#ploytofino

✦✦✦ ─────── PICKING A POINT IN TIME when two roads diverged in a yellow wood for Howard was a tall ask. He silently chewed, washing down the taste of Onofrio's delectable cooking with a sip of wine, then politely wiping the corner of his lips with his napkin. All the while his mind throttled in all directions, five hundred thousand miles an hour.

"Always, Onofrio." He offered a gentle smile. "Had my father never left. Had my mother received the support she needed when he did. Had I been to school. I would have been a mycologist, signore. I have a knack for foraging -- out of necessity at first, and a hobby second."

"I would have been a calmer child. I would have studied poorly in school, but we're talking about the best case scenario here, so someone would have helped me through it. I would publish a well known research paper on native species of mushrooms in Britain, my face all over scientific journals, invites for talks across the globe. Seven digit grant funding. A knighthood." He began to laugh. "A big family. If I can't have my own, I shall adopt. Two large dogs. Die of old age surrounded by my massive family, loved, cherished, accomplished."

Alas.

Howard's gaze lingered in the clouds of his mind, watching that dream play out amidst its rolling white embrace. A distant smile again for a wish that will never come true.

❝ Okay. Uh...hi to you, too. ❞ He lifted his wrist to glance at his watch. What was the time difference? Where the fuck even was Frio? More importantly, what the hell was he supposed to say to the equivalent of a drunken confession while he was in the middle of a job?

Tosto at least was putting things out in the open, tipsy or not. The two had been dancing around this for months now and it was clear they both knew it. Bubbles had just intended to never, ever bring it to the light of day. Being friends was stupid. Being more was insane, it was reckless. They might as well have been making a suicide pact together.

But the heart wanted what it wanted-— or whatever the bullshit quote was. Clayton had stopped actively fighting it so much as he'd persisted in hopelessly trying to ignore it instead.

❝ Why don't you catch your breath, Frio. You sound like you've been running a marathon. ❞ Bubbles felt like he'd ran one an hour ago and was still trying to get his legs to move again. He let his head thud back against the shitty motel bed he'd collapsed on as he pressed the burner phone to his ear. He was still dirty, splattered with grime and dried blood; he'd just been too tired after the deed had been done to do much else.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled. Bubbles couldn't find it in him to be upset or agitated or even frantic and avoidant. Onofrio just had a talent for being an exception for every one of Clayton's rules.

❝ I told you to only call this number for emergencies. Are you sure you're just tipsy, amorzinho? ❞ It was a little mean, sure. But the man sounded wound tight and it was in Clay's nature to want to diffuse things a bit, lighten the mood.

⚖️ You’ve Reached Durán Law: [ unprompted, 🍋? ] @ploytofino

Well that's a new one. Her head tilts just a couple of degrees off center as Dolores inspects the citrus-y surprise that's been pressed into her hand. "Is... the lemon meant to mean something?"

Ciao🍋🧡

INBOX PROMPTS ╱ 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑎𝑐𝑐𝑒𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔.

He supposes it does take a certain type of person to do the things he does. Anyone in his profession likely had some personality deficiency that made them all inexplicably drawn to the same macabre scenes. He saw it in the eyes of his colleagues, a steadily growing barrier between them and the bodies, as if it were just meat on an observational metal slab. Not quite a person, at least not anymore. Though there was still a universe of difference between them and Will Graham. They had enough to sense something was different about him, casting their suspicious eyes whenever he explained a motive or what would inevitably be found under Jane Doe’s nails. They got used to it, but they didn’t truly understand it. So, Will finds he is alone on that island. And then he finds himself unknowingly broadcasting to anyone else perturbed enough to find that island his exact fucking mental coordinates. A x marks the spot, a blaring red neon-lit sign blinking in his direction. A spotlight on his mind.

Will doesn’t agree with him.

“I would wager there is a much larger likelihood that they are more attracted to me.” He could not outright deny his own inevitabilities of falling into the magnetizing pull of the things he ought to run from, two opposite ends finding each other, both awful for him & fascinating, cemented with scars on Will’s body. He had survived them all, though.

一期一会 . . . ONE TIME, ONE MEETING . . . @ploytofino

"You must not bring this up ever again, Mr. Tosto. I find your insistence that you are a bother to me an insult," an older Japanese man replied calmly. Introducing himself to the other as his actual surname Nakajima, the host stood just about Onofrio's height, with shoulder-length hair tied in a half ponytail that framed his bearded face and appealed to a younger generation's taste for men his age. Over his dark blue polo shirt and khaki slacks he wore a black waist apron, and in his hands he carried a tray, upon which a tea set rested.

"Has my accommodation disquieted you so terribly that you would leave me so soon?" he asked, gesturing for Onofrio to sit next to him on a sofa with a jerk of his chin. Carefully, he laid the tea set down for them both, pouring a warm cup of tea for the consigliere and then himself. "Please, Mr. Tosto, stay for a little while longer."

This, Nakajima could muster. He'd worked in a tea house for seven years right after high school, in an attempt to keep their household afloat amid his father's surmounting gambling debt. Putting on the mask of a bed-and-breakfast host came naturally after the fact, even as his nerves nipped at his ankles like hungry dogs.

Before them unfolded the beautiful coastal view of Santorini, a prime cliff-top property offering a quiet path to the beach away from the tourist traps (as if Santorini itself weren't a trap), and a magnificent uninterrupted view of the sea beyond. Not a house in sight, and the night breeze was cool and welcome. Inside, the luxurious house was decorated with a mid-century modern flair, though comfortingly lived in and welcoming as a result.

It was nice to get away and take a vacation. Stiles needed a break from the chaos of his life, to stop and smell the roses, as they say. He rarely had the chance to leave the country; when the opportunity to explore another part of the world came, he jumped on it. He had to admit he was a little overwhelmed and didn't know where to start, whiskey-colored eyes looking all around him like a kid in the candy store, already feeling like he was going to be pulling himself in many different directions. ❝ Okay. Maybe I need to start with food.❞ His stomach was growling, and it didn't help that he was too excited on the plane to eat anything, let alone sleep on the long flight. It was a simple task, wasn't it? But after thirty minutes of wandering around and trying to get Google to work, he was frustrated, or hangry to the point he was ready to fight someone. ❝ Hey.❞ Flagging down the first person he came across. ❝ Not to be the annoying American tourist, but umm, do you happen to have any suggestions for places to eat around here? I'm getting myself a little turned around here.❞ And of course, he took the stranger's suggestion, taking a chance despite the odd feeling that bubbled up in his gut. From the outside, the place looked nice. almost homey, but the way the locals rushed past without a glance should have been a red flag, because the moment he stepped inside, he was met with a gun pressed to his temple. ❝ Oh, what great hospitality, the moment you walk in, you're given a free appetizer of fear.❞ The comment earned a small, amused chuckle from a well-dressed man seated at a table, with sun-kissed hair, a beard to match, and blue eyes. He had a cigar in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other. ❝ Now, what do we have here? Entertainment, it seems.❞ And not far behind him stood the man who had given Stiles the suggestion; he wore a smirk himself and was armed with a gun. The guy seemed pleased with himself, as if this were a game he played often. He was, after all, Vitto's right-hand man and enjoyed killing. The mob boss stood from his seat, cigar placed down on the ashtray, before taking a few strdes closer, glass of Whiskey still in his hands.❝ Seems a little stray has wandered off the street. I wonder how he got in.❞ And without warning, he pulled out his gun and shot someone, a bullet right to the skull. The sound made Stiles flinch. ❝ I don't like it when people don't do their jobs right for me, and his job was to guard the door and make sure shit like this doesn't happen. Now....❞ Vitto glanced about the room, before his eyes were locked dead on the one they had a gun pointed at. ❝ Now. Do we kill this twink right away and get back to the task at hand, or play a few games with him...❞