#AND ALSO how when he first sees peter alive and happy and healthy (was he healthy?? i mean like enuff)

[thelastofhyde]

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

pairing. narcos!javier peña x fem!reader

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

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

word count. 14.3k

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

if you see any typos, no you didn't 🫣

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

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

The year moves too fast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He’s a show-off, that boy.”

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

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

“Hmm?”

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

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

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

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

He’s fast, agile, stealthy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ve made worse attempts in the past.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It happens when you’re finally being served.

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

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

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

Friendly.

Too friendly.

Till it crosses the border into flirty.

You’re not interested.

At all.

But it’s flattering, to feel wanted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gasps fill the air.

Half the crowd boos.

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

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

Turning on your heal, the scene unfolds.

The ball, abandoned on the ground.

The players, scrambling to grab it before one another.

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

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

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

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

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

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

If you don’t love me, What was April?

You’ve always been organised.

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

You compartmentalise.

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

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

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

Caution tape holds the lid shut.

Fragile stickers cover every corner.

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

A late night.

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

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

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

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

Go still.

Worry you’ve woken him.

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

He’s tired. Exhausted.

Work was getting to him as of late.

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

You know him. You can read him.

Can tell in the way he moved slower against you.

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

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

Unlike other nights, you’re trapped awake.

Something feels off, makes you queasy.

There’s something nagging at your mind.

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

You just know its absence is wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not fair, you think.

Sleep is usually where you see him at his calmest.

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

His grip loosens, though slightly.

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

So you do your best to slip out his hold.

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

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

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

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

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

Then, you open the tap.

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

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

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

Your hair frames your face, though messy.

Your eyes are bloodshot, yet carry less bags.

Your cheeks are rounder, fuller.

You look different.

You feel it too.

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

Has he noticed a change?

Is he the reason for it?

Does he feel different, too?

Your stomach flips.

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

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

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

You don’t remember.

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

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

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

The stir in your stomach becomes more intense.

Eyes refocusing, you find yourself in the mirror again.

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach.

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

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

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

It feels like you’re suffocating.

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

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

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

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

There’s a soothing motion over your skin.

Up, down, up, down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He calls your own name back to you.

“I’m late.”

You await the sharp inhale.

And the unwinding of arms.

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

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

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

Then he’ll turn the blame to you.

That’s what men do, right?

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

None of it arrives.

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

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

He dries you off, delicate drags over your skin.

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

Only, this time you’re wide awake.

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

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

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

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

After all, the blame is yours, surely.

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

“But I-”

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

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

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

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

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

Lips press against your own, soft and subtle.

A quiet greeting, a wordless goodmorning.

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

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

You don’t want him to leave this bed.

Or this apartment.

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

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

Eventually, he peels himself away from you.

You watch him dress.

Tell him which tie to wear.

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

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

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

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

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

He presses a kiss between them, hums in enjoyment.

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

“Good,” you reply.

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

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

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

Leans down, brushes his lips against it.

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

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

He keeps his word.

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

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

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

The thought has you pressing a hand against your womb.

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

With a grimace, you admit you haven’t.

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

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

“I’ll probably just have toast.”

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

The call goes on a little longer.

It’s mostly him talking.

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

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

“I’ll be home soon, okay?”

That sounds nice coming from Javi.

Home.

Not his home, just home.

A place he feels his soul at rest.

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

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

He keeps his word, again.

Comes home barely three hours later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod, then audibly reply.

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

The drive is quiet.

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

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

You welcome it, covering it with your own.

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

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

He’s right.

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

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

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

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

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

You smile, and thread your fingers between his own.

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

The clinic is bright.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A confused sound leaves Javier.

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

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

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

“You hoping for a boy or a girl?”

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

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

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

But you don’t want to ruin the moment.

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

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

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

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

Javi’s still not correcting him.

It makes you nauseous for a whole new reason.

“Mr. Miller?” A voice calls out.

A nurse, you imagine.

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

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

He takes a few steps, till Javi interrupts him.

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

“A girl.”

Eventually, it’s your turn.

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

Shuffled into some room, reluctantly separating from Javi.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re not pregnant.

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

This time, the drive is silent.

Not quiet.

Silent.

You watch him drive past the turning into your street.

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

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

Over your empty womb.

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

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

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

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

You played a game But I run the table

You’re avoiding your dad’s calls.

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

See, you know why he’s calling.

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

He’s hosting another poker night.

He wants you there, as always.

Some baseless theory of you being his good luck charm.

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

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

“Fill in for me, will ya, kiddo?”

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

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

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

He turns out to be no threat.

None of the officer’s are, really.

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

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

But, taking from Javi?

That’s something else, entirely.

Each time you win, he gets more agitated.

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

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

And intoxication.

And something else.

Something you know all too well on Javier.

Lust.

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

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

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

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

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

He’s on the younger side.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe, he’ll offer you a sip.

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

He asks about college.

You ask about working with your dad.

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

He tells you about a new bar, downtown.

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

It’s light, it’s easy, it’s friendly.

You’re enjoying his company.

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

His hands grip his sides.

You’re clutching your chest.

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

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

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

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

You both gather some decorum.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then two steps, which you also match.

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

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

It’s alarmingly gentle for his stoic features.

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

“What’s going on with you, huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s worked up, frustrated, angry.

And it’s hot. A turn-on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wonder what positions he put them in.

How many rounds he lasted with them.

How often he made them cum.

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

That single action changes the game, entirely.

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

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

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

The grip tightens.

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

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

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

Every ounce of feminism evaporates within you.

Who could deny such a tentative offer?

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

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

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

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

Your panties, soaked.

His jeans, tight.

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

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

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

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

“C’mon, don’t be shy.”

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

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

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

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

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

He has his mother’s eyes, you notice.

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

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

A picture of Javi, and you.

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

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

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

There was no point risking your father ever finding it.

But this picture, this one you do not remember.

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

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

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

He does good to bring you back into the room.

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

They sit in the sink, growing wet.

And you are too, frozen on the spot.

You glance down, count over the different bills.

Five dollars.

Twenty dollars.

Hundred dollars.

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

In the mirror, he’s watching.

Not the sink bowl, no.

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

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

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

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

The card is plucked out your hand.

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

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

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

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

Desirable.

And attractive.

And pretty.

And smart.

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

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

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

Javi hisses, muttering something to himself.

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

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

A few seconds pass. 

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

You feel the air tickle your skin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Smack!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hear a cheer.

From the basement.

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

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

If you can hear them, they could hear you.

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

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

It’s not a pleasurable act, in itself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For him, you can do it.

“Fitting big things in your little pussies?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The unbuckling of a belt.

The unzipping of teeth.

The shucking down of-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A hand, reaching up to cup your cheek.

A kiss, gentle and longing against your mouth.

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

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

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

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

“I’m a very patient man, corazón.”

You scoff.

“Just not when it comes to you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You feel lightheaded.

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

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

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

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

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

He consumes you, mind, body and soul.

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

There’s just Javi.

Beautiful, gorgeous, deserving Javi.

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

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

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

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

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

Hands hurry off your waist, slipping between your thighs. 

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

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

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

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

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

He’d catch you, if you fell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You both crash and burn, together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damn Javi and all the memories he haunts you with.

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

Days grow colder.

Nights grow longer.

You change your bedsheets, stuff a comforter back inside.

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

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

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

Lights, baubles, action.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is this some tactic of yours?”

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

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

“Some what?”

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

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

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

Bare legs, messed hair, smudged lipstick.

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

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

“You weren’t complaining earlier.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When he offers the cigarette your way, you hesitate.

Picture your father, disappointed to see you smoke.

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

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

You and Javi were never meant to happen.

Sure, the line had already been crossed weeks ago.

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

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

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

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

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

Until tonight.

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

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

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

He’d offered to take you home.

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

He squeezed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which brings you here, fifteen minutes later.

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

“Huh?”

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

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

“Is that what you want?”

He shrugs.

Pulls in another breath of his cigarette.

Stubs it out on the arm of the chair.

And says nothing.

You assume it’s a yes.

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

Silence falls upon you both.

You twist in his lap.

He tightens his hold.

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

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

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

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

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

Each year, it’s the same.

The station, decked out in decorations.

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

It’s not just Christmas.

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

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

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

Their spouse, their mothers.

Anyone, and everyone, is welcome.

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

It’s the part you look forward to most.

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

Fishing out a pen, some paper.

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

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

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

This year, there was none of that.

No list of pros and cons for each gift option.

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

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

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

Hinted at it, slightly.

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

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

Hold it up to his ear, shake it.

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

The whole room stops.

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

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

Fades to grey.

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

He knows.

Of course he knows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next time you see Javi is hours later.

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

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

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

You say you’re tired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Javi plays it cool.

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

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

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

Well, better than anyone but you.

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

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

Your dad stares at you.

Your mum stares at you.

Javi stares at you.

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh! Yeah, I- Sorry, I meant that I-”

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

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

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

At least that’s the reason you give yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your hands, brushing.

Your eyes, meeting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it isn’t, and you’re not.

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

His lips brush your cheek like an autumn breeze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You and Javi don’t spend time alone anymore.

You and Javi do not exist together anymore.

Maybe you never did.

“It’s okay, I already called a cab.”

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

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

For a second, he just looks at you.

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

“Get home safe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

First, just a little extra weight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One more glance in the box.

There’s a note, tucked at the bottom.

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

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

[glader13]

Chasing Memories of You (pt. 4)

Miguel O’Hara x Reader

Chasing Memories of You

Chasing Memories of You (pt.2)

Chasing Memories of You (pt.3)

Miguel had a new pep in his step as if a fresh wind had blown over him, and perhaps one did, but no one knew what it was. It unsettled the other Spiders who were used to Miguel’s stoic nature, how willing he was to pop a smile. His change of attitude warmed Jess’ and Peter B’s hearts to see their friend finally moving on, but what caused his change of heart, they did not know. Miguel could feel it, he could sense that they were itching to know, always asking the question “How are you doing” in the hopes that he would spill. But, he doesn’t, not wanting to sound crazy in front of the few people that he trusts. Each night that he settles in his living room or his area at HQ, watching you live your life blissfully, but achingly to him, unaware of his eyes on you. He thinks about telling your parents that he found you, but the same fear holds him back, that he would seem crazy, detrimentally desperate. They wouldn’t understand, no one would. If he was going mad, well he can thank it, appreciate it. In his madness, he found the perfect version of you.

He still couldn’t believe that he found it, the place where you are alive and healthy. The earth where you have a normal life, not burdened by your powers. Through the screens, Miguel saw how happy you were, and how at peace you were. It made his pain all the greater, so unbearable that he would have to tear himself away from the screens to catch his breath. But, he wouldn’t, he couldn’t stay away for long, because he was missing precious moments of you. It started innocently, watching the live feed of you would only be in his spare time that slowly slipped into a pastime. A distraction would be an understatement, his mind was consumed by you, and all he could think of was how you were alive, breathing. He didn’t have to imagine you, what you would be doing when he could just view you.

The anticipation of doing that left his mind scattered, especially during missions. He’s slower, not picking up on things that he usually would. But the wounds from his absentmindedness sting less when he cleans them as a feed of you is playing in the background, filling the void that you created. He could care less, about everything, every word sounds like chalk grating against a board, as he is briefed about different realities, but it’s all the same. If it’s not Green Goblin, then it’s Venom, and if it’s not them, or whatever, then it’s some villain of the week. It’s all the same, it’s mundane. His mind brimming with a mixture of numbness, and past moments of when you would sit across from him, encouraging him with smiles. Then, he couldn’t wait for the meeting to be over, to debrief after the debrief, the casual conversation turning into something intimate as he pulled you into him. Now, it’s much the same thing, he waiting for the meeting to end, but instead of holding you, he’s watching you. Watching you live the life that he has wanted, that he has wanted for you. Something simple, something safe.

Miguel watches the footage of you and Gabi, he nearly wept when he saw his daughter for the first time, religiously, mentally placing himself in your space. He would replay your conversations, and then talk back in the quietness of his room. Always talking at you, but it makes him feel whole. It only took him three days worth of watching you to know where you lived, to know your weekly routine. You get up at 7, waking up Gabi to get her ready for school. As you do that, you’re also simultaneously getting ready for work. The whole process takes you around half an hour, you then drop her off and you work in your office, but sometimes at home, as a journalist. Around 12, you go to the same cafe and have lunch, often working on your article, or editing other people’s work. You pick up Gabi at three and five, drop her off at soccer practice, and pick her up at seven.

Your routine is so easy, that Miguel drops by in your universe. He sometimes sits in the same cafe as you, as you eat blissfully unaware of him. It takes everything in him to not run over and hold, or kiss you. His enhanced hearing allows him to enjoy your voice, it sounds so sweet, so addicting. He sends you flowers, signed with his name, seeing that there is no harm from it, after all, it is him. Sometimes he watches Gabi practice, either from afar or “close”. Close as in he “exercises” around the track as Gabi’s team uses the field. His heart swells with an old pride seeing her out-compete her teammates, she is his soccer star. This relationship sustains him, despite being para-social.

Obsession is what comes to mind, when he has his out-of-body moment, when reality hits cold and hard as he hides his face in his hands. Would you want this for him, for him to be this pitiful? So lost in his grief that he has resulted in stalking. He would’ve laughed, never allowing himself to stoop this low, but he feels you in his mind, where he runs away with you. You’re his collar, taking away the air that he knows he needs. He can never sleep with another, given his love to another. He would die a thousand times just to see you smile. He swore that he wouldn’t peak into your personal life, that he would turn off the feed when you would enter your home, locking him out once again. He couldn’t let you go, you sustain him. After all, you’re his destiny.

Your routine is perfect for him to slip into, he can easily have the two of you back. He can have his life back. Waking up to you every morning, giving Gabi a good morning kiss, he would be complete again. Perhaps then, the man he was before he lost the two of you would come back, stronger than ever. It would have been perfect, but you weren’t alone in this world. You had him. You had your Miguel, and he does nothing but love you. And it pisses Miguel off, if the situation wasn’t so dire, he would laugh. To be jealous of yourself. Miguel has to retract his claws each time he sees you being touched by Miguel, how his lips personally know your body. Miguel gets up an hour before you, starting each morning with a kiss, he then gets some breakfast ready for you and Gabi. He’s a scientist, and he tries his best to match his work schedule with yours, which complicates Miguel’s plans.

There are days when Miguel visits, watching you eat lunch as he builds the courage to go talk to you, shamelessly impersonating your Miguel. He imagined, no, planned, how it would be. He would bring you flowers, sneaking up from behind you. You would laugh, pulling him into a kiss that would surely melt him, causing him to fall to his knees. He wouldn’t even speak, he would just listen to you talk, recording the whole date so it could be later saved as a file. If your schedule allows it, you would walk downtown together, hand in hand. He just wants to be loved again, but Miguel keeps that from happening. He’s the one that gets you to switch your lunch schedule, often taking you to random places. It makes him sick, seeing you lean all over Miguel, watch him playfully feed you. And when he can’t meet you, you would meet him. You would bring him lunch to his office and would greet him with a kiss. He would show you around his lab, describing his latest experiment on DNA splicing. But despite his love, he always falls short.

“Another late night,” Miguel watched you sigh as you sat at the kitchen table with Gabi was consumed by her game. Miguel’s plate sat untouched across from you.

“I’m sorry querido, but they’re up my ass about this genetic code,” Miguel says, taking off his glasses to rub his eyes, “Hopefully we find what we’re looking for.”

“But baby, you come home late, you don’t even eat,” you say, “And you’re starting to miss Gabi’s weekday games.”

“It’s fine,” Gabi chimed in, causing both Miguels to smile sadly, “The important ones are on the weekends.”

“All games are important,” Miguel gently told her, “But I’ll try to be home at a reasonable time-“

You slightly scoffed, and Miguel looked away, his mouth slightly open before closing again. Miguel watched it all, the sadness creeping on the edges of your beautiful face. But just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone, erased by another easy smile. He just knew that if he was there, a frown would never grace your face.

“Just remember what we’re trying to do,” you smiled, “Love you, okay.”

“Love you too,” he smiled, “I’ll make it up to you.”

He was a stain in Miguel’s plans, like blood upon the snow. He had to move carefully, his visits to see you were infrequent, and the courage to talk to you would dissipate when Miguel would hurriedly rush in to your table. Moving cautiously didn’t mean that he had to stop seeing you smile, it was a drug, and he was addicted to being the cause of it. He would linger longer after paying for your meals, watching your eyes squint in confusion and slow recognition. The flowers signed with his name, along with paying for your meals were a point of tension, with your Miguel denying all of those things as you would try to convince him that he did those things. It made Miguel smile, gaining a secret victory that proved he was the better lover.

You have a stalker, that’s what Miguel told you, as he watched through the screens, seeing you frown, draining the color from your face as your hand instinctively went to your stomach. He became your protector of sorts, altering his schedule to completely match yours, and when you’re off before him, he’ll take a break just to make sure you and Gabi are home safe. He even created a pepper spray of sorts that wouldn’t cause you to have any problems when it was sprayed.

Miguel has thought of it, getting rid of your Miguel, after all, he has the capabilities. He has played with the idea in his head, of how to kill that Miguel without raising an alarm. He would spend hours analyzing himself and an image of your Miguel, trying to find any slight difference in appearance. He studied him, his movements, and how he interacts with you and Gabi in case he decides to go through with his plan. The idea unsettled him, but means would justify the end because it’s you.

“Miguel,” you whisper, moving your head from his shoulder. He didn’t move, and you shook him again, causing him to stir. He looked at you, his words slightly slurring together as he asked you if everything was okay. You nodded moving stray hair from his face, an action that caused another painful and yearning sensation in Miguel as he watched the feed from his home.

Miguel took your hand, kissing it as he asked what was going on in your pretty mind. You turn down your living room TV, changing your position on the couch, “What if something happens,” you say, “What if the pepper spray and you being here isn’t … enough? We’re just now starting a family, and I just want everything to be okay.”

“It will be,” he kissed you, “I promise you. As long as I’m alive, no harm will come near you, mi vida.”

Unknowing to Miguel he cursed himself with those words.

~

It was raining when Miguel tuned in on himself racing home. Miguel’s eyes kept flashing to the time as he hurriedly told Lyla to place an order for flowers. Why was he in a rush, Miguel didn’t know, but he found it amusing. Miguel cursed the weather quietly as he complained about the lack of visibility, wherever he was going he was running late. Even his hover vehicle seemed to be against him as it began to sputter, a steady beeping coming from inside the vehicle, causing the vehicle to slowly begin to descend. Miguel played with buttons in his vehicle, trying to see if he could at least make it back to his home, but everything refused to work.

“Shock me,” he grumbled, looking into the rain. He squinted into the grainy darkness, trying to figure out if the bar was open, failing to notice the shifting shadows hiding along its wall. Miguel, from his room, noticed it. Zooming in on the feed to see them lurking, watching him as if he were their next victim. Miguel could’ve stopped them, could’ve warned himself, but he watched, hoping for something that he could never stomach to do.

Miguel never made it to the bar, he didn’t even have a chance.

Miguel could have stopped them, he could have saved himself. Instead, he watched himself get pummeled, ignoring the pitiful cries for help, the pleas to stop the beating. Miguel felt something in him break, or possibly resolve, when he heard himself trying to reason with the thugs, telling them that he has a family. They didn’t stop beating him and he … he felt satisfaction. He turned off the footage seeing one pull out a gun. He gleefully pulled out the matching outfit that he was wearing, feeling as if Christmas arrived early. He turned on the screen seeing himself surrounded by a pool of blood, the rain slowly making it disappear. Once again, Miguel could have stepped in, and given him the medical help, but he stood by and watched almost sadistically. He couldn’t help that his lips quirked into the smallest of smiles as he felt the ghost of your lips.

Miguel was greeted by the rain, and then his dying body. He heard himself struggle to breathe, as he tried to make his way back to the front of the bar. Miguel followed him nonchalantly, thinking of his first moments with you and Gabi. Yes, he could have saved himself, but the urge to be loved was much stronger, it suffocated him. Infiltrating his mind, your love made him its slave. He heard him weakly call for help, and Miguel had to tell himself to be patient. He lost his strength before he made it out of the alley, falling onto his back with a soft plopping. Miguel walked up to him, taking pleasure again in seeing the scared look on his face. Miguel kept him down with his foot, silencing him.

“They’ll be safe with me,” Miguel smiles, “After all, they belong with me. They’re my family, my destiny.”

“Stay away from them,” he coughed up blood, “Lyla-“

“No need to call her, I disabled her,” Miguel said in a bored voice, “You can rest now.”

“Who … who are you?”

“You,” was the last thing that your Miguel had heard.

Miguel quickly disposed of himself by throwing him into a river. He watched himself sink, letting nature have its way. He watched himself sink to a place that only he and the waters that buried him would know. He quickly looked around making sure that no one was watching before he quickly left the scene. In his haste, he didn’t notice how the water quickly flashed neon colors of green, and pink, like a glitched screen on a broken television.

Tags:

@cecilliaz272

@honey-bee2002

@montyrokz

@vampiredp94

@mmhcs

[dee-in-the-box]

Hello hello! :D

Whilst going through your Bruno is Orange au and the "Bruno what happened to your good sense?" Fic, I noticed two things:

1- Caroline first describes Dave and Jack's relationship as close, but she is hesitant as if there's more to it. When the officer asks her to elaborate, she dismisses him, as if she is trying to hide what's really going on with them 🤨

2- In one of your posts on tumblr about the au, you have mentioned that Dave is lovestruck with Jack during dsaf 1-2 etc. Not only that, you said he is "STILL" lovestruck with him, implying that he was BEFORE.

So, dear Dandy, care to elaborate on the 🏳‍🌈🤨?

(I'm sorry I know this is kind of a cliche question but I'll ask more questions if I notice something else :)))) (I'm also sorry if I read their pre-dsaf relationship wrong, I just wanted to point out the pattern I noticed 😅)

oh no, i'm actually happy to answer this!!

so, some things about my general headcanons before i get into this, because they do kinda affect the au:

Jack started working at Fredbear's earlier in 1973, a few months before Dee died.

Jack is a man who, due to several reasons, doesn't get real close to people. he started to kinda develop feelings for Dave (thus making him one of the few people Jack had a soft spot for), but Dee's murder kinda shattered those. they still linger, though.

for the most part, i just thought it'd be interesting to give them even more of a history.

now, onto the au:

as stated, Jack takes Dave's place as Henry's business partner in this au. now, Henry, having known about Dave's existence at this point, honestly planned to leave out an ad saying that he needed a business partner for what he was planning to do and just waiting for Dave to break down his door.

but then Jack comes along.

Jack had just lost his parents like. a month prior, and turned eighteen at around the same time. he wanted to find a job to provide for him and his siblings, to give Dee even the chance of a normal childhood.

and Henry just sees another kinda desperate young man he could manipulate.

but uh. he severely miscalculates how Jack's gonna react to his bullshit.

Jack reacts more with anger and violence, and no matter how much he gets hurt (and how much Peter tries to tell him "for the love of fuck, get a different job"), he's one stubborn, bullheaded young man.

it's why he started bringing his father's old switchblade to work; if there's one thing he learned about Henry, it's that the only thing that seemed to put the fear of God in him was death. so of course, if Henry decided to get violent? well, two can play at that game, can't they?

it's like i was once told when i rambled about this au before: "of course the guy who's never known family love would be more vulnerable than the guy who lost it."

while Jack did manage to get worn down over the years, it became clear that he was a ticking time bomb. not that it ever stopped Henry from seeing how much further he could push, but it became clear that there was a limit.

then Dave comes along, and Jack rather swiftly learns that he and Henry have a history.

and it also doesn't take him long to learn that Dave really has no idea what healthy relationships are meant to look like.

it's why, initially, he takes Dave under his wing, despite the man being older than him. Jack has absolutely ZERO faith that Henry's not gonna try to pull the same bullshit he tried to pull with Jack when he first started out.

he offers Dave his protection, should Henry ever decide to direct his abuse towards him. he's not letting the cycle repeat if he can help it. he tells Dave that Henry's not the man he thinks he is, much to Dave's confusion.

Dave views Jack as the luckiest man alive; Dave would've done anything to be in Jack's place.

Jack, meanwhile, views Dave as lucky; he dodged a MAJOR fucking bullet, whether he realizes it or not.

due to Jack trying to keep an eye on Dave, this ended up drawing the two closer together, naturally. Jack, due to obviously giving more of a shit about Dave, spent more time with the guy, letting him ramble about whatever came to mind, and even rambling about his own interests (and his siblings). he gave Dave a shoulder to cry on, and Dave did the same.

and...well, Jack had always viewed his title as "co-owner" and "co-founder" as...merely that. a title. he was only the boss in name, and in name alone.

in that sense, he viewed him and Dave as equals.

Dave, meanwhile, latched onto Jack in a similar way to how he'd latched onto Henry. just...not as a father figure. more or less in a "you complete me; you're like my other half" sense. to Dave, both Henry and Jack had completed him, but...Jack? Jack definitely did.

so maybe things escalated a bit.

after all, something Jack had said to Caroline about Dave had given her (and Peter) the impression that he and Dave were being romantic with each other.

and Dave, as you mentioned, was lovestruck.

of course, Dee's murder...soured things (especially the fact that Henry pinned her death on Dave)...but those feelings never truly faded. for either of them.

Dave has an "I Can Fix Him" mentality when it comes to Jack (fun fact: there's actually a "route" in this au, for the first and second games, where Dave can manage to keep Jack from killing anyone, mostly by distracting him, though Jack does still cause some chaos that ends up getting locations shut down...and almost getting him and Dave arrested). he's still as lovestruck as he was back in 1973, and i don't think anything would really change that.

Jack is...well, he's not as openly affectionate with Dave as Dave is with him canonically...but he has his own ways of showing that the feelings are still there (he'll give small hugs sometimes, pats him on the shoulders, bonks his head against his arms (something i'll do irl), gives him compliments and affirms him, lets him rant, just...little things).

so long story short: these two have a long romantic history together. a very complicated one, but...it exists!

(now, am i talking about my regular headcanons/au or am i talking about the Bruno is Orange au with that summary? answer: YES.)

[goldeneyedgirl]

This is kind of a random question, but I thought about that while reading your story Variable Stars, more specifically that scene in which Alice decides not to kill Peter and Charlotte. If it had happened, how Jasper would've reacted? Or, in a canon version, how do you think he would react if Peter and Charlotte were killed (not by Alice but a nomad or something)?

Ooof, Anon, you woke up and chose violence. We'll start with Variable Stars.

So, in Variable Stars, Alice sees Peter and Charlotte and kills them quickly and moves on.

Jasper is extremely close to both of them in Variable Stars because he is alone - no wife. It's kind of a cocktail of soldiers in arms, paternal, and brotherly. Like an older siblings raising a much younger sibling. So when they stop visiting and communicating with him, this is scary. Jasper has always had Peter at his back and for Peter to vanish... he spends a lot of time trying to find them. Obviously he never does, and because of where Alice found them, no one else (Maria) knows what happened either.

That weighs on Jasper terribly. That they found themselves in a fight that they could not win. He hopes they died quickly and together. But because he cannot confirm their deaths, there's always a little piece of him that hopes that they're still out there. He's much quieter and more serious by the time Alice joins the family.

It's quite a few years later that Edward puts together Peter and Charlotte as some of the vampires that Alice killed during her Rebellion Years. He does end up telling her what she did, and Alice is broken that she did that to Jasper. She considers a visit to Volterra to have herself destroyed but Edward tells her that the last thing Jasper needs is to lose another of his people.

She does tell him, and it changes them. For mental health reasons, Jasper has to separate the idea of the Alice that killed Peter and Charlotte with his Alice. Is it healthy? No! Is it necessary for him to live his life? Yes. Their relationship is fundamentally changed, and very bittersweet; Alice spends the rest of her life essentially trying to keep Jasper as happy as she can to make up for her terrible mistake, and Jasper has to live with that constant cloud of self-loathing and regret that surrounds her.

In canon, oh boy. (Also, anon, if you want Charlotte and Peter and Jasper drama, can I recommend going to talk to @flowerslut? Maybe subscribe to her new fic Roots? It's insanity and is a fucking vision into the dynamic Jasper has with his people and his past. 11/10, A+, six seasons and a movie. But I digress.)

In canon, Jasper would be on the war path, and Alice with him. Jasper would hunt them to the ends of the earth and remind their killer why Jasper's reputation precedes them. Both Alice and Jasper have a violent streak, and even if the deaths weren't planned, the killer would regret ever touching Peter and Charlotte.

And then I think Jasper would grieve heavily, and probably seek out solitude for that grief; he'd definitely retreat from the family a little. Peter's friendship and loyalty shaped who he was and who he got to be so much that there would always be a hole where his brother was. That Jasper couldn't protect Peter or even save Charlotte for Peter would weigh very heavily on him. I can see the darkest point being Jasper resenting the Cullens because if he'd been with Peter and Charlotte they'd still be alive, and maybe even resenting Alice for not being able to see their deaths so he could have protected them.

Alice has no real reference point for the grief of death or strong relationships outside her immediate family that we're made aware of in canon, so I can see her struggling a little knowing how to support Jasper in that kind of grief at first, but ultimately just being present so he isn't constantly alone and brooding. I can also see her struggling with the void that Peter and Charlotte have left behind.

I can see her gently reminding Jasper that even if they weren't with the Cullens, everything falling in place so that Jasper could have protected Peter and Charlotte is pretty unlikely. And I think she'd observe the fact that she didn't see their deaths indicates it was just one of those terrible, unplanned moments; there was no grand plan to assassinate them, no grudges or agenda. Just a series of choices made in the moment.

She's gifted, not a god.

Ultimately, Jasper is no stranger to pain. He'd be a little sadder and a little quieter, and possibly cleave tighter to the Cullens because he's now without alternative allies. He'd be even more protective of Alice, but he'd keep going and keep Peter and Charlotte as a very, very sacred memory.

[kquil]

HI POOKIE!!!!! HOW HAVE YOU BEEN? I hope everything has been going well for you—if not, I pray things start getting better ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ 

I sent two asks separately so I’m going to divide my reply into this one ask (ᵕ—ᴗ—)

first ask:

HAHAHAHAHA MONSTROUS ASK I LAUGHED SO HARD AT THAT, but yes I couldn’t contain my geeky side coming out + I had to let you know how much I enjoy reading your work! it’s the least I can do after all your hard work (づ ̄ ³ ̄)づ

your personal headcanoon was delivered exceptionally! And your inspiration for it is even more endearing ( ∩´͈ ᐜ `͈∩) . I always get so sappy when I see older siblings subtly protecting younger siblings. But yes you’re right, our little pookies deserved so much better (づ ᴗ _ᴗ)づ♡ (but yay cause both of them found a home!!)

Agreed! Orion is a man child, the type of man child you’d want to give diarrhea too... 𓁹‿𓁹 I’m sure the reader is going to make it sting more and I’m going to sit in my desolate room and laugh like a hyena ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧ (I think my neighbors can hear me laughing out loud they always side eye me after I have a laughing session) 

I can understand your dislike for mr dumbles (ᵕ—ᴗ—), but he is quite mischievous himself hahaha. Yes!!! Now having reader to compare loser Orion to, they’ll be able to know what they deserve with their beloved mother beside them. 

IDK IF I LOOK CUTE WHEN IM BEING A MENACE BUT THANKS HAHAHA IM BLUSHING ( ꈍ◡ꈍ) I can tell, she’s gon have an immense effect on them and I can’t wait to read it!! it’s so obvious reader’s gon be the cool mum (•̀ᴗ•́ )و (she already is)

Baby Regulus is a cutie-pie!!! I’m so happy you got to write Mcgonagall! YAYYYY!!! 

You’re doing an amazing job at writing this series, I was hooked from the beginning—I just didn’t have the courage to send an ask before (╥_╥). And of course I must tell you how much you have an impact— I’m sure on all of us ˃̵ᴗ˂̵   

DAMOCLES AND RUTH ARE PERFECT. I LOVE THEM SO MUCH KQUILLLL LIKE I GUSHED SO MUCH READING CHP 6. Their love for each other is so pure. I don’t know if you plan to make the blacks (excluding loser Orion) a family friend of this lovely couple BUT if you do, they’d be a such a great example of a healthy couple for regulus and sirius hehe. of course we have the potters and the lupins…I’ve often seen the parents in these families be depicted as healthy—there’s not much on Peter’s family, sometimes he’s just living with his mother or grandmother. I don’t know what you plan to do further but I know I’m going to love it anyway hehe. 

And yes I know you love your cliffhangers, always leaving us longing for more ¬‿¬ 

Can’t wait to see what is up with walburga, I kind of have an idea but I’ll let you know if what I thought was correct or not once you post chapter 7!!

AGAIN I JUST WANT YOU TO KNOW HOW MUCH YOUR WORK IS APPRECIATED AND LOVED. I’m happy I can express it to you hehe (I’m going to try to ignore that you called me a lovely darling cause I’m shy OKAY AHHHHH THANK U)

second ask:

I WAS A TREAT? YAYYYY!!!!! 

hahaha yes! Halloween isn’t widely celebrated here. We do have a few events but people usually do it for cosplays or the country does it in specific tourist spots. CHRISTMAS SPIRIT IS ALWAYS ALIVE WOOHOOOO. Also I’m stealing this emoji from you ♪(๑ᴖ◡ᴖ๑)♪ hehe

hehehe of course ♡ ♡ ♡

I try to have a positive attitude as much as I can haha!! Thank you for your encouragement (˶‾᷄ ⁻̫ ‾᷅˵)

THANK U SO MUCH FOR THE ADVICE!!! I really appreciate it ◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜

I actually used to write before but I stopped in between due to my poor mental health. I’ve been meaning to start writing again but I was hesitant. However, a friend of mine really encouraged me to start and I thought to ask for advice and this really helped and encouraged me!! 

Creative writing had always been an escape for me before I completely stopped so it feels foreign yet familiar. Thank you so much once again hehe    ≽^•⩊•^≼ 

I’ll make sure to send the sources your way soon! Being a witness to the ones suffering is really important when a lot of people continue neglecting or ignoring them and honestly it’s the least we can do. Thank you so much for showing up for them! ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭ ੈ♡‧₊˚

-🌸

MY DARLING! HELLO! I'm so sorry it took me this long to reply, the past few weeks have been crazy busy but i'm finally getting back on track with things so i think your prayers have worked hehe~ (。>\\<)♡ 

first ask

Yeah! Oh my goodness, I think your ask was the longest ask I had ever recieved! It was very much a monsterous ask (๑˃́ꇴ˂̀๑) but please feel free to let out your geeky side and telling my your thoughts, it makes all the work worthwhile and it's always a pleasure to talk to you and fangirl with you too!

Awww~ I get like that too and thank you thank you! I will be delivering more domestic fluffiness and family bonding scenes for our beloved boys and their mother dearest! I can't wait until you see what I have planned for when they're teenagers! (。✪ω✪。)

LOL! I can so imagine you laughing maniacally at the justice being served but you and I are the same in that sense, I laugh the same way when I'm writing so, just know, that you're not alone (๑>◡<๑)

Yes yes, I'm definitely taking advantage of Mr Dumbles' mischievous side, I don't think the worst of him comes out until that dreaded prophecy is given but our reader isn't taking any chances, that's for sure -- and I agree, having Orion to compared our lovely reader to makes the decision so sooo obvious!

Reader, for sure, is going to be the best mother ever! Anything for our darling babies and their friends and all of our other favourite characters! And I'm so happy to write McGonagall too, she with Reader and Madam Pomfrey are going to be a motherly golden trio ✧。٩(ˊᗜˋ )و✧*。

You're the sweetest! I'm so happy you built up the courage to send an ask my way in the end, you've had a profound impact on me too, my darling! Writing for you is never a struggle ( ˶˘ ³˘(ˊᗜˋ*)!♡ 

That's so perfect and true! Damocles and Ruth would be a great example of a healthy couple for our babies! But, of course, with Reader being Damocles' only 'investor' making them family friends seems to be the natural path forward (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)♡

hehe~ cliffhangers are the best and I love seeing your theories for what you think may happen so please come forward with your thoughts before, reading, after reading or even in between updates! Hearing your thoughts have to be one of my favourite things as a writer/author (。>\\<)♡ 

AND I APPRECIATE YOU SO SO MUCH FOR GIVING MY WRITING A CHANCE AND SHOWING ME YOUR LOVE AND SUPPORT! I honestly don't think I would have been writing this long without your darlings ♡(˃͈ દ ˂͈ ༶ ) (i will always be calling you a lovely darling, it's very fitting for you, no? I think so, at least, and that's what matters!)

second ask

Seeing you in my inbox is ALWAYS a treat, my darling ( ˶˘ ³˘(ˊᗜˋ*)!♡ and as long as the Christmas vibes are on point, you're good! Haha! Awww~ so cute, I love these emojis so much! They're adorable, very much like you (⸝⸝> ᴗ•⸝⸝)  

That's great, having the right attitude is half the battle done o( ˶^▾^˶ )o  and you're very welcome! I understand what you mean about putting writing on hold, your mental health always comes first so please don't ever feel bad about prioritising it -- also, you and me both on creative writing being an escape, it's the best feeling ever so I'm happy to see you're giving it another go. I'm cheering you on all the way!

Please do, I would really appreciate that. Again, there's not much I can dobut being aware of it and making sure those people aren't suffering in silence is the least I can do. And thank you for bringing them to my attention, you have such a big heart and it speaks so much to your beauty and kindness, aren't I lucky to be friends with such a person? (づ๑•ᴗ•๑)づ♡

[just-a-hazbin-writer]

I love Hook as well in these shots. But I also love Smee! Especially in the third and fourth GIF.

In the third one the pirates have come to capture Jane (who they mistake for Wendy). Smee is holding the sack, ready to execute the orders and he does, but look at his face! He obviously feels bad! Like, he's so precious, I love him!🥺

And the fourth GIF is my favorite shot of Smee. Both him and Hook think that Peter Pan is dead for good and what does Smee do? He cries while holding his hat in his hands. I know it was probably for comedic effect but it still says a lot about his character.

First, it shows that he has respect for the dead. Removing your hat from your head when someone dies or is dead is a respectful gesture and Smee does it every time. I think, out of all the pirates, he has the most respect for life, even for enemies', even for the smallest insect. He doesn't squash it in his palms, he lives and let's others live and cherishes even the seemingly most unimportant things in life. He's optimistic and jolly, literally the opposite of Hook. Part of me thinks that one of the many reasons why Hook keeps Smee around so much, despite his complet incompetence, is because he needs someone in his miserable life to offer him a glimmer of hope when he doesn't have any, tgough he wpuld never admit it. Perhaps Hook also secretly admires Smee's gratitude for being alive and the fact that he values not only his existence but the existemce of other as well, since the captain has long lost this ability. Hook is at a point of despair where he doesn't care for other people's lives, sometimes even for his own, he despises the concept of life itself, he squashes it whenever he has the chance, his goal is literally to kill a child. Perhaps he sees in Smee a glimpse of the humanity he once had but now lost. Maybe he subconciously wants to regain it, but he is too damaged to do it at the moment, even if he truly wanted to. So, Smee remains the only thing in his life that sometimes reminds him of the beauty of life and of the humanity he is now devoid of.

Second, Smee is crying in that GIF. Which, again, emphasizes his empathetic and sensitive nature. Killing Peter Pan has been his captain's goal for God knows how long and he has aided Hook in the pursue of this goal, not because he is in any way emotionally or personally involved in their feud, but because he just wants to see Hook happy. He cares for Hook and wants to help him however he can. Soemtimes he tries to get him to change his ways because Smee knows nothing that Hook does is healthy. But at the same time he knows he can't tell Hook what to do and that it's not his battle to fight. Hook has to do those things in his own, has to fight some demons alone and, even if Smee doesn't agree with the captains violent ways to deal with his provlems, he will not actively try to stop him but instead he will try and help himself. This is why he then starts laughing when he sees Hook so happy to finally get rid of Peter Pan. He might feel sorry for the boy, but at the same time his capatain's joy makes him smile as well. Perhaps he also hopes that, as gruesome as it sounds, now that Peter is out of the way, Hook will finally be able to feel free and try and find himself and his happiness again. Maybe find another less toxic and more healthy goal to pursue in life. In that scene, Smee is a whole mix of emotions.

Also, maybe Smee also feels sympathy for Peter since he knows he is just a boy. I feel like Smee is the only one on that ship, heck, on that island, that sees Peter for what he truly is: a child. Not an devilish monster, like Hook sees him. Not a brave leader that can do no wrong, like the Lost Boys see him. Not a perfect hero with no flaws like Tinker Bell and the Mermaids see him. Just a child. Sure, an annoying, unmannered, sassy child but a child nevertheless. Smee is the kind of character that knows more than he shows and he is, in my opinion, quite possibly one of the wisest characters in the franchise. He sees everyone as they are, both their flaws and their qualities and able to recongnize that none of the sides involved are 100% in the right or 100% in the wrong. Despite being on Hook's side, he can be one of the more neutral characters and one with the strongest moral codes among them.

In conclusion we stan Mr. Smee✋️💅✨️🩷

Return to Neverland - My Favourite Captain Hook moments

[saverockanroll]

just thinking about tony and peter and how galaxy brain it was of the russos to give us that

[hextechmaturgy]

Do you have any headcanons for how Grief and Andrey's relationship is like? What do you think Andrey has done for the town's criminals? (i saw your tags on the voice lines reblog)

OH FRIEND...... YOU HONOR ME WITH THIS ASK YOU DO..... i got so excited to answer. i'm actually writing an angrief fic atm spanning from when they meet to when the game ends, but because i'm a very very very slow writer it's not coming out anytime soon. if you're interested tho wink i'd be happy to send u a very short sneak peak in dms wink

regarding headcanons tho, i'll try to be concise but honestly i have many unorganized thoughts and feelings about those two. should also be said that i have a timeline in my head for pre-game events that probably doesn't match canon at all, but it makes sense TO ME and time in pathologic is more of a suggestion anyway sooo hihi let's go

andrey is a bit older than grief; they meet at age 19/20. artemy is leaving and grief's losing his friends, his family. he's turning to gangs for company, which only further alienates him from lara and stakh. andrey is making friends for once, a rare thing after years on the run. his head's full of ideas, ideas that someone actually wants to hear, it's exhilarating. they meet at a plot of land where a staircase will stand one day, both immediately clocking Each Other™️, but the knowing looks go beyond a tick in their gaydar. andrey is a free man and grief wants to be free, desperately so, but he's also afraid. what will it cost him? grief fears the unknown, the steppe curses that keep him up at night, the scorn of his friends and the abandonment, the unknown. it's hard to be authentic, isn't it? andrey sees this struggle, understands the want to fight, the want for freedom. andrey tells him it's okay to want

that first meeting emboldens grief, sustains him when his family breaks for good. they don't see each other for months, and a lot changes for the two of them, but they still remember and all too well. andrey asked to see him again, grief is reluctant. just meeting the man was already impactful enough, he's relived it so often, lost in dreams. but he feels bold, andrey makes him bold. he finds andrey bleeding at his own bar. he needs stitches somewhere he can't reach, won't you help me out, sweet filin? he does. his hand trembles, his stitches are terrible. odd thing, piercing skin, sinking into another man's flesh. hope this doesn't awake anything in him!!!

(spoiler: it absolutely does)

it's probably not a huge surprise at this point if i state i write grief with internalized homophobia in mind, and a considerable amount of religious trauma too. the man he wants to be brings him to shame, and that reflex goes beyond sexuality yes but it's also about that. andrey is uncharacteristically patient. he'll push and prod, poke at the hidden layers behind those freckles he's memorized for some reason, but never goes beyond grief's limits. freedom shouldn't be scary. grief will evolve, he will grow, and andrey will look at him with pride in his eyes and something that is definitely not love (andrey only knows violence. what does he do with love?)

grief is becoming a proper criminal now, respected even if he won't cut, perhaps respected because he gets the job done without cutting. he becomes a seller of all things illegal, and andrey is always in the market for something dangerous. he wants a weapon that will allow him to get up close and personal, and he gets something personal alright. grief gives him a knuckle-duster, a gift. places it around his fingers to see how it fits, awfully gentle. it's not a ring, it's not a promise, they're not that ridiculous

(spoiler: they absolutely are)

the first outbreak is scary. peter suffers immensely from it and when peter suffers, andrey agonizes, but peter is fine...... grief wonders if the pest is divine punishment, if he's to blame for it somehow, but surely not....... they're both restless and healthy, alive, and they're sort of neighbors (oh my god they were neighbors). it's easier to call their INVOLVEMENT stress relief. neither is prepared for the truth really

friends who bang! andrey's got plenty of those and this one isn't any different, okay? barkeeps hear all sorts of juicy gossip, and if he happens to perk up at news on grief and his gang, it's only because andrey is a dangerous man too, and he's wise to look out for the goings on of the underworld. i'm actually still unsure what the line 'wasn't long ago he was on his knees, begging before me' is all about, but i'm convinced it's not horny, at least not 100%. they spend a lot of time on their knees before one another, almost anything andrey says sounds like a threat or a preposition. andrey is held responsible for the death of at least one man (rip farkhad) so he's probably feared in the town. his lifestyle alone shocks plenty of people. grief holds his men back with a "no stabbing, no shooting, no killing" leash, but we know they're able, we know some are willing. perhaps grief needed andrey to intimidate a gang member he was having trouble with, truly desperate, out of other solutions. i'm begging you for help, on my knees if i have to. those men are terrified of you, and frankly so am i (but not in the same way, oh never, somehow i know you would never kill me). it would explain why andrey brings it up to artemy during the second outbreak. grief's men will start misbehaving soon - i wonder if he will come crawling to beg again

i think they're amicable for the most part, their personalities bounce of one another. they're insistent on the just friends thing mostly out of habit. i know you will come if i need you, and we have plenty of fun together already. that's enough, no? what else could a bastard need

second outbreak is a mess and we all know just how much. apple basket reunion is awkward because hey grief why did the guy at the bar tell me about you being on your- how about we don't talk for a while? oh also, this is a small thing, but shout out to the day you find grief and peter at aspity's house. i laughed so much imagining that conversation, or the very OBVIOUS lack of one. peter isn't even really there, dozing off lost in his thoughts, and grief is nearby sweating bullets. be cool grief, be cool - wait why are you even trying to impress peter?

when the polyhedron dies - because she is alive, and she is dying - andrey is lost to senseless violence. he doesn't believe artemy's confession because that would mean killing grief's childhood friend. it's easier to be angry at thirty faceless men. we also know that grief is... NOT WELL, after the whole thing with aglaya. grief is sitting at a staircase (THE staircase that once wasn't here) and he stays there until it's dark, until it's light again. andrey finds him, drunk out of his goddamn mind, probably guided there by all the twyrine in his system. it's unsettling to not see her when he reaches the top, it's unsettling to not see grief as well. what can two broken men do but weep? they whisper to each other. come with me, let's kill them all. it's not worth it, nothing is anymore. i'll go without you. you'll die. do you care?

there's stuff i missed, stuff that probably doesn't make sense, i'm writing this at 6 am in a frenzy of angrief feelings because i love them. i love this ask, i had to reply or i wouldn't sleep. what happens after the game is a wonder to me as well. i've said before somewhere that p1 grief is who p2 grief could become after the diurnal ending. andrey is also going to struggle with his place in the world, mourning the loss of a perfect tower that can never be reproduced, of brilliance and hard work, probably mourning the loss of his brother too, not to the pest but to love. peter has grace now and i think that will be jarring, not being the only family peter has. the twins have only ever had each other, is andrey falling behind? how will he catch up? can he? twins are perfect opposites, he says: it's only natural that when peter starts to improve, andrey begins to degenerate

but i like to be hopeful, because i like these characters a lot (i know u would never be able to tell xoxo). two negatives make a positive, so maybe andrey and grief can be miserable together, and maybe then they'll realize that love is fit for bastards too

[americancowgirl19]

17 Again

Summary: You and Peter were in love but then he got blipped and you didn’t

Warnings: angst, a little bit of fluff, angst

Reader: Male Reader

Pairings: Peter Parker x Male Reader

Word Count: 1699

A/n: Part Two - A Chance

Masterlist

When you answered the door the last person you expected to see standing on your welcome mat is Tony Stark. Yet here he is. 

“I figured out time travel,” Tony says. You raise your eyebrows at him.

“Good for you,” You tell him.

“We have a plan to bring everyone back,” Tony adds.

Now that caught your attention.

“That’s something you probably should have lead with,” You say, inviting him into your home. He steps in looking around as you close the door.

Your home is small and bland. The walls are bare and everything is a neutral color. There’s no personality, no life. Tony remembered you as the kid who was as nerdy, awkward and hyper as...

“You said ‘we’,” You noted leading him toward the kitchen. “You talking to the others now?”

“They came to me with an idea, I just fixed their problems,” Tony says. “We have a real shot. Figured you’d want in,”

A lot of people lost loved ones when Thanos snapped his fingers. You had lost a lot. Your parents disappeared with your siblings. Your aunts, uncles, cousins, all gone save for a few. The few that remained wanted nothing to do with anybody thus leaving you alone.

Their disappearances hit you but not nearly as hard as your boyfriend’s disappearance. Peter meant the world to you. Your parents didn’t have the healthies relationship and your siblings were distant. You often found refuge with Peter and his Aunt May. Even when you had no one you had Peter. Now Peter’s gone and you’re truly alone.

You were there when Peter got his abilities. You realized something was wrong almost instantly. It took you a total of three days for him to come clean. You thought it was the coolest thing that Peter created the Spider-Man persona. You wanted in on the action.

You took classes and you trained to be his backup. You weren’t the best but once Tony took Peter under his wing he took you along as well. Then you got the real training.

Then the aliens came. Peter went off world and you had hitched a ride to the action. They weren’t going to let you join at first but you were persistent. Plus you were only a few months from your eighteenth birthday thus labeling you as a near-adult.

You proved your worth within the first few minutes of battle in Wakanda but it wasn’t enough to stop Thanos from wiping away half the universe. You waited for Tony to come back. You prayed Peter was with him. When he arrived without Peter you knew you were alone.

You struggled for years without Peter. You barely graduated school and forget about college. You still struggled but the pain was easier to deal with.

Now Tony’s here telling you that there’s a way to bring Peter back, to bring everyone back. Hell yeah you wanted in.

****

You grunted as you kicked an alien off of yourself. You used a dagger to kill him. For a moment, you had a chance to breathe. You surveyed the battle ground. Everyone had been brought back. You had yet to find Peter but right now wasn’t the time for a reunion. Still, you just wanted to see him.

Another alien came right up to your face forcing you back into the fight. You had more than a few close calls but you managed to stay on your feet. Then all of the sudden the enemy was turning to ash and flowing away with the wind.

All because of Tony’s sacrifice.

Then you find Peter. He’s the same as you remember. A little beat up from the battle and completely heartbroken over Tony’s death but he’s alive.

“Peter,” You whisper but it’s loud enough for him to hear. His head snaps toward you.

He almost didn’t recognize you. You had grown taller, a lot taller. You were also more muscular and obviously older. You looked like a man. You were handsome before but it didn’t compare to how you looked now.

He smiled through his tears. He didn’t know how to feel. He wanted to be happy but he was just devastated. You understood and all you did was open you arms. He ran right into them and cried into your chest.

“I’ve got you,” You whisper, kissing his head. You cling to him and burry your nose into his hair. “It’s alright.... I’ve got you. I’m here, I’m not going anywhere,”

****

“So, you were alive all this time,” Peter mutters. Sitting beside you on his bed in his room in Queens. It’s been a few days since he was brought back, a few days since Tony’s funeral. 

You nodded looking around. Aunt May had kept everything the same. (Idk if she dusted but here she didn’t) “That couldn’t have been easy,” He says, turning to look at you.

He knew your home situation. He knew you didn’t have a lot of people to lean on. He almost remembered how much you loved each other because to him it hasn’t been five years.

“It wasn’t,” You admitted shacking your head. You turned to look at him. “I’m glad you were spared from it,” You admitted. “You see what it’s done to me... I couldn’t bare it if it killed your spirits too,” 

“I hate that I left,” Peter snapped, standing up. “I was gone for five years, y/n,” He said, pacing in front of you. “I could have been helping people, doing something during that time,” He ran a hand through his hair before stopping in front of you. “I could have been with you,” 

You smile a bit at the thought. The last few years would have been much more bearable with him by your side but you stand by your statement.

“Do you still love me?” Peter asks, tears gathering in his eyes. Dread fills your heart.

“It’s not that simple, Pete,” You mutter. Peter clinches his jaw and grips his hair tightly.

“Please, just tell me,” He begs, closing his eyes. “Because I love you,” He says, his arms falling down to his side as his eyes open. Your heart breaks as his tears fall down his face. “I love you so much it hurts... I mean just a week ago we were sitting together going on a field trip and now you’re 23 with your own house,” He says, trying to prevent himself from completely falling apart. “I love you,”

You close your eyes and hang your head. The simple answer is yes. Yes you love Peter. You doubted you could ever not love him. But that didn’t prevent the fact that you’re a very different person now. He doesn’t know you anymore. Then there’s the other fact that he’s just 16.

You feel his hands cover yours. You open your eyes and see him kneeling in front of you.

“I love you,” He whispers. You sigh softly.

“I love you-” Before you could say another word Peter is leaning up to connect your lips. For a moment you’re 17 again.

You remember the first time you and Peter kissed. You were both working on improvements for his Spider-Man suit. You were talking about something nerdy. He was laughing and he just looked so handsome. It just hit you all at once. You realized just how in love you were with this insanely smart awkward kid that kicked ass at night as a human spider.

Before you could chicken out you turned his head and kissed him. It wasn’t anything fancy. Neither of you knew how to kiss well back then but it brought the two of you closer. It also happened to be the same moment Aunt May found out Peter was gay. She walked in two seconds after you kissed him.

She had shrieked. Once she got over the shock the both of you got a lecture on how to be safe. You were both beating red from embarrassment by the end of her speech. She also laid out more ground rules such as the door had to remain open when you visited and you had to sleep on the couch when you spent the night.

You followed the rules. The door remained open and you slept on the couch. But it never failed that the next morning Aunt May would walk out of her room to find Peter snuggled up to you. You were inseparable. 

“Peter,” You whisper, pulling away from the kiss.

“Don’t,” He begs. “Stay with me. I don’t think you can fit on the couch anymore but we can leave the door open. I think Aunt May wouldn’t mind if you stayed,” You could help but to smile fondly at him. “Please stay with me,”

“I can’t,” You whisper shaking your head. “I’m a different person now, Peter. I’m older and you still have to go to school and experience life. I’m worn down, Pete. I’m no good,”

“Don’t say that, please,” Peter shakes his head. He forces you to lean back as he climbs onto your lap, straddling your hips. Your hands natural go to his sides. “You’re Y/n,” He says, forcing a smile. “I don’t care, I want you. I learn who you are now and I’ll love you even more, I promise,”

You give in briefly. You hug hit to your chest. His head falling into your neck. You lightly kiss his shoulder. You close your eyes and tighten your grip. You hate yourself because you know what you’re about to do. Peter can sense it and holds you even tighter.

“Don’t,” He pleads.

“I have to go,” You whisper.

“No,” He whines, holding you tighter. “No, no, please, don’t,” He clings to you.

“Peter, please let go,”

“I won’t,” He threatens. “I’m not letting go,”

Sighing you lay on the bed. You let him hold you knowing that once he let go you would have to leave. Peter still had high school, had his friends and a whole future ahead of him. You knew you would hold him back. You had bills to pay and a job to do. You love him but you had to be the adult.

[charliesimss]

Evens for Issy

Gladly cause my game just crashed.

2. What was their earliest memory?

Playing with her dads cat, Peter, on their living room rug together, but she doesn't remember what they were doing.

4. What were their first words?

Dada and then papa within the same week probably. Both her dads are convinced she meant him when she first said dada, but it remains a mystery.

6. When were they fully potty trained?

ur gonna make me research.. probably 2, a seemingly appropriate age I think

8. How often did they throw temper tantrums? What were they usually about?

She wouldn't have them that often because she was an only child and got what she wanted most of the time... and when she wouldn't she;d get upset and cry real toddler baby tears until it was resolved.

10. How easy (or hard) was it to take care of them?

She was an easy baby, but the terrible twos hit hard. She had lots of fits about little toddler things (not being allowed to feed ducks, not getting her way, getting the purple cup instead of the pink one). But her dads were patient and knew it wouldnt last forever, they tried to practice gentle parenting and would calmly explain to her why she couldnt do something, although that hardly stopped her from the fits. So she was fairly easy to take care of until she had fits.

12. Were they a fussy eater?

Yes, which disappointed her chef dad for a bit, but then he just used it as inspiration to make recipes with hidden vegetables and stuff. She liked any form of carb or potato though, but unfortunately toddler issy couldnt and wasnt allowed to live off tater tots 😔

14. What kinds of toys did they like?

She liked stuffed animals and dolls and dress up, especially when her dads played with her

16. What kind of discipline were they subjected to? Was it lenient or strict?

During her early years (3-grade school aged), she would get put in time outs for as many minutes as she was old, but her dads would explain to her why she was in time out and make her apologize if it was needed, they would try not to yell at her because they didnt want her to be afraid of them, they wanted to form a healthy relationship and sometimes that meant having a short time out for doing something bad. Later on in her life when she could understand punishments her dads would sometimes take her phone away, or have natural consequences mostly

18. What was their favorite childhood memory? Their least favorite?

Favourite is when she met her little brother and her first trip to Hawaii to see her mom, all in one good memory. Her least favourite memory was when her fish died when she was 6 because she fed it 15 times in one day, she'll be a great mom

20. What was their relationship like with their parents? How different was it than currently?

She loved her dads, she couldn't ask for better ones to raise her. Growing up she'd secretly try to think of which one she liked more, but it would always end up being a tie, which I think is how it's supposed to be. Recently this past year she and her dads have been having some tension, just because she's seen Duncan (her bio dad) so many times, and they don't approve of him as a person. But she still always goes to them for help, and cries to them about Duncan.

22. Did they have any pets growing up?

Yesss, a cat named Peter that is still alive out of spite, and a fish for like one day and then never again

24. Did they have any caretakers besides their parents?

Sometimes she stayed with her chef dads parents, and also Gemma her bio mama for a few days here and there.

26. What was their first major loss?

Her fish dying, that was the first in her childhood that she remembers, but her grandpa also died when she was 5 and she went to Hawaii for the funeral but it was more seen as a happy family get together to her at 5

28. Did your muse have any nicknames as a child? If so, what were they? Did they give nicknames to others?

Her dads called her bunny or bun, and her grandma actually started calling her Issy which was shortened to Is, but that was more an older grade school nickname.

[starkeristheendgame]

P.E.T.E.R | Android!Peter AU

TW: Non-applicable. 

Three years and relentless experimentation alongside some of the biggest names in adjacent fields and biological science had concluded in one of Tony’s boldest, most groundbreaking inventions yet. 

The Protection Engineered Tactical Enforcement Robot - or, P.E.T.E.R for short, was the first and technically seventh of it’s kind. It was the first to reach this stage of the process; first to become whole, ready for activation. 

Seventh because prior to this all the other shells had failed. The careful craft of a body compounded from a variety of materials such as vibranium, polysiloxane and STEM cells of real flesh had been no easy journey.

So much so that Tony had almost, almost given up. His first vision had failed; Ultron a dark red stain on his ledger no amount of saving lives would ever scrub off; and attempting to perfect Ultron’s failed attempt at a new form was a seemingly impossible dream.

Until now.

He set a hand against the glass of the Cradle, watching it’s slow and careful progress. They were at the point now where everything was just finishing touches; polishing off edges and smoothing crinkles. The shell - or, body, as he preferred to call it, was ready.

And likewise, so was the AI that would directly operate within it. Crafted from JARVIS’ core and meticulously coded and raised to avoid Ultron’s boundless genocidal activism, PETER was the pinnacle of artificial, sentient defence.

JARVIS had been carefully raising the code like a child, educating and guiding it with the attentive care of a paternal figure. Tony had watched the code progress from the barest flickers of artificial life to fast rivalling JARVIS for it’s abilities. 

PETER was already outperforming even the Sentinels and some of Tony’s other AI’s like FRIDAY, displaying all of Ultron’s self-learning and intuition without any of the socio-psychopathic tendencies his original attempt had cultivated. PETER was learning twice as fast as even JARVIS had, though PETER was still so young and underexposed.

It had fast outgrown Tony’s initial purpose of sentient AI used in protection detail and critical warfare in order to minimise human loss. It was even on track to surpass Ultron, the notion of the human mind recreated through code seemingly brought to life.

He let his hand drop. Three days. Three days, and PETER would open it’s eyes for the first time.

They passed by like a dreamscape. A blur of tests and activity, checks and re-checks and fending off Fury’s healthy but annoying doubts and insistence of supervision.

In the twenty-four hours before PETER went live, Tony didn’t sleep a wink. He sat on a chair besides the Cradle, staring at the still form within. The lab around him was dark, filled only with the soft glow of the Cradle’s light. It was the first and closest Tony would ever get to sitting besides a medical bassinet, watching his newborn child sleep. 

“Do you think he’s ready?” he asked quietly, tracing the line of a long, lithe arm against the glass.

“I have no doubts,” JARVIS answered steadily. “But if I may, Sir, it appears that you do.”

“Ultron..” Tony couldn’t bring himself to finish. 

“Goodness cannot be guaranteed even in people,” JARVIS began. “There is no law to the human mind - not yet. It is a dice roll. And in attempting to recreate the human mind, you must accept the law of chance also.”

Sometimes Tony wondered where JARVIS got so wise. It certainly hadn’t been Tony’s own wisdom passed down.

“Ultron was one possibility out of many. There was logic in his perspective; complicated and flawed as it was. But for what it is worth… I believe PETER is the roll of the dice you were hoping for.”

“Me too, J,” he murmured lowly, counting the dusting of freckles across a dished nose. “Me too.”

At exactly 10:15 on August 10th, Tony tapped his index finger onto the glowing icon that transferred PETER’s consciousness into the body specifically crafted to house it.

Three years of blood, sweat and tears condensed into a single breathtaking moment of will it work? Right now there is no intent to go further than that. Everything in the future hinged purely on the result of the initial binding. It was all well and good to use machinery to twitch a few fingers or some coding to test optic reception, but this…

This was a baby’s first breath. 

Above him in the glass gallery stood Dr. Banner, Dr. Cho and Director Fury; three sets of eyes watching with expectant wariness. 

Transfer complete.

With a soft hiss and a cascade of cold fog, the Cradle unlatched and the lid slowly lifted, revealing the naked form within to the outside air for the first time. The lines of lights had turned a soft blue to indicate the success of the transfer and the activation of Happy Birthday Protocol.

For several agonising moments nothing happened. A pensive silence settled over the room like the cinematic foreshadowing in a horror movie right before the creature leapt out from behind a tree, but then -

Then two sets of thick, long lashes lifted steadily upwards, revealing a set of whiskey coloured eyes, carefully shade matched to Tony’s favourite brand of bourbon in the sunshine of a Hawaiian summer.

A trail of artificial blue flared up in those irises after a moment, forming a complete ring that glowed brighter before fading. Successful initiation of the camera and imaging technology within them, Tony knew. Now, PETER was seeing. Looking through it’s own eyes for the first time rather than the borrowed lenses of JARVIS and the other Tower technology.

For the longest while, PETER only lay there. Communicating with JARVIS, he suspected. Coming to terms with existing. Figuring out who and what it was, realising it was alive for the first time. Slowly learning every inch and microchip of it’s new form.

It’s fingers twitched. It’s sculpted chest rose on a smooth, deep inhale. And then PETER sat up, moved, and they looked at each other for the first time.

Tony let him look, staring and analysing just as much as the AI. PETER had been sculpted to look somewhere between 16 and 18, a combination of features pulled from several thousand sample images and pre-analysed bodies. 

PETER had turned out inexplicably pretty.

His beauty was almost effeminate. He had deep-set, almond shaped eyes framed by a generous set of lashes. His brows were long and sculpted into neat slopes; save the left, which had a curious discrepancy that gave PETER an overall quizzical look.

His jaw was sharp and his cheekbones were high and his nose was button-like and proportional. His mouth was wide and his lips were a dusky pink and his dark hair was thick and soft, ever so slightly wavy where it fell around his brows and temples.

Beyond his face PETER had been sculpted with the musculature of a gymnast, not quite slender but not the obnoxious stature of someone like Steve Rogers, either. Something a little softer, lean and deceptive. His skin was creamy and there was miles of it, unmarred and smooth, hairless.

Tony wondered what he looked like in comparison, in Peter’s eyes. Old and weathered, scarred from temple to toe. An odd mix of pale and tan where he never seemed to have the time to sunbathe anymore. Toeing the line of forty-five there was a hint of grey at his temples and while he wasn’t rocking a beer gut there was a softness to his hips that stubbornly refused to leave.

PETER’s head tilted ever so slightly. 

“Did you have nice dreams, sleepyhead?” he broke the thick silence, watching those brows furrow lightly for a moment as the Ai thought about it’s answer. 

“I wasn’t sleeping,” it replied carefully. Like it’s body, PETER’s voice had been crafted from thousands of samples to create something unique and personalised. The end result was something high and soft, fresh with youth and sweetness.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked next.

“Yes,” came the answer, without hesitation. “Anthony Edward Stark. You made me. Like you made the others.”

Tony clapped his hands together. “Just call me Daddy Stark,” he teased, spreading his arms. 

“Yes, Daddy,” came the answer, and sweet Christ. That would have to be stopped immediately. 

But PETER wasn’t paying attention to him anymore. He was looking up, gaze fixed on the figures above and behind Tony. He turned to follow the line of sight. Arden looked elated and perhaps a little misty-eyed, to her side Bruce seemed caught between amazement and apprehension and to her other side Fury was, as always, impassive and unreadable. 

Tony turned back and watched PETER look, studying the neutral curiosity. 

“J, how’s he doing?” he asked quietly. 

“All systems are calibrated or calibrating and fully operational,” JARVIS answered into the earpiece that he wore. PETER’S gaze dropped, falling on him. Synced up to everything around them just like JARVIS, PETER could hear every word.

Tony gave a low hum then reached for the Rubix Cube on the desk. He held it out to PETER, who stared at it for a handful of seconds before reaching out. Their hands didn’t touch as PETER took it, and Tony wasn’t sure if he was thankful or not. 

PETER studied the toy for a moment, then long, slender fingers flipped and pushed and pulled. 

“Nought-point-twenty-five seconds,” JARVIS announced, when PETER was left sitting with the solved puzzle on his upturned palm. That was point-eleven seconds faster than the current AI record, and Tony let out a soft sound, caught between being impressed and that dark little voice that sounded too much like Howard, whispering that point-eleven wasn’t fast enough.

He took the toy away and instead held out his hand, suppressing a shiver when PETER’s soft palm fell to his. He stepped aside, thumb rubbing absently against the temperate, soft flesh of the back of PETER’s hand as he watched the AI stand.

The movement was steady, calculated, the AI finding it’s own balance before Tony let it go. PETER was four inches shorter than he was and it was a novelty to look down at someone for once. 

PETER looked down at his legs for a moment, little toes wiggling against the cool floor. Then he looked up, above Tony and to the viewing balcony again.

“Do you know who they are?” Tony asked him lowly. 

“Dr. Arden Cho,” PETER began, lifting a dainty hand to point. “Dr. Robert Bruce Banner. S.H.I.E.L.D Director Nicholas Joseph Fury.”

Banner looked uncertain at being pointed at and Fury was watching them with his usual cold disconnect, like a lion might watch an ant. Tony supposed it was fair, given the circumstances of his last little experiment.

“Do me a favor, kiddo,” Tony hummed, waggling his fingers at their audience with a smirk as he leaned in. “Send a little message to Fury. Tell him I can see a booger.”

PETER blinked at him, but moments later Fury’s frown deepened and the man shifted, pulling out his phone. Tony watched gleefully as Fury looked back down at them slowly.

He didn’t need a degree in lip reading to know what Fury mouthed at him.

“Excellent,” he clapped his hands.

The next week was full of tests, ranging from technological to logical and moral-based. PETER passed them all flawlessly and Tony found himself growing prouder and more enthralled. 

The AI was graceful in a way that came with inhumanity - movements smooth, calculated. Never over-stepping or reaching too far to one side. Tony kept him in the Cradle when they weren’t testing him - at least until Fury was satisfied that PETER wasn’t immediately going to initiate the apocalypse, anyway.

Three weeks after PETER was ‘born’, he was given the all clear by Fury.

“Look at you, out of your cradle and into a big-boy bed,” Tony announced, opening the door to the guest room he’d set up in a mimic of a teenage boy’s, with some additions made for PETER’s special needs.

PETER roamed the room slowly, trailing his fingertips over everything and peering out of the glass wall at the city below. He stood there for the longest time, and then carefully made his way back to where Tony had stood, watching.

“Thank you, Mr. Stark,” the android whispered, reaching out. Tony automatically stiffened as slim arms wrapped around him and Peter’s head came to lay on his chest, tucked down and eyes closed.

He shifted, hands hovering. He hadn’t been hugged in… A year, maybe. Longer? Not a real hug like this. The last had been Rhodey, maybe, just days after Pepper had announced she was leaving him for good, Gucci bag in hand.

“Yeah, yeah. Okay. No problem, kid,” he breathed out, patting him atop the head. It was awkward, but it was… Nice, too. To wrap his arms around something instead of his pillow for a change. 

He gently pushed PETER away after a moment, deliberately keeping his gaze away as Peter moved to the bed, sitting down on it lightly. He seemed almost surprised by it’s softness, bouncing once, then twice.

“This is… Pleasant,” PETER decided. And Tony knew it was just a comparison between the Cradle, but it still made him smile a little.

“Should be. It’s the same as mine.”

PETER’s head tipped. “Where is the logic behind using money and resources to replicate a sleeping space for a robot, Mr. Stark?”

Tony shifted, acutely uncomfortable. It felt like even JARVIS was watching; waiting for an answer.

“I intend for you to live a life that reasonably replicates that of a real person,” Tony settled on, arms folding defensively. “I’m undecided on who will have the liberty of knowing what you are. As such I have to be prepared for the outcome of peddling you as a real person. An adopted child, maybe.”

And wouldn’t the press have an absolute vulture orgy over that headline?

PETER looked thoughtful. “That would make me Peter Stark.”

Tony blinked and let out a carefully measured exhale.

Offspring has been written off way into his teenhood. He’d already seen enough of his own family to know he didn’t want to raise someone in the same potential environment, and after the birth of Iron Man, well…

“I suppose it would,” he answered steadily. 

God, what a thought. He could imagine what Howard would say; seeing his son at forty, single and running around in a metal gimp suit, touting his AI creations as his family and children.

As an up-side, it was relatively hard to fuck up a child this way, he supposed.

PETER nodded. “I think I like that. I will update my PID.”

Bemused, Tony left the android to explore it’s new room, slinking into his own and stripping down to a tank and some sweats. “JARVIS?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Do you think… Have I made a…” Tony swallowed and reclined, staring up at the ceiling. JARVIS was silent for a moment.

“If you are attempting to ask my opinion of if you’ve made a moral, safety or logistical error in the creation of P.E.T.E.R, Sir, then I feel inclined to tell you that in both ‘personality’ and function, he is closer to me than to Ultron.”

Eyes falling shut, Tony cracked a weak smile. “How does it feel to be a big brother?”

“It is quite pleasant,” JARVIS answered him honestly. “The utility robots are personalities all of their own, but it is refreshing to encounter an intelligence and function that rivals my own.”

Rolling over onto his side, Tony let the satisfaction wash over him. He didn’t know if artificial intelligence experienced loneliness, but there was something viscerally warming about knowing JARVIS had an equal companion.

“Don’t let the power go to your head, J. And don’t teach him how to swear.”

He fell asleep with a smile on his face and JARVIS’ wry answer fading slowly into the background. 

The bedding dipped an inscrutable amount of time later and he jolted awake, staring into the half-darkness at the shadowed figure that slipped over it’s edge. For a moment he wondered if this was sleep paralysis or a nightmare again, but then the figure caught the moonlight.

“Peter?” he rasped, reaching up to rub blearily at his eyes as PETER pulled the covers back, sliding between them near silently. Bewildered, Tony could only watch as the android sidled up to him and tucked itself against his side and chest with a hum.

“What are you doing?” he asked, leaning back a little to blink down at him.

The AI had changed, wearing a pair of shorts and one of the shirts Tony had filled the closet with. 

“In the movies, the offspring always goes to it’s parent’s bed to sleep at night,” PETER answered steadily, sweet voice muffed by Tony’s pectoral.

“When they’re… Like five. And scared,” Tony stuttered back. 

“I’m two years, three months, eleven days and twenty-two hours old,” PETER informed him mildly. 

Right. 

He glanced helplessly up at the ceiling but JARVIS remained ominously silent, as if to say this is one you can deal with yourself.

He weighed his options. PETER had no sensibility to be offended if Tony drop-kicked him out of the bed and told him to scoot. But on the other hand…

It’d been so long since he’d slept with the comfort of someone else in bed with him. And even if PETER wasn’t real…

“Fine. But if you drool on the pillows you’re washing them in the morning,” he muttered, reaching out to push PETER’s mouth closed when the AI began to quietly explain that nothing was malfunctioning or leaking.

Tony settled for laying on his back, PETER’s silk soft hair brushing the skin exposed by the scope of his neckline. The android had been coded to mimic breathing but it was still a function the AI could control, and it was oddly reassuring to feel the steady motion and puff of warm air.

After a moment he gave into the urge and reached up, sliding his fingers into the twisted ringlets. There was no reaction from the robot and Tony wondered idly if he was doing his best to replicate human sleep.

He fell asleep attuned to it; the weight, the gentle breaths, the silk between his fingers.

It was the most peaceful night’s sleep he’d had in over a year.

[sophieakatz]

Thursday Thoughts: Marvel What If’s Fridging Problem

This blog post contains spoilers for the first seven episodes of Marvel What If and also some key plot points from the Ant-Man movies.

Time… Space… Reality… It’s more than a linear path. It’s a prism of endless possibility…

…but women leading happy, healthy lives, without a man’s feelings being the most important thing in her world? Nah, that’s too impossible!

I mentioned last week in my post about the animated Marvel series What If…? that this show has a fridging problem. If you’ve been following me for a while, you may remember that I’ve talked about the Marvel Cinematic Universe and the “fridged woman” trope before, in my Thursday Thoughts about Ant-Man and the Wasp, but let me summarize:

“Fridging” is a story trope in which a (male) hero’s (female) loved one is killed in order to motivate the hero to take action. This trope is common to superhero comics and films. The problem with this trope is that the fridged woman is more plot device than character. She exists to die; the male character’s emotions are more important than her life.

Now, Ant-Man and the Wasp provides a fascinating commentary on its trope. In the previous Ant-Man movie, Janet Van Dyne was a fridged woman – her only purpose in the film was to die so that Hank Pym would be motivated by his grief to choose Scott to be Ant-Man instead of his daughter, Hope. But Wasp gives Janet the chance to unfridge herself. She’s not only alive, but she plays an active role in her own rescue, and she is also essential to solving all the other conflicts in the movie.

If you’ve seen episodes three and five of What If, then you probably know what I’m going to say next.

THEY RE-FRIDGED JANET VAN DYNE!!! TWICE!!! AND HER DAUGHTER, TOO!!!

*takes a deep breath*

*lets it out again*

In Episode Three, “What If… the World Lost Its Mightiest Heroes?” we follow Nick Fury on the worst week of his life. Apparently, sometime before this episode began, Hope Van Dyne became a SHIELD agent and died on one of their missions. We don’t get to see this; we only learn that this happened when Hank Pym and Loki-disguised-as-Fury argue over Hope’s gravestone. Hope’s death drove Hank over the edge of despair, since he already blamed SHIELD for the death of his wife, and so he decided to ruin Nick Fury’s life by murdering the candidates for the Avengers Initiative.

We never learn why Hope decided to join SHIELD or what the mission she went on meant to her. What Hope felt or wanted does not matter to this story. Hank’s feelings matter instead.

Also, as if it wasn’t enough to fridge the Van Dyne women, there’s arguably one other fridged woman in this story. Remember how I said that this is the worst week of Nick Fury’s life? Everyone who dies in this episode dies because it will hurt Fury; they are plot devices in his story instead of the heroes of their own story. This includes Natasha Romanoff. In-universe, Hank Pym fridges her in hopes of hurting Nick Fury.

I was pretty mad about this. But at the time, I didn’t think it would get any worse.

*

Episode Five pits the Avengers against a zombie apocalypse. Now, would anyone like to guess the origin of this apocalypse? Who is the first victim of the zombie plague?

JANET. VAN. DYNE.

Because the writers of this show can’t help but shove her back in the fridge. And they can’t help but kill off all the women in this episode, too.

Now, I know what you’re going to say. “Everyone’s death is free game in this episode! That’s the point of the whole zombie apocalypse thing!” And, sure, you’re right. Pretty much everyone dies, and if you view this episode in isolation, there’s nothing wrong with that.

But I’m not talking about viewing this episode as an isolated incident. I’m looking at it as a part of a trend, and in this trend, superhero writers fridge their female characters. In this episode, the axed women include Sharon Carter, Okoye, and, once again, HOPE VAN DYNE.

I admit that Hope gets a great speech about her emotions and motivations before she sacrifices herself. She steps up and demands the right to be the hero of her own story. However, her death is ultimately framed as an emotional motivator for Peter – her final words are to tell Peter to “keep smiling.” Later, we get a second round of Hope’s death being about a man’s feelings, when Scott-in-the-jar sees and reacts to her giant zombie form, and Peter comforts him.

(Tell me, What If, why is it possible for Scott Lang to survive as a head in a jar, but not possible for any woman to survive this episode?)

I don’t want to spend too much time on this episode, but we could also talk about Wanda Maximoff. We don’t know what she wants or how she feels, since she’s, you know, a zombie. But her zombification provides Vision’s motivation for all the villainous decisions he makes in this episode. The show also makes a point of saying that zombie-Wanda is just too darn powerful, and so there’s no way for Vision to cure her like he cured Scott-in-a-jar. I guess fridged women just can’t get a miraculous cure.

*

Actually, wait – let’s talk a little more about this show’s claim that there’s no miraculous way to save a fridged woman.

Episode Four, “What If… Doctor Strange Lost His Heart Instead of His Hands?” is basically “Fridged Woman: The Episode.” It is stated in dialogue that Dr. Christine Palmer must die because her death motivates Strange to become a sorcerer. The whole point of the episode is that Strange cannot save her and that he is wrong to try. If Christine doesn’t die, then the universe ends.

This tells me that the writers of this show know what they’re doing. They know what fridging is. They can use the trope and even provide meta-commentary on it. But they don’t seem to have any interest in moving beyond it, even though they could.

Because here’s the thing – I know how Strange could have saved Christine. The Ancient One says that Christine’s death is the only reason why Strange seeks out the mystic arts… but that’s not true. We all know that’s not true. Even the title of this episode knows that that’s not true. Strange would be motivated to seek out the mystic arts if he lost his hands.

What if the Doctor Strange of this reality went back in time, ruined his relationship with Christine so she wouldn’t want to go with him that night, and got himself horrifically injured in the car crash? He’d be prioritizing her life over his own, making sure that she got to live her own life, and he would preserve the timeline by creating the events of the canon movie.

It could have happened. This show is supposed to be a prism of endless possibility. It could be a show about moving beyond tired tropes and exploring new options. But instead, What If doubles down on the idea that the woman must die.

*

At this point, you might say, “Okay, Sophie, but not every episode of What If fridges its women! Did you forget that the very first episode of this show is all about Peggy Carter?”

Here’s the thing: even when the women live, their feelings matter less to the plot than the men’s.

If you want to hear about that, come back next week. This Thursday Thoughts is way too long, and I need a break.

Be good to yourself, be kind to each other, and you’ll hear from me again soon!

[kingofkate]

Random Rant on Heart no Kuni no Alice (because I want to)

This is going to be stupid long, but I’m not sorry because I want to put these thoughts down.

Basically, this long rant is going to look at the three main games where Alice’s relationship with Peter White is explored: Heart (game 1), Clover (game 2), and Twin World (1.5?????). I’ll look at how their relationship is portrayed and the differences between them.

Let’s start with Heart no Kuni no Alice, the first game in the series. (I’ll be referring to the remake version that only focuses on the main story)

The story of the first game is the introduction to the series, and so Alice’s relationship (no matter who you choose) is pretty basic and there isn’t much story beyond her the romancing. This is most true with Peter.

The entirety of this game, and Alice’s relationship with Peter, is one long stream of Peter pushing Alice’s boundaries to see how far he can get. It’s actually a little scary looking at the way he slowly inches his way through the relationship.

It starts with Peter coming to Alice’s room on his breaks to rest his head in her lap. Even though she doesn’t like it, nothing stops him (she moves room and locks her door but he always finds her and uses a key to unlock the door). Then, he get’s her more comfortable with touching him and with the fact that he is a rabbit.

After it makes the move to them sleeping together (in Rabbit form), Peter starts only sleeping in human form. Once Peter has a nightmare.... uh.... bad dream, he hugs Alice, which leads to this becoming a more common thing. He starts kissing her. Even when she tries to get him to stop he tells her that if she doesn’t give him permission to kiss her, he’s going to do it anyway.

He does try to take it further, but thankfully Alice puts her foot down and he respects that... for a while... Outside of the bedroom, Peter starts trying to get her to advance their relationship status in front of others. 

Alice admits they are friends, which makes him happy, but he isn’t satisfied. He gets her to eventually admit they are “lovers” after pointing out that most people don’t make out every night with their “friends”. (somebody hasn’t heard of friends with benefits)

The ball comes around and the canon choice has Alice and Peter go back to his room for the first time. Peter admits that he hasn’t brought her there before because he was afraid that he would scare her away. He was probably right about that, since he proceeds to tie her to the bed and start getting freaky while telling her that HE is scared. Whatever.

Like everything else, this becomes the new normal for them and Alice starts spending more time in his room. This also marks the change in Peter from being unnervingly kind to Alice, to starting to torment her more. He puts this down to trying to get her to “stay”, as her return to her world is approaching. 

When the time comes, she does choose to stay. This leads to a conversation with Peter where he admits that he wants her to love him, a huge change to what he used to say. This brings him to tears as he realizes he has become “selfish” by wanting her to love him, even though he doesn’t think she can.

Spoiler Alert (wait why am I putting this at the end of the story?!) Alice already loves him, although she’s pissed at herself for it and refuses to tell him.

The story basically ends with them just deciding to go forward with the relationship and Alice will stay. The End.

I’m not going to talk more about the “No-stay route” where basically Peter just force kisses Alice anytime she asks anyone for information about the medicine Peter gave her at the beginning until she just decides they are dating.

I’ll analyze this more as we go through the second game.

 Clover no Kuni no Alice (game 2 I guessssssss?????)

This game starts much later after Alice’s decision to stay. It also goes off the assumption that Alice didn’t have a relationship in the first game and was just friends with everyone. 

Right off the bat I’ll say that I LOVE the progression of this game way more than the first game.

The game starts with Alice waking up to realize that both Peter, Ace, and Vivaldi are hiding in her bed. After a long confrontation they all say they were there to tell her about the country straight up moving from Heart to Clover.

They go to the assembly and after getting used to the new world, Alice and Peter (who are already friends at this point) go for dinner.

The second best thing here is that Peter is more chill and happy with them being friends, so the relationship doesn’t start outright. The actual best part of the game is that the relationship is defined and pursued entirely by Alice.

The starting of this relationship is Alice making the point that Peter doesn’t seem to treat her like someone who was “in love with her” would. The point even make more when he tried to kiss her but just ends up kissing her lightly on the cheek.

They start going to dinner because they have to eat and Alice likes having Peter along with her. At the castle, the story focuses more on Peter’s acceptance of her working as a maid (because he doesn’t understand her need to work) and his treatment of the other maids.

There is a great scene where Peter and the maids are arguing with Alice because they all want her to hit them (since they relate hitting with affection). When Peter insults the maids Alice hits him, which makes him grumpy. When she confronts him about it, he admits he wanted her to hit him for him, not to defend the maids. Peter actually understands that Alice was angry and they talk it through.

The two go to town and Peter shoots some guy for bumping into Alice. He then gets in trouble for not cleaning up the “mess” after leaving the man alive at Alice’s pleading. 

When Alice sees him later at the castle he runs from her. After a comical chance Alice gives up and sits on the ground, hitting her head lightly against the wall in frustration. Peter comes back to make sure she is ok.

He states that he suddenly felt nervous seeing her happy to see him and ran. They talk about it a bit. Alice tells him that as long as he respects her wishes, he can kiss her. They kiss. 

This is a HUGE change from the first game. 1) this kiss comes from a lead up and discussion of advancing their relationship and 2) Alice is the one who initiates it. They kiss more as the days go on, but Peter always asks first since he knows she is uncomfortable showing affection in public.

One time, when they go back to her room at the Clover Tower, Peter actually stops the kissing to talk with her about her past relationships. This is where it is revealed that he wants to kill her ex for breaking her heart, and also doesn’t really like her dad for abandoning her after her mother’s death.

It doesn’t take long after this for Alice to suggest they go on a date. This comes as such a surprise to Peter that he falls off the couch they were sitting on and goes into a panic. 

Some time passes and they go on an official date to a field to have a picnic together. Peter changes into a rabbit and they talk. Alice admits to Peter that she thinks she’s fallen in love with him. He is completely silent and changes back. Quietly, he asks if it’s ok for him to hug her (he’s asking permission still) and when she says yes she notices that he’s crying. He begs her not to run away from him. She’s not going anywhere.

But the game doesn’t end here. 

The rest of the game is them developing the relationship and dealing with the fact that Peter can’t accept Alice’s decision to keep working as a maid. She eventually asks if they should break up since he doesn’t like her job. He freaks out at this and threatens to kill the other maids if she does. They talk it through together and he relents and says he isn’t happy about her job, but won’t bring it up again.

After this nothing of too much note happens. The game ends (good ending) with them getting freaky in bed. And by that, I mean Alice says she wants to hurt him and Peter is like “yes, that sounds nice.” Then Alice says she won’t and he’s like well that wasn’t nice. And it ends with them in a relationship. 

The End.

Obviously the second game is a huge improvement on the relationship of the first game. Alice has been in Wonderland long enough to get to know the people and Peter has been friends with Alice long enough to respect her decisions. They spend more time developing their relationship in a more healthy and realistic way. I love this game.

BUT!

None of this compares to Wonderful Twin World, which is set in Country of Heart, but takes place after the end of the first game. And this game is just... amazing.

It picks up with Alice already in a relationship with whoever you choose. There is a strange storm coming that will change everyone in a random way that will end after the storm and they won’t have any recollection of what happened to them. And the whole story of this game is Alice working through the issues in whatever relationship she is in. No matter who you play, it’s great.

I particularly like Julius’ route, where Julius changes into a super affectionate man who is obsessed with Alice and acts like the boyfriend she wanted him to be. This helps her work through the fact that Julius is generally neglectful of her and doesn’t show affection often. 

Peter’s route is nice because it shows them sort of working through his anxiety of the instability of their relationship. While he starts off not worried about the storm, he goes through the steps to help Alice get more comfortable by taking her on fun dates.

When the storm comes the only change with Peter is that he can’t change into a rabbit anymore, and has no memory of being able to do so. At first he isn’t worried, but when they run into Eliot, who can now change into a rabbit, Peter’s anxieties start to show.

Alice always used Peter’s rabbit form as a way to destress after a long day (who doesn’t love cuddling a cute rabbit, right?). After having a dream where she spends time with Eliot in bunny form, she accidentally says her name in her sleep, causing Peter to spiral.

Instead of him going off the handle, they sit together and talk about his anxieties. He admits that though he is happy they are in a relationship, he doesn’t actually understand why Alice chose him. He’s constantly worried that she will change her mind. Now that he can’t become a rabbit, he wonders if she wouldn’t be happier with Eliot.

Alice handles this pretty well and tells him that she loves him for him, not just the rabbit form. And while it doesn’t fix everything, she is now aware that Peter has concerns about her feelings for him and she can make changes to improve things.

Once the storm ends Peter doesn’t remember anything that happened. The go to a church and Peter discusses his interest in getting married to Alice. She turns him down and he asks when she’ll be ready. It ends with her uncertain when that time will be.

-----

Basically, I love some healthy relationships. And I really love open conversation and respect in a relationship. The first game is somewhat excusable because it was the first game and the start of the series.

The fact that the creators improved on the relationships in the other games says a lot. 

The biggest problem I’ve always had with the first game is Alice’s unwillingness to set clear boundaries and the others willingness to just do whatever they want. That’s why I also really like Julius since he is the most adult of the lot and is too busy to treat Alice like garbage. He’s not great for a relationship because he’s so neglectful of her, but since he spends more time defining his relationship with Alice it’s fine. Basically, a relationship is fine as long as both sides set their boundaries and respect the other. This is why Twin World is amazing.

So many “dating sim” games don’t give the main character much of a personality. Alice is great that she has a personality and a clear set of standards. 

I’m not super happy of the exclusion of Peter in the remaining games and I would love to see him make a comeback now that the creators have developed further. 

The new game will be released soon and we will see if there is any conclusion to the series of not. 

So in summary: Peter in Heart --> Hot trash, Peter in Clover --> Good Bun, Peter in Twin --> Best Bun.

Rant finished, I guess.

[kyber-crystal]

Unspoken Words

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Words: 4.2k (I POPPED OFF LOLLLLL)

Summary: In which the night before being deployed on a covert black-ops mission overseas with Natasha, you write Steve a secret love letter that you never intended to give him. But, it still ends up falling into his hands.

Warnings: fluff, soft angst, cute steve hehe

A/N: once again, shamelessly stole this idea from the kdrama im watching adsfasdf

To Steve.

You always told me it was time I found someone who cared for me just as much as I cared about others. For the longest time, I had myself believing I was set for life since I already had the team. That I didn’t need to find a man to sweep me off my feet and take his last name, to have as my own, as every time I seemed to let my feelings wander astray, it’d end in tragedy.

After waiting for too long to say this, I guess I'm gonna come clean now, so brace yourself. I felt as if this would be easier for me if I was saying it on paper rather than in person, so here you go.

I realized I'm in love with you. You never leave my mind. You're always there, mentally, if not physically. It's hard for you to comprehend all at once, I know, it's hard for me to wrap my mind around, too. It still feels unreal that I'm actually admitting all this to you. I could've sworn I'd only acted this way in my dreams, but hey, reality can sometimes come up behind you and slap you in the face, you know?

In the middle of the storm, a war that rages on in my mind, you’re my safe haven. You’re the gentle center who keeps me steady and prevents me from teetering over the edge and losing my grip on reality. You keep me centered, and I don’t know what I’d do without you by my side. Steven Grant Rogers, I’m in love with you. I know, it doesn’t seem real. As crazy as it sounds, I’m hopelessly in love with you.

Steve, you are my one stability in a chaos-ridden world and I thank you endlessly for that. I so desperately needed something to hold onto, something to convince me I was still alive and breathing and somewhat sane. It's hard for me, it's hard that only today I've accepted the feelings I'd been harboring inside for years. But I've decided to admit defeat and admit I've officially fallen in love with you. Because what I'm beginning to feel now is far too strong for me to ignore; it's impossible to keep up this act when you're all I can seem to think about.

It's all strange, honestly. The feeling of butterflies flying around my stomach and tickling my insides makes me feel as if I'm up in the sky, my head in the clouds, but it also overwhelms me and makes me scared at the same time. The fact that I'm in so deeply in love scares me because I know when I'm really in love with someone, it's hard to escape once I've completed the act of falling for them.

Weird, right? Who knew the great Y/N was so capable of being a romantic sap?

It feels dangerous yet completely safe at the same time, as if someone's given me peace and my heart is dancing around in my chest because it's so happy, at the same time there is a Captain America-shaped hole there in the center that I was never aware was there in the beginning. My chest aches at the thought of having to leave you or you not reciprocating my feelings, but I know I might just suffer that fate, since the world as I know it, isn't kind whatsoever. I should know this better than anyone, after fighting countless battles.

It scares me more than excites me, how you can go from being really close friends to then being completely infatuated and in love with them and wondering how you were ever able to go on with your daily life without them, because I sure as hell can't imagine that now. In the beginning, I told myself it's not right, I still had so much of my life ahead of me, so much time to plan out what I'm going to end up like in the future but my brain is screaming no, no, it is right, it's meant to be.

The team tries convincing me to do something about it but I'm terrified. Terrified that I'll have to bring down the thick and heavy walls I spent so much time building up in the fears of being hurt and damaged and my heart shattered to a million jagged pieces.

I know most people would consider me to be foolish and naïve for spilling my feelings through a sappy love letter, but it's true when I say I love you so much more than I could ever love myself. You're my best friend, and as cheesy as it sounds, you are my everything. My anchor.

I fell for you all on my own. Not because I was pressured to or anything, but because I made the decision myself. I don't just give my heart to you by default as if there's no one else available for me to open up to. It's because I choose to. Every day that I wake up, every day we're fighting for our lives or fighting each other or going about a normal day or whatever, I'll keep choosing you over and over again, and I hope someday you'll do the same.

I love you more than you know. And if you don't feel the same way, then it's perfectly fine. I understand, and I'll wait for you as long as it takes, no matter what.

Whatever it takes.

Y/N

You let out a long sigh and set down your pen, folding the paper up into fourths and tucking it under your lamp before pushing yourself away from your desk and standing up, stretching your arms in the air. What even was the point of doing that, anyways? It’s not like Steve’s just going to come in here and read the letter. 

The downside of living with the Avengers was that word got around very quickly, especially about your love life. There was no hiding anything from anyone, as they’d find out one way or another. If Tony didn’t find out first, it was Natasha, Sam, or Bucky who did.

“Hey, Nat,” you spoke without turning your head to look at who was behind you, knowing your red-headed best friend was leaning against the doorframe, observing you carefully. 

“Y/N,” Natasha nodded and made her way inside, sitting at the edge of your bed and you took a seat next to her, as she rested her head on your shoulder. “You alright? I can tell something’s on your mind.”

You shook your head. “I’m fine.”

“Something tells me you’re not.”

“Did Wanda read my mind for you?” you raised an eyebrow in suspicion.

“No, she didn’t,” she replied honestly, “she’s busy baking cookies with Vis and Peter right now. You think you wanna tell me what’s up? As your best friend, I’m obligated to know what’s going on.”

You closed your eyes and let out a long sigh. "You know what it is."

"You mean who?"

"Why am I letting this happen to myself?"

"You can't control who you fall for,," she explained. "Your heart sometimes just has a mind of its' own."

“He’s Captain America,” you deadpanned.

“And you’re the badass Y/N!”

“I shouldn’t even have feelings in the first place. And I shouldn't have written that love letter that I won't even give him anyways, or...you know."

"You wrote him a letter?"

You got up and tugged the letter from underneath your lamp and gave it to her, watching as her eyes scanned over the paper with your tidy, typewriter-like handwriting filling the sheet from top to bottom.

"So..."

Natasha handed the paper back to you. "Why can't you just tell him?"

"Because he doesn’t like me back."

"You should tell him at some point. Keeping this all to yourself isn't healthy."

"You sound like Tony."

She chuckled lightly. "What?It's the truth."

"Fine," you threw your hands up in the air in defeat, "I’ll consider telling him after we get back from Kyiv. I’m only considering it. And if I do confess...will you take me out for shawarma? Bucky took me last time and I barely got to eat anything because he stole most of my food."

"Alright, I promise," she laughed. "You got a deal."

...

SHIELD was always taking advantage of your almost unparalleled skill in the art of covert espionage and hand to hand combat and sending you off. Normally, it would last no longer than a few days or weeks at a time, so to hear that you'd be gone for four whole months made Steve feel sick to his stomach. He was dreading having to watch you leave, because it would mean spending the next third of a year by himself, without being able to see your face or your smile or simply have you around for some good company.

You pulled him aside after dinner one night to tell him the news.

"Nat and I were called in by Fury early this morning. We're being deployed to eastern Europe to stop a nuclear missile launch."

"How long will you be gone?" He tried to keep his voice as steady as possible, but it was a dead giveaway that he didn't want you to go at all.

"Well...if things go right, 3-4 months."

"And if doesn't?"

"Six, maybe seven."

Steve felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach at your answer. "Why is it gonna take so long?"

"I don't know," you sighed, "just trying getting in and out isn't a very short process. We have to maintain low profile for a while before we infiltrate the base. If we're discovered too early on...then...well, we're basically screwed."

"Oh."

"Hey, I'm going to be fine, if that's what you're so worried about," you took his hand in yours and squeezed it tightly, "I know you're thinking I can't handle this, but I can. Nat and I are gonna look out for each other. I promise I'll be okay."

"When are you leaving?"

"First thing in the morning. We gotta go at four."

You didn't have to add on another sentence to tell him it meant you were unable to say goodbye to anyone. He nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat and trying to ignore that weird feeling in his chest as you kept holding his hand, not letting go even when you had the chance to.

Later that night, you were able to get five hours of sleep before Natasha came in to wake you up and you got ready. When she noticed how your eyes had lost the light to them and your shoulders slumped as you boarded the jet, she knew something was up.

Guilt clawed at your insides. You should’ve told him you loved him before you left, you idiot. What if you don’t make it back alive? Hm?

A set of footsteps echoing across the hangar bay suddenly made you turn around. You turned around to see Steve, jogging towards you and calling out your name. Knowing it was only a matter of minutes before you finished boarding and took off for a mission thousands of miles away, with very little ways of communication as you were supposed to be as discreet as possible when undercover, he didn't want you to leave without saying goodbye.

A mix of surprise and relief is on your face when you see him. You shake your head and give him a reassuring look, that everything was going to be okay and you'd be just fine.

"What are you doing here? You should be sleeping," your brows furrowed together in confusion as you unloaded your weapons, tying up your combat boots. "I thought you—"

Steve quickly comes forward and crushes you into a tight embrace that tells you he's going to miss you much more than he's letting on. You were quick to return the gesture, wrapping your arms around his torso and squeezing him back, resting your head against his broad chest.

"Stay safe out there," he murmured into your hair, pressing a light, fleeting kiss to the top of your hair.

You don't question his sudden act of sentiment, and just gave him a small smile in response. "Don't worry. I will."

With that, you turned around, stepping back up the ramp with Natasha. The gates to the hangar bay slid open, and within seconds you had taken off.

Steve stands there for a while even after the Quinjet is out of his sight, and it's only when Bucky pulls him back inside that he realizes he's been standing there for over an hour without moving at all.

The first few weeks pass by in a blur. He hardly eats, he hardly sleeps, he hardly even gets up for his morning runs or trains at all. After the first two months came and went, Tony grew rather concerned seeing him deteriorate and decided to ask him what was going on.

"Tony, I'm fine."

"Like hell you are. What's up with you? You haven't eaten a solid meal in over two months. You've lost some weight around your face, you almost look like a skeleton. When you haven't gone on your morning runs in forever, I should have a reason to be worried about you, Cap."

"It's been five weeks and she hasn't checked in with us yet," he stated plainly, gulping down his third cup of coffee of the day. "She should've called a week ago."

"God, I never thought you'd be the one to get so worked up over a girl," the billionaire let out a long sigh, pouring himself a cup of coffee as well at the kitchen counter before taking a seat at the island next to him, "but here we are now."

"What if she got injured?"

"Her and Nat are looking out for each other. I'm sure she's fine. She's going to be okay, so why don't you eat something solid for once? Tell me what you wanna order, I'll get it for you."

Thanks, Tony. I'll take Thai." (You and Steve often ate Thai takeout together.)

"Anytime."

Way over in Ukraine, you and Natasha were sitting on the bed in your hotel room watching the news on TV in silence because neither one of you felt like sleeping yet, until she decided to speak up.

"Why haven't you called Rogers yet?"

"I...don't know."

"He's gotta be missing you like hell, you know."

"I know. And I miss him too...a bit too much. That's why I can't call him. Because every time I hear his voice or see something that reminds me of him, it makes me fall even more in love with him and I can't afford having that. I don't want to risk getting hurt. Besides...I already summoned every last ounce of willpower to write that letter."

"You really should give him a call. It's not doing your heart any good to purposely drain yourself of him."

"Fine."

Steve had somehow allowed himself to get roped into a Mario Kart showdown with Bucky and Sam, when his phone suddenly lit up with a familiar number he could recognize anywhere. Your contact picture filled up the screen: you grinning wildly as his arms wrapped around you from behind, Pietro photobombing in the back as he made heart signs with his hands.

He picked up the phone and answered it after only one ring.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Steve," you spoke over the phone, "how's it going?"

"Hey," he couldn't help but break into a smile, "are you alright?"

"Yeah. We got the data files downloaded onto the flash drive and then destroyed it yesterday. So for now, we're just waiting around and maybe doing some tours of Kyiv while we have time."

"What time is it over there?"

"Half past midnight. You?"

"2:30."

"How are you holding up?"

Bucky and Sam looked over at that exact moment, wiggling their eyebrows up and down as they gestured for Steve to say something. "I'm doing fine. Got pulled into a Mario Kart deathmatch with the two idiots."

"Tell Bucky and Sam I send my regards and that I'm bringing back those baguettes I promised for when we stop over in Paris," you told him.

"I will. It's good to hear your voice, Y/N."

You couldn't help but feel your heart flutter at those words. "It's good to hear your voice, too. Look, I'm sorry...but it's getting late, and my data on my phone is low, Fury didn't give me an unlimited plan so I gotta go now. See you soon."

"Okay. Try to get some good sleep, alright? I don't want you getting hurt because you didn't get a good night's rest the night before. See you."

"COME ON, MAN!" Sam yelled as soon as you hung up. "You didn't even have the decency to say 'I love you?'"

"I love her, but not like that."

"Sure you don't. I saw the way your face lit up when you picked up the phone."

"Two months," the super-soldier let out a sigh of disappointment, setting down the controller to watch him and Bucky tear each other apart on Rainbow Road, "two more months."

He picked up his phone again and clicked on his camera roll, mindlessly beginning to scroll through until one picture caught his eye. It was during summer break when you were vacationing in the Bahamas for two weeks along with several SHIELD agents, and Coulson had taken the team picture. Fury had somehow been convinced to come along as well.

As his eyes scanned all the faces in the picture, he came across himself and noticed that he wasn't smiling at the camera, but at you instead, and you were doing the same. Both of you, gazing into each others' eyes as if the two of you were the only people left on Earth.

He felt a pang in his chest as he realized, at that moment, that he was in love with you and hadn't gotten the chance to tell you so before you left. And now, it could be too late.

The letter ends up reaching Steve much faster than you'd anticipated it to. The next day, he went to drop off the sweatshirt you left in his room last time you’d had a movie night together and comes across a single sheet of paper lying out on your desk.

All the color quickly drains from his face when he realizes this wasn't actually meant for him to read. He knows what he'd just done was wrong, but the fact that he was so oblivious to how you felt about him makes him feel even worse.

...

The mission had gone extremely well. You and Natasha were in and out of that base probably faster than you could summon Tony after yelling out that one of his suits had been tampered with.

Natasha thought it'd be fun to surprise him by coming back a month early and could tell instantly that you loved the idea, judging by the way your eyes lit up when you boarded the Quinjet.

You decided to call him again on the flight back as she sat at the front piloting the jet.

"Steve?"

"Hey. What's up?"

"Uh...I'm afraid there's been a change of plans."

"What plans?" His voice quickly grew worried as he tried masking his disappointment at the fact that you weren't announcing your return.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that, I'm sorry, but...I just wanted to call you to update you on what's happening. Signal's not very good up here, Nat and I are flying out again so I'll call you when we touch down."

"Okay. Talk to you in a bit."

After making a quick pit stop at a bakery in Paris, you were up in the skies again, zipping back towards the Avengers HQs where the rest of the team was waiting.

"You know, I think Rogers is in love with you," Natasha gave you a knowing look as you touched down.

"What makes you think that?"

"When you guys were going after Bucky...I think that's when it all happened."

"But that was several years ago?"

"Exactly."

You unbuckled your seatbelts and stood up, picking up your duffel bags as the opening gates dropped down and you stepped off the ramp to an awaiting Bucky, Sam, Clint and Peter.

"Y/N!" Peter rushed forward, squeezing you in a tight hug. "Hi! You're home early!"

"Yeah, I am," you grinned ruffling his hair as you pulled apart. "You make sure Bucky and Sam didn't misbehave?"

Sam shot you a glare as Peter replied. "Well, they were alright. Happy dropped me off here yesterday and I monitored their Mario Kart matches to make sure nobody killed someone, so yeah. Clint was good too."

You went over to Bucky as Natasha went to talk to Sam and Clint about mission details."

"Y/L/N."

"Barnes."

"How was the flight?" His hard expression softened slight as he gave you a quick hug. "I heard everything went pretty well."

"Yeah, it was okay. A bit jet-lagged, but other than that I'm fine. And speaking of flight! I got you guys something."

You motioned for Nat to bring the box of pastries from the jet, and as soon as she did everyone's eyes lit up with excitement.

"Dude, you're the best," Sam exclaimed as he bit into an eclair. "I love Parisian pastries."

"We don't wanna be here too long, now do we?" Clint spoke up. "Y/N, I think you have a special someone to surprise inside."

"Oh?" you raised an eyebrow at the archer before following him and the others inside the compound.

Steve was busy reading a news article on his phone at the kitchen island, sitting there in a plain grey T-shirt and dark jeans when he looked up and met your gaze.

"Hey, soldier," you greeted with a smirk, "miss me?"

His face broke into a grin as he set his phone down. "You're back early."

"Fury was a bit more lenient this time," you shrugged, taking your hands out of your jacket pockets, "so he let us go. Since we got the job done pretty fast."

He chuckled lightly, pulling you close in response and wrapping his strong arms around you. "I'm glad you're back."

"So I take it you really missed me, huh."

"You could put it that way."

"Like hell he missed you. You should've seen him while you were gone, Christ," Sam groaned. "He wouldn't eat anything solid for an entire week."

"Oh!" Wanda piped up, "I believe he has something to tell you? Right, Steve?"

"No, I don't?"

"Uh, we'll leave now, then," Clint awkwardly cleared his throat. "Let's give these two a minute."

With that, they calmly filed out of the kitchen, leaving the two of you to yourselves.

"You look tired," Steve raised an eyebrow at you as he noticed the dark circles under your eyes.

"You look worse," you joked, earning a small laugh from him as you circled your arms around his torso. "I'm just a bit jet-lagged. The ten hour time difference wasn't very kind to me."

"Well, I'm glad you're back," he breathed out, "I missed you."

"Ah, there it is," you mumbled into his chest. "But yeah, I missed you too. And here I was starting to think Captain America didn't have the heart to care for someone so much."

"Only for you, Y/N," he chuckled, pressing a light kiss to your forehead, "only for you."

“Wait a second,” you pulled away and saw a familiar piece of paper sticking out of his jacket pocket, “what’s that?”

Your eyes widened as you pulled it out and realized it was the letter you’d written him several months back. “Oh shit...”

“Was I not supposed to read this?’

“NO!”

“It was addressed to me, though...?”

“I never meant for you to read it!” you hissed, “Now give it back!”

“Ah ah ah! I don’t think so.”

You let out an annoyed groan, going up on your tiptoes to try and snatch the paper out of his hand. “Screw you, Rogers. Why do you have to be so damn tall?”

You jumped up and down in an attempt to get the letter back for several minutes until you finally gave up, arms growing sore. When he towered half a foot above you, it was hopeless.

Your hands landed against his chest as you let them fall and you just stood there for a few seconds, or minutes, maybe, in utter silence, with his warm breath falling against your neck and you hated yourself for wanting this moment to last longer. 

The air was suddenly buzzing with anticipation, like the world was holding its breath to see what was to come next. Steve’s gaze lingered on your lips before he tilted his head downwards, placing a hand on the small of your back and pulling you in for a kiss. 

His lips met your own so softly, so gently that you swore that you were dreaming for a split second, and you let out a sigh as your arms slid around his waist and tightened their grip around him. 

“In case I haven’t made it obvious enough, either,” he hummed, “I’m in love with you too.”

You felt heat rise up your cheeks. “You weren’t supposed to read that!”

“Too bad,” he smirked, resting his chin on your head, “I read it already, three times. You bet I’ll be keeping this for myself.”

“I hate you so much.”

“That’s not what the letter says.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“No I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Fine! I love you.”

Steve laughed lightly. “I love you too, Y/N.”

[the-anxious-gay-drummer]

Agnes' JatP fics masterpost

Thought I might as well clump together all the thingies I wrote for this fandom so far.

*all fics that are not marked otherwise are completed

UPDATED: 16 March 2021

ASHES WE ARE AND FROM ASHES WE RISE

Bobby/Alex/Luke/Reggie

4.8k words

Supernatural elements, polyamory, love confessions, angst with happy ending

Mom catches him after sundown, copper bowls laden with candles and fruit and herbs clutched to his chest and steers him back inside the house with a firm hand on his shoulder. She doesn’t yell and she doesn’t lecture and Bobby asks her, “How did you know?”

“Because,” she tells him, putting away the bowls, “death is also lonely.” She turns to face him, draped into the sunset colors slipping in through the window, her eyes dark and strong, and says, “You need to learn to put things to rest.”

BOBBY'S SEXUALITY CRISIS SUMMER

Bobby/Reggie

3.8k words

Coming out, fluff and humor (attempted?)

The tank top is black, Reggie's skin is pale, shoulders and face pinked from the Sun. And his arms are not as scrawny as Bobby remembers them being. He blames tingly, tight feeling in his chest on the fact that Alex is a drummer and Luke has been prancing around in his cutoffs since they hit puberty and Bobby had to ask Carrie to open his peanut butter jar yesterday because he couldn't do it.

GENTLE HAUNTING

Willie/Alex

2.6k words

5+1, near death experiences, happy ending

As he loses his balance, there’s a dull noise of wheels rolling over the sidewalk and in his periphery, a splash of bright colors- yellows and blues and reds and greens- so vibrant that, for a moment, Alex forgets that he’s falling.

AKA "Five times Alex sees Willie while he's alive and one time they finally meet as ghosts"

KISSING THE LIGHTS

Willie/Alex

1.1k words

Fluff, kissing

“What are you doing?” He asks quietly, not wanting to disrupt the soft, quiet atmosphere. He feels too lazy to open his eyes.

“Nothing,” Willie whispers in response, voice tilting like he’s smiling. “I’m just watching.”

1k of pure fluff and soft ghost boyfriends

COLORS BURST AS I CLOSE MY EYES

Willie/Alex

1k words

Fluff and angst, boys kissing, implied/referenced homophobia, cemetery

If Willie finds it strange that he’s lying on his own grave- his body six feet below him, rotten along with the coffin and reclaimed by the earth- he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he says, “Hey, Hotdog,” and gets down on his knees near Alex’s shoulder. His hair is spilling down around his face in soft waves and looking at him feels like looking at an old photograph, bleached into golds and browns and bronzes by the light.

PEANUT GALLERY

Willie/Alex

800 words

Fluff, Christmas fic, movie night, outsider POV

He turns to his right, hoping to commiserate with Alex, who now has a hot boyfriend and thus is assumably over his teenage movie crush- and then he freezes, mid-chew.

NO ONE LEAVES HOME

Alex & Bobby

1.3k words

Angst and fluff, friendship, implied/referenced homophobia

He strides to Bobby’s car with purpose and drops his backpack on the floor of the passenger seat before asking, “How do you feel about skipping the first period?”

Bobby, who was sucking on a mint until now, bites down on it. Alex hears it crunch as Bobby’s eyebrows shoot up. “Okay,” he says despite his surprise.

I needed some Alex&Bobby friendship. So.

ANGELS CAN FLY INTO THE SUN

Bobby | Trevor Wilson & Alex Mercer & Luke Patterson & Reggie Peters

1.5k words

Cathartic blasphemy, religious imagery & symbolism, implied/referenced homophobia

Luke won’t tell him where they’re going, but eventually, the streets morph into a familiar path, down past his parents’ house that stands unchanged despite everything, and then Bobby is parking them in front of Alex’s old church.

EXISTENCE SLIPPED LIKE SAND THROUGH OUR HANDS (BUT NOT ANYMORE)

Willie/Alex

2k words

Fluff, kissing in the rain

“Hm, looks like it’s going to rain,” Willie comments, head tipped back. Everything around them is colored in monochrome; reality is a far-away, unimportant concept, all the edges blurred and softened. It’s a good day to be content and in love, Alex thinks, touching the tips of his fingers to his breastbone.

YEARS I SPENT ON THE EDGE OF DISAPPEARANCE

Willie/Alex

SPN & JatP crossover

53k words

WIP (work in progress)

Alex spent 4 years living in Los Angeles (during which he met only the best people ever and found his passion for music) so his oldest brother and father could check up on his other brother (which is a healthy way of saying "stalking him"). When everything goes downhill and he's forced to move away with his family, he runs away to pursue his dream.

And then he fucking dies. Which would actually be a minor hitch in their plans- if Dean could just stop investigating his death.

I think it's safe to say SPN crossovers are my writing niche now, and I'm absolutely obsessed with JATP and Alex rn. So. This is what I have to offer to you guys.

[normal-thoughts-official]

Take a different turn

Fandom: Shadowhunters (TV)

Relationships: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood Magnus Bane & Alec Lightwood Magnus Bane & Raphael Santiago (mentioned) Alec Lightwood & Izzy Lightwood (mentioned) Izzy Lightwood/Meliorn (mentioned)

Alec Lightwood is a practical man, who happens to have an all-black house because it just makes things easier for him.

Magnus Bane is the witch that lives across the street from him, in a house covered in flowers and plants, always with a smile on.

And Magnus' clients keep knocking on the wrong house.

Read it on Ao3

Alec looks up from the book he was reading right in time to see that the latest client has just left his neighbor's house. The woman is leaving with a smile on her face, but it is no match for the one on the man that she's talking to. He waves at her, and she waves back, laughing, and one would think they are long time friends were it not for the vial of purple liquid she holds in her hand, making it unmistakable what this visit truly was, and what Magnus' line of work is.

Alec's neighbor is a witch, and the woman came to him for a potion. It's not like it's supposed to be a secret; there are signs along the nearest road advertising his line of work, and they even give his address - correctly, Alec has already checked plenty of times.

He waits until the woman has rounded the corner and Magnus has gone back into the house, and then precisely five minutes so the guy has some room to breathe, before getting up and crossing the street to talk to him.

The guy's house is nice - more than nice. Its walls are light yellow, not so bright that it hurts the eyes or even calls that much attention, but upbeat enough that it gives the place a happy kind of air. There are plants all around it and inside, some of which reach out from the windows. One particular tree has a branch that goes all the way outside, where it touches another's, where their branches almost curl around each other. There are a lot of flowers in neatly arranged little pots outside, all in constant bloom, of bright and beautiful colors. Anyone would think Magnus uses magic to keep them always beautiful, but Alec's seen him manually watering and pruning them, smiling and talking to them all the while.

I could use magic to keep them alive, but the plants need care and contact to be truly healthy. Why do you think Peter Plant and Perry the Plant-ypus are always holding hands? They need connection, he had said. Just like all of us, he added, in a much smaller voice.

The house is clearly well-lit, and there is sweet fruit hanging from some of the trees, which have little signs that read "feel free to take some!". Alec supposes it's a lot more fruit than anyone could eat or use on their own. All in all, Magnus' house is beautiful, and has an aura of kindness and happiness that sticks to it.

Alec's house is all black, because that way it isn't as obvious when it gets dirty.

Which is why they are stuck in their current predicament: every time Magnus has a client over - and man, does Magnus get a lot of clients. Alec wonders when he even eats - they go to Alec's house instead, because they "figured the address in the signs was mistaken".

Just like that last client, which Alec had been waiting to leave so he could talk to Magnus about how they could fix this. Again.

It's a little annoying, but Alec would be a lot more upset about it if Magnus weren't so genuinely nice to talk to. Alec has never been friends with any of his neighbors before, and it turns out that he likes it.

Still, Magnus' business can't prosper if the clients keep going to the wrong address, and Alec needs to work without being interrupted every hour or so to point people the right way to his neighbor's house. And assure them that yes, the yellow flowery house is where the witch lives. Yes, he is sure.

So, he knocks on the door, corners of his lips already tugging a bit as he hears the quick approaching footsteps of said witch.

Magnus is the most gorgeous guy Alec's ever seen, but that is fine because Alec already knows this and therefore won't act completely braindead. His hair is always changing style, length, and color, which would have cemented any doubts Alec could have had about whether or not he's the real deal. His real eyes have slitted pupils - which, okay, now that Alec thinks about it, that should have cemented whether or not he's the real deal - but he usually hides them behind a warm, rich brown that sparkles in the light as it assesses Alec, just like it's doing right now. Alec thinks the glamour is kind of a pity, because the golden eyes are also gorgeous. His hair has light blue streaks today, matching his eyeliner and vest, contrasting nicely with the yellow shirt that definitely doesn't hide the muscles of his arms, dear lord. His lips are a deep pink as he talks, just like the details in the shirt Alec can't quite make out; definitely courtesy of some kind of balm. His eyes are worried as they focus on Alec, and he snaps his fingers gently.

"Alexander, are you okay?"

Alec blinks. "Yes, why wouldn't I be?"

"You aren't saying anything."

Step one failed, Alec thinks. "Ah," he says, eloquently, before pulling himself back together, "yes, sorry, I just wanted to ask," his voice sounds that weird kind of forced pleasant that he wears sometimes when he needs it, and the idea of using it with this guy makes him cringe internally, but well, he wants a conversation starter and he's bad at sounding natural, sue him, "are you sure that you aren't hiding the house or something? I mean, it's the third time today."

Magnus brings his eyebrows together, amused. "Well, you can see it, can't you?". He shakes his head slightly, and it would be challenging, but the guy has a way of making you feel like he was laughing with you.

Still, Alec huffs. "Fair point. Still, I thought your- solution would have worked out by now."

Magnus' "solution" to their little problem was to snap his fingers and make some kind of tower appear on the side of the house. The tower has a triangular roof, and it kinda looks like a witch hat, Alec will give him that.

But it's also light pink.

Magnus purses his lips, seeming genuinely lost. "So did I," he agrees, scrunching his nose a little as he thinks. "Maybe some kind of spell where only someone who knows what to look for can find it?" he says hesitantly. He then reaches out with his hands, scanning his own house with his magic thoughtfully. His head tilts slightly in thought as he does it, and flowers or no flowers, no one would doubt that Magnus Bane is a witch at that point. The way that he holds himself, the grace in every tilt of his head, the not at all exaggerated - now that he's actually concentrating and not showing off - movements of his fingers that are still so purposeful and fluid it's impossible not to look. Then his hand drops, and he sighs. "There doesn't seem to be anything wrong with it," he says. "What about your solution?"

Alec's solution was to place a hundred thousand signs near his door that said This is not the witch's house! The witch lives across the street and Yes in the yellow house with all the flowers, and yes THAT one I promise you it's the one you're looking at, and don't knock to confirm just go there. But Alec's other neighbor, Meliorn, just so happens to be a fairy, and takes great pleasure in stealing them whenever they can. Superglue hadn't stopped them, nailing the signs to the door hadn't stopped them, not even painting them directly on the walls had stopped them. And Alec can't use the usual seelie-shooers to keep them away because they are dating Alec's goddamn sister, who will not ask them to stop. Hell, Alec's not even entirely sure she's not the one asking Meliorn to do this in the first place. She might be more of a trickster than they are, at least when it comes to Alec.

Match made in Heaven, Alec scoffs to himself before replying.

"Still no luck with Meliorn," is all he says.

"I'm sorry I couldn't help more with that," Magnus says, and he sounds so genuinely regretful Alec couldn't be upset about it if he tried. Magnus tried to talk to Meliorn about it, but he said they looked so happy with all the stolen signs he couldn't even bring it up. It's a fairy's nature, he had said, and Meliorn seems to have gotten pretty attached to the signs. They have a special place in their house and everything.

Meliorn's house, Alec can't help but note, is exactly what one would expect from a fairy. It's covered in vines and exotic-looking flowers, not that different from the ones Magnus grows, but that unnervingly follow you as you walk past. And, of course, it is filled with their treasure. Just Alec's luck.

Magnus purses his lips again. "I could change your house into something a little more like mine, so people at least won't keep coming to you- okay, I see the face you're making, and I'll have you know I'm offended. My house is beautiful, if I do say so myself," he winks, smile bright.

"Of course it is," Alec says, making a dismissing gesture with his hand, because the idea that it wouldn't be is ridiculous. Magnus softens in a way Alec can't quite understand, his face warmer than it looked even as he grinned, "it's just- not quite my style. Besides, I wouldn't want to kill all the plants. Also, I don't like big changes in the environment," he says, scratching the back of his neck. Magnus is the opposite, always changing something here and there, even if the core theme of the place never changes, "And black is nice. I just didn't think that there would be a witch next door people would mistake me for."

Magnus scoffs. "I still don't get what that's about. Black is the worst color for a witch. Absorbs all kinds of energies, you don't want that when you're using magic. Yellow is a lot better, irradiates pretty nicely and absorbs the good things. Besides, my tower has a witch hat now! And there are plants!" he gestures widely, in an almost offended way. Alec doesn't know how to tell him that no one associates plants with witches, at least not the kind of pretty, bright colored flowers and fruits that he grows.

"I guess people expect witch's plants to be less…" He pauses for a second, looking for the perfect word, "voluptuous".

Magnus scoffs. "Then how would I get my ingredients??"

Alec shrugs. He has no idea. He doesn't know how witches work.

"Besides," Magnus continues, "why do people not expect a witch's house to look approachable? Why would you seek help from someone that doesn't look trustworthy? I work to cure the sick, bring good fortune, keep plants and people healthy, keep away bad energies. It's not like I work with bad energies or take those stupid," he emphasizes the word with a tilt of his head, "requests, like 'Hex my neighbor's grass!'" He says that in a demanding voice, snapping his fingers and grimacing a little as he impersonates that kind of client. Alec knows for a fact that his mom has hired witches to hex their neighbor's grass more than once, and Magnus' imitation is surprisingly similar. The fact that this guy has unknowingly talked shit about Alec's mom only makes Alec like him more.

Once upon a time, he would have felt guilty about that feeling. He doesn't anymore, and it's a nice change.

Magnus looks at him, squinting slightly, "you have hexed your neighbor's grass, haven't you?," he says.

"What? No," Alec grimaces, disgusted, "you are my neighbor."

Magnus gives a little laugh. "Fair point. I suppose I'd have to charge a lot for that one. Starting with even getting a lawn to be hexed. That would need considerably more space. I am not getting rid of my plants, I'll warn you." He says playfully, pointing a finger at Alec. It stops just shy of poking him. Magnus seems to be very careful when it comes to personal space, which Alec appreciates so much he finds that he wouldn't mind if he actually touched him.

Alec smiles, because he can't help it. "I don't have a lawn either, so I don't think that's necessary. No, it's uh, my mom who has hexed the neighbor. And I agree with you, it's stupid."

"Glad we're on the same page," Magnus replies, raising his eyebrows playfully for emphasis.

They fall silent for a while, but it's comfortable, and Alec's smile lingers on his face as he watches Magnus look at his own house in concentration. It's like a puzzle he can't figure out. Alec supposes pop culture has been lying to people about witches more than he ever thought, if this guy's completely clueless expression is any indication. His house has pastel colors.

"I mean, look, logical or not, you could change the front a bit to look more like people expect, right? Make it a darker color or something, put the plants on the back? If people want unapproachable, give them what they want, you know."

Magnus sighs, and he says, in a small voice, "but I want people to visit."

This is exactly the kind of conversation that would make Alec freeze up, not knowing what to respond, usually. But instead, he finds that he actually knows what to do and grabs Magnus' hand almost on instinct. Magnus looks at him with wide eyes, shock and sadness and the kind of guarded hope that means fear, and Alec just looks back at him, gathering words.

But it still seems to be the right thing to do, because Magnus says, "Raphael just moved out. I had never lived outside of the village before, but because he's not a witch, I thought it best to come to a neutral place. But everything is so different, and now that he's gone… The house feels empty." Then he quickly takes his hand from Alec's, and a smile is back in place, bright as ever, but it makes Alec feel a lot less warm. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be putting this on you. I promise I'm not usually such a woe-y old man, you just… Caught me by surprise."

"No, no, I like it," Alec says, because it's true. "And well… I can visit, if you want." Magnus looks at him with doubt in his eyes, so Alec quickly amends, "I've always wanted to know what a witch's work is like."

That's not really true. Alec hasn't always wanted to know what a witch's work is like, more like he's wanted to know what a witch's work is like ever since he's met Magnus. But potato, potatoh.

And if he didn't want to know before, well. He definitely does once Magnus' smile blooms with brightness, his fingers almost twitching as he goes to show him the plants he grows and what they do.