"Too many prying eyes around here," she said with a laugh as her fingers skimmed along the doorknob, already missing the feel of Jake.

"Understood." He looked mildly relieved if no less pink as she made her way back to him. And then she was right in front of him again, and his lips were parted and his fingers were flexing, but he didn't make a move to touch her again as she adjusted her glasses.

She had somehow managed to pour cold water all over the moment by wanting to close the door, but just the idea of Conley walking by and catching them was too much for her to think about. Then Jessica's eyes trailed down to the lettering on Jake's shirt, and her fingers traced the T in Texas before she really knew what she was doing. She made it to the X, before she met his eyes again.

"Jessica." His voice was deep and a little raspy as he reached for her wrist and flattened her palm against his chest. He covered her hand with his larger one and said, "You're in charge. You set the pace."

How could those words possibly turn her on the way they did? How was this happening? She just nodded and eased both of her hands up along his chest and around his neck while he stroked her arm with one big hand. And then she pushed herself up onto her tiptoes and kissed him softly, guiding his other hand around her waist.

"I want you to touch me," she whispered against his lips, and that hand rubbed along her hip and then up her side in the most enticing way.

As Jessica kissed down Jake's neck to the collar of his shirt, he said, "I can't stop thinking about you. Didn't want to wait until Saturday to see you."

She giggled against his stubbled jaw and said, "You come to my office hours so frequently, you're probably my best student."

Jake grunted and said, "Now you're just teasing me."

Jessica pulled away and looked up at his handsome face. "If I wanted to tease you, I would ask what you thought about the thong I was about to order on my phone."

His head tipped back, and she watched his Adam's apple as he swallowed. "You're right. That's a much better way to tease me. And I would say that green is my favorite color."

When he met her eyes again, he very slowly brought his hand down along her butt. And then they were making out, hands everywhere. Jessica's glasses were crooked on her nose as he pushed his fingers up into her hair, tipping her head back for better access to her kisses. Her tongue was tangled with his again, and her fingers were tucking underneath his shirt when he moaned into her mouth.

Jake cupped her cheek with his palm and let the kisses taper off, but he still held her reassuringly in place against him with his other hand on her butt. "So are you going to buy it?" he asked breathlessly.

"Hmm?" she hummed, brushing her lips on his chin.

"The lingerie. Are you going to buy it?"

She gasped. "I don't really need it. I have so much already."

Jake just groaned and shook his head with a look of agony on his face. "You need it. The green ones. You should buy them."

She was in charge. He made it a point of telling her that she was, and now she felt powerful. "Alright. I will."

-----------------------------

Jake was a little nervous that Jessica would be able to feel how hard he was in his jeans when she told him she was going to buy that bra and lace thong that he was dying to see on her. His current state of need was only exacerbated by the way she vaguely told him she already had a whole collection of lingerie at her disposal.

Maybe it was the high heels or the fact that he could see her light pink bra strap peeking out of the top of her blouse right now. Or maybe it was her glasses and her kiss swollen lips. It didn't matter. Everything she did turned him on. And she wasn't even really doing anything intentionally. Well, except maybe for the slight dirty talk.

He wanted to make a comment about how pretty that shade of green would look on her or about how he'd love to take it back off of her, but he didn't. Instead he kissed her softly and said, "I stopped by to bring you dinner, so getting to see what you were shopping for was just a bonus, Baby."

She laughed and ducked her head before asking, "What's for dinner, anyway?"

"Chicken parmesan casserole and garlic toast. Oh, and a brownie for dessert."

Suddenly she was reaching for the container and peeking inside the lid. "This looks homemade. You made this?"

"Mmhmm." He rubbed circles into her hips through her skirt with his thumbs. "Trying to get you excited for Saturday."

She laughed and looked up at him. "I was already excited for Saturday."

He kissed her cheek and whispered, "Game starts at one o'clock. And I'm completely out of journals again."

And then Jake found himself standing behind Jessica at her bookshelf while she looked for the titles she wanted. He had one hand on her hip, and the other was held out so she could stack the journals she wanted for the weekend on his palm. "Oh, you'll like this one," she mused, adding one more to the pile. "I've read it a million times."

"Maybe I can read it to you," he murmured, and then her lips were on his again.

In an ideal world, this would be something already established. He could just take Jessica home with him for the night. Probably have sex and then cuddle. And then they could both leave for work from his place in the morning after a nice shower together. And that sounded so good to him, he was actually willing to put in the work to try to get there.

But tonight, he helped her carry her bag and her dinner and her flowers to her car. "You take the journals home with you," she whispered, kissing him just below his ear before she climbed into the driver's seat.

"Enjoy your dinner," he drawled.

"I will," she said with a smile before Jake closed the door for her. And then he walked the two blocks to where he had parked his brand new truck less than an hour previously.

The engine started up like a dream, and he drove home to clean up his place for Saturday. Not that it was ever too much of a mess; he lived there alone. Regardless, he wanted everything to look perfect. He wanted his couch to look extra inviting. He wanted to impress her.

Jake didn't even go to the bar on Friday night. Two weeks in a row now he didn't bring a girl home with him and kick her out early Saturday morning. He could have gone to the Hard Deck, and it would have been fine. He could have played pool and annoyed Bradshaw by buying drinks for his wife. It would have been fun, and he could have come home empty handed, no problem.

But he went to bed early after he jerked off in the shower to the daydream of Jessica in light green lingerie, and he couldn't remember the last time he slept so well. Then he spent Saturday morning getting food prepared for later.

Jessica told him she wasn't picky and would eat just about anything, so he was getting the ingredients ready to make chili with the pregame show playing on his massive TV. Then there was a knock on his door. Jessica was standing there holding a six pack of Sam Adams bottles and wearing a fitted Texas A&M shirt and tight black leggings. He couldn't really tell if she was wearing any makeup, and she had traded in her high heels for some beat up sneakers. And Jake felt a little weak.

"Hi." Her voice was soft as he opened the door wider.

"I told you not to bring anything," he said, eyes fixed on her body as she walked past him into his living room and looked around.

She turned back to smile at him over her shoulder. She looked maybe a little younger and so much more petite like this. Jake had to fight the urge to pick her up and carry her around. "Nice place. You going to give me a tour?"

"I dunno," he mumbled, closing the distance to her. "You're wearing an A&M shirt. The Longhorns' biggest rival."

She pressed her lips together, trying not to smile. "I thought you could make an exception for me?"

He took the six pack from her and brought his other hand up to cup her cheek. He kissed her slow and steady until he felt her fingers meet the waistband of his jeans. "Just for you," he promised. "Nobody else."

When he led her into the kitchen to put the beer away, Jake had to laugh. Her maroon and gray shirt perfectly matched his new truck. "What's funny?" she asked as he closed the fridge.

"I just realized my new truck is maroon with gray trim. Just like fucking A&M. I've gotta be the worst Longhorns fan around."

"You got a new truck?" she asked, eyes wide.

"Yeah. Thursday right after work, before I brought you dinner. Can't be late to meet you again."

"Seriously, you bought a new truck?" she asked, lips parted as she gaped up at him.

"Yeah, it was time. Still hoping the old one can get fixed up. I tend to like to hold onto things once I get attached to them."

"That sounds nice," she said, lacing her fingers with his while he took her on a tour of his condo. He showed her his bedroom and the balcony after she inspected all of the food he had out on the counter for later. And she just kept getting closer to him until they were right next to the couch.

The game was about to start, so Jake just went ahead and told her what he wanted her to know. "I think I'm getting attached to you, Reedy."

She closed her eyes and let her cheek come to rest on his chest. "Are you going to try to hold onto me?"

Jake wrapped his arms around her and said, "Yes."

----------------------------

I can't get enough of Jake (who even am I?). And I love Beer Boy being so snarky to Jake and so loving to Sugar. Reedy + Sugar = bffs? Thanks to @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 7

@blahehblah

@sotalife

@desert-fern

@furiouspiespytaco

@rosiahills22

@daggerspare-standingby

@je-suis-prest-rachel

@callsign-joyride

@theharddeck

@captain-beskar

@withakindheartx

@roosterscockpit

@whatislovevavy

@rosesreekofoccasion

@hangmanbrainrot

@neferpatra

@sehnsuchts-trunken

@averyhotchner

@thedroneranger

@cherrycola27

@mygyn

@hoyaharper

@tallyovie

@gennyanydots

@callsign-magnolia

@whisperofsong

@seriouslyseresin

@double-j

@bradshawsbitch

@sugarcoated-lame

@katiebby04

@anotherr-fine-mess

@supernaturaldawning

@chassy21

@strrywmen

@tylerjones98

@captainjaspenor

@gigisimsonmars

@fanboyswhore9

@angel-w0nderland

@abaker74

@idontcare-11

@isaebellaa

@bringnattolife

@xoxabs88xox

483 notes · View notes

astrojulia · 1 year

Text

Disclaimer: These general free readings are made in good faith for entertainment purpose.

Warnings:There are piles that contain more personal subjects such as trauma.

Hello dear, how are you? The most votes PAC was Your True Passion, I am doing all the themes on the list little by little since all of them received votes. Thank you all for participating and I hope you enjoy your reading!

How to pick a pile

When you have different cards to choose from in pile 1,2,3… look at each of those cards. Wait until someone reminds you of a memory. Perhaps a character’s outfit resembles one of your own. It is this pile that has its message. What if they all remind me of something? Go for the one with the strongest memory, one might look like her earring but another might be the favorite candy you got from your grandma when you vacationed at her house. But what if none reminds me of something? Take a deep breath and wait a little longer, without charging yourself or creating worries. Relax, some will awaken some memory in you, I promise! .

Credits: Piles images: here. Template: here

Pile 1

Your true passion involves helping humanity in its most catastrophic moments. There is helping someone who needs a meal and there is helping someone who has lost everything and sees no reason to live, you're in the second case. This includes social assistance, medicine, fortune telling, firefighter, police officer... Jobs that often require you to see a person in their most vulnerable moment, jobs where you can save a life in various ways, witness various stories and change several lives.

To get closer to this today, you need energy, to have your own will to live and face life, today you no longer have that sparkle in your eyes, that fire in your soul... It may be due to physical, mental and psychological reasons. If it's physical, seek your nutritionist and doctor to give you the necessary vitamins. If it's mental, improve all your self-knowledge and look for books and courses that can improve your essence. If it's psychological, look for the most accessible therapy for you, don't give up, you're not lazy, you're unhealthy.

You can also do the spell from "Book of Spells" by Paulina Cassidy page 75:

Booster Walk You’ll need: - A music device and airphones; - A relaxing and safe route for walking; Make sure you’re wearing comfortable walking shoes. Put your phones on, and start walking quickly! As you breathe in and out, using long, deep breaths, imagine white light flowing through you, invigorating your body, mind and spirit. With every step, feel your energy boosting. Walk as long you feel this energy.

After you have reconnected with your essence, there are several ways to exercise your true passion in your life as a whole. Here I present three.

One of them is to help sick or vulnerable people such as children and the elderly. You will need a lot of spiritual strength, to live a life where you know that when you leave your house, your pains and problems are left behind and the only thing that matters is helping someone else. You will need to be a person who has the courage to do whatever it takes and assume all your responsibilities, because here you will have to embody all the stereotypes of what a responsible adult really is.

The second involves more writing, but not exactly creative writing, but rather a more didactic one, such as being a teacher of any type of subject. If you happen to be the type who hates studying out of responsibility, there is also the other side of living for dance,so the effort of living with your face in books and huge texts is all going to learn about your own body, in these two options they both involve a lot of teaching for future generations, you learn to accumulate knowledge and help the next person not to make the mistakes you made.

The third and last one talks about building communities that support people in their doubts and difficulties, creating a safe space where people can be their best version and this doesn't need to be anything grand, it can be a place where they can gather to have an afternoon coffee and talk about dreams and nightmares.

In all three options, there is a lot of hope for a better future and a confrontation against the cruelty of the world, you need to learn from your own tragedies, live them and leave them behind to help others.

Pile 2

Your true passion is to succeed in life, to be better than your parents ever were, to rub in the faces of people who bullied you in school that you are much better than them. For this, you will need to align two very difficult things... which are ego and humility. You will need to have a healthy self-esteem and ego to know that you are capable and humility to not think you are better than everyone else and step on others. What is lacking for you to do this today is motivation, it’s like you want to do something but can’t see any path to achieve that goal. I will give you a spell from my book, but know that to get what you want you will have to follow a different path from your friends and ancestors, you will have to chase your dreams alone and fight for them until they become a reality.

But to give you a little push now, I give you the spell from "Book of Spells" by Paulina Cassidy page 125-126:

The Garden of Motivation Take a section of the yard, if not possible pick a vase, you will consecrate as your motivation garden. Each day you will tend to it taking any amount of time needed. Weed, water, feed and care for this garden, picturing what you want it to be in the future. Add anything to your garden that makes you happy, such as wind chimes, garden sculptures, gemstones, outdoor candle holders and pretty stones. This is your garden, so make it and keep it a reflection of yourself, and your motivation. When weeding your garden, you’re in turn weeding away the negativity from you. As you nurture and cultivate this garden over time you’re nurturing and cultivating your own ambitions. As an extra tip, you can plant something and give it your dream name or even your own name. If you truly want results, you will enjoy the work to achieve them. Happy gardening!!!

There are always more than one way to achieve your dreams, I talk about three.

The first one talks much more about enjoying your own life than anything else, you know, there comes a point where we have everything we wanted years ago and still aren't happy because we want more things, that is, we didn't even enjoy all the effort we had. You will need to take a break from the rush of life from time to time to pamper yourself, to see how much you have achieved and be proud of what you already have.

The second way is to leave the city or country where you were born, maybe you already have the dream of living somewhere else, a connection with another culture that you don't even understand what it is, but for you to be happy with your life you you will need to face the fear of abandoning all the comfort and security of living in a place you already know to go somewhere you don't know.

The third is to do almost the same thing as the second, leave where you live (do you hate your home? just kidding), but now it's for work and study. Where is the best college you can go? Can you go there? You should.

All options speak of physically leaving the place where you are and not stressing yourself thinking about all the things you still need to do, but being aware that you are responsible for achieving your dreams without being tied to the future, enjoying the present and being proud from past.

Pile 3

Your true passion is independence. Not owing anything to anyone, not having to wait for someone else's decision to do what you want. You want to be rich and enjoy everything you have sown. You are afraid of having to ask for something from someone, since you want to be your own provider and what is lacking today is a more abundant look. There are times when you are very pessimistic, more afraid of running out of something than acquiring something, it's like you chase after things not because you want them, but because you're afraid of running out. It's like you go to work not because you want to spend the money to buy McDonald's or enter that course, but to not run out of money when you need it.

Something that can help you get rid of this fear of scarcity is the spell from "Book of Spells" by Paulina Cassidy page 147:

Prosperity Bath You’ll need: - Fresh ginger root; - A handful of cinnamon sticks; - A bunch of fresh basil; - A piece of cheesecloth and rubber band Put all ingredients into the cheesecloth and tie with the rubber band. Allow the pouch to soak in the water as you run your bath. When you step into your bath, relax and envision prosperity streaming to you. Know that you will receive all that you need. (Julia notes: normally we do our baths making a “tea” with the ingredients and at the end of your normal bath you pour the “tea” into your body, avoiding your head, and then you let your body dry naturally).

There are several ways to achieve your true passion, but I always mention three:

The first is going back to doing that childhood dream that you left behind a long time ago because you thought it didn't make money. What was? Sing, draw, write, paint? You can go back to doing what you like, but now as an adult you have the opportunity to study, take a course and improve your skills.

The second thing you can do is much more perverse... You hold a lot of grudges from people who hurted you. You carry a lot of trauma and anger and that's it, either you take revenge the way you want or leave all that behind and move on with your life, go to a therapist or solve your problems, the way you are now, no no matter what you do, it's going to be out of fear and not for passion.

The third talks about opening yourself up more to life's possibilities, you've been so locked up, so focused on survival and forgot that you can just live, the world is full of opportunities and you have the competence to put effort into something and make it your own work or hobby, you don't have to beat yourself up, you don't have to suffer to be worthy of happiness.

All options speak of fear and trauma, of how you are still chained to the past and it is not letting you be happy, know that time heals all wounds and that life does not give greater challenges than our own strength.

Pile 4

Your true passion is to answer "What is the meaning of life?", because you want to live it. There is a lot of curiosity here, wanting to know more, having answers to all questions and a tiredness of seeing that everything is always the same,like the world will never change. What you have control over and can change is yourself, the world will change... in very, very slow steps, until then, revitalize yourself every day.

Something that can help you have energy is the spell from "Book of Spells" by Paulina Cassidy page 184:

Vitality Broom Dance You’ll need: - A broom; - Citrus-scented incense, or citrus essential oil and an oil diffuser; - Upbeat music; Light the incense or oil diffuser. Begin playing the music. With your broom, begin sweeping the room in unison to the beat of the music. Sweep in a counterclockwise direction to purify the room and remove negative energies. Then, sweep clockwise direction to build harmony, balance and vitality. This spell will get your cells pulsating as you awaken the healing flow of vitality within and around you.

There are several ways to make your dreams come true, but I always indicate three:

The first is to pursue knowledge and get involved with younger people or those whom you have seen as ignorant until now. Everyone has their truths, and uneducated people often learn too much from life. Maybe you have that simple grandmother who knows how to do many things... Be aware that you will be an eternal apprentice, carrying your own truth without needing to harm others.

The second way is to get involved with people in a joyful way, to celebrate life and have fun with all the material world. Life is abundant and has a lot to offer you, you can learn not only in studies, but also at parties and conversations.

The last one is already the most complicated, as it talks about being able to maintain a balance between social life and solitary life. You are very prone to work which the law (judges, lawyers), professions that require a lot of studying to achieve, that suffer their own dangers and pleasures. You can follow this path, but you can't get lost in it and become dogmatic.

All options talk about people, you you can learn from people, how you can you protect them when necessary. Don't be afraid of society, you will see that there are many more good people than bad ones, it's just that the bad ones are louder.

#pick a card #pick a pile #pac #tarot reading #oracle reading #astroblr #witchblr #intuitive reading #tarot community #divination #astrojulia

1K notes · View notes

katiexpunk · 2 months

Text

The Invited | Pairing Lucien Flores X Fem!Reader

Summary: Lucien Flores is invited back into your life in a very unexpected way, at a very bad time – what are you going to do about it?

Warnings: Borderline abusive, controlling relationship (not with Lucien). Like literally, we hate the reader’s fiancé. No, I’m serious, read this one with caution, there are heavy undertones of the reader’s fiancé being controlling and generally not a nice guy, no matter how much he tries to play the part. Implied infidelity. Heavy flirting, heavy tension. Religious undertones. Alcohol. References to Lucien being a playboy. References to wealth, art, and money. General Hollywood/California vibes. This one will have a happy ending. No use of daddy, no use of Y/N. This is gonna have some filthy fucking smut, hand to my heart.

Part 1 W/C: ~3.5K

A/N: Just, yeah…yep. I am as horny for him as you all are (like what the actual fuck). This story will continue as I learn more about Lucien and his character. P.S. Sorry if you got double-tagged, I accidentally deleted the whole fic so I had to repost.

Masterlist | Read on AO3 | Notifications

It started with one look, as many things do.

Initially, it was all just innocent glances across a crowded room, perfunctory nods, and polite whispered hellos in shared spaces. It didn’t take long for it to turn into more than that; that’s just who he is and the effect he has. You can’t say you didn’t hear the rumors, heed the warnings through the grapevines of the limitless supply of women who came before you, but listening never was your strongest skill.

The only girls you know who listen are strapped to a church pew, on their knees, and for what? Salvation? At least you know the pleasure of worshiping at the altar of a man who promises he’ll make you see god, a man who follows through on his word, no questions or fuck-all commandments required.

Or at least you did.

Maroon 5 said it best, even the sun sets in paradise.

++++

As you stand by your bedroom window, the last rays of sunlight paint the room in a warm, golden hue, casting elongated shadows across the minimalist decor. The gentle breeze from the Santa Ana winds whispers through the trees outside, carrying with it a sense of anticipation – dread – for the night ahead. You hate these things, but schmoozing is part of the role you have to play, just one of the many rules he’s slowly but surely made sure you follow. The good girl he’s made you become.

Focusing on fastening the back of your earrings, you watch the sun dip below the horizon, a silent witness to the transition from day to night – light to dark – although things don’t feel that light these days.

"There she is," comes a familiar voice from behind you, causing you to turn and find him leaning casually against the door frame. His presence brings a sense of unease, a reminder of the doubts that linger beneath the surface.

A forced smile plays on his lips as his eyes trail over you, his gaze filled with a familiarity that feels suffocating rather than comforting. "You look beautiful," he murmurs, you wonder if he believes it or if he’s just saying it to say it.

Most of the time, his admiration feels hollow, a facade that fails to mask the cracks in your relationship. In his eyes, you see reflections of expectations and obligations, a reminder of the compromises you've made at the expense of your happiness. It wasn’t always this way, especially in not while you were just dating, but things quickly shifted once you said yes.

You turn your attention back to the vanity in front of you and slip one final detail – your engagement ring.

“Thanks. Ready?” You ask, feigning excitement as you glide across the room, wrapping your arm around his. You can tell from the way he looks at you that he has something to say, something to critique, but he remains silent.

You descend the steps in the grand foyer as it welcomes guests with its opulent charm, bathed in the soft, flickering light of countless candles. The air carries the delicate fragrance of freshly cut flowers, mingling with the subtle scent of expensive perfumes and cigars. The walls boast exquisite paintings and sculptures, each hand-picked, and sourced from all corners of the globe – a deliberate show of wealth.

As you step into the room, conversations swirl around you, punctuated by the clinking of champagne glasses and bursts of laughter. You observe the guests, their designer attire and dazzling jewelry all but scream like me, I’m rich. Among them, art connoisseurs and collectors engage in lively discussions about the latest exhibitions and acquisitions. Directors, models, and Hollywood elites mingle effortlessly, their conversations flowing freely.

You're well aware that in L.A., half of the business dealings often occur in the shadowy corners of closed-door meetings, or in the expanse of lavish parties like this. It’s a city where nepotism runs rampant and connections are king. It's a city where who you know can often be more important than what you know, and navigating the intricate web of relationships is a skill in itself.

Dressed in an elegant gown, silky and yellow, your neck frosted in diamonds that shimmer like the stars above, you glide through the crowd with a grace that contradicts your inner turmoil. You’re good at this part, faking it, blending in. You might have grown up with this, but you never really felt like you belonged. It’s sort of strange to be surrounded by a sea of people, all while feeling like you’re stranded alone on a remote island.

As you exchange polite pleasantries and forced smiles, a nagging doubt creeps into your mind. Are you even meant to fit in with this crowd? Lord knows you wouldn’t be if you had anything to say about it, but being the daughter of a politician is a special kind of hell. We all have to make sacrifices. And you have – a lifetime of them. Sometimes, you can't help but long for simpler pleasures – a quiet Saturday night with frozen pizza, a bottle of wine, and a comforting movie. Fuck, you can’t even remember the last time you went out with friends, drank too much tequila, and flirted in innocent fun, or the last time you dipped your hand below the waistband of your panties without the fear of being caught.

Sipping your champagne, you endure a rather tedious conversation between the CEO of a tech startup and a broker. It doesn’t take long for the sensation of boredom to settle in, mingling with a growing sense of disillusionment. A dull pain throbs in your feet from the pressure of your heels. Their voices start to fade into the distance as you zone out, feeling increasingly disconnected from the authenticity you crave.

You decide you need a break, some fresh air. They’re not even listening to you; you're not even sure if they notice you're here or not. But still, forever polite, you excuse yourself anyway and make your way across the room, weaving through the crowd of suits and couture. You’re not thinking about anything except getting the hell out of here until you hear your name called behind you.

It’s a voice you’d recognize anywhere, in any lifetime, in any place. You stop in your tracks and look over your shoulder.

“Hi,” he says.

What the fuck? You’re sure you must actually be drunk now, or so bored that you’re delusional brain is conjuring him up. You don’t say anything in return, you just stand there. The room slows around you, bodies pause mid-motion, and your world goes silent.

“Been a long time,” he casually says, lifting the glass to his lips, eyes intent on yours.

His words, the low rasp of them, snap you back to reality.

“Lucien – wha, what are you doing here?”

“I was invited.”

You barely hear his response. Fuck, he looks so good. Handsome as you remember him, all salt and pepper curls, dark facial hair, and broad shoulders. He’s clad in dark jeans, and a colorful silk shirt, the buttons at the top undone, giving just the slightest glimpse of his sun-kissed skin and the chains that rest there.

Arousal pools in your belly, thick and heavy, a feeling that you haven’t felt in years. Not since him.

"Invited, by who?" you ask, your voice laced with challenge. He takes a deliberate step closer, his presence enveloping you in a heady mix of desire and tension. The air around him is thick with the sticky-sweet smell of cigarettes and the woody notes of his cologne. He smells good.

He's close now, close enough to send a shiver down your spine. You tilt your head back to meet his gaze, feeling the heat of his breath against your skin. Shit, those brown eyes. Your pulse quickens as his large palm closes around the back of your left arm, the touch sending electric sparks through your body. It's a soft but firm grip, possessive and confident.

As he trails his palm down the length of your arm, you hold your breath. He stops once your hand is gently balanced in his, and you feel his fingers brush against the cool metal of your engagement ring. Glancing around the room for a brief moment to make sure nobody’s watching, he dunks his head, and whispers in your ear, his lips so close that you think he might kiss your neck.

“I think you already know the answer to that, sweetheart.”

What.

He places a soft, innocent kiss on your cheek as he retreats and takes a step back. You don’t miss the way his eyes trail over your body, lingering for a moment too long on your collarbones. The muscles in his jaw tighten, and he gives you a polite nod, before stepping away, slipping into the crowd, leaving you woozy and confused.

What the fuck does that even mean?

As you internally grapple with what the hell just happened, your fiancé finds you in the crowd, possessively trails his hand along your waistline, and plants a wet, rather drunk, kiss on your lips.

“What did he want?” he asks, harshly.

“Nothing, just saying thanks for the invite,” you respond, hoping he can’t sense your lie. Hoping he falls for your trap.

“If you’re lying to me sweet pea, that’s gonna be a real problem.”

“I’m not.”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“So why do you look so flustered, huh?”

“You know how I get when I drink champagne,” you retort, playing up your innocence.

“Right, well you better pull it together, can’t have my girl sloppy,” he warns, his voice a little slurry himself, his balance unsteady as he takes another sip. He’s moved on from champagne to whiskey. A bad combination, a dangerous one.

“You know the only reason I invited him tonight was that I think it’s an important lesson for you –”

You interrupt, “YOU invited him?”, your voice clear and stark. The truth hits you like a freight train. You want to cry, throw up and scream all at the same time.

“Of course. Listen, baby, I know you went through your slutty phase, but look how far you’ve come.. look how much I’ve helped you grow,” he slurs, “men like that, don’t deserve women like you.”

And there it is – the truth.

Your blood hits a boiling point. You give him a death glare, but he doesn’t seem to notice before he’s quickly moving on.

“Come on, baby.” I’m not your baby, not anymore, haven’t been for a long time.

“I’d like to introduce you to some people,” he says, grabbing a fresh glass off of the passed tray, and handing it to you with a little too much thrust, enough for a few drops of it to spill over onto the silk of your dress. Your fingers grip around it and you follow his lead, despite the bitterness you feel. Ugh. Why is it so easy for you to fall into line now? Secretly, you hope the dull burn of the alcohol will distract you – calm you – make you forget.

You’re drunk, aroused, mad, and confused, and on top of it all, you’re fading in and out of the dull conversation your fiancé has you engaged in, or rather than listening to. Not like he lets you get a word in, anyway. You scan the room looking for him whenever you get the chance, trying not to be too obvious. You finally spot him in the corner and try to ignore the magnetic pull that lassos around you once you do. He’s talking to a model, because of course he is. Is he intentionally trying to make you jealous? Or is he just being his usual fuck boy self?

You chug what must be your sixth glass of champagne to forget the bitter memory of the last time you saw him – when he told you that you should just keep things casual, that he couldn’t handle the pressure of being with the daughter of a politician, that he would never measure up, and that this was just temporary, just sex.

It wasn’t, and you know it. You know he knows it.

But fuck it –

If he wants to play games, you can play games. You’re the one who’s engaged, this is your house, your space. You’ll show him what he’s missing.

With that in mind, your personality shifts a bit, part in courtesy of the alcohol, part because of your rage. You do your best to intentionally play up your happiness in a room full of strangers, show him that he doesn’t affect you. Show him that he doesn’t matter, that he never did. You cling tight to the arm of your fiancé, being sure to pull out your best doe eyes, your innocent fuck me eyes that you know men can hardly resist. The eyes you know that drive him wild.

But there’s no point, he sees right through it.

Shit.

He knows you too well, better than all the rest. You let your guard down with him, trusted him, and now he knows all the signs – all the tells – he knows where your heart and mind truly rest, probably before you even do.

Shove it down. Shove it down. He doesn’t matter. You are engaged. This is the life you want.

It’s not.

You watch through the corner of your eye as he excuses himself from the conversation with the model and walks through the crowd, intentionally finding your eyes as he does. He slips up the stairs, away from public view.

Ignore him. Ignore him. Ignore him.

You can’t. You know you can’t.

Before you can even register what’s happening, you’re stepping out of the conversation you were never really in, letting your instincts guide you. You lift the hem of your dress, your heels teetering slightly as you make your way through the bustling, suffocating room.

Each step up the stairs is a battle between your mind and your heart, your brain screaming warnings while your emotions, your arousal, tug you forward. It’s always been this way – a magnetic pull, an invisible force drawing you in to him like a moth to a flame.

This is a mistake.

Don't do this.

Do this.

You want this.

You're engaged.

Stop thinking.

Climbing the final stairs, your heart pounding in your chest, you surrender to the emotions swirling inside you. Your brain protests, but your heart has already made its decision.

"Luci—" you timidly call out, but before you can finish, he reaches out in the darkness and pulls you into his chest. You let out a little oof of surprise, but soon find yourself settling into the embrace, his warmth enveloping you as his hips press tightly against yours.

He doesn't utter a word, simply holding you close, his body a comforting anchor in the dimly lit hallway. His hand rests at your waist, the other gently cradling the swell of your cheek as he gazes down at you. Despite the darkness obscuring your features, you can sense him drinking in every detail, every curve, the small details you’re not sure anyone notices anymore. He’s looking at you like he always has, like you’re the main character in every story he’s ever cared to read.

With a tighter grip, he guides you further down the hallway, away from the prying eyes at the top of the staircase. Your back eventually meets the cool surface of the wall, and he pauses there, his presence dominating the space, sucking up the air around you. His grip on your waist remains firm, as if he knows exactly what he wants and how to get it.

Under his touch, you feel yourself melting, surrendering to the intensity that is the two of you. There's a confidence in his demeanor, a certainty that courses through you. A live wire of energy that you’ve never felt with anyone but him. He knows exactly how to read you, how to anticipate your every desire, and you find yourself powerless to resist.

You’re suddenly acutely aware of the ring on your finger, and before you can protest, he’s already speaking.

“He’s not the man you think he is, sweetheart.” His words pierce you like a knife.

You don’t respond. What can you even say? He can already see your truth, your reality, written plainly across your face. He searches your face for hesitation, any sign that he’s crossed a line.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, and you can only nod. Yes, please.

This isn’t normal, this isn’t a thing that people frequently experience – it’s wrong, you’re engaged. Even if your fiancé is a grade-A asshole, you can still maintain your morals.

But the thing is – there’s something so electric about the two of you together, an undeniable force, a promise written into stone long before you even realized it.

The combination of your bodies, two halves of a whole, is the only excuse you can muster for why you’ve found yourself in your current predicament – pressed up against a wall, his broad frame pinning you into place, the weight of his gaze like a flame threatening to swallow you whole, turn you into ashes.

Even though it’s been years since he’s pressed his lips against yours, the weight of the pretty little rock on your left finger fades into distant memory, and he pulls you back to a different reality.

A reality where nothing else exists, a reality where your timelines converge, a reality hand-sculpted just for the two of you. One where he didn’t fuck up, the one with the happily ever after.

With your lips connected, it’s easy to let your mind fall silent.

And when he breaks for a bit of breath, your eyes connect once more and you can’t help the thought that crosses your mind.

What a pleasure it is to burn.

His hand finds its way to your thigh, and his fingers make their way to where you so desperately need them to be. Nipping at your neck, he whispers sweet praises into your ear, each word sending sparks of arousal that dance along your skin. It's carnal, primal, an undeniable biological reaction that leaves you practically dripping for him.

"You know me, better than anybody," he rasps against your skin, his words a seductive promise of something more. Planting a soft kiss on your collarbone, he leaves you reeling with need.

But just as you're about to respond, the telltale sound of creaking wood and heavy footsteps echo up the stairs, accompanied by the call of your name. Panic floods your senses as you realize who it is.

Fuck, shit – no, god damn it.

Lucien quickly steps away from you, and sneaks off into the bedroom adjacent to the hall.

Your fiancé appears at the top of the steps, his gaze sharp and knowing, as if he can sense the tension in the air. In that moment, you know you can't keep hiding, can't keep pretending that everything is fine.

“What are you doing up here?”

Fuck it, be bold.

“We need to talk.”

TO BE CONTINUED

If you like this, please consider a reblog (dm me if you want to be removed): @endlessthxxghts @theoasisofthings @pedrostories @bastardmandennis @milly-louise @ghostwritesthings @josephquinnswhore @drunk-and-capable @syd-djarin @survivingandenduring @hotgirlbedtimescenarios @ohheypedrito @joeldjarin @nerdieforpedro @amyispxnk @paleidiot @ghostwritesthings @kulekehe @darkheartgatita @goldenhxurs @javiscigarette @morallyinept @ro-nahime-things @gwendibleywrites @missladym1981 @auteurdelabre @morgaussy @yxtkiwiyxt ily.

#lucien flores #lucien flores smut #lucien flores fic #the uninvited #lucien flores x reader #lucien flores x you #pedrohub #pedro stories #pedro pascal characters #lucien x reader

174 notes · View notes

lafleshlumpeater · 5 months

Note

can i please get literally anything about travis stoll. i’m begging. i need more content for him. if i have to be picky all i ask is daughter of apollo reader

Ofc!! Hope you enjoy<3

Warnings: none, i think? Lmk if there are

Requests are always open<3

travis stoll masterlist

“What’s this, babe?”

Your boyfriend, uncharacteristically shy, looks up at you through his lashes, chin tilted down. You cock your head to the side.

“Travis?”

“Hmm?”

You give him another perplexed look. “Can I open it?”

You had just showered after training to find your boyfriend waiting on your bed, a brown paper package sealed with sellotape in his ever- moving hands. He had wordlessly stood up, greeting you with a shy grin and handing you the mystery item.

Even now, he’s hesitant, biting his lower lip. You reach out and pull it from under his teeth- you were always nagging at him for that habit.

You trace a thumb up his jaw, admiring the spatter of freckles along his nose and cheeks, like the most delicate painting of stars in the sky, his sunkissed skin the canvas for it.

“You- you can open it.”

“Sure?”

He nods. “But-” he places his hand over yours when you pick at the sellotape. “Don’t laugh.”

You’re about to give him a playful quip back, something about how if it’s something stupid like a plastic bug, you’re going to laugh- but the words die on your tongue and your face relaxes into something like sympathy or extreme tenderness when you realise he’s serious. The poor boy thinks you’re going to laugh at him.

Your insides dissolve to mush. “I won’t laugh. Promise.”

You can see his shoulders slump slightly, but he’s still tense. “Okay.”

Your fingernail resumes its endeavour to peel away the sellotape, but quickly growing impatient, you just tear at the paper. At first, you see nothing inside and wonder if it’s one of his silly, everyday little jokes after all- when something at the bottom glints up at you. You raise an eyebrow, but your boyfriend just looks to the side, long lashes almost blond in the sun shining through the open window. You observe the thing more closely, taking it out and laying it flat on your palm- and when you see what it is, your heart flips.

It’s a necklace. A golden chain, so carefully crafted you wonder for a brief moment if it was forged by Hephaestus himself. But that’s not what caught your attention.

Your face pulls up into a face- splitting grin, so wide it hurts. A small bow and arrow charm hanging from the end, a curly ‘T’ and ‘S’ next to it. His initials.

You look up at him with an elated giggle. “Travis.”

“Do you like it?” he asks nervously, eyes squinting, sceptical through narrowed eyes.

“I- I love it,” you beam. “Thank you. So much.”

Your effervescence is contagious; Travis rubs the back of his neck with a sheepish but easy smile you knew so well. “I didn’t know whether you’d want your initials or mine, but-”

“But it’s perfect,” you interrupt. “Thank you. Honestly. I love it.”

At your adoring reaction to his gift, he completely relaxes, face still flushed a pleased pink. “I’ll help you put it on,” he says, taking it from you and turning you around by your waist. You feel his fingers brush the back of your neck as he clasps the necklace, stroking his thumb along your warm skin. “Pretty.”

Your smile grows even wider, something you didn’t deem possible. “Shut up.”

He leans in, nosing along the skin between your neck and shoulder. “No.”

“Tease,” you mutter, turning back around to face him and pulling him in for a long- awaited kiss.

Sorry if this was really random just smth i was thinking abt yesterday

READ: this account stands with palestine, and so— i require everyone who interacts to educate themselves, and support/donate. READ THESE; 1 and 2, HELP HERE, BOYCOTT. silence is complicity, do not scroll past this.

117 notes · View notes

greenboyfriend · 6 months

Text

pick an image! (tarot card reading)

image source image 1: a purple blob with many holes across its membrane, and a divot separating itself in two. hopefully, looking at this thing, you don't contract trypophobia. image 2: another wonderful blob, this time in blue. many little orange spikes peek out across its surface. the contrasting colors really make this image pop! image 3: less blob like, but still blob-ish, this yellow lad has many spindly arms. the better to hug you with, my dear!

1.・。.・゜✭

although you may feel like you've reached the pits as of late, the empress assures you that there are many, many good things ahead of & around you, so long as you lean into the energy of the chariot. you need to stop feeling like the victim! sure, you may be, but there is a time and place for self pity, and now is not it. some of you- though not all- may also be acting as a martyr, letting others step all over you. this must change! if you're unsure of where to start, going out into nature may help you find balance. it might also be a good idea to enjoy the things you do have at the moment, and you'll find that you have more than enough of what you need. your current challenge is to embody the chariot! maybe you're resisting it a bit, it's ok, we've all been there. but this has the potential for great results! fixate on your goal and use everything in your power to propel yourself towards it. it may take some time, and you may have to take multiple steps to get there, but that victory will be oh so sweet. you will have to resist your impulses to get angry, or for some, to put others before you. but the 9 of pentacles nails the point home: you need to do what is best for YOURSELF, using your own methods. you're already set up to succeed! just keep your head level, and resist the urge to give them a piece of your mind. i promise, once you've reaped what you're sowing now, it will be twice as satisfying as lashing out.

(10 of swords, the empress, the chariot reversed, 9 of pentacles)

2.・。.・゜✭

you're holding out against something. you're saying no, refusing, struggling!... im sorry to be the one to tell you, but you've gotta give it up. look, im all for resisting authority, but within this situation, rescinding your position will be beneficial. think of it as taking a step back in order to take two steps forward. you're going to have to go in the total opposite direction, to put others first and try to see things from their perspective. know that you're operating from a safe place, too, and that, no matter how things go, you will be protected. you may even be blissfully unaware to some of the worse aspects of this situation. you will need to find a solution that lasts. you don't have to do this on your own, whether you need help with resources or anything, asking for help is completely ok. it may feel like a sacrifice to change your mind, but this is the path that will leave you with a clean conscience. this situation likely has to do with family.

(7 of wands reversed, ace of pentacles, the hanged man, 6 of cups, 10 of pentacles)

3.・。.・゜✭

much like those who chose image two, you will also be or already are doing an about-face, where you overturn old priorities into the new. it seems like this is going to take a lot of tinkering to get just right, and will require that you have the perseverance to see it through. it won't be easy, but, as the king of pentacles' energy shines through you, anything can be made possible! being committed to your task and able to adapt as your situation changes will serve you well. don't be afraid to admit you were wrong, to ask for help from multiple places, or to take a rest after getting knocked down. this is all part of the process. the queen of cups gives you the added strength of patience, kindness, and a finely tuned intuition. pay attention to your dreams and immediate gut reactions, and use them as building blocks to further reach your goal. if you're like me, who wants all the questions to be solved as soon as they appear, taking your time and allowing yourself to wait for the perfect moment is not always easy-- but take this as a means to strengthen your resolve. we are all prone to different skillsets, patience being one of them. maybe finding help in this area would prove useful to you?

(king of pentacles, the hanged man, temperance, 9 of wands, queen of cups)

thanks for reading! if ur interested in getting an in depth reading with me, send me a dm or an ask!

#tarot #tarot reading #tarotblr #tarotcommunity #tarot cards #pick a card #pick a picture #pac #pick a pile #pick a photo

100 notes · View notes

thatgirlonstage · 3 months

Text

Considering the cross section of people who want ao3 to have an algorithm with the painful lack of reading comprehension you see so often on the internet and it occurs to me that part of being able to use a website like ao3 the way it’s intended requires you to… know your own taste.

In order to input the correct filters to find what you’re after, you have to have some sense of what you like and what you don’t like and how those things are described in tags and categories that you can filter on. You have to have the ability to take a fic and parse out which pieces of it you responded to and then figure out how to get more of it. You are, with the aid of a filter system as fantastic as ao3’s, actually more effective than an algorithm at doing that once you know how! You know that the reason you liked this fic was because of the really gooey cuddle scene between A/B, so you know that now you should go look in tags like “Cuddling” or “Hugs” or “Comfort” or “Fluff” or “only one bed + Rated T”. An algorithm can’t tell if you liked the gooey cuddle scene or the fact that it was a steampunk AU or this specific author’s style, it can only make statistical guesses at the fact that a lot of people who liked THIS fic also liked THAT one. It doesn’t know WHY.

But like… that is a skill. It may be a very intuitive skill, especially for people who have been doing it a long time, but if you’re accustomed to being spoonfed suggestions I can guess it wouldn’t be intuitive at all. I can absolutely see how needing to search for your own preferences would stump you if you’ve never had to do it before.

And it is very much an exercise in both literacy and understanding your own taste. If you don’t bother to paint things you read or watch with any more nuanced brush than “I like this” or “I don’t like this”, then you never learn what, exactly, it is that you’re liking or disliking. You’ll never be able to pull a text apart to figure out which strands are compelling and which you could do without. You’ll never be able to tell the difference between what is a generally well-written story and what is tugging at something that you specifically enjoy. Especially in the climate of judging media by its moral correctness, where dislike and especially disgust gets equated to “there is something objectively BadWrong with this art and therefore NO ONE should like ANY part of it,” people are increasingly encouraged to sand away any understanding of their own personal tastes.

Knowing your own taste can be scary. Very seriously, it can be hard to look at yourself and reconcile all the weird, cringe, taboo, silly, gross, embarrassing, or fucked-up stories you might like. It can be easier to just go along with what other people tell you is good or bad, particularly when there is as much pressure as there can be in online spaces—both inadvertent and intentional.

But I promise, I absolutely promise, knowing your taste is the best and fastest way to find more art that you love. Figuring out what it is you like is the route to finding more of it, to finding art that resonates with you, art that bring you joy. Figuring out why you like it can be interesting, but that can be an even bigger and more fraught question to consider. You don’t have to understand the why. Just start with the what. It will unlock so many doors for you.

#idk is this anything #I’m just thinking out loud mostly

64 notes · View notes

cherry-bomb-ships · 2 years

Text

F/ovember FAQ

I wanted to write out this little post of any general questions about this event. Please give it a read if you're interested in participating! 🧡

What is F/ovember?

F/ovember is an f/o takeover event spanning for the entire month of November, from the 1st to the 30th, where self shippers are encouraged to give their f/os control of their blog for the month.

What's an f/o takeover?

An f/o takeover is a one-person event that used to be pretty popular in the self-ship community, where bloggers give their f/o(s) control of their blog (a.k.a. you essentially get to roleplay as your f/o) and invite their followers to ask their f/o(s) questions, typically about their self ship.

I've never done an f/o takeover before! What are the rules?

That's the beauty of this event; the simplicity! The basic guideline is that your f/o is the one answering questions, but the rest is up to you! That being said, there are two rules that I encourage everyone to follow:

One, if someone sends you an ask, send one back to them if they're participating as well! It's good ask karma and you might make a new friend out of it too!

Two, please do not write your f/o saying mean or hurtful things about you. If it's a lighthearted jab or part of your lore, then thats a slight exception, but they would never say anything genuinely hateful about you, I promise 💝

Do I have to keep up the takeover for the entire month to participate?

Not at all! You're encouraged to have the takeover on your blog for the whole month, of course, but you can do it as long as a week, a weekend, or even just a single day. You can even do it for a week, drop the event, and then pick it back up later in the month if you'd like to!

What if I want to do the takeover with only a few/one of my f/os, or do the takeover with only a certain type of f/o (platonic, familial, etc)?

Then do it!! You're allowed to use as few or as many f/os as you want, and any type of f/o you want! You can even switch which f/o or what type is answering questions from day to day (i.e. having a day/week for all platonic f/os).

Who is running/moderating this event? Who is allowed to join? How can I sign up?

I came up with the event idea on my own (my name's Ruby if you don't know me, hi :3), so I suppose that technically makes me its sole moderator, but that is only in the most loose of terms. This is being held on each person's individual blog, so there is no type of sign-up process required! However, that also means there's not much I can do against someone joining other than blocking them and advising others to do the same.

That being said, I would appreciate if anyone who matches my DNI section of my Carrd, especially pr*shippers and c*mshippers, does not interact with this event or use the tags for it either. This is event is not for you.

I am a pr*shipper and I'm gonna interact and do the event anyway! You can't stop people from just using a tag!

Okay. Have fun on the blocklist, freak :)

No one is sending me any asks! I feel left out :(

I'm really sorry to hear that. While there's no solid way to guarantee asks in your inbox, there are a few things you can do to increase your chances. You can try making a promo post for your takeover, and be sure to tag all your posts related to it with "f/ovember", as well as other tags like "f/o takeover", "fovember", and "self ship community" so people who frequent those tags can see it. You can also try sending asks out to other self shippers who are doing a takeover, as they're likely to send one back. In addition to that, I'll be trying to send an ask to everyone participating, so if I missed you then please do not be afraid to send me a quick message about it!

Are you participating with an f/o takeover as well?

Yes, I am! I'll be trying to run my takeover for the entire month with all of my f/os available to answer questions!

I have a question that wasn't answered here, or need some more clarification on something!

No problem, friend! My inbox is always open for any inquiries you may have about this event or takeovers in general!

#f/ovember #fovember #self ship community #ok to rb #self ship event #f/ovember faq

443 notes · View notes

veryextraincorrectfegbaquotes · 4 months

Text

As promised, here is an in-depth brief overview of the circumstances surrounding Melady becoming Lalum's legal guardian

Got it out technically before the year end, and it goes under a read more so I don't fill your dash with a whole lotta words (1240 words to be precise) because I have some sense of courtesy. Hope you enjoy it!

It had, at least initially, been purely a matter of logistics. A child required housing, of those with space and time available, one said the other was the much better option. Echidna made very clear that her house full of weapons was not suitable for a kid, so said kid became Melady’s problem. The situation was even more awkward than is typical, due to its atypical circumstances. The child in question was, in one way or another, related to Sigune. So of course, information about her was impossible to find or never existed. They knew her name was Lalum, that her parents were dead, and that she was related to Sigune. They couldn’t even be certain she was a child. They were considering her as one, and Sigune said she was ‘underage’.

And Sigune never lies.

The child was both inoffensive and offensive. She took up little space, made little noise, occupied little time. She kept to the basement that had been made her room, emerged to eat, barely spoke and when she did it was quietly. Except when she started fires. And broke windows. And made graffiti. And started more fires. And ruined things. And threw knives. Every time, Melady would either reign her in mid-crime or haul her back home post-crime. Every time, Melady would ask the child why she had done this, and be told she didn’t know why, and she was sorry, and she wouldn’t do it again. Every time, she sounded honest, regretful, sad and scared and weak. Every time, she would do it again. What frustrated Melady wasn’t the behavior in and of itself, it was how inexplicable it was, how it came from nothing and vanished before it could be seen. Melady was told that the child was loud, insulting, dismissive, chaotic and insufferable. She only saw a quiet, fragile, empty person. A child seemingly too afraid of the consequences to ever make a noise or express a want.

It bothered Melady, that the child she was in charge of, that she cared for, was lying to her. Not by saying she wouldn’t do this again, but by trying to hide whatever part of her it was that longed for chaos and relished in humor derived from starting fires and annoying people. That hiding, that refusal to show the wholeness of herself, was a lie, as offensive as any. And it wasn’t one she could make the child stop telling. She couldn’t force her to expose that side of her. Her only option was to make the child willing to be honest with herself and with Melady. She had to make herself into someone who could accept that honesty. And she set herself to that goal.

It was not an easy thing to do, offering acceptance to someone who offers nothing to accept. She did all in her power to be kind and understanding every time she had to question the child after one of her outbursts, despite Melady’s longstanding opinions on the value of militarily instilled discipline. But she valued honesty more. She mentally noted every bit of information about the child she could get from their brief conversations during meals, and followed those scant leads as best she could. Regardless of if it involved watching over 200 episodes of Dragon Ball Z or playing through Earthbound.

It was a delicate thing though. She couldn’t treat this like she was pursuing a quarry. She was researching an artwork, reading information about the artist to derive more from the work. She couldn’t just open conversation at dinner with “I watched DBZ so I could know you better”, that was an incredibly bizarre thing to do. She mirrored the child, making the occasional remark regarding the works.

She could see the results, as the remarks became more frequent, blossomed into brief discussions. She saw life and energy in the child that she never saw elsewhere, passion and opinions and humanity. It was often fleeting, something the child reigned in. But it was there, she was drawing it out. It took over a year for the approach to truly work, for it to create a real relationship that was not purely a matter of logistics. Melady saw that it took great effort, great courage on the part of the child to make her move, to acknowledge the bridge Melady had been building between them. To be honest with herself and her guardian.

“I’m going to play Radiant Silvergun. You can come watch if you want.”, said quickly, dismissively, by someone who left before she could receive the no she expected. Melady waited a minute before walking down to the basement. The child was visibly surprised, having already accepted that connection with her wasn’t wanted.

“So, tell me about Radiant Silvergun.” stated simply. It made the child pause, stunned. Then, for a brief moment, Lalum showed an incredibly earnest, honest smile. It was then quickly replaced by an expression of dismissive confidence.

“So it’s an old shmup that’s mad weird in a fascinating way. The gameplay kicks ass of course, but what really keeps me coming back is the way the story works. The stages are numbered chronologically but not played chronologically, so you start on stage 3 and then go to 2, then 4. It rules. Then there’s the story itself, which was sort of added in the saturn port, since the game didn’t have cutscenes in the original arcade version. So a bunch of kids took home a copy of their favourite shmup and then like 3 minutes after booting it up on their saturn they’re told all life on earth got killed by a tetrahedron.”

Lalum continued rambling, going on about weapon types and The Stone-Like and BE ATTITUDE FOR GAINS. It was, at best, mildly interesting to a layperson, which Melady was. But the happiness and confidence expressed by someone she’d barely heard speak, let alone emote, was truly engaging. It had been worth the effort, she decided. It was worth further effort, she decided. She asked about what scenarios the ‘thunder beam’ was useful in just to hear Lalum keep speaking.

After that event, Lalum became significantly worse as far as most were concerned. She had been quiet before now, but suddenly she was overconfident, more annoying and her crimes increased in severity. As far as Melady was concerned, Lalum was finally alive and it was as beautiful as it was infuriating. Disagreements between child and legal guardian increased in frequency, but now it wasn’t a series of questions answered with quiet platitudes. Lalum would push back, would explain what vague whims and arbitrary standards drove her to act, and would make a very obviously false apology. This was a marked improvement in Melady’s eyes.

As far as Lalum was concerned, this adult that had been forced to take care of her had met her emotionless, people-pleasing facade head on, and as such now had to deal with the ‘real’ Lalum. If pressed, she’d admit Melady could be fun to talk to and the way she expressed actual interest in whatever weird garbage Lalum rambled about made her feel weird and vulnerable and something better than tolerated. But she figured Melady would crack eventually and get sick of her, like everyone else did. It was just taking a REALLY long time. Hopefully it’d take forever and things could stay like this, just don’t quote her on that because it sounds lame.

#Melady #Lalum #Written stuff

38 notes · View notes

undercoverpena · 1 year

Text

the dreams we made

Javier Peña x F!Reader

wc: 3.8k warnings: angst, set in narcos season two. alludes to smut. idiots in love. murphy & reader banter. javi's secret with los pepes gets out. no use of y/n. summary: desperate to bury his nose in your neck, bask in the scent that is unequivocally you, that he never truly savours, even if he knows he should. an: had to do something special for pedro pascal. you don't have to read the games we play, but follows nicely on.

javier peña masterlist

Some mornings, you stretch, and your muscles groan. The tension having knotted in with tendons and bones—slightly eased by the larger hands spreading over your bare skin. Soft lips grazing over your shoulder.

Other mornings, you wake alone, heading in—greeted by apprehension in the office air, jarringly blending with smoke swirls and the sounds of paper shuffling.

You sense him before he makes himself known.

Tuned into him, your body pulsing for him as soon as it realises he is close.

“What do you need?”

His brow arches as you glance up, hand rubbing across his lower face as he looks you up and down. You’ve only just gotten to your desk, meetings and more meetings requiring your attention—the kind where you’re made to take notes and be silent.

He has no papers in his hand and no tie with his shirt. No reason to be hovering around you—needing something from Messina.

Shrugging, he drops his hand to your desk, in finger's proximity if you were to stretch yours out and touch him.

“Javi, there’s nothing for you here this morning—I have no time.”

“None?”

“No, Messina has given me nothing but wonderful tasks today. Things I assume she doesn’t want to do herself. So, she’s on me.”

Smirking, he leans on your desk. “I could be on you, bonita.”

“You not got a C.I. that can itch a spot for you, Peña?” you grin, shooting him a look.

Knowing, remembering the promise the two of you shared.

No more whores. As long as you don’t go on any more dates with fuckers who don’t deserve you.

“Wipe that look off your face—you know you’re the only bonita in my life.”

“And if I don’t wipe my dazzling smile?”

Moving closer, he pretends to shuffle the papers, dropping his voice low, “I’ll stuff your throat.”

You smirk, pursing your lips tightly as you do. “See, now you’re offering me something I want.”

“Fuck…”

“Play silly games, win silly prizes,” you say, standing taller and staring at him. “If I had the time, there’s nothing more that I’d love to do than to sink on my knees for you. But I’d go before Messina comes back and wonders why you’re hovering around me again. She’s on to you.”

Snorting, he wipes his thumb across his bottom lip. “Well, now there’s nothing more that I want than to coat your fucking throat in me, just so you can taste me each time you swallow. Should make your day more interesting, shouldn’t it?” He moves around the desk, your breathing hitching. “Or… fuck. I could bend you over this desk, fill you to the brim with me, have me between your thighs all day. But…”

You nod. “I have places to be, and you have to go.”

“Shit.”

Smirking, you straighten your spine. “If you could, you would.” Your hand grips his forearm before he walks away, eyes digging into him. “Please. Be safe.”

He stares at you, seemingly taken aback by your switch to kindness, before he nods. Fingers sliding over your desk, something simmering in his eyes—something making him hesitate.

“Javi…”

“Just thinking about whether I can risk kissing you.”

Cheeks warming, your lips curl into a smile. One he can pull from you so easily.

“If I do, though. Not sure I’d stop.”

Rolling your lips, you smirk, “Get outta here, Javi. You can make up for it later.”

And he does.

Pushing you back against the door, Javi drives his knee in between your legs to part them. Skirt rising up to your hips, digging in—just the right amount.

Then, there’s his hand snaking its way up your body, digging into your skin before wrapping around your neck, keeping you in place as he slips his tongue past yours.

He’s perfect.

Something you allow yourself to admire and marvel at whenever you can. Someone you get to call yours. A handsome face, with limbs that easily pull you close or hunt you down, pulling you against his lean frame—perfect hair falling in strands over his forehead.

But then, there are his eyes. The pools you’d drown in if he let you, the smile which made you want to forget everything you had planned and make larger.

You sigh into his lips, clutching him close.

He breaks away, ripping his lips from yours as his fingers add light pressure to the hand gripping the base of your neck.

“You treat the others as good as this?”

You like pushing him, teasing. His frame tensing, pausing—his lips sliding down to your ear.

“No more talking from you,” he says, breath brushing your skin, palm gripping your waist.

You smirk, lightly rocking yourself against his thigh—his trousers, thankfully tight and darker in shade, rustling against the thin lace. It’s not enough, but it’s something. A light, tough, friction—something to begin making your breaths a little different.

Something he notices.

But then, when you used to fuck for information, you assume he notices many things people do.

“Oh, fuck me.”

“What’s that?”

His hand tilts your chin up, giving you nowhere else to look other than his eyes.

You consider it but admit defeat. “I said, fuck me.”

He’s gorgeous. That’s all you think as he studies you.

“Don’t have to tell me twice, Bonita.”

He’s aware drinking in the dark is a new low.

Only needing the rain to come down for him to stare out the dirty window, overlooking the base and more grey. The whiskey burns, but not in the way he wants—hopes, needs.

A part of him wants you, almost calling you earlier. Desperate to bury his nose in your neck, bask in the scent that is unequivocally you, that he never truly savours, even if he knows he should.

Since the first moment he got to kiss you, he knew he didn’t deserve you. And as he coats his throat, he realises it’s even less now.

His breath catches, imagining the look of horror when you find out. When everything unravels, leaving him standing in the wake of his choices—knowing he’s kept this from you when he swore to be honest.

The door opens, and Javi knows it’s you.

You’ve never knocked. Not since he first brought you back.

A part of him unravelling as he hears you move further into the room, shifting in his chair, a part of him—that wants to see you—stirs awake. Another part of him curls further in. Somewhat terrified to see you, even with how shit his day has gone.

He glances, expecting to see your usual smirk, fingers already unbuttoning to speed up the limited time you both have. He’s not all wrong—you are charging in, but you’re not smirking, not even smiling.

“If you’re here to make me feel better, I’d save it if I were…”

His head takes in your face as the outside light shines on your face. It captures the haunted look, the twisted expression, watching you slowly walk towards him. Your hands together, looking every bit conflicted—it flowing from you, spreading out as far as it can reach. It all screams that something is eating away at you.

Inhaling, he stands, putting out his cigarette—something uncoiling, weaving its way out of him. Nervousness fills the gaps instead, putting all his nerves on edge. His mind slows to a near stop as he moves closer to you—bridging the gap.

You’re shaking.

It’s all that he focuses on, moving too quickly, closing the gap too soon—spooking you—because you flinch, stepping back. Something you never do. Not with him.

Not since… not since you found out about the brother, about where he’d been.

Chewing his cheek, his hands awkwardly finding his hips as he racks his brain, running the possibilities of what you’ve seen, heard—

It smacks into him at the same time as you murmur his name.

“Peña…”

It comes out broken, strained. Almost cracking through the air rather than sweetly gliding.

The room drops in temperature, and he freezes, hands falling from his hips at your use of his surname. It hits wrong, sounding even worse as it meets his ears.

And then your face changes, the expression twisting, finger pointing as your mouth scrunches, eyes narrowing, and you step back. You don’t even let out a puff of air when your spine connects with the wall, as though you’re so braced nothing could knock anything else from you.

“W-what did you do?”

His feet are stuck to the floor, soles practically glued down. Your eyes shift again, each blink showcasing an entirely different expression—all the more worsened by the tears held back by sheer determination. It hits him—confirming that he’s run out of time, that you know.

“What the fuck have you done, Peña?”

“Don’t… don’t call me that, baby—”

“Que? Your name?”

“Cariño…”

Your back is so straight; he’s unsure how you’ve not snapped from the tension. Blood boiling in his ears, watching you watch him—eyes prickling him, attempting to find a thread to pull.

Not realising he’s already unravelled.

“Tell me you aren’t…”

“Aren’t what?”

He’s meant to spit it, accuse you. But it comes out weak, timid—broken. Then your face makes its final transformation—utter disgust.

“Fuck…”

“Cariño.”

“No. No!”

He flinches. The sound is so sharp from your lips that it slices through the air, forever changing the space. But, it’s the look on your face that’s broken right down the middle. Shards of yourself etched into your eyes, shimmering in a sea of pain that wishes to spill down your cheeks.

Your hand somehow shakily finds the handle, wrenching it open. Before he can stop you, you’re fleeing through it, the sound of your heels punctuating his heart until the wood meets the frame.

Leaving him alone—again.

He hears his watch tick on the desk—tick, tick, tick. Not moving, barely breathing.

“Fuck…” his chest rising and falling hard, all difficult—strained. His fist clenched at his side, slowly unflexing before flexing again. “Fuck.”

Shaking his head, he doesn’t think as he charges, hand on the handle as he rips it open, finding you standing there.

Your eyes are shimmering, swirling in tears he made—fixed and staring at the place he stands.

“I couldn’t… go, even if...”

He nods, slowly reaching his hand out, stretching it until two fingers brush your wrist, watching a tear fall as soon as he does.

“I should. I should go and get away from y… you lied to me. You said there was nothing you were k-keeping...”

He nods again, sliding his fingers around your wrist. Feeling your hurt, your anger. Letting it douse him, rain down on him, hammering their droplets into his muscles and bone.

“Come inside, baby.”

You shake your head, blinking, staring at him as if you don’t recognise him. As if he’s not someone you even know anymore.

“How’d you…”

You bite the inside of your cheek, allowing him instead to pull you into him, all stiff and rigid as you collide with him. Your breath is shaky, trembling. He tries to pull you close, but the gap worsens. Not able to do a damn thing, not able to stop his world from splitting in half—

“Does it matter?”

“No. Suppose it doesn’t.”

He doesn’t push, doesn’t take more than he should. Let his finger draw strokes against your wrist, and his other hand try to pull your hips close. Looking down at you, watching your eyes fluctuate between softening and anger as they glance up at him.

Then you wrench back, coming back to—awakening and realising at once all over again.

They’re so sharp, your eyes—all so full of fury. Both less beauty and more broken. He waits for it, digs his heels in as he waits for your barrage, watching your mouth open, but it never comes.

Instead, you wrench your wrist from him, leaving his fingers empty, clamping around nothing, and then you storm away.

Not looking back as you do. Leaving him with the scent of your perfume and the shame you left in your wake.

You almost wallowed. Pacing in squares and circles, alternating.

At one stage, you’d considered cracking open the bottle you’d bought for him. Drinking until you couldn't see straight. At another stage, when anger had consumed you, you'd almost considered throwing it. If it weren’t for the fact, you’d need to clean it up.

Standing, breath ragged as you thought over what to do next. You turn over the idea of whether to charge back to his room and hit him or shower, hoping the water blends with your tears.

Annoyance simmers in your stomach, thrumming, rapidly hammering against organs and bone. Both at him for lying, but also for not trusting you to help him.

The decision was all taken from you. In the same way, your evening plans were pulled slowly from your grip when the phone rang—cutting through the tension.

You know, no explanation would make you feel better. Nothing to make it better about what he’s been doing. That he’s the leak, that he’s working with them.

But, it isn’t him.

Murphy’s voice cuts through your shaky greeting: can you pick me up from the airport?

You’d turned the radio down once you heard the beginning of a slow song—expecting romance, not able to cope. Your hand already shaking as you turn the key, opening the window and letting the evening air fill the car in the hope of ridding the tension.

Your cheeks feel cold, the ones earlier coated in tears, now tight—dry to the point of cracking. Hand trying to wipe at them once you pull up, spotting the unmistakable Murphy Jacket as he casts his lit cigarette.

If he notices something is wrong, he’s polite enough to keep it to himself. Sliding in the passenger seat.

“Thanks for the ride.”

You nod, watching him pull on his belt—hand brushing over his face. “Happy to be of service—you good?”

Snorting, Murphy, punches the bridge of his nose, his other hand shuffling for his cigarettes. “As good as someone can be having flown to Germany and back.”

“You didn’t ring Peña.”

Steve snorts, “No. I didn’t.”

“Any reason?”

He says nothing, something you keep considering as you pull off—gripping the steering wheel. Sitting in silence until he clears his throat again.

“Those from Javi?” Murphy asks, running his cigarette against his bottom lip, his eyes looking at your neck.

“And why would you think that?”

“Call it a hunch.”

You narrow your eyes. “You know, the longer you stare, the less likely I’m going to turn into your wife.“

“I’m not—fuck, that’s not what I was doing.”

You snatch the cigarette from his lips, taking the longest puff as you stare at him. “Your friend is a dick.”

Murphy smirks. “Yeah. He is.”

You say nothing, driving down the empty street.

“But,” Murphy continues, leaning his elbow on the centre console. “You know he cares.”

“About capturing Escobar.”

“And you.”

Your eyes flick over to him, almost twitching as you slowly pull the half-smoked cigarette from his mouth, placing it on your bottom lip.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t?”

Shaking your head. Gripping the wheel tighter, wishing he'd stop. “You should know, right? That caring doesn’t stitch all your problems together. So.”

Snorting, he tilts his head as you take a drag of his smoke. “You’re right. But you know how I know you both care. You called him Peña. Which means you’re mad at him—otherwise, you call him Javi.” You swallow, keeping your eyes on the road.

“Well, he’s a maddening person.”

Steve says nothing, tapping his heel on the floor. “He told you. Didn’t he?”

“No. I found out,” you spit, turning your head to look at him as you approach a red light. “And fuck you, by the way.”

“What the fuck did I do?”

You chew it, your response. Let it roll against your teeth as you sigh. “Shoulda come to me. Maybe we could—“

“You know who we’re dealing with, right? You know we can’t do shit.”

Javi hasn’t slept.

Not that he thinks he has in weeks.

His mind is too busy, too full of worries and concerns. Sometimes, they’re easier to muffle—silence. You help. You always help.

Except you’re avoiding him. You don’t drink the coffee he makes you; you don’t take one of his cigarettes (even if you keep proclaiming you don’t smoke), instead taking one from Murphy. The times he hears you talk is when you’re responding, but only when needed. And you never meet his eyes.

He expected hell, but it’s different being in it. The fire licks at his skin as he hopes you’ll look up at him. Hoping for scorn-filled eyes than ignorant ones.

It’s why he’s surprised when he notices you approaching him—them. Your feet kicking at the grassy ground, him feeling Murphy patting his back as he stands from the stone steps, murmuring about giving you both privacy.

Javi should have assumed he knew—guessed it, in fact.

Not that it matters.

There’s no winning, no prize for having all the cards.

Not when your eyes are on the floor, chin dipped. Shoulders are sunken, and a thundercloud is over your head as you get closer. Hell, from this position, he’s even sure you’re kicking a small rock along with you, passing Murphy with a movement of your lips—a muttering of words that don’t make it to his ear.

You don’t look up until you’re in front of him, letting them rise from his feet to his seated position to his face. The sun behind you, haloing beautifully around the back of your head.

Both making it hard to see and hard to tear his eyes away from.

“You’re a fucking idiot.”

He snorts, the puff of air escaping with a swirl of smoke. “Cut right to the chase, why don’t you?”

“I asked you to be honest with me.”

He swallows. “You did.”

Groaning, if only to yourself, you slowly sit next to him. His body is all frozen, tight. It has been since you stormed away from him. That single no on repeat. The one that was all broken, higher-pitched. A sound that bounced around his head, using the surfaces of his skull to ensure it never stopped and never silenced.

He wants to move closer. It’s instinct to pull you close to him, allow himself to wrap himself around you until you forgive him. Javi only doesn’t because he’s afraid—a feeling he endures more often these days.

Fear.

He thought he knew what it meant until it all began to unravel until the threads he’d been grasping came undone. And then there was you. You who he’d gotten back thanks to cancelled flights and one singular bed. But, he’s afraid again, scared if he moves too quickly, it could cause you to leave—to walk away from him again.

“What’re you gonna do?”

He lets out a breath, shaking his head. “I don’t even fucking know.”

From the corner of his eye, he watches you nod—eyes fixed ahead, something keeping your attention in the distance. He wants to pull you close, bury his nose in your hair and allow himself to live in the fantasy that he could deserve someone like you.

Javi almost does—the selfish part of him, that need for a win, worming its way along his forearms, spreading to his hands.

And then he feels your hands. It’s slow, soft—passing from your nose to the air as you grip his knee. It slides over his knee, head slowly tilting to rest on his shoulder as you sigh.

“Tell me you began it all before the motel room.”

He swallows before resting his chin on your head. “Yeah, I did.”

Snuggling closer, he hears you lick your lips. “Okay, good.”

He reels. “Okay?”

It comes out sharper. Almost spitting it out. All less of a whisper like before and something carnal that shoots out like a flame.

So much so it makes your head jolt and your eyes land on his. For a moment, he’s utterly fucking breathless. All the air knocked from his lungs at the sight of you—of how you’re looking at him.

It makes him think of the first time he noticed you, how your eyes caught his attention. The way they dig into him, how they’re made up of so many shades—just widening at the view on some hilltop:

I know it’s covered in Narcos, but fuck is this place pretty.

It had made his lips twitch, your bewilderment until you landed your irises on him—knocking the wind from his lungs.

Now, though, it’s eclipsed that memory.

By the way, you’re looking at him with adoration—with worry that perfectly blends with… love.

“You can’t… be okay with this? Bonita—I am working—“

“I know that,” you snap, words bristled with harsher edges. “I know what you’ve done, what you’re doing—what you're likely about to do. I also know…”

“Know what?”

Pulling your eyes from him, your jaw tightens, your hand remaining on his knee. “That you are a good person. Javi, you’re such a good person—who wants to do good. Who has gotten so fucking blindsided they’ve made a shitty choice in the hope of doing that good. And now, I’m guessing someone knows, and you’re stuck between a rock and a knife, unable to get out.

“I also know you are an idiot, a stupidly handsome one—who made a selfish decision, but...”

He snorts, shaking his head.

Good person.

Unsure how you can say that. How can you say it to him with so much earnestness? Especially when a man and his son are dead. When he has lied to you. When there are bodies building, piling. Countless more added to it. The destruction all mounting, almost crushing him as much as it is Colombia.

“Look at me,” you whisper, and he doesn’t want to.

Doesn’t feel worthy to.

But your fingers dig into his chin, tilting him all the same—vision suddenly full of only you. Beautiful, stunning you.

“You called me yours. Am I still yours?”

He presses his palm into his forehead, nursing whatever was beginning to throb, wanting to do right and spare you.

“Don’t be selfless,” you add. “Do you… do you still want me?”

“I thought I lost you.”

Shaking your head, you look at him, sliding your fingers up his jawline to cup his cheek. “You are the biggest idiot, Javier Peña. But, I’m all in. Mess and all. But, are you all in?”

“Baby, being all in means…”

His words trail off, stolen—all by a raised brow and slide of your smile. A knowing one. A do-you-think-I’m-an-idiot smile.

A shuddering breath escapes his lungs. Realising that all the things he’s concocted about how you’d react, aren’t happening.

You’re here.

Your touch on his cheek, eyes in his soul.

“Javi. Are you all fucking in, or not?”

Pinning you with a stare, watching your eyes flick from one eye to the next.

All of the shoved-down emotions rising to the surface, sitting on the top, smothering his hand over yours, gripping your fingers against his knee. A gesture, a touch.

But it’s not an answer.

He knows that. Feeling his eyes stinging, watching you as you watch him, realising he doesn’t have the words, like he does in his dreams.

All his answers rest on his tongue—not caring who sees as he captures your lips to tell them you. He pulls you as close as two bodies sitting will allow. Feeling yours move with his, an array of words dying on both of your tongues as the sun looks down.

Things standing still, all untouched and unfractured.

A piece of perfect, one right decision, in a storm of mistakes.

433 notes · View notes

senkusphone · 1 year

Text

@aresagainstthemachine asked so this one is for you. Video of it working at the end.

Here's the one project I am so proud of I named my entire blog after it.

Back in 2020, while I was stuck at home with few pleasant things to do, I decided to bring this contraption to life.

Only recently had I gotten into this inspiring series called Dr. Stone, and when I saw them make this device in the anime, I knew it was my divine calling to build it, for I had prior experience building circuits with vacuum tubes, an interest that was fostered greatly by my late grandfather when I was a boy. It had been because of the stories he'd tell me that I built my first crystal radio back then (which took me about 4 years of trial and error). Now, people had ''built'' the phone on youtube at least once before, but I was not satisfied with what they did, when they used parts that were too advanced and didn't even get it to transmit a voice, only to pick up radio stations. So I tried to go beyond while being as accurate as possible to the level of technology they had, I was seeking to achieve more with less

Making something that picks a radio signal is relatively easy, the challenge was making it also produce its own signal so it could truly be used as a phone (or more accurately, like a walkie talkie), and I restricted myself to use the most primitive tubes I had, the ones most similar to what old Kaseki would have made.

(Happy birthday to Kaseki by the way, February 9th) I started out using this beautiful Western Electric 262-A tube. This general purpose triode was developed around 1928 by the Bell Telephone company and one of the things it was known to be used for, was in cinema projectors to amplify the sound from the early talkie films. I think that's interesting enough to mention.

It wasn't long until my experiments showed great promise, eventually I moved on to a type 45 vacuum tube, another triode which is more powerful as a transmitter than the 262-A yet its construction is much more primitive. This tube is very similar to what Senku & Co. would've had.

I started building the definitive device, simultaneously laying a plan to combine a transmitter and receiver in the same unit using just one tube, a task that required this one part to perform four different duties (because I hadn't read the manga, and I didn't know the final unit they dispatched used two tubes instead of just one). On new year's eve at the end of 2020, the circuit was broadcasting One Small Step by Lillian Weinberg, loud and clear to a radio across the room.

You can get a recording of that in the link below as Tumblr won't let me upload it (yes I am using discord to host files, it also works for hosting images for your fanfics on Ao3, you're welcome).

The wooden circuit board was wired with homemade wires, made by cutting a sheet of copper into strips, and wrapping them in cotton and thread. A relay is used to switch the phone from receiver mode to transmitter mode with the push of a button.

Then the coils were calculated and wound, including the iconic large transmit coil

but would this coil that was made to look like the one in the series, be suitable to repeat what I had achieved in my experiments, would it resonate and produce the signal?

yes

I intended originally to have this project done before season 2 of Dr. Stone started, and put out a youtube video, but that ended up not happening. Still, the unit finally came together, and the plastic housing was a tupper with the rim cut off, painted orange and applied lettering.

By now season 2 had already ended, I believe, or it was soon to. Before I painted the case, I had to have one definitive test, to see that my creation demonstrated the functionality it promised, and now I had just the right voice to do it.

The final circuit was based on the work of radio pioneer Edwin Howard Armstrong, who was one of the fellows who invented the wireless world we know it today.

I turned the switch, and watched as the tungsten filament in the tube started glowing red. First I adjusted the receive coil and a radio station came in on the crystal earpiece, then, with a radio receiver in tune nearby, I started the sound I wanted to send over the air, and I pressed the transmit button...

It's true, it can be done. Today, there are people still alive who saw the day when the cutting edge of electronics was at this level. How far we've come from these baby steps, over such a short time.

Isn't science awesome?

I still haven't built a second unit.

#dr. stone #senku's phone #dcst #drst #drstone #dr stone #art #storytime #long post #happy birthday kaseki #science project

188 notes · View notes

zahri-melitor · 3 months

Text

Batman Eternal

I think for a weekly, event comic that was promising to deliver the Bat Family, it underperformed. Some people had a good event, some people had a mediocre event and were underused, and there were a few absolute shockers.

The Good:

In terms of a 'push Bruce to the limit' event, it was interesting in that this one pushed Batman, the Bat Family AND Bruce, separately, to their limits. I'm used to events being 'pick two of the three'. That said, it still underestimated the effectiveness of its supporting cast.

Bruce had a solid event, in that it was focused on him and broke him down to build him back up by running him ragged and keeping him guessing on 'who caused this'. Honestly I don't have a lot to say about Bruce's plot, sorry. It was an okay mystery running through various rogues? I think making Cluemaster Who Dunnit was not the right choice (Arthur should always be a bit pathetic), but I can see why they picked him in the story that's returning Steph and after making Riddler the big bad for Zero Year.

Selina actually had a reasonable event. She got her entire backstory rewritten and ended up controlling crime in Gotham at the end of it, but eh, the former happened to a lot of people during n52 and the latter is something Selina ends up doing every now and then. Her plotline involved organised crime and Carmine Falcone, so it was even something associated with her long term story arcs.

Jim Gordon: look, once we get past the incredible miscarriage of justice that was Jim being arrested and convicted for manslaughter (please, please, explain to me how Jim shooting the signal box input was what caused the trains to crash, rather than the railway routing that meant there was timetabling and no fallback override for two trains SHARING TRACK while running in opposite directions), it was essentially just an excuse to put Jim in Blackgate and start up the plots there. Which you know, went pretty well. Jim got to be the strong man, show off his personality, and presumably this all sets up the Superheavy plotline (sigh).

Julia Pennyworth. Look, I don't hate the idea of Julia, so much as am confused by the very tight timeline constraints required for her existence (post about this coming), and I resent that DC let the team basically invent a new Oracle without being allowed to acknowledge that Oracle is Barbara Gordon. It's like it's an important role in Gotham! Anyway. In terms of what Julia brought to the page, I did appreciate that the writing team seemed committed to increasing the number of women characters populating Gotham, I am happy to have someone not Alfred running comms for the Bats, and I can see several ways she'd be an interesting character to have around, long term, for storytelling. I could grow to like her. But man. I had a really hard time swallowing her existence while Barbara's in the same event having her character destroyed.

Harper Row is so clearly Scott Snyder's pet. Honestly, I really enjoyed her design and the general arc of her story; adding an electrical engineer to the group is actually a relatively unoccupied niche and gives her points of differentiation, but by handing her such a major part of the plot while other, fan favourite characters were appearing and getting not much at all was setting her up to fail in the eyes of the audience.

Steph ranks up in the 'had a good event' category. She essentially reran her origin story combined with aspects of her War Games plot (before everyone yells at me, I particularly noted the correlation with the part of the story where Selina hid her with Holly coming through here with Steph hiding from Arthur and her getting dumped at the Rows for protection. Go actually read War Games). I liked the concept of the Spoiler blog being what she used as her name inspiration here. I again wouldn't have minded if she had actually interacted more with other Bat characters (everyone got very siloed here) but you know what? The story brought her back and set her back up in her default sort of background state. Seriously, they picked from Steph's biggest stories here (her origin, War Games, and actually parts were in conversation with War Crimes, which is a phrase I never thought I would say), and that was a reasonable decision imo.

The Mediocre:

Luke Fox got an interesting plotline with Jim Corrigan and the Spectre. Unfortunately it rarely interacted with the rest of the story (apart from leading to Arkham blowing up). This could have been a separate mini.

Tim got to appear in actual Bat titles, doing actual Bat things, and while being abrasive I could squint at him and see his original characterisation. Tragically despite this he basically didn't get to interact with existing characters he knew for most of the plot. Got handed the idiot ball on occasion to show off Harper. I wish he'd had more opportunities to spend time with characters I know and enjoy him with.

Kate Kane was there, for this event. She got to spend some time with Barbara and Jason. She also really didn't do much of anything. It felt like an obligatory 'you currently have a solo' appearance.

Jason Bard: look this is where I'm conflicted. If this was simply Random Cop #34, I'd have probably bumped it up to good but unrealistic (in terms of the speed run to Commissioner), but as a Jason Bard story? About all they kept or knew of Jason was that he's a cop, he was mentored by Jim Gordon, and that he Has A Limp. I am still outraged they made Babs give him the limp, I think making him a minor antagonist of this was a waste of bringing back Jason Bard, and the endpoint left him in a position where he's moderately unusable by other writers (there was a slight set up for 'transition him over to a detective agency' but there was no resolution on why anyone in Gotham either among the GCPD or the Bats would trust him after this).

The Bad:

Hush. No, not so much in his story (it was boring, it was Tommy being Tommy, yawn), but in the fact for no apparent reason Tommy is running around with his head bandaged. WHY? No reason was given. Using the bandages as his 'costume' is actually painfully irritating, because he wore the bandages during the original Hush as he was healing from facial reconstruction surgery. Here, he was imported into New 52, with his face wrapped in bandages, and no reason given. He wasn't trying to become Bruce and steal his identity. He was just...in bandages. Because that's how he looked in Hush and the fanboys think of him, despite the fact he basically never appeared in bandages again AFTER the initial Hush storyline. I'm infuriated in the pointless iconography that misses the original intent that this is.

Barbara had a terrible event. Even if I excuse everything as she was still grieving over Dick's 'death' and Jim being in jail, and the fact she was undergoing personality surgery in her own title (Batgirl #35 sigggghh), a complete random 'ship Barbara and Jason together' plotline came out of nowhere premised on the fact Barbara was missing Dick? Or something? And their age gap in n52 nonsense is only a couple of years, rather than Babs being ABOUT TEN YEARS OLDER and having babysat Jason. Ugh.

Speaking of: Jason Todd did somewhat better than some of the others in that he got to actually hang out with Barbara and Kate for a storyline, and honestly pairing him up with Kate is a route DC should look at more often in terms of character mediation, but lost 1000 points for the Jason/Barbara stuff. Also had a terrible costume (but what's new there).

Crystal Brown I am so sorry. Not only did you get yet another completely new look and personality, you lost all the few characterisation elements we had for you, you collaborated with your ex-husband, and you betrayed Steph at one point. You should be awarded damages for pain and suffering.

Lincoln March/Owlman: you were in this event SOLELY to confuse Steph and delay her cooperation with everyone else. I resent your entire existence in this timeline and it irritates me that Scott Snyder set up an entire previous event essentially to introduce you to the main universe and then waited going 'did you get it?' You are not Thomas Wayne Jnr sorry.

#z canon read throughs #reading new 52 #this was certainly an event #things happened #I wish the plots had interacted more often #batman eternal

22 notes · View notes

ohbutwheresyourheart · 1 month

Text

I have far too many half-written things in my google docs that have never seen the light of day, so I've decided to start buffing up the best ones and posting them unfinished. Maybe I'll come back to them later, or if not at least someone will hopefully enjoy reading them as they are.

First up: fragments from a WIP based on the concept that Eva did not actually die when the twins were children; instead, she got caught in the magic field of a Geryon and sling-shotted to the middle of Devil May Cry 5. What I wrote revolved more around the aftermath, and Eva trying to come to terms with the modern world, her losses, and not knowing what happened to her sons.

The building is echoing once the buffer of trash is removed. High ceilings dissipating into shadowy un-shapes. Dark corners shifting like predators turning and twisting. It’s too like the manor in those early days before she tamed it as Sparda had; made it respect her for all she was a mortal woman.

Made it respect her because she was a mortal woman.

She feels so tired, though; too tired to start a fresh war. So Eva lives with the shadows and whatever they may hide. At least it’s not outwardly hostile. Even if it was, by rights she shouldn’t be comfortable here.

This domain, this world, empty of her sons.

----

Swollen and fragile all at once, like a wine glass held too long in hot water - ripe for shattering with a single thoughtless move.

Midmorning is an inauspicious time for any demon to appear; Eva uses the reprieve to walk the city streets. Capulet is smaller than Red Grave but still a decent-sized city in its own right, checking off all the requirements: university, libraries, museums, churches, arts district, cheerful cafes dotting the sidewalk…

A few months ago -- no, thirty years ago -- she would have delighted in browsing the art supplies store, or checking the museum events for child-friendly exhibitions (but boys you must behave), or laughing into her coffee as two eight year olds descended into extensive debate on the merits of chocolate cake over strawberry tarts.

Now she buys peppermint tea in a to-go cup and takes it to the park.

Capulet is unexpectedly windswept in August, errant breezes stirring up the parched over-long grass around her ankles and pulling her hair, strand by strand, out of the confines of her ponytail.

The park is quietish; the younger children are out in force but a university city never really feels alive during the summer while the students are away. She follows the winding gravel path towards the duck pond at the centre and circles it once, twice. Watches other mothers with children tossing breadcrumbs to the ducks; running; playing.

“Why don’t you go and play, boys? Just--”

“Be careful, I know.” Vergil’s eyes, already so much older than they should be. “Why even try when we have to pretend?”

She’d never come up with a good enough answer for him.

Trish finds her on a bench. She sits down without ceremony or preamble, sunglasses her one concession to the summer day but otherwise as unaffected by the August sun as she no doubt will be by the coming autumn chill.

(Eva is rapidly coming to dislike Trish. Not because she is a demon, per se, but because it’s so fucking demoralising to constantly see the perfect version of herself; an Eva who will never succumb to sagging tits or a bloated stomach or even messy hair.)

“Are you all right? You’re sitting there like a ghost.”

Eva sips her tea to save herself from an immediate response. The cup is almost empty and the dregs are cold; she doesn’t remember drinking it.

“I’m fine.”

“Mm.” Trish doesn’t look as though she believes Eva in the slightest, but thankfully doesn’t push the issue. “Well, in that case, I have a favour to ask.”

“Oh?” Eva becomes instantly wary. Even as despondent as she feels, she knows better than to thoughtlessly promise a demon anything.

Something flashes in Trish’s eyes, gone too quickly for Eva to define it. The slow smile that curls the corners of her lips is equally inscrutable.

“Don’t worry, it’s not a favour for me, exactly,” she assures her, waving a perfectly manicured hand (again that familiar burst of jealousy towards a creature that could control their human physical appearance at will; Sparda had never had a bad hair day in his life--). “Lady heard you’re quite the dab hand with magic and she wanted to know if there were any goodies you could make for her, or teach her, or… whatever, really.”

“Last I saw, Lady has a tongue in her head,” Eva replies coolly.

Trish’s smile widens. “Oh, she does, but she’s out of town this week and when I saw you I thought I might as well ask now as later.”

“Mm.” Now it’s Eva’s turn to give Trish a searching look. She taps her nails (not perfectly manicured by any definition of the term) against her empty cup, wishing there was some left; she could make use of a timely pause to sip her tea and give herself a moment to think. “Well, I’m happy to talk to Lady about what she needs when she’s back in Capulet.”

“I’ll pass the message on.” With one flowing, elegant movement, Trish gets to her feet and stretches like a languid cat. “I’d better get going. See you around, Eva.”

“Yes, see you,” Eva mutters to her back; Trish is already going, sashaying through the park like she owns the place.

Something about this doesn’t smell right and Eva has sense enough to be cautious.

And yet… When she returns to Devil May Cry, she spends time going through the cupboards she’s restocked and checking her herbs. She uses the laptop Nero and Nico set her up with and finds websites that sell the supplies she needs -- whether advertised for witchcraft or otherwise -- and prepares lists of useful tricks; things that used to give her the edge she needed to survive another night.

It might not be useful for Lady -- if, indeed, Lady even asked the question -- but it’s useful for Eva. Practically, because she can’t be too careful even now, and in the abstract; when she goes to bed that night, Eva sleeps better than she has in weeks. Her hands might be dry and her nails might be broken, but with her fingertips stained and smelling of herbs once again she almost begins to recognise herself.

----

To Eva’s palpable surprise, Lady does actually swing by Devil May Cry the following week.

“Trish told me she saw you,” Lady explains as she unholsters Kaline Ann and sets her down on the desk. “Did she tell you the kind of thing I was looking for?”

Because there is truth in this cover story that Lady and Trish have concocted between themselves. Yes, mainly they want to check on Eva, but it also never hurts for an old bitch to learn some new tricks.

And how does Eva look? Less like Trish than she used to; Eva has taken to shoving her hair up in a loose bun at the back of her head (the better, Lady assumes, to keep it out of her face now she was no longer playing lady of the manor) and has swapped her elegant black gown for a serviceable sweater and jeans. On her feet, Doc Martens. On her hands, broken nails and stained fingertips. In her eyes - fire.

“In passing.” Eva is - suspicious? Well, Lady can’t entirely blame her for still finding her feet with all of them, particularly Trish - though Trish herself had taken it as a compliment that Eva considered her enough potential trouble to be wary of.

“You’re welcome to anything I can teach you, although…” Eva’s gaze slides across and down to Kalina Ann. There is something distinctly hungry (covetous?) in her eyes. “You seem to have the offensive side pretty well covered.”

Lady grins, one firearms aficionado to another. “Give Nico a call if you want anything - you can’t beat the Goldsteins for guns and for you she’ll probably do it for free.”

That does it: the reserve cracks and Eva grins back. It is not the kind, motherly smile that Dante probably remembers. This is the smile that a tiger would give you if it could.

“Noted.” Eva pulls out a stack of books from one of the desk drawers. “Now, where do you want to start?”

It does not take long for Lady to be very, very glad she arranged this meeting. Eva is an absolute trove of knowledge. Much of it Lady already knows, and some of it is interesting but not strictly relevant -- Lady’s fighting style being much more full-on than Eva’s tactics lend themselves to -- but she still picks up plenty.

----

Nero is a dutiful, darling boy. He checks in with her, regular as clockwork, trying to disguise the anxiety in his voice. He doesn’t know how to be with her, but he tries nonetheless.

He asks her, often, to visit him in Fortuna; to meet his girlfriend and the children they have adopted. Eva demurs and lets him think she’s still putting off the inevitable label of grandmother. It’s not a total lie, but it’s far from the primary reason. Maybe, perceptive as he is (and he is; Sparda’s eyes staring at her, seeing straight through her despite the un-Sparda-ish mouthing off), he knows that, too, and is giving her time.

It’s just… what if they come back, and she isn’t here to greet them? What if they think she’s truly gone again? She can’t hurt her boys like that a second time. She can’t let them down again when they look for her, reach for her. God knows she was worth fuck-all to them then and even less now, as much protection as a paper cut-out, but if they know she’s willing to put herself between the two of them and danger, then… that’s something, isn’t it? However little, it’s something.

The latest attempt comes on a late autumn evening. October is slipping away, each dark evening bringing them a little closer to Halloween. The most enterprising of the local children have already ventured out trick-or-treating with the excuse that the 31st is a school night, and Eva watches troupes of ghosties and ghoulies and long-legged beasties parade past the windows with a bittersweet smile. She bought a bag of candy but doesn’t really expect any trick-or-treaters; Dante, with good reason, didn’t take pains to encourage the local kids to come calling.

Nero and Nico pull up, a welcome interruption to her descent into melancholy, out of breath but radiant from their latest skirmish. They stop by Devil May Cry on the pretence of leaving word for Morrison that payment is due, but Nero could do that himself on the little computer phone he carries around with him. In reality, they’re checking on her.

Eva doesn’t mind, really. She likes the company, and the kids (God, she calls them kids, they’re not that much younger than she is) are energetic; it’s hard to be actively maudlin when refereeing a shouting match. Nico especially is nosy and almost impossible to brush off or offend. On every visit, she wheedles a few more secrets out of Eva’s recipe books. Lately, Eva has been amusing herself by giving her tidbits and letting Nico reverse-engineer either the process or the product. Usually, she gets it right. Occasionally, she comes up with something better.

Tonight, though, Eva feels even harder to cheer than normal. Nico is put off by a wad of cash to get takeout -- Sparda laid the bounty of the world at her feet, but Nero and Nico are giving her a world tour laden with grease -- leaving Eva and Nero alone for half an hour. Nero has unchecked notebook privileges, as long as he’s careful with them, and he flicks through the entries thoughtfully.

“How did you learn all this stuff in the first place?”

“It depends which stuff we’re talking about.” Eva leans over his shoulder, pointing to the pages. “Sparda gave me a lot of them; things he’d picked up over the years, I don’t even know where from. But this one -- here -- that was from a hunter I partnered up with a lot in the early days. These tisanes were from my aunt. I used to say she should have been born a mediaeval herb-woman, except they’d have hung her for a witch.”

But Nero has stopped looking at the pages. He’s looking at her instead; thoughtful, in a way that is so Vergil it makes her heart skip a beat.

“What were they like, your family?”

“My family...” How long has it been since family wasn’t Sparda and the boys? How much longer since it meant the house she grew up in, and the people who populated it? “Oh, they -- they’re long gone. Better not to dwell. I have the boys,” Except she doesn’t. “And you, of course.”

Nero isn’t diverted, not for a moment, and the tilt of his eyebrows is pure Vergil. But he lets it go for now.

They taper off into silence. It lasts for a few minutes, Eva turning over possibilities in her mind. The words, when they come, are nevertheless a surprise; something she hadn’t meant to let loose.

“My father was a twin,” she says abruptly. “He and my uncle were thick as thieves. I always used to hope I’d have twins -- they say it skips a generation, so I thought it was likely I would -- and then they’d both always have a friend.”

She lets out a hollow little laugh. A friend. What a fucking fairytale.

Where did she go so wrong? Yes, the boys had always had their spats, but Eva had chalked that up to a mixture of their demonic blood and the marked differences in their personalities, watchful but not truly worried. She tried to encourage them to get along, to talk out their problems, but had also comforted herself that it was something they would grow out of as they got older and developed a bit more emotional maturity. Siblings fought; it was perfectly normal. Even she and Elijah--

Eva squeezes her eyes closed. She can’t think about Elijah right now.

A warm, calloused hand covers her own and Eva opens her eyes to see Nero watching her, his expression unusually serious.

“It’s not your fault,” he tells her, quietly but with a forceful conviction behind his words that reminds her of Sparda. “Yeah, they’re idiots, and they’re both kind of fucked up in their own ways, but it’s not your fault. They’d be a lot worse if it hadn’t been for you.”

Is that true? Eva isn’t sure which is worse; that she has ruined her boys, or that they would somehow be even worse without her.

But none of this is Nero’s problem. Grandson, she reminds herself once again. Grandson. Not a peer, not a comrade to lean on. A young man she needs to protect.

Pull yourself together, Eva.

----

Eventually, Eva gets sick of sitting around Devil May Cry waiting for something to happen.

She has never been a passive person. Eva makes things happen. Ever since Lady asked for some tricks to help her on hunts, Eva has been building up her supplies again. Restocking her herbs, potions, and powders. Dusting off Dante’s collection of magic books (a surprisingly comprehensive collection; Vergil had always been the bookworm, while Dante was too much of a fidget-bottom to sit still for five minutes) and reminding herself of her favourite cantrips. Eventually, she contracts Nico to make her a pair of guns like her old ones.

The last time Eva felt so lost, she was drowning in grief for her husband and it ended in tragedy for her sons. She will not make the same mistake twice. Reaching back through the years, breaking down the walls she had so carefully built up, she remembers how it felt to be fifteen and alone; fifteen and desperate; fifteen and unstoppable.

Then she asks Morrison for some work.

As a young woman trying to break into this line of work, Eva had gotten used to the looks she elicited from these “brokers”. The initial amusement, thinking she’s joking. The surprise when they realise she isn’t. The patronising shake of the head as they assure her this is no work for a pretty little lady like her. Finally, the shock and anger as they hastily reconsidered their position with a gun jammed up against their throats.

Over time, she’d gotten a reputation for being an infernal bitch who was extremely good at what she did, which meant the work came easier. Eventually, by the time she met Sparda, she’d been running her own jobs without a broker at all - unless they were coming to her for a favour.

But that was then. Now she’s back to square one. Unproved. Untried. Untested. It’s aggravating but Eva knows she’ll have to just deal with it if she wants an in.

Because Eva is pretty sure she can talk Morrison into kicking a few jobs her way. Asking Lady, or Nero, or Trish to share, though? It will all be there - amusement, surprise, disbelief - and the worst thing of all is that they will be speaking not from baseless stereotyping but all too real knowledge.

Dante told us all about it, Eva. You barely lasted a minute when the demons attacked, isn’t that right? This is way too much for you.

No. She will work until she has beaten the softness out of herself. Until she can go back to them on an even footing. Until it’s second nature once again to have gunpowder on her clothes and the spark of magic at her fingertips. Until the Underworld has learned to fear Sparda’s whore again.

Then she will get their respect, rather than their pity.

Morrison drops by periodically for coffee and a chat. There hasn’t been any money-grubbing yet; Dante owns the office outright - Eva has seen the deed and it’s real enough - and the bills are being paid out of his last earnings. It won’t last forever, but it’s been enough to take one worry off Eva’s mind so far.

Instead, Morrison seems to simply enjoy her company, or maybe he just can’t kick the habit of showing up at Devil May Cry to see Dante. Whatever the reason, Eva enjoys his visits and his dry humour. What Morrison makes of her, she’s not sure; Eva had told him, in a tone that made it clear she was lying, that she was Trish’s long-lost sister. Morrison had simply chuckled and refrained from asking any questions.

That’s one thing Eva always did like about brokers; they’re the kind of people who don’t ask difficult, unnecessary questions.

“You’ve got this place looking real good, Eva.” Morrison looks around with genuine admiration and gestures with his lit cigarette to the spider plant growing ever larger in the corner. “Way better than Dante ever did. Mother of God, the state I’ve seen this office in… well. Maybe best not to elaborate too much there.”

Eva laughs, remembering how Dante always tried his best to weasel out of his chores. Even getting him to make his bed was a challenge. It seems he hasn’t improved with age.

“It’s certainly been quite the project. But, now that it’s done, I’ve been thinking I need something else to do.” Eva watches Morrison carefully, waiting for his reaction. “Do you have any work for me?”

Morrison smirks. “Getting bored already? Yeah, I got a few things on the back burner - the kind of stuff the other ladies think they’re too good for, if you catch my drift, and the kid really has got his hands full.”

...Okay, that was absurdly easy. Eva narrows her eyes, but Morrison doesn’t look like he’s trying to mock her. On the contrary, when he sees her expression, he holds his hands up in mock surrender.

“Hey, I don’t control the work that comes in! Besides, pay is pay, am I right?”

“I’m looking for hunting work,” Eva says pointedly, wondering if he’s mistaken her meaning.

“Yeah, yeah, I got you.” Morrison chuckles as he takes a drag on his cigarette. “What, were you expecting me to say no? If nobody will do the work, I won't get paid either.”

“I…” Eva is floored. All of her preparation, all that time spent rehearsing her arguments, and it turns out she doesn’t need any of them. “I was expecting, uh…”

“Pushback?” Morrison gives her a knowing look. “Do you really think I’d have lasted this long with those ladies if I trotted out that kind of line? As far as I’m concerned, if you hang around with Dante, Lady, and Trish, then you know what you’re doing and you can take care of yourself.”

Morrison pulls a notebook out of his pocket and rifles through it, humming under his breath. He tears out a page and walks over to lay it on Eva’s desk.

“Here are the details. Just give me a call when you’re done with them and I’ll arrange your payment. Damages come out of your cut, mind you. If everything goes well, I’ll see what else I have for you.”

----

It really is grunt work, but Eva doesn’t mind; she’s not arrogant enough to think she could jump single-handedly into something like Red Grave, guns blazing.

The job also isn't urgent - hence Morrison being lackadaisical about bullying someone into taking it - which gives her the leisure of reconnaissance and planning time.

An empusa nest out on some waste ground that a local developer bought before noticing his unexpected squatters. Straightforward enough, although Eva takes more precautions than she thinks are necessary just in case. After all, she’s seen her judgement is far from perfect.

But in the end, all goes smoothly. No nasty surprises. Just some nasty stains on the concrete from empusas blown to kingdom come. Eva grimaces at them, hoping they don’t count as “damages”. The land is being developed anyway, right? Surely they’ll be putting down fresh tarmac?

In the end, Morrison does take a cut from her pay, but it’s less than she feared and so Eva swallows it with as much good grace as she can muster. The stack of notes is a reassuring weight in her hand. Ballast, though for (or against) what, she’s not entirely sure. The important thing is that she’s done a competent enough job that Morrison leaves her with the details of another couple of jobs. In this way a reputation is built.

“Morrison,” Eva calls out just before he leaves.

Morrison pauses on the threshold. There’s a beat before he looks back at her over his shoulder and Eva gets the impression he knows exactly what she’s about to ask.

“Do you think he’s coming back?”

Because Morrison is not Trish, or Lady, or Nero. He does not know her connection to these people. To Dante. So he has no reason to lie to her or spare her feelings.

He sucks in a breath, considering. “You know, I’d gotten to the point where I never thought I’d see anything Dante didn’t come back from. So many times I thought he was in way over his head, only for him to walk away laughing. But this job… this felt different from the start. Gave me a sort of -- premonition, you might say.”

A soft hum; something that might have been a laugh, if there was any humour in it, and Morrison shook his head.

“The truth is, Eva, I don’t know. I really don’t. He could come waltzing back in here tomorrow, carrying a pizza and laughing at us all for ever doubting him. Or we might never see him again.”

Eva sinks slowly into the desk chair, feeling the truth of it in her bones. A tidal wave of exhaustion crashes over her, threatening to drown her in one clean swoop. Tired of worry. Tired of uncertainty. Tired of never even having the cold comfort of a body to bury. Tired of that tiny speck of hope that even now refused to be snuffed out completely because, however ridiculous it was to expect it, there was still the chance--

“I knew someone else like that, once,” she hears herself say. “He never did come back.”

Morrison gives her a searching look. He seems, for a moment, to be on the verge of saying something more, but in the end refrains. Instead, he tips his hat to her.

“You take care, Eva.”

“Yeah,” Eva replies distantly. “You too, Morrison.”

----

The work is important for more than Eva’s ego.

Her blood sings in her veins once again. The hum of power at her fingertips, like the whine of electricity. A promise, maybe even a vow if you were so inclined to call it such, that one day in the none-too-distant future a small slice of the world would once again turn at Eva’s call and beckoning. She has known this once before when playing lady of the manor. Now, the power is both weaker, for lack of Sparda’s force bolstering her, and sweeter, for knowing it is all of her own clawing and devising.

Her blood sings and Eva tastes iron and lightning on her tongue. Her fingers smell of metal and herbs and something no mortal can rightly put words to; the tang of the Underworld and the burning sulphur of demons.

When Eva looks at her reflection in the chipped bathroom mirror and sees an old, familiar light in her eyes, she knows it is time.

Very little magic needs to be complicated. The point is will, and the directing of it. For those unfamiliar with the craft then the trimmings of rituals and candles can go a long way in finding that direction.

For those who live long enough to become old hands, just the thinking, coupled with the right runes, is enough. Eva takes a sharp knife, a handful of herbs, and a silver-backed mirror (in this, old ways are better; a mercury mirror would work better still, but this will do for now)... and she searches.

Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh, soul of my soul, I seek thee now. Come to me, come to me, come to me…

It is a powerful spell. Kinfinding may not be enough to physically draw her boys forth from the Underworld, but it should at least show them to her in the scrying mirror.

Eva seeks until her blood runs dangerously thin and her head pounds and her vision begins to darken. She seeks further still until she knows herself at the very precipice of what she can safely come back from… and only then, with great reluctance, does she let the spell go.

She has not seen them, either of them, even once.

----

Eventually, it feels meaningless to even keep up the pretence she thinks the boys are coming back.

What has happened to them is almost immaterial. The nightmare scenarios are so numerous that eventually they blur together into one long snuff film that leaves her numb. Like Sparda, they were there and then they were not. Like Sparda, she will never know what exactly happened.

Devil May Cry becomes part tomb, part cocoon. She has saved enough money to keep Morrison at bay for a while even after Dante’s funds run out, and she continues to take work for the sake of it, though she doesn’t keep track of her income versus expenditures. If or when the money runs out, she’s not sure. It’s pointless to think so far ahead. Perhaps she’ll just die, like she should have before.

A wife without a husband. A mother without sons. Once, she would have vomited at the thought of a woman identifying herself by the men in her life, but somehow it crept up on her over the years and now she’s left with gaping, bloody holes that gung-ho feminist rhetoric does nothing to paste over.

Nobody seems to notice the change in her philosophy. Though, she gets precious few visitors anyway. Trish and Lady leave her to her own devices, having apparently satisfied their curiosity about her. Morrison has tapered off their tete-a-tetes and only shows up when he wants money. Nero is a busy boy these days.

One night she dreams about them. The dream is very similar to the ones she used to have about Sparda; lifelike, almost lucid dreaming, where everything was the same - she is in bed, having just awoken - except he is there, smiling gently, brushing her hair out of her eyes.

Sleeping in, Eva?

Dreaming about the boys is very similar. She dreams she awakens in the night to a sound downstairs. There is no panic of a break-in; nobody bothers her these days. Voices, muffled, from the floor below. Eva calmly gets out of bed, registering even the rustle of the sheets and the cold, bare wooden boards under her feet. She pads slowly out of the bedroom to the top of the stairs.

There they are, standing in the centre of the office, illuminated perfectly by a strip of moonlight through the window. It is like a picture. It is too perfect and too easy. This is how she knows she is dreaming.

Still, for the first time in months, her heart eases.

They are talking softly to each other, too softly for her to catch the words (there is a limit, she concedes, to just how much even her vivid imagination can conjure). Eva doesn’t mind. She stands at the mezzanine and soaks them in.

Dante gestures to the stairs and looks up. He freezes as their eyes meet. Vergil, a half-heartbeat behind his twin, mirrors him.

“...Hey,” Dante croaks, the gesturing hand that had fallen still now awkwardly waving. “We’re home!”

This is more than she expected. Eva’s throat constricts. Even her dreams of Sparda were not so vivid or so long.

“You’re late, boys,” she manages after a moment. “Dinner was hours ago.”

She is trying for levity, trying to play her part in this scene, trying to piece together something happy for when she wakes up, but her voice cracks halfway through the sentence and she finds herself choking on a sob.

Dante is halfway up the stairs in a moment, hand outstretched to her. Eva, too, is reaching out to her little boy and she cries out when she finally has her arms around him again.

She does not get even a heartbeat of joy before the world collapses into shadows and flames. Dante dissolves, her arms closing around thin air, and the staircase morphs into an endless corridor to hell. Her boys are nowhere to be seen, but she can hear them screaming.

Or maybe she just hears her own voice, screaming herself awake.

There are more dreams, afterwards; more recognisable for what they are. Her life runs before her eyes in reverse. Searching for the boys. Watching Sparda walk away for the last time. The face of every person she never saved. Then, at last, the denouement: Elijah, torn open. Her father and uncle staring sightless into an abyss. Her mother reduced to so many scattered chunks of meat.

Eventually, because Eva is someone who makes things happen, not someone things simply happen to, she makes the decision to go back. She has faced Red Grave; faced the ruined manor. It is time to face much older ghosts.

It is a private matter, and so Eva tells nobody of her intentions. She lets Morrison know she will be out of town on personal business, timeline uncertain; she will give him a call when she’s back. He is free, in the interim, to pass her usual work on to other sources.

For anyone else (because she still hopes, deep down, that her boys will one day come home), she leaves a note on her desk.

Out of town for a while.

Eva re-reads the brief scribble and wonders what else to add before realising there really is nothing more to add. No forwarding address or contact number, because she does not want anyone to find her. Anyone who wants her, can wait until she comes back.

She makes it ten minutes out from the city before she turns back to scribble an address at the bottom of her note.

Just in case.

----

Plane tickets are cheap these days, and she has a passport courtesy of Morrison, but Eva elects to drive. Call her old-fashioned, or even just plain curmudgeonly in her old age (ha), but Eva likes the hum of a good motor much better than the press of noisy crowds.

Besides, she’d need a car at the other end of the flight anyway, where she’s going. She can even call it a vacation if she finds a motel to spend each night in. If not -- she’s slept in a car before and it won’t kill her to do it again, especially when the rental is much more comfortable than any old banger she’s passed a night in before.

Highways turn to country lanes as she veers further and further off the beaten track. The temperature drops, too; winter in the shadow of the Appalachian mountains is nothing to sneeze at. Eva has forgotten a lot of things over the years (too many things), but she remembers that. Funny how events and people slide slowly but surely from her mind but sensory impressions remain: the icy, pinesap-tinged tang of morning air in winter; the crackle of a fire; the warm doughy smell and pillowy softness of homemade dinner rolls.

Become someone else, she’d told her younger son as their world burned around them. Change your name, change yourself, and hide. Not easy, no, nothing like easy -- but possible, for the right price. For the price of giving up who you were before.

Except no bargain is ever so neat and no transaction ever so complete.

#devil may cry #dmc #eva #dante #vergil #nero #nico #trish #lady #i have a whole headcanon backstory for eva #shocking revelation: she did not have a good time before meeting sparda!#fragments from the google docs

14 notes · View notes