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waspenned · 3 years ago

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scenes from an italian restaurant • part eight • peter parker

apparently the guy you’ve been working with for the past few months is spider-man, because your life is excellent. someone pays you a visit. • 5k

warnings: some language? not much other than that

now playing: this night by billy joel

part one / previous

a/n: SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG IVE BEEN BUSY LOL anyway here’s my taglist and masterlist u kno the drill

There you were, haloed in orange lamplight, the cast of it picking out the flyaways in your mussed hair and the gloss of your lashes. If it had been lit properly, he’d be able to see the flush on your cheeks and chest, the spark in your eyes, despite the fact he was crawling along the popcorn ceiling, dusty under his fingertips, trying his best to be silent. You’d be mad he’d gone against you, he knew that, he just hoped you’d understand why he did it, after the fact.

You hated him. You said it yourself. Granted, you didn’t know that he and Spider-Man were anything more than vague acquaintances, but the distinction between the two was getting smaller and smaller. Spider-Man was eating into his life, Joe’s was supposed to be a low-risk escape from that. A few times, when he was feeling brave, he’d risked not even bringing the suit to work - enjoying the feeling of normal clothes against his skin, being able to roll his sleeves up without exposing anything too telling. It was like being able to breathe again, the knots in his chest loosened to near nothingness. He was just Peter again; he hadn’t been ‘just Peter’ since he was in high school.

He was lucky that this wasn’t one of those days, because as soon as that gun was pointed at you, he was seventeen again; the rain running tracks down his spine and soaking its cold fingers through his hoodie. Warmth spreading over his lap and hands, slippy as he pulls Ben into his lap, then cranes over him to try and shield him from the relentless New York downpour. His jeans had been stained red, stiff and cold in the hospital waiting room. He’d thrown them out when he got home.

It was this sort of thing he was supposed to prevent, and you were the sort of person he was supposed to protect, his responsibility. It was ironic, really, the two of you pulling the same card, but he would have to respect it. You had the ability to protect those in your care, so you had to. It was the same thing he hated in himself.

So he’d bitten the bullet and intervened, he had to suck it up, no matter how much your wrath would cost him. He didn’t want you to know about Spider-Man, and he didn’t want to ruin things between you (already very precarious Things, after Christmas), but he’d decided a while ago that he’d do nearly anything if it meant you lived. It was agony on a good day; being shit on online everyday, having a whole city rely on you for safety, having to walk around like normal with his ribs shattered to pieces - but it hurt him the most to lie to you, to look you in the eye and not be able to defend himself, or apologise for not being there when you needed him most. And yet, you’d seen him - even when he had a mask on, even through a television screen, even when you didn’t know it was him - and you still cared about him.

He’d already held someone he loved after they were shot. He’d already sat there, desperately trying to hold them together with his shaking hands, leaving handprints over their skin and clothes, holding onto their last bit of life. He’d already gone home covered in the blood of someone that would no longer be there to catch him when he fell. He wasn’t going to do it again, he was pretty sure he couldn’t - Ben’s death had taken so much out of him, and he wasn’t really sure there was much of him left.

The look on your face when he tells you is enough to make him wish he’d never been bitten by that fucking spider in the first place.

You wish, just once, you could live your life not being wracked by guilt.

You’d left, obviously. After doing the bare minimum, legal requirement for your job, you’d simply gathered your stuff and bolted. Peter would deal with it, considering he’s apparently used to this sort of shit. Goddamn it. Fucking Peter. Fucking Spider-Man. By the time you got out, it was one in the morning - but you’re still storming home through the streets, your phone buzzing in your pocket. It’ll be him, it’s been him every time. You’re ignoring him. He can fuck off.

You don’t really care what he has to say, frankly. Everything after That Bit was just white noise as you got your shit and left. You’d only barely remembered to throw him the keys to the diner. Peter had been trying to talk to you, you remember that much, babbling and trailing after you as he frantically tried to deal with the situation at hand, but there was only roaring in your ears.

Spider-Man had been trying to talk to you, and you’d ignored him.

It wasn’t quite sticking in your head. You almost didn’t believe him, because there was no way in Hell you would ever consider the two of them interchangeable. Peter blindly accepted his fate as ‘Peber’ until you got his name tag fixed up, how were you ever supposed to believe that this was the same guy keeping the city from rack and ruin. That would mean you nearly had sex with Spider-Man. That you’ve seen Spider-Man, not just without the mask, but without most of his clothes. That would also mean that Peter was that poor kid saving lives every day, instead of enjoying the last precious seconds of his teen years, or studying for his exams, or spending time with his friends, as he so desperately deserved.

It would mean that Peter was the one who let you down, back then. Peter didn’t get you out of the diner, didn’t stop the fire, didn’t save the day.

The whole thing made you want to vomit, and the almost incessant buzzing of your phone was certainly not helping. Messages flicker across the screen as you fish it out of your pocket, using the torch to illuminate your apartment door while you scrabble to put your key into the lock. It’s mostly Peter spamming you - though it seems to just be updates on the situation mixed with the odd, panicked message - with a few from Sal. Apparently Spider-Man dealt with the situation, got the guy arrested, and was currently working on dealing with the CCTV footage. Apparently the force of your pizza pan on his head meant the dude forgot most of the robbery entirely. Apparently your phone isn’t quite finished buzzing yet.

New Message from sal joes: What the ever shitting fuck is going on with my restaurant !!!!!!!!!!!

That one you’ll have to reply to. Goddamnit. God-fucking-damn it. Sal would probably wash your mouth out if he knew how much you were taking the Lord’s name in vain. You feel like Peter’s ratted you out to your teacher or something, and now you have more shit to deal with on top of the slew you’re already struggling with. Somehow, you manage to pull yourself together enough to reply - not enough to be polite, but enough to get him off your back for the night.

Reply to sal joes: it’s fine pete’s handling it. i had to go.

Kicking your shoes off in your hallway, you decide you need to say more than that - promise him an explanation when you’re less zombie-like at the very least. It’s not really fair, you like Sal and he hasn’t done anything to deserve a bad attitude from you - it’s not like he’s listened to you rant about a superhero for months on end only to turn around and be the bastard.

Reply to sal joes: ill tell you tomorrow it’s late. sorry. goodnight sal.

He starts typing back almost immediately. Your coat and bag are cast to the floor too, loose change and old, crumpled receipts spilling out across your hallway, followed by your diner cap. You’ll deal with it in the morning, you’re too tired to do anything else.

Glued to your phone, you somehow make it to your bed, cocooning yourself in the sheets and curling into a ball. Your heartbeat hums through the covers, seemingly shaking them with every sluggish pulse, as you watch the three dots under Sal’s name stop, start, then stop again. Eventually, something comes through.

sal joes: OK, as long as your safe. Peter is texting me about it.

sal joes: Sleep well Camino :)

Wrong ‘you’re’, but the sentiment still stood, and flooded you with a weird sense of comfort. Then, even though you were trying not to look, Peter’s name pops up at the top of your screen, your name typed underneath, alongside a plea to respond to him.

The comfort of Sal and your bed quickly stales, spurred on by the still-lingering shaking in your hands, and the emptiness of your apartment - a pitiful place you didn’t really have enough money to decorate, filled with anything you could thrift or get free from the street. Your dining table was missing a leg from where you found it in Brooklyn, but it didn’t matter much because only one person used it anyway - you just had to eat on one side of it.

It’s worse in the dark - the loneliness of it. You spend however many hours a week in some fluorescent-lit kitchen, or sat in the sunspots in the front of the diner, the darkness of your apartment seems like the emptiest place on the planet in comparison. You may as well be in the fucking Arctic circle.

You used to hate your job because it was a stupid job; the parties, the customers, the constant smelling of passata. Now you hate it because of what it’s done to you - you can’t even sit alone in the dark like a normal person, you have to be able to mumble your way through O Sole Mio, and know fifty different types of cheese, and get all attached to your stupid idiot coworker. Who even are you anymore, some capitalist dumbass? Your phone buzzes again, and you catch some more messages from Peter, a few minutes apart.

peber joes: i know u don’t wanna talk but can you please let me know you got home ok?

peber joes: are you alright?

peber joes: if you don’t answer im gonna have to come look for u

Location Request from peber joes.

peber joes: please just answer

The light of it hurts your eyes, the screen trembling in your grasp, your wrist tourniqueted in your bedsheets. You need to do something though, let him know you made it home, even though the thought of talking to him makes your skin crawl. Your phone is buzzing again, Peter barraging you with messages. You don’t have the strength to read them, just let your phone fall to your mattress. The vibrations reverberate through the old springs and stuffing, echoing through the fabric against your ear.

Outside your window, New York murmurs and chatters, small needles of the city coming through your curtains. You’ve left the window open again, but you don’t have the energy to get up and close it, even though the chill is beginning to make you shiver. In the distance, there are horns and sirens, as there always are in New York, the sound washing over you and yanking you under like a riptide.

And you, alone in your room, crumple.

It’s been a while since you’ve had a good cry, you were probably due one, but by fuck does it hurt. You’re not even sure why - though it’s probably something to do with the fact that you nearly had sex with your co-worker, then found out he was the spandex guy you’d harboured a grudge against for months, then nearly died - all in the space of an hour.

You suppose it makes sense in retrospect, as most things do. The reflexes, the abnormal strength, the lateness, the white ‘goo’ that cropped up in odd places, patching leaky pipes or holding rickety furniture together. After the cupboard incident a few months ago, you’d gone to check on the shelving the next day, and found more of it bolting the units to the walls of the pantry. You’d just assumed it was some new construction bullshit, because what the hell else could it have been. It was frustratingly obvious. He’d even told you so many times about his ridiculously stressful ‘other job’ and you hadn’t bothered asked him about it - instead, you’d looked him in the eye and said ‘What are you, Spider-Man?’, like some idiot. Your chest burns with embarrassment. Everything just seems to hurt, the strength sapped out of you and consumed by whatever sinkhole was opening between your lungs.

For the millionth time since you met him, you think ‘fuck this guy’, even though tonight you nearly did. You were tired of being tired of him, he was on your mind near constantly, but it had started to become comforting - he was, if anything, a constant. Whether that was constantly annoying you, or the determination he has towards being your friend, Peter was always just there. Why wasn’t Spider-Man?

It’s now that you notice that your phone has stopped buzzing. Something else has replaced it - some soft knocking on your window.

Your heart leaps to your chest for a split second, before you realise there’s only one person you know that could knock on a window five stories above the street; then, it sinks right back down to the pit of your stomach. When you shrink back into your nest of sheets, trying to stifle those snotty, post-cry sniffles, you can see his silhouette through your curtains, backlit by the lights of the city. It’s not him, you know it isn’t, he’s all spidery and angled, perched on the railing of your balcony. Peter hasn’t come to check on you, Spider-Man has - Spider-Man is at your window and calling your name all soft, in Peter’s voice, turning your stomach. You debate ignoring him, but then your curtains shift in the chilly New York wind, and you remember your window is wide open - ignoring him would just make him try and get in, and then he’d see the pathetic, sad lump you’d become.

“Go away.” Your voice is weak, almost laughably so. He shifts outside, a quick, sharp movement - as if pricking his ears at the sound of you. Your name comes too easily to his mouth, sending stabs through your ribs and lungs, winding you. There are a few painful moments of silence, the metal railing creaking underneath him as he shifts his weight. Eventually, he speaks.

“Please talk to me.”

“For fuck’s sake.” You’re up in an instant, scrubbing tears from your face with the heel of your hand. Everything seems to have fermented into anger, as it usually does for you, festering into some acrid, heavy thing in your throat, a tangle of barbed wire. You rip your curtains open, only to be met with a gloved hand. Spandex-ed hand, even.

It’s not Peter, it’s him, in the suit and everything, his hand outstretched and about to knock again. You must startle him, because he jolts backwards, tipping over the balcony and towards the street far below; instinctively you reach out to grab him, gripping his wrist and stopping the fall, your shoulder jolting with the sudden weight. You yelp, the fabric textured and unnatural under your hand, almost letting go of him from the shock of it.

Spider-Man stares up at you with those big white eyes, reflecting the moonlight and streetlamps, the lenses of his mask adjusting in the dim light. It kills the anger, and festers some odd fear instead. His face, or lack thereof, is distinctly alien and blank, sorely lacking the marks and dimples of Peter’s face - your heart aches with the knowledge that he’s under there, your Peter. If you squint, you can see the rise of his cheekbone, marred by the black webbing that runs over the suit, wrapping around the curves of his arms and ribcage. His free hand comes up, scrabbles around along his collar line for a seam, gets his fingers under it and pulls - exposing his neck, and then his face in a puff of brown curls.

When Peter looks up at you, his eyes are wide, lips parted as if about to say something - but neither of you say a word. You knew it was him, that it had always been him, but seeing him pull the damn mask off - seeing it in person - makes your ribs squeeze your lungs. His chest jumps with a sharp inhale, an anxious pulse thrumming beneath your fingers like a bassline. Every word you’ve ever learnt seems to dissolve on your tongue, your mouth thick with nerves, but your body acts of its own accord and pulls him upright again.

You must overestimate the weight of him, though, because he’s suddenly right there, in front of you, barely an inch or two between you. That feeling floods you again, the one you normally get when Peter’s around, and the one you apparently get when he’s this close. You can smell him, the soft scent of his deodorant, mixed with the cheap laundry detergent you can buy in bulk in the city. There’s dish soap and lemon and coffee, smudged ink from studying on his breaks, and caramels from plating desserts. It’s an odd effect; this is apparently the magic combination that quiets the buzzing in your head. That, and the softness of the flannels he wears before he changes into his uniform. And the way his hands warm your upper arms on particularly cold shifts. And the way he holds cigarettes like a pen, stubs the embers out in little twists on the paving flags. He’s so close that all of it comes rushing back to you, and the suit does nothing to prevent the heat of his skin warming you through, melting you into syrup. If you just leant forward you could -

His nose bumps yours softly, and before he can shy away from you again - before you can get all warm from the proximity of him - you retreat into your apartment. Peter follows, manoeuvring himself in through the window and pulling it closed when he notices the chill in your home. He’s stuck to the wall, and he watches you avoid the sight of it, slowly lowering himself to the floor; mask is wrung between his hands as he watches you pace and clatter around your tiny kitchen, setting a mug and a tea bag next to the kettle before clicking it on. Another mug is in your hand, and you turn to Peter, but your voice dies in your throat when you see him. His name sparks on your tongue like popping candy, but you swallow it back, your head filling with the crackling racket. There’s more silence, each of you waiting for the other to speak - until you both do.

“I got you the day off tomorrow.”

“You want a tea or something?”

You can’t help it, but the iron grip on your chest loosens with relief at not having to go to work tomorrow; you’re not quite sure you could take the interrogation from your coworkers, let alone the fucking police. When you finally force yourself to make eye contact, Peter’s face is all tense and red - not like when he gets embarrassed, but with the wind and rain against his cheeks. It’s odd to see him like this, not dressed as Spider-Man (though you’re not sure you’ve processed that yet, either) but so uncomfortable and stiff. Sure, he had his moments of awkwardness, but not to this extent. He sniffs, pushing his hair away from his face, waiting for you to answer first. The suit must not be waterproof, because his hair is damp, his curls clumping together in a shiny mass. He’ll be getting cold - unless he doesn’t get cold anymore.

“Thank you.” You mouth, afraid to say it any louder than a whisper.

“No problem.” He mouths back, then clears his throat and speaks aloud. “A tea would be nice. It’s fucking cold.”

It’s soft, his voice, barely audible under the rumble of the kettle behind you, like he’s scared of being heard, and you sorely miss the sound of it. There’s a distinct Queens tang to it, the auditory equivalent of fresh newspaper and spearmint. The way Peter’s holding himself, shy, contained, eyes peering around the room and taking it in - you realise you’ve never seen him outside of Joe’s before, let alone your apartment. You’ve not had a friend around to your apartment before, never mind a coworker. Does Peter still count as a friend?

He’s made new, you think, backlit by your lamps, parts of him soaked in their warm glow, like the dappled sun through leaves. He’s softer when he’s not under the diner fluorescents, soft threads of copper picked out in his hair, his bone structure illuminated. It’s the first time you’ve been able to get a good look at him without his uniform or some ratty hoodie - not quite naked, but close enough. He’s toned, the light casting shadows across the curve of his arms, but he’s skinnier than you’d thought; not quite a surprise, though, it wasn’t like he was in the best financial situation at the moment. All that swinging probably didn’t help.

Swinging. Fuck. Spider-Man is in your apartment.

You only notice how quiet it is when the kettle’s boiling comes to an abrupt stop, and it jolts you into action. The tea is poured, steeping the bag, and you watch the rich colour blossom in the water - suspended like ink. He doesn’t come near until you beckon him closer, and you can tell he’s trying not to touch you as you hand the mug over; whether it’s because of the Spider-Man thing, or the sex thing, you’re not quite sure. He can probably tell you’re trying not to look at the suit, focussing on tugging the teabag around by the string, bumping it against the walls of the mug.

You just nearly had sex with Spider-Man. You feel gross for thinking about it so much, but it’s not something you can easily move past.

“I’m sorry for leaving earlier.” You find yourself saying, though you’re not entirely sure you are sorry, it wasn’t like you disappeared for no reason. In fact, it seemed like one of the better reactions - if anything, you were proud you didn’t pass out or get all weird with him. Peter doesn’t even attempt a sip of the tea, just sets the cup down and stands around. If it was any other time, you’d offer him a seat.

“Don’t be. I understand.” He says, his voice raw. There’s a moment as he watches you force the scalding liquid down your throat, barely tasting the tea, refusing to give anything away to him about how awful you feel. You’re fine, look how normal you are, drinking tea and being fine. You gulp, and he clears his throat from whatever’s caught in it. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” You know what, but you want him to tell you. You want to hear it out loud, have him present the whole thing to you, spill it over your floor. You want an evidence board, with pictures and receipts and red thread strung between. Instead, Peter shrugs.

“A lot of stuff. The whole not telling you thing.”

You scoff. “That’s part of the job description, dude. I don’t blame you.”

It’s the right thing to say, so you say it. You don’t mean it, but there’s not really an alternative. It’s unreasonable to expect him to tell you everything about his life, especially after you spent so long ranting about it, but the selfish part of you hoped he would at least spare you the embarrassment. Peter huffs out some dry chuckle, though there’s no humour in it, and your ears burn at the sound of it.

“You blame me for the other thing, though.”

“What?” You know what he’s talking about, you just hope he isn’t. Your eyes are glued to your sink, as you rinse already-clean plates and mugs under the tap, just to give your hands something to do - just so you don’t have to look at him. Peter swallows some tense breath, then bridges the gap between you, resting a comforting hand on your arm. You jump at the touch of him, squirming away and pressing yourself against your cabinets. He takes a few steps back out of the kitchen, hands raised, and your breath rattles in your chest as he builds the courage to speak again. Eventually, it just tumbles out of him.

“The fire. I’m also sorry about the fire.”

Something hurts inside your head, but you swallow it like a crumpled ball of sandpaper, pushing away the fuzzy feeling that was already building in your ears and fingertips. Even the mention of the fire is enough to set your heart racing - you already think you smell smoke.

“The fire was a stupid thing, Peter.” It wasn’t. It lives in your skull like some smoking, lurking thing, sapping away at you. Your rinsing has turned to scrubbing at this point, trying to get the ash and soot out from under your nails, but you’re not quite sure it’s there.

“Yeah, but you were in trouble. If you had been-” Peter cuts himself off, and the millions of paths that sentence could have taken are immediately closed off. He takes a breath, and your heart is still racing under the softness of it. “If I’d known, I would have come, I promise.”

You know it wasn’t his fault, and you know there’s nothing he realistically could have done to stop it, but your heart still twists, still hardens against him.

“But you didn’t.” It comes out before you can stop it, completely forced out between gritted teeth. Peter can tell, he’s creeping closer, pricking your flesh into goosebumps. “It’s done now.”

“I saw it on the news the day after, I felt awful. I took one day off, and next thing I know, Joe’s is-” You interrupt him before he can say anything else, your throat burning, spitting out your words like you were coughing up soot after the fire. They’d sent you home, the NYFD, then interviewed you a few weeks later for the investigation before the new Joe’s opened. Your fingers itch, and when you look down you think you see your fingertips stained yellow with tobacco. When you blink, there’s nothing there. You scrub at them harder.

“It’s not your fault.”

“You kind of seem to be upset with me, though.”

“It’s not like you started it.”

“Well, no, but-”

The buzzing in your ears sends a jolt through your brain, and you slam the tap off - the force of it juddering through your pipes. In the sink, your hands are burning, and you yank them out of the steaming water, suddenly aware of the sensation. There’s something hot and rasped caught in your throat, and you want to cough it up, spit it out, but you’re terrified it’ll come out black.

“Listen, Pete, I’m upset with Spider-Man. Not you.”

He blinks, eyebrows drawn together in that stupid, concerned way they have been for the past couple of hours. You can only last a few painful moments, looking at him, before you can’t stomach it anymore. Peter speaks slowly, shamefully, somewhat regretfully.

“We’re the same person.”

“Really? Really, Peter? Because Spider-Man seems to have a smart ass comment ready twenty-four-seven, and you once told a customer we were out of ‘ordange’ juice.”

Now, that seems to get at him, strikes a nerve somewhere beneath the spandex and knocks the wind out of him with a sucker punch. Already, your tongue stings with something acrid and rotten, your heart sinking into the pit of your gut. It’s like kicking a puppy, the way he looks at you, like you just took every precious thing you’d shared over the past couple of months, and ripped them to shreds in front of him. He breathes, chest heaving, blinks. It is, unfortunately, painfully, human.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Me neither.”

In your apartment, a clock ticks. The pipes rumble. Outside, a distant siren pierces the Manhattan smog. Peter’s hands twitch at the mask twisted between them, pulling the fabric into a thick, tense rope. He sniffs, pushes the wet thatch of hair back from his face, and finally speaks - quietly, delicately.

“I’m glad you’re okay.”

It softens you. Melts you. You want to apologise - not out loud, no, just cup the wishbone of his jaw in your hands and feel the scratch of his stubble against your palms. Hold him. Run your fingernails over his scalp, make his nerves sing and the tension in his shoulders ease. Maybe then, he’d let you kiss him again. You’re awful to him.

“Me too.” You eventually manage. Then, in case it wasn’t obvious, “About you.”

Peter nods. He knows what you mean - and that you’re not saying what you want to say. He knows, because he’s not saying it either.

“I, uh, care about you, y’know?”

“I know. I care about you too.”

Maybe one day you’ll be honest with each other. You keep saying you will, but it never ends up that way. It’s easier to lie - he probably knows that better than anyone. The lenses on his mask look up at you, reflect the lights of your kitchen. You look away from Spider-Man’s eyes, and focus on Peter’s. His nose twitches, an awkwardness strung between his shoulder blades.

“Do you want to talk about what happened tonight?” He murmurs - then, when you pull a face; “Not the burglary part, the part… before. Though we should talk about the burglary too. And-”

There’s a measure of speechless gesturing; a flap of a hand connecting the two of you, binding you into a single, nameless unit. Not quite a relationship, but more than anything else.

“This.”

There’s something at the root of you that wants to invite him to stay, plant him in your bed, and glue yourself in his hair, so he’ll never leave. Something else wants to never see him again. Your soul screams, reaches for him, strains its muscles, and you breathe in the absence of him.

“I think I just want to go to bed, Pete.”

“Okay.” He’s offering some pitiful half-smile, letting you break his heart and sweep the cracked porcelain of it under your kitchen cabinets. In the dim light of your apartment, the rings under his eyes look darker than ever. “It’s been a long day.”

“It has.”

The mask comes back on, though he hesitates before he can slip it over his mouth, then moves closer into the safe bubble of your kitchen. Before you can react, he presses his lips to your forehead, the mask bunched up on the bridge of his nose, and climbs out of your window. He closes it behind him again, because of course he does. You miss him already.

The tea you made for him is untouched, still steaming on your counter.

87 notes · View notes

thewritetofreespeech · 4 years ago

Note

hello!! i've made a request before but this idea came in my brain and i heard your requests were open. So ive seen a lot of fics of the brothers saving mc, but what about mc kinda of saving the brothers, i mean like badass sword fighting style. Just like a stereotypical disney prince saves a princess mc kinda saves the brothers from getting killed by a lesser demon with a sword and just being badass (and sword) and the bros find it hot (weak humans? never heard of them)

*spongebob narrator voice* 400 years lat’er..... So sorry this took so long! I genuinely don’t know why I couldn’t get it done. When I actually tried, I got it done in like 2 days. My only excuse is that I’m a horrible trash munny >.<

Obey me Boys + Power Princess MC

Lucifer

It offends him that this creature, this being not fit to lick the soles of his boots, would raise their hand to him. The attack was not even what upset him, but just the gall. The utter stupidity of this decision to throw one’s life away. The fact that they had attacked with you around only made him wish to end that pathetic life that much sooner.

“Step back [Y/N]. I’ll deal with this quic—” Lucifer cut himself off when you rushed forward. A bright shining sword in your hand as you lunged. Slashing through the demon, who wailed and instantly turned to dust & ash. “What on Earth was that?”

“Oh. It’s my sword.” You reply nonchalantly. Turning around to show it to him. “It’s a holy arc sword, or something. I can summon it from my bracelet whenever I need it. Cool to know it actually works in a pinch.”

“And where did you get such a magical artifact?” Lucifer asked. Perplexed beyond reason, but trying not to show it.

“Lord Diavolo gave it to me when I first got here.” The demon arched a brow. Lord Diavolo? “It would be really irresponsible of him to just let a human wander around hell without some kind of weapon.”

He paused for a moment. Trying to piece all of what you had just said together. Then he just chuckled. “Yes, I suppose it would be.” And here he thought that he had been the only one protecting you. When all along you could do it yourself.

His hand reached out to pat your head fondly. His breast swelling with pride. “I’ll have to thank him for giving you such a thoughtful, practical gift. We’ll also have to add sword play to your lesson plans. I’d be more than happy to be your tutor.

Mammon

‘Shit!’ Mammon mentally cursed as he was hit again.

This wasn’t the first time he’d been rough up outside a club. Given his lifestyle, and his gambling track record, he’d been pummeled by a few bouncers in his life. With his immense power, he could easily take them; if he tried. But then he would be banned from the club, and ever other, and that was something he couldn’t handle over the humiliation of being beat up by these clowns. He needed this. It was all he had.

So, he took his beatings from lesser demons when they came around. He’d only wished they’d picked a different night to get their ‘payment’ back since you were supposed to be here soon.

“Come on guys. Don’t ya think you’ve had enough?”

“We’ll tell you when we’ve had enough!” One demon sneered at him, before kicking a man while he was down. Classy. “You owe us. And we’re gonna get back every cent you owe out of your hide!”

The demon reared his foot back to kick him again, and Mammon mentally sighed. Preparing himself for the kick and really being over this since it began. But….no kick came.

The demon let out a loud grunt over the sound of a metal ‘wack’ before the two, even lesser goons beside him suffer the same fate and they all slump to the ground. “Mammon! Are you ok?!”

The silver haired demon looked up at you in shock. The light from the street lamp causing a halo to form around you, highlighting your worried face as you brandished a rusty pipe like some great sword. “Yeah…I’m fine….”

“You don’t look fine! You’re all beat up!” He just sat there as you dropped the pipe and dropped down to him. Fretting over him as you looked him over. He couldn’t hear what you were saying over the beating sound of his heart in his ears.

No one had ever tried to help him before.

Mammon lifted his arms and wrapped them around you. “Mammon? What—“Let’s get out of here.” He interrupted as he hugged you. Standing up, and helping you to your feet, after a moment to walk out of the alley. “I don’t want to be here anymore. I wanna go somewhere with you.”

“But….I thought you wanted to go out tonight. Play cards. You said you were feeling lucky?”

He couldn’t tell if that was a jab or not, but replied, “well clearly I was wrong.” Though despite his bumps and bruises, he did still feel pretty lucky right not. “I just want to get out of here. I don’t need this anymore.” You both decide to head home to help Mammon nurse his wounds. He never went back to that club, or really any club, after that night.

Levi

“Levi….I don’t think this is such a good idea.”

“Nonsense!” Levi quipped in response to your perfectly reasonable, concerned feelings. “It’s just a little further. Besides, I want to see Henry 1! I’ve missed him a ton recently, and want to make sure he remembers me.” It had broken his heart to discover his poor, lost serpent had been down here, all alone, this whole time. So he made an effort to see him every now and then.

“Yeah but…isn’t this still like super-secret for Lord Diavolo’s family and stuff? What if there’s like booby traps and stuff?”

“Come on! There weren’t any booby traps or anything before. Why would he when he has Henry to keep it…..” Levi trailed off as both of you were ingulfed by a long, dark shadow. A low hissing sound growing louder as a gold, stripped serpent towered over you with a menacing glare. “That’s not Henry.”

The snake hissed loudly with bared fangs and an open mouth, and you both scream and run to get away from it.

The serpent of course chased you. Easily able to keep up, and only loosing you when the two of you duck into a narrow corridor. Levi turned around to say something to you, but you were gone. His immediate thought was that the stranger snake had gotten you, and it was all his fault, and he would never see you again!

When he came to the end of the corridor, walking out like a man on death row instead of running, he looked up to see the snake in front of him. Clearly angered by having to chase him. Levi didn’t care. He wanted to die if anything happened to you. He’d rather die than live one moment without you.

Prepared to accept his fate, the demon didn’t move when the snake unhinged his jaw to eat him in one gulp. Only for a sharp spike to thrust out from his mouth a moment later. A strange, hissing gasp escaping it before it slumped down in a lifeless heap on the floor. “[Y/N]!”

“Jesus! Not to put too fine a pin on it, but this place is literally a maze. One minute I’m next to you, and the next I’m in some armory on the other side of the hall 50 feet away. Are you alright Levi?”

The demon scrambled up the snake corpse to stand next to you and wrapped his arms tight around your being. “[Y/N]! I was so scared! I thought this Henry imposter got you, and you were dead, and I couldn’t think of anything!”

“I’m really ok Levi.” You assure him, as he wept into your shoulder. “Do you still want to see the real Henry? I think I spotted where he actually is when I was running back with the spear?” Levi nodded into your shoulder. Still not prepared to let you go.

Satan

Satan always tried to be a reasonable man.

He hated being referred to as ‘The Demon of Wrath’. It wasn’t his wrath that had caused him to be born. And he wasn’t any angrier than his brothers, so why did he have to be labeled the ‘bad seed’? So he always tried to be level headed. Calm. Patient. But there were somethings he just could not abide. Like the boorish behavior of someone talking loudly in the library.

“Excuse me,” the blonde said, attempting to remain calm, as he came over to the rude demon two tables over, “could you please keep it down? This is a library.”

“Yeah. I know what it is.” He quipped back rather snippily. “What are you? The librarian?”

“No. Just a fellow book lover.” Satan replied. Grinding his teeth now. “And one who can follow the rules and basic social decorum of keeping my conversations to myself in a place like this.”

“Are you calling me stupid?!”

“No. I’m calling you uncouth. A word meaning undignified, and without manners.”

“Why you!”

The demon rose to his feet, towering over Satan now that he was standing. Not that it mattered. Height was not an immediate representation of strength. Look at Belphie. His younger, shorter brother could level a whole city with a flick of his wrist. Satan could easily dispatch of his imbecile without even breaking a sweat.

He never got the chance though, as just after he stood the demon let out a grunt and slumped to the floor; with you standing behind him on his depleted chair with a book in your hand like you had just pulled it from The Stone. “Bet you’re glad I think Kindles are dumb now.”

Satan had to right himself on what he was seeing, and then frowned at you. “I never said that, and get down.” He insisted. Offering you his hand to get down. You hop down with ease and set your weapon book on the table. “Honestly, I could have handled him without resorting to violence or cheap theatrics.”

“Cheap?? This book was very expensive.” You insist, and Satan had to scoff.

“Be that as it may, please do not use books for more than their intended purpose. I appreciate the assist, but I can’t have you hurting yourself or fine literature in the future.”

“You’re such a buzz kill sometimes Satan…..”

Asmo

Asmo always loved going to the club. The dancing. The energy. The pulsing music. The people.

Well…usually the people. Some people, usually bro-dude demons, just couldn’t take a hint that ‘no’ meant ‘no’.

“Come on Asmo! Why are you being so stingy?!”

“I’m not being ‘stingy’,” Asmo replied with a frown marring his beautiful face. “I’m just not interested.”

“You were interested last time.” His pursuer replied. Like that somehow gave automatic permission that things would happen again.

“That was a long time ago.” The dusk haired blonde replied. Sipping his cocktail and looking thoughtful across the spacious VIP lounge over to you.

Yes, things had certainly changed. Once where it would take a whole room of people and attention to make him content, these days all he wanted was you. Just you sparing a moment to look at him made his heart feel incredibly full. He had come here to have a fun night out with you, but it seemed no matter where he went his beauty was always causing problems.

The lesser demon frowned, then looked towards the direction Asmo was looking to land on you. “Shoot, just bring them along with us.”

“Excuse me?” Asmo asked. Beautiful expression turning Ignatius as he sat down his drink.

“Bring them along. I’ve never had sex with a human. But there must be something to it if you’re willing to do them. Not that I suppose that takes much….”

At that, Asmo leapt from his chair and grabbing the brute by the collar. He wasn’t normally one for violence. He wasn’t like his dull brothers. But he couldn’t let a slight like that against you slide. “Take it back!”

The two demon’s scuffle. Clearing out the VIP lounge as everyone ran. Scared that they might transform at any moment and literally tear each other apart. Asmo somehow ended up on his back, a position that usually didn’t bother him, as the other reared back to punch him in the face.

Or, at least he would have if he didn’t start convulsing and fall on the ground a moment later.

“Asmo! Are you ok?!”

The Lust Demon looked at you for a moment. Then delicately covered his mouth with both hands. Returning to normal. “[Y/N]! You saved me!!”

“Yeah. This little thing packs a punch.” You replied. Holding out your little pink taser from She-Sword from your clutch. “I couldn’t let this jerk hurt your beautiful face.”

“No one is more beautiful than you my fierce warrior queen!” He praised. Basking in the moment for only a second before you both scamper off before security came.

You both might be beautiful, but you didn’t want to end up on the evening news.

Beel

“I want to take up kendo.” Beel announced to you one day. Out of the blue. “I’ve been looking for ways to add variety to my workout. I came across this video on kendo and thought it would be fun.”

Of course, Beel knew you had practiced kendo in the past at school. So he might have also been looking for fitness activities for you to do together. In any case, he really liked seeing you in your little workout outfit. It was super cute.

He also liked you showing him the basics of kendo; stance, footing, basic strike movement. When he felt he had gotten the hang of it, Beel jovially asked for a sparring match with you.

“I don’t know….”

“Come on [Y/N], sparring with someone is the best way to learn fighting.” He reasoned. “Besides, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“I’m not worried about that….” He heard you mutter under your breath, but thought that he must have imagined it as you squared off.

Standing across from you in the arena, something changed. The hair on the back of Beel’s neck stood up. Not in the excited way that it normally did when he saw you. But something more….primal. His grip tightened a little more as he realized he might have to get a little serious with you.

It was all for nothing though as the match was over just as soon as it started.

The shinai went flying out of his hands, landing across the room just as Beel landed on his butt. His backside throbbing as his bell was rung clear as day. He rubbed his head as he looked up at you. “I may have forgotten to mention that I was three-time national kendo champ all through school.”

The demon looked up at you with a shiny, sparkly gaze only until now reserved for delicious food. “Teach me sensei!”

Belphie

He hated being out. He wanted to go home.

Being outside in the sun, with all these…..people was hell to him. Belphie would rather be home, in actual hell, with his blanket and pillow and quiet, rather than ‘top side’ with you for the whole afternoon. Not that it was you or anything. You were the only bright star on this miserable day. He’d be damned if he’d let one of his brothers spend the day with you when he could.

“Belphie, do you want an ice cream? Maybe that will help with the heat?”

He wanted to say that the only thing that would help him was getting the hell out of here. But, he bit his tongue. The demon knew how important this was to you to come ‘home’ now & then and he didn’t want to ruin it for you. So he just nodded and asked, “strawberry please.”

He sat in the shade as he watched you go over to the ice cream truck alone. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe he was just a hopeless shut in. Like Levi, only worse. He just wanted humans so much that being around them was making him crankier than normal today.

“Geez, get a look at that side show over there.”

Belphie looked up from his daze at the human who was a few yards away from him. Snickering and staring with his friends in a voice that a regular human wouldn’t be able to hear. “If you have something to say, then say it, you chicken shit fuck.” Again, he was very cranky.

The human was obviously taken aback at being heard and then called out like that. “What did you say to me?!” He yelled, once he got his bearings on the situation, and took a ‘threatening’ step forward to see if he would repeat it.

“I said ‘If you have something to say, then say it, you chicken shit fuck’.” Of course he repeated it. “Don’t mutter something under your breath like a coward. Say it like a man, or keep your gross mouth shut.” This was why he hated humans. No spine.

Well, metaphorical spine. If he kept this up, Belphie was gonna prove that he had a spine when he ripped it out and made him wear it as a neck tie.

“You little fuck--!” Belphie, of course, didn’t move when he stomped closer. Not that he needed to, because he was stopped in his tracks rather abruptly when you stepped between then. Holding a knife from your pocket.

“I suggest you get out of here, before the only ‘side show’ around here is your knife swallowing act pal.” The man seemed to frozen for a moment as he tried to process if you were serious. Then his flight instincts kicked in and he took off running with his friends across the park. “Gosh, I think I’ve been spending to much time with you guys. I never would have done anything like this before.” You said after a sigh, then turned back to Belphie.

“My hero.” He cheered softly, in his typical tired voice but still with a soft smile. Seeming extremely proud of the bad influence he was on you.

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hopelesshunny · 4 years ago

Text

the love languages part iii: words of affirmation (f.w.)

pairing: fred weasley x fem!reader

summary: y/n thinks fred is losing interest in her after he catches another girls eye so he makes sure she knows just how much he loves her.

warnings: kissing, mentions of cheating, misunderstandings, mentions of a breakup, insecurities, mentions of marriage, mentions of pregnancy, very brief joke about a physical fight, ANGST but with a happy ending!!

word count: 1.7k

a/n: this is late and i'm very, very sorry but i started writing it and kinda hated it so i had to take a step back and come back to it! i kinda struggled with this one bc words of affirmation is the farthest thing from my personal love language but i hope i did it justice.

*all photos are from pinterest*

series masterlist // part i // part ii // part iv

The warm sunlight washed over Y/N’s skin as she stepped into the courtyard, a smile etched on her face at the thought of seeing her boyfriend, after spending the entire day in class away from him she couldn’t wait to revel in the feeling of his arms wrapped around her. She scanned the sea of students before her eyes finally found him, her smile slightly dropped when she saw two Hufflepuff girls standing in front of Fred as he leaned against a bench on the ground. The two girls were older than Y/N, they giggled as they spoke to him, one of them twirling her hair around her finger. She could feel jealousy pooling deep in the pit of her stomach coupled with an overwhelming sense of guilt as Fred looked very uninterested with the conversation the two girls were attempting to initiate, constantly looking around in search of her.

“There she is!” Fred spoke when Y/N made her way to him, the smile on his face was so genuine that she almost forgot about all the anger that previously possessed her.

“Hi, Freddie.” She greeted, giving into his outstretched arms to let him pull her into his lap. He placed a sweet kiss to her temple. “Hi.” She spoke softly, turning her attention to the two girls, irritation lacing their features.

“Maybe we’ll see you around Fred.” One of them piped up before leaving, whispering to one another as they retreated.

“Your friends seem nice.” Y/N scoffed, biting the inside of her cheek as Fred’s arms tightened around her, sensing her discomfort.

“Not my friends.” He chuckled, littering the side of her face with kisses which earned a giggle from her. “Just some girls in my Herbology class, they won’t leave me alone.” He added.

“Can’t entirely blame them.” She joked, attempting to make light of the situation. “I don’t leave you alone either.”

“Mhmm.” He started, turning her head to face him so that he could place a kiss to her lips. “But your company is more than welcomed, princess.”

She giggled at his soft demeanor, taking his hand in hers whilst she leaned back against his chest as she listened to him babble on excitingly about some of the new products he and George were working on for the shop. She felt content here in his arms but her mind kept wandering to the girls that were obviously attempting to flirt with her boyfriend.

Y/N knew Fred loved her, knew that no matter how many girls flocked to him he would always politely excuse himself from the situation in order to find her, knew that he wouldn’t even think about cheating on her but was he losing interest in her? What if he was looking at all these other girls and thinking they were prettier than her, smarter than her, better than her? She pushed the thoughts away, not wanting to think about losing Fred to someone else, she could hardly stomach it. But truly, it plagued her, Fred had come into her life and made it completely different, he forced her to live in colour after so long of feeling like she was one of those sad black and white Hollywood starlets. He made her feel special, made the rain seem like a gift instead of an inconvenience, made the sun feel warmer and the moon feel like he hung it in the sky just for her.

Fred noticed that Y/N had something on her mind and spent the next few days constantly asking if she was okay but he knew that she was far too stubborn to tell him what was bothering her. Because of this Fred tried a little harder to make sure she knew how much she meant to him, Y/N knew what he was doing but she wasn’t ready to confess to him that she was jealous of all the attention he was getting from the girls at school, worried that her insecurities would push him away. But that was never something that crossed Fred’s mind, he had assumed that other people flirting with him would upset her which is why he always rejected the advances, always made sure she knew that there was no one else walking this earth more perfect for him, he truly wanted nothing more than to slip a ring on her finger and spend the rest of his days with her. Hell if he had a ring right now he’d propose to her no questions asked.

“Alicia, do you know who that girl is?” Y/N asked as she sat in the library, textbooks littering the table in front of the two girls as they poured over their homework. Alicia spun around in her seat to get a look at the girl in question.

“The Hufflepuff girl?” She asked to which Y/N nodded. “I think her name is Jessica, why?”

“It’s nothing.” She lied in reply, gritting her teeth. “Just asking.”

“No you’re not.” She spoke casually, seeing directly through Y/N’s facade. “You don’t seem like yourself lately, what’s wrong?”

“She was talking to Fred a couple days ago.” Y/N sighed. “I just can’t shake it, I’ve caught her staring at him at dinner a few times and she was so adamant about talking to him that day.” Her voice shook as she spoke, Alicia looked to her with a soft smile.

“Y/N.” She started. “Fred loves you so bloody much, so much so that it's kind of gross sometimes. He’d never even think about pursuing another girl, he looks at you like you have a halo hanging above your head.”

“Thanks.” She sniffed, giggling at her friend. “You’re a good friend, Alicia.”

“And if all else fails, you could probably take her in a fight.” Alicia added, earning a loud, genuine laugh from Y/N earning stares and shushing from those in the library.

She felt lighter after her conversation with Alicia and was excited to see Fred at dinner, she wanted nothing more than to wrap her arms around his neck and kiss his entire face. Her warm and fuzzy thoughts of Fred were interrupted when she saw Jessica running her fingers up his arm, a devilish smile playing on her lips. Y/N could hardly process the sight in front of her, it was making her sick to her stomach so much that she couldn’t bear to look at Fred’s face not wanting to see his reaction to the pretty girl in front of him trailing her hand up his arm. She didn’t even realize that her feet were carrying her body away from the sight in front of her until she could hear him calling after her.

Tears spilled from her eyes, tracking down her face as she ignored Fred’s desperate calls to her, practically running through the common room and up to her room. She slammed the door, sliding down it as she pulled her knees up to her chest, sobs now freely leaving her mouth.

“Y/N, angel-” Fred started, outside her door, he was audibly out of breath from chasing her through the castle. “Open the door please.”

She sat there for a minute, contemplating never opening the door, never speaking to him again, just simply forgetting that she never ever heard Fred Weasley’s name. But she knew she couldn’t, knew she could never forget about him and she also knew she shouldn’t just shut him out, he would never purposely hurt her. With a sigh she lifted herself from the ground and opened the door to find her very disheveled boyfriend, his hair messy from running his hands through it, his face flushed. As soon as she saw him her legs collapsed beneath her, choked sobs making their appearance once again.

“Hey, hey, none of that.” He whispered, taking her into his arms on the floor. “She just came up to me love, I told her she had to leave me alone, that there was never going to be anything between us because I was in love with you.” He rubbed circles into her back as she sobbed into his chest, placing barely there kisses into her hair.

“Are you-” She started, another brutal sob racking her body. “Are you losing interest in me? I-I don’t want you to feel like you have to stay with me if you don’t want to be.” Freds heart was aching listening to her, he cursed himself for the way she was feeling. He should have told her he loved her more, he should have woken her up every morning by telling her she was the only girl he ever thought of, that he ever wanted.

“I love you Y/N.” He began. “H-How-”

“You can love someone and get bored with them.” She spoke quietly. Fred sighed, placing his hands on her shoulders, he pulled her back to look at her.

“I will never get tired of you, you will never bore me and there is not a chance in hell that I will lose interest in you.” Her eyes found his for the first time since she first opened the door. “I think about you all day, everyday, from the second I wake up with you in my arms until I get to fall asleep next to you, all I think about is you. You’re everything to me.” He let a deep sigh leave his chest as he took her face in his hands. “I’m going to marry you Y/N, in the backyard, back home with everyone there and then we’re gonna have a bunch of little red-headed babies, send them off to Hogwarts and argue over what house they’ll be sorted in.” He said, pulling a giggle from her which he reciprocated with a relieved smile.

“You want to marry me?” She asked as he wiped a stray tear from her eye with the pad of his thumb.

“I have since the day you agreed to date a bloody git like me.” He joked, pulling her into his chest. “It’s only you Y/N, it’s always been you, it’ll always be you, you’re it for me.” She buried her face into his jumper, forgetting about Jessica, forgetting about her doubts, just breathing in his scent, just feeling his lips on her hairline, just her and her Freddie.

taglist (join here!!)

@onlyfreds @fandomhideout @lilypad-55449 @youngblood199456 @thanxxskz @emma67 @gaycatlord-stuff @alicetweven @a-castle-of-glass @youcantbesirius @omghufflepuff @izzyyy-1

if your url is crossed out i could not tag you!!

#fred #fred weasley #fred weasly x reader #fred wealsey fic #fred wealsey one shot #fred wealsey series #fred weasley x y/n #fred weasley x you #fred weasley fluff #fred weasley angst #hp fic #hp

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scones-and-texting-and-murder · 4 years ago

Text

Bookends

(This story was originally written for and published in the DeanCas Anthology back in 2018. )

Word Count: 2223 Rating: General ao3 link

Cas pulls as close to the door as he can, checking the rearview mirror to make sure he isn’t blocking traffic as he waits for Dean to get out of the car. Before heading inside, Dean ducks his head back in to smile at him. “I’ll get us some coffee.”

Instead of driving away, Cas stays there, watching until Dean pulls open the diner door. Leaning heavily on his cane, he shuffles more than walks, his bow-legged gait made stiff by the arthritis that wracks his joints. Cas waits until he’s safely inside, then pulls past the open handicapped space Dean stubbornly refuses to use, and finds an empty parking spot.

Cas’s car is boxy and utilitarian, and Dean often proclaims that he wouldn’t be caught dead behind the wheel of something so ugly. Cas plays along because giving up driving had been Dean’s toughest concession to age, but as his vision deteriorated and his reflexes slowed, it had become an unavoidable sacrifice. With replacement parts for the Impala harder and harder to come by, Dean had finally agreed to keep her stored safely away in their garage. Cas knew it pained him to see her shrouded under a tarp, her motor idle and useless, but Dean would rather enshrine her in pristine condition than risk one more run-in with a light pole or curb.

With his ugly car parked, Cas crosses the lot to join Dean inside. While he’s aged as well, aged to the point that nobody questions the two of them together, he’s been spared many of the maladies that Dean’s combat-wrecked body has endured, and he moves with relative ease. The best they can figure is that the grace he’d had on and off over the years left his body with a certain resilience to the passage of time. Cas can’t cure Dean as he once could, can’t ease the aches or slow the aging process, but he can use his own comparatively good health and mobility to take care of him.

Inside, Cas navigates past the hostess stand to find Dean at their usual booth, chatting with their usual waitress. The two of them go to this diner religiously each Sunday morning, where the pews are scuffed burgundy vinyl booths and the altar is the breakfast buffet with the generous senior discount. As always, Dean has maneuvered himself across the bench seat to make room for Cas to sit beside him. His cane rests against the wall in easy reach, the simple carved wooden handle belying the fact that the base unscrews to reveal a bayonet-like tip. It’s never been wielded as a weapon (although Dean uses it, still sheathed, to poke at aggressive pigeons who muscle in around their favorite park bench), but that potential made it “badass” enough to overcome Dean’s resistance to using it.

To Sam’s everlasting chagrin, Dean has kept all of his hair, and it’s turned a stunning silver. The crinkles around his eyes have deepened, meeting the roadmap of lines that cross his face. His shoulders are stooped, his joints are stiff, and Cas thinks he’s never been more beautiful. After so many seemingly certain ends, so many years assuming Dean would die young and bloodied, the fact that he’s living out a full, lengthy life is an unparallelled blessing. Cas marvels at the gift of days that have unfolded into decades, granting them time he never dreamed they’d have together here on earth.

As Cas settles into the booth, he smiles and greets their waitress.

“Two for the buffet?” she confirms as she pours their coffee. Cas doesn’t even have to check to know that she’ll leave Dean’s at a little more than half-full so he can lift it without the tremor in his hands sloshing it over the brim.

They drink their coffee quietly, simply enjoying the ritual of being here. Dean peers at the laminated card that lists the specials, even though he never orders off the menu.

“Shall I?” When Dean nods, Cas gets to his feet. “Any requests?”

“You know what I like,” Dean says, leaning over to swat at Cas’s butt.

Picking up two plates from the warmer, Cas slides them along the metal counter, filling them in tandem as he traverses the buffet. Pancakes are too difficult for Dean to get on a fork, but the crisp waffles are good. Bacon he can pick up and eat, and Cas uses the tongs to place precisely two strips on his plate. If Dean wants more, he can get up and get it himself.

Dean can argue with Cas’s choices, but they’d had a hell of a scare a few years back. Cas will never forget the look on Dean’s face when their phone rang in the middle of the night, alerting them that Sam had been taken to the hospital in an ambulance. They’d rushed there themselves, Cas driving in silence, knowing that nothing short of seeing Sam with his own two eyes could reassure Dean. Thankfully, it had been a mild heart attack and, after spending a few days in the hospital, the discharge plan called for cardiac rehab and an appointment with a nutritionist. With Sam’s release imminent, Dean had relaxed enough to crow at the irony. “Don’t either of you try to tell me what to eat ever again. Mr. Organic Produce is the one lying in the hospital bed while my pork-rind-fueled ticker is going strong.”

Still pale, Sam’s brow furrowed with resignation. “I’m beginning to think you can’t die.”

Dean jabbed a finger in his direction. “You don’t get to go first. We have a deal.”

“Yes, sir.” Sam lifted the hand without the IV in a mock salute.

“That’s more like it,” Dean said. “Speaking of which, I need a snack.”

Cas helped him up and they walked to the elevator that would take them to the cafeteria. As they waited for it to arrive, Dean pulled Cas into a hug. Cas left a hand on his shoulder when they stepped apart again. “All right?”

Dean nodded, his green eyes shining with tears. “I’m glad you’re here.” Cas started to respond, to remind him that there was nowhere else he would be, but Dean cut him off. “I know you know. But I wanted to say it anyhow.”

Cas noticed a change after that. Dean was still the same stubborn mule Cas had fallen in love with, but he gradually became more willing to let Cas help. And somehow, Cas loved him even more for it. He loved seeing the slow-blossoming acceptance that came when Dean stopped seeing Cas’s help as a sign of weakness.

Now, standing in front of the steaming trays of food, Cas considers what else to add to their plates. He bypasses the cauldron of oatmeal (they eat that at home most mornings) and continues along the buffet. There’s a tremendous satisfaction in being allowed to care for this man who has done so much for so many and asked for so little in return. In fact, Dean has now embraced this new role so fully—no longer questioning what he deserves, or grudgingly accepting help, but full-on enjoyment of being doted on—that Cas has to be careful he doesn’t get lazy. There’s nothing Cas would rather do than settle Dean in front of a sunny window, snug in the recliner for Cas to wait on like a pampered cat, but he knows that sort of inactivity would do Dean’s joints and his heart no favors. So he watches Dean’s diet and insists on them taking slow walks after breakfast when his energy is highest.

Their neighborhood is a mix of young and old and everyone knows the two Mr. Winchesters who circle the block on days when the weather permits. The kids on bikes and scooters know to give them a wide berth, their parents warning them that the old men need the entire sidewalk, but they call out their hellos as they go by. They’re friendly with everyone except the woman who lives on the corner. Dean is convinced she’s a demon, but Cas suspects his distrust of her stems more from the fact that she seems immune to his charm. (Whatever the reason, he’s had to talk Dean out of chalking a devil’s trap inside her mailbox more than once.) They chat with their neighbors about the weather and the score of last night’s ballgame, and it’s so painfully normal that Cas sometimes feels his throat tighten up at the wonder of it all.

When Cas returns to their booth, Dean examines his plate. “They outta bacon?”

Cas cuts the waffle into manageable pieces and peels the wrapper from the muffin before sliding Dean’s plate over. “You know the deal.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says. “You just like to look at my ass when I get up.”

They eat in congenial silence with Dean methodically working his way around his plate, eating everything heartily, even the fruit. Sitting next to him, Cas can easily scoop up any bites that miss his mouth, plucking them from Dean’s lap or his shirt.

“You two good?” The waitress asks when she comes to refill their coffees. “Need anything?”

Dean swallows the bite of muffin he’s working on, and rests his hand on top of Cas’s. “I’ve got everything I need right here. An actual angel, this one.”

She nods agreeably. “I can almost see his halo.”

Cas has learned that an old man can say just about anything and receive an indulgent smile in return. When Dean references angels or demons or the apocalypse, people assume he’s speaking in metaphor and they’ll nod pleasantly. Sometimes he’ll do it purely for effect, telling rambling tales from their past for the sheer enjoyment of being able to speak openly. He can’t always keep the details straight, but Cas is there to remind him. Some days, though, he seems to lose where he is in time, and there’s nothing Cas can do for that. Cas has taken to keeping a watchful eye on him in the late afternoons when he likes to doze on the couch with their one-eyed black cat curled up on his chest. Cas stays close in case he wakes from his nap agitated, calling for Cas, wanting to know where Sam is. Cas helps him to sit up as the cat springs down and scurries away.

“Don’t go,” he says again and again, and Cas takes him in his arms, assuring Dean that he’s here and reminding him that Sam is safe at his own home. He holds him until Dean shakily dismisses it all as just a bad dream.

The unfairness of it overwhelms Cas, and each time he’s left filled with wrath. These final years should be spent in well-earned peace, but instead Dean seems cursed with reliving his most frightening memories, traumatized anew by old, familiar fears. If Dean’s mind is destined to slip, why can’t it be toward blissful forgetting? What Dean has endured goes beyond what any human should; to ask him to bear it again is nothing short of cruel. But it’s a torture chamber created in his own mind, and all Cas can do is sit helplessly by, doing his best to ground Dean and bring him back to the present.

Cas looks at Dean’s empty plate. “Did you want to get some more?”

“Nah.” He’s full and happy and it’s time for their walk.

The waitress arrives to clear their plates. As he does every week, Dean asks if she needs to see his ID for the senior discount. As she does every week, she pretends to consider it before leaving the check. “You boys take your time.”

“Tip her well,” Dean says, leaning in to supervise Cas as he signs the bill.

“I always do,” Cas assures him.

When they’re ready to leave, Cas stands next to the banquette, waiting for Dean to retrieve his cane and slide himself to the edge. Using a combination of the cane and Cas’s extended arm, Dean hoists himself upright, groaning a little. Cas keeps a firm hold on him until he’s steady on his feet. Dean still dresses in layers, but these days it’s because he gets chilled easily. He favors heavy knit cardigans and as long as Cas gets the zipper started for him he can tug it up or down as needed. Cas checks him for crumbs then together they walk through the other tables crowded with families. They continue by the hostess station where a woman is wiping down menus. “See you next week,” she calls as they pass.

Cas steps forward to push open the door, and stands holding it. “Watch your step,” he says as he always does, pointing toward the raised metal threshold of the doorway.

Using his cane to steady himself, Dean shuffles his way over it, then stops to lay his hand on Cas’s cheek. His knuckles are gnarled, the skin of his palm is dry and warm, and Cas feels the same flare of awe go through him as he has since the moment he first found this glorious soul in the depths of hell.

“I am the luckiest man who has ever lived,” Dean says.

Cas kisses his palm, then takes his arm to help him on his way.

#deancas #destiel #my writing #growing old together #this came well before the finale #but it feels like a fix it fic nonetheless

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ladyeliot · 4 years ago

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It will always be you

Prequel: Stay with me

Pairing: Tony Stark x Avenger Female Reader

Summary: The snap has happened, the return of Wakanda has not been as you all expected, but now you have to face reality, and you just can't stop thinking about him, about Tony.

Warnings: Angst, Fluff.

Word count: 4101

A/N: Post Infinity War. Some of the dialogue is taken from the film. Sorry for my spelling and grammatical mistakes, English is not my native language, I am learning.

Reader Powers: Psionic. You use psionic force to track any sentient being. You also create psychic shields to protect yourself. You can project psychic force bolts which have no physical effects but which can affect a victim's mind, causing them pain.

Life is a continuous struggle of choices that you have to make without stopping to think for a second. It is said that hope is the last thing to be lost, probably because the choice you made almost left you without it. You must also learn that happiness is the last thing to be found, probably because the choice you have made has made you unhappier than you will ever be. Your life has been full of choices, you might have regretted many of them, but you decided at the time to make them, so you never allowed yourself to regret your actions, until that day.

Three weeks after Thanos snapped, hope was completely lost. The new facility has been uncharacteristically silent, no one has been able to say more than two words in a row, and you had barely managed to say one since your return from Wakanda. Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, James Rhodes, Bruce Banner and you, those were the surviving Avengers, the ones that life had given you a second chance, but it didn't really feel like one.

You were in your old room, old because two years ago one of your decisions had taken you away from that place, yes, you were against the Sokovia Accords, that had led you to take the side of the Captain and to fight against the side of Iron Man, who had been the person who had saved you from the madness that your powers had generated in your mind. But even if you had turned against him, you knew you owed him everything. Evidently this was something he didn't understand, which led to a wide rift that had never been bridged on either side, and which led to a breakdown in your relationship of closeness.

Every corner of that room had been kept exactly as you had left it that night when you fled with Wanda. Your drawings together with the charcoals scattered on the desk, the book 'In Search of Lost Time' by Marcel Proust on the bedside table and that bracelet that Tony had given you for your 26th birthday that you had left next to the open jewellery box on the bed. It was really painful to see all of this, knowing that those facilities would probably never be what they once were, that Wanda would not suddenly appear at your door, that you would never sit around the dinner table and that Tony would not occupy the armchair next to your bed to try to cheer you up after a mission that hadn't gone so well. You didn't know whether frustration was taking over the fear and sadness or whether you just didn't know how to control your feelings on that occasion.

The days were long, each of you working in silence trying to make sense of what had happened, looking for a solution that would never come to the problem. You shared the hours, but the solitude that enveloped you was too austere to realise that there was a person by your side. You didn't know Thanos' location, however, even if you did, especially if you did, it had become clear that you could not stand alone against his entire army.

"Would you like some?" asked Natasha offering you a plate with a veggie sandwich on it, which you took with an almost soundless 'thank you'.

Yes, actually that had been your first word in five days, since you said goodnight to Bruce last Sunday, food and sleep were not high on your priorities, especially when you spent the night using your telepathic detection trying to find some sign of life that would make you believe Tony was alive, but it was useless. Your psionic senses allowed you to track any sentient being, you were able to scan large areas, but your ability did not address the entire universe.

That night your spirits seemed to be running low to the ground, three weeks without having achieved anything that would allow you to have any lucidity in your plans was too long as the situation stood. You could hear in the background a soft murmur coming from a conversation between Natasha and Steve, but you weren't really paying attention to it, it was all in your thoughts. But at that instant, an inner burst made them evaporate. A signal came into your brain, a psionic emanation that alerted you to the presence of a spaceship entering the stratosphere, with a fixed direction, yours. You rose from your chair, standing upright, capturing the attention of the people around you. You closed your eyes, heightening all your senses, taking in all the information that was coming to you, at that moment you felt it. You opened your eyes and looked at them.

"He's here," were the only words you could utter before you rushed outside. Your companions soon followed your path, asking questions to explain what was happening, but your inner euphoria prevented you from saying a single word.

That ship appeared above you as you raced across the garden, night was falling relentlessly and you could only glimpse a halo of light that seemed to direct the ship as it landed delicately on the wide grassy esplanade. The five of you paused, taking in the scene, discovering how a side door opened to project a flight of stairs. When you saw his face for the first time your lungs deflated, letting out all the air they had accumulated over a long period of time. Your body went rigid and you didn't react until Steve ran past you and approached the ship to help him down.

He looked terrible, it was evident in every facial feature and in his body movements, you knew what you had been through, but you had no idea what Tony had been through since his disappearance in New York, although you could get a pretty good idea. Before your eyes were Steve and Tony in custody, reunited again, after all that had happened, none of it mattered, at least not to you, and perhaps you had a vain hope that it didn't matter to anyone else either. Even so you didn't know how to act when your eyes connected with his, for a slight moment you wanted to approach him, offer him a hug and tell him that you were relieved to discover that he was there, with you, after all, but you chose to stay where you were, next to Natasha.

It wasn't until you headed inside that the stiffness disappeared from your body. A whispered 'are you okay' from Steve made you react again and pay attention to Natasha's words that were projecting all the information gathered during those days.

"The governments are destroyed," she reported as she projected images showing the missing, like Wilson, Maximoff and Parker, among others, "the working parts are trying to do a census, and it looks like he did it. He did what he said he would do. Thanos wiped out 50% of all living things."

Silence echoed around you, you were sitting in an armchair, somewhat away from the other members, playing with your fingers, trying not to look up, until he spoke.

"Where is he now?" asked Tony. "Where?"

"We don't know," Steve informed him from beside you, sitting at a table. "He opened a portal and went through it. We looked for Thanos for three weeks, with deep space scanners," Steve looked at you, "and satellites, and we found nothing." He looked at Tony. "Tony, you fought him."

"What are you talking about?" asked Tony from his wheelchair. "I didn't fight him. No, he wiped my face with a planet while the wizard gave away the store. That's what happened, there's no fight..."

You took a breath and sighed, because you could contemplate what was about to happen right now, the nerves were there along with the negativity and failure of some of the superheroes on that planet and others, and you knew it could explode at any moment.

"Tony, I'm going to need you to focus..." Steve repeated again hoping that Tony would offer him some clue as to the whereabouts of Thanos.

"I needed you," interrupted Tony in a raised tone. "as in past tense. That trumps what you need. It's too late, buddy. Sorry." He used a second of his silence to look at Steve and another second to look at you, who stood beside him. You took in most of the feelings hidden in his gaze, and none of them were positive or forgiving. "You know what I need? I need a shave," he tried to get out of the wheelchair, taking everything on the table in his stride. "I don't believe I ever remember telling you this..." he ripped out the IV that connected the drip to his left arm. "To the living and the dead, What we needed was a suit of armor around the world! Remember that? Whether it impacted our precious freedoms or not," he looked back at you and Steve repeatedly. "That's what we needed!”

The discussion continued, avoiding an upset Tony explaining everything he thought about the current and past situation, ignoring the suggestions Rhodes was giving him to calm down and take his seat again.

"[...] Bunch of tired old wheels!" he pointed at Steve. "I got nothin' for you, Cap! I've got no coordinates, no clues, no strategies, no options! Zero, zip, nada. No trust - liar."

Almost ipso facto he turned to you ripped off the reactor prostrate on his chest and handed it to Steve in his hand, leaving those present virtually speechless, if you still had any left.

"Here, take this. You'll find him, if you put that on. You hide-"

After those words you gazed again into his eyes full of resentment at the past, before his body could take it no more and he collapsed in the middle of the room.

In the hours that followed, you were the shadow of a ghost gazing at him from a distance from the door frame of one of the recovery rooms in the new complex. On the one hand fearing his reaction against you when he woke up, while on the other hand wanting to hear it because you knew that sooner or later it would come but you wanted it to come as soon as possible so that you could face it. Those words she had said to Steve were harsh, but they were really nothing to what you expected might happen. It seemed absurd at the time to have entertained the idea that it might have been forgotten.

"Bruce gave him a sedative," Rhodes said, looking up at you, who were leaning against the doorframe. "He'll be unconscious for the rest of the day. Do you want to sit down?"

"No...I'd better..." but Rhodes didn't allow you to finish your words, as he had risen from the armchair next to Tony and offered it to you. "Thank you."

The door to the room ajar to offer you some more privacy. As you turned your gaze towards him you realised the fragility his body conveyed in those moments, he had spent weeks wandering through space not knowing if he was going to get the chance to return home again and yet he had been able to stay alive and find himself there. You closed your eyes and settled back on the couch, you remembered the first time you did that with Tony, he had spent too much time without sleep after the events after the Chitauri invasion, he could barely sleep because of the nightmares and he begged you to stop them every night, so with your eyes closed you concentrated and invaded his mind with caution releasing the tension you found in it and giving him the peace he needed. When you opened your eyes again, her expression seemed to have changed, she seemed to have found some relief inside her, that fact made you smile. But a knock on the door woke you up.

"We need to talk," Steve's words sounded serious.

A new piece of information about Thanos' whereabouts came as a surprise, but for you the surprise came right after.

"Wait, is this some kind of punishment or something?" you said completely dumbfounded, just outside the room where Tony was, with what Steve was proposing. "Why me?"

"Because we need someone to stay with Tony," he said calmly crossing his arms.

"Is it because I'm the smallest of the whole team? Because I could really knock you all out right now with the blink of an eye," you said crossing your arms too.

"It's because Tony needs you," Steve lowered his tone, "and you need him."

There was nothing but truth in those words. You didn't know if Tony really needed you, but what you had assumed was that you'd needed him for a long time, and you'd put a lot of things before that need, creating your close relationship to go to shit, basically.

"I wouldn't forgive myself if something happened to you on this mission," Steve said frankly. "And he wouldn't forgive me either if I said that happened."

You lowered your face as you nodded, accepting his words and the job you had been given.

"Be very careful," you said before Steve disappeared from in front of you to take a path that you had no idea what could be in store for them.

From that moment on, the hours went by really slowly, you took your position in that armchair again, you needed to have a clear mind, you couldn't continue martyring yourself with all the events that had happened, so you started reading 'In Search of Lost Time', that book that had been forgotten on the bedside table since you left that place. News was nil, you barely got a sign of what might be happening and you knew it would probably be days before you got it.

Night was falling on the compound again, Tony was barely making any sign of waking up, which also gave you time to consider how the situation would play out, and various possibilities for coping with it. Some of his belongings had been salvaged from the ship, and his helmet, or rather what was left of it, stared at you from the dresser in the room. Without having a reason in mind you approached him, causing a blue light to suddenly flash across his eyes, showing you his figure in the middle of the room.

"Is it on?" a figure of a seated, completely haggard Tony appeared before your eyes. "Hey, Ms. Y/L/N, Y/N," your brow furrowed, but you approached his reflection. "If you find this footage don't put it on social media, it'll be really tearful," his words brought a sad smile to your face. "I don't know if you'll watch these videos. I don't even know if you're still... Oh god, I hope so..." there was a silence from his words, but you could see him bring his hands to his face, something inside you cracked. "I guess it's easier to do this if you know the chances of seeing you again are practically nil," something inside you made your heart shrink. "I probably should have realised this a lot sooner," he fell silent, "yeah, but I was busy trying not to hate you too much, you know, when you decided to abandon me and choose the other side," exhaustion almost prevented him from keeping his eyes open. "Anyway, anyway that made me realise how important you had been to me," he let his gaze wander, "I tried to be there for you ever since I met you and... god, this is getting too depressing," he ran his hand over his face. "I just want you to know that I wish you were here, because you're the only person I'd like to share my last hours with," he nodded slightly, you knew what he was trying to say with those words, which made your eyes water. "Don't feel bad about this, I mean, if you stay prostrate for a couple of weeks... and then move on with immense guilt..." he hid his face in the palm of his hand and closed his eyes, you wiped away a tear that ran down your cheek keeping the bitter smile you had been wearing all along. "I want you to know... when I've fallen asleep, it will be like the nights we spent together. I'm fine. All right," he gestured towards you. "I'll dream of you. Because it will always be you."

Suddenly, as if nothing had happened, his image disappeared in front of your eyes, leaving you with hundreds of feelings invading your body and mind. You looked up and there he was, still there, sleeping pleasantly, barely knowing what had just happened. You hurriedly wiped away the last tear running down your cheek and sat back down, putting your feet up on the couch, unable to take your eyes off him. Perhaps those thoughts were drawn from his most desperate moments, believing that his life was about to come to an end, perhaps he was unwilling to show them to you now that he had resumed the course of his life, so even though it was not possible you tried to send them to a hidden place in your mind.

You had hardly slept in those three weeks, your mind hadn't rested for days and you didn't know why, but finding yourself curled up in that armchair next to Tony was giving you back the tranquillity your body hadn't known for too long. It was impossible to stop your eyelids from closing, on the contrary you were willing them to do so and for sleep to warmly invade your body, no matter how long you could stay asleep. That's how it happened, making the hours pass without you even noticing.

Like a little gust of wind, something in your body made the light enter through your eyelashes. Slowly you opened your eyes, feeling in various parts of your body a tightness due to the position in which you had fallen asleep in that armchair. You discovered that a woollen blanket covered your limbs, but what kept you alert was the bed next to you was completely empty. Tony wasn't there. You jumped up, looking around, the bedroom door was ajar and Iron Man's helmet was missing.

"Tony?" you asked, raising your voice, stepping out into the hallway. "Tony! Where are you?"

You barely heard an answer, so you were thankful those powers were within you, you stopped in the middle of the corridor and closed your eyes, your receptors picked up a signal coming from downstairs, it was him. You found him leaning on the kitchen counter, his eyes closed as he tried to stand. You ran to him, grabbing his arm to hold him up.

"What do you think you're doing?" you said, leading him to the nearest armchair in the living room.

You discovered that he had shaved, taken a shower and was wearing one of his Tom Ford suits that were so recognisable to you. That meant he had been wandering around the house unsupervised for over an hour without waking you up. You knelt down next to him.

"Why didn't you wake me up?" you asked with a worried look on your face as you contemplated that he was extremely tired. "Bruce gave a set of instructions for you to follow, you can't just walk around..."

"It was your turn?" he cut you off with an angry tone. "Be my babysitter? How did you do it? Did you draw lots?" his countenance was serious, you could still see the puffiness in his eyes and his face fully dehydrated. "Whoever draws the shortest stick gets to look after poor Stark, all right, listen..."

"No! You listen to me," you cut him off, raising your tone above his, standing up and resting your hands on each armrest "Tony, we all lost. We all fought and lost, none of us made it," your face was three feet above his. "So now all we can do is try, in some completely illogical way, to move the situation forward. And if we can't, at least look to the future by doing our best to honour those we have lost."

Silence flooded over you.

"So please don't make the situation more complicated," you continued, lowering your tone, almost begging him. "If I've stayed with you it's because Steve has made me understand some things, because yes, it wasn't really my intention to stay with you from the start, but then I realised that if anyone had to stay with you it was me. I realised that if I had to risk my life again I didn't want to go on the mission, because that would mean never seeing you again.And I've also realised that I've needed you for a long time, that I'm finally by your side and I have no intention of separating from you. Whether you like it or not." Tony cut his gaze with yours by ducking it, but brought his right hand over yours.

That gesture provoked you to bring your other hand to his face, placing a gentle caress on his cheek.

"I know there are a lot of things we need to talk about, but one thing we do have is time," you explained as Tony intertwined his fingers with yours. "So please, don't do anything more stupid and don't disappear," maybe it was the atmosphere generated by the situation, but you risked saying the next words. "Because it will always be you."

Tony closed his eyes a little regretfully, a little embarrassedly, and brought his free hand to his face.

"I knew you saw that," he added calmly removing his hand from his face. "Well, at least I've saved myself from having to repeat it in person."

"I'm not sure I got it right," you said falsely. "You know, there was a lot of interference, and besides, I couldn't really understand what you were saying, so..."

"Sorry, there was only one pass for the film," he said wryly which caused you to smile widely as you rediscovered that the old Tony was still hidden in it. "We won't know when there will be a revival."

"Too bad, I really liked that movie," you sat down on the armrest without letting go of his hand and looking up at him.

"Really?" he asked for the first time modestly, and putting aside all the irony that surrounded the situation.

"Totally," you nodded, trying to express all the many feelings through your eyes.

Silence again kept you company, until Tony somewhat uncomfortably broke it.

"I suppose you know that by now I would have kissed you and created a fully effective plan to make love to you for hours until you begged me to stop in pleasure," he stated lamely, "although I think if you give me a couple of hours..."

"All right, Don Juan," you cut him off with a chuckle, "we'd better leave all that for later, and I'll take you back to bed now."

"I think it's a good start if you take me to bed," he continued with his insinuations.

You got up from the armrest and helped him put his arm around your shoulders, even though he repeatedly told you he could walk unaided.

"Have we heard from the team?" he asked, slowly climbing the steps of the ladder.

"Soon," you said with a halo of hope.

You definitely made it back to the room, having made it successfully through the journey. You helped him get rid of the shoes and shirt that his pride had forced him to wear, but which now made no sense when he was going back to bed.

"See, you're finally going to get what you wanted, I'm undressing you," you said jokingly causing a smile to appear on Tony's face as he lay back down. "You rest, I'll be here. I'll always be here."

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leam1983 · 2 years ago

Text

On Evolving Tastes

1989: "I know of no other games than Super Mario Bros. 1 through 3, Tetris, Doctor Mario and Mickey's Mousecapade. This will last for a few years, until my aunt will introduce me to bootleg 300-in-one cartridges. Ironically, I'll only ever touch Yie Ar Kung Fu, Macross, Mappy, Dig Dug and City Connection."

1990: "Dad's discovered that a store near his office sells Tengen cartridges for a fraction of officially-licenced titles! He gets me Gauntlet on the super cheap, thinking I'll play it once and forget about it, but Gauntlet becomes the one game I play the most often."

1996: "Man, Earthworm Jim and Myst are going to dominate this summer vacation! I might even work in some time for a few Mortal Kombat tourneys!"

1999: "I got over my giant snob self and gave Quake and Half-Life a shot. Something's shifted, for sure. I'm not sure, but I might actually like a few shooters..."

2001: "I am a grown-ass man and I cannot stop playing The Sims. Please send help, I'm nurturing an unhealthy God complex."

2002: "I'm really mad at myself for not finding out about Vampire - The Masquerade: Redemption until two years after its release."

2004: "Vampire - The Masquerade: Bloodlines has consumed me."

2005: "Study? Yeah, sure, I do - but Unreal Tournament 2004 is where it's at - whenever Black & White 2 doesn't consume for weeks on end."

2006: "My Dad introduced me to SimCity 3000 several years too late, which is introducing me to the wacky world of PC retrogaming. I now use his beige croaker of a clerical machine to work on Isometric metropolises while snapping my fingers to some real-ass Jazz bops."

2007: "I resisted for two years, but finally caved in to Guitar Hero. It's also the best excuse I had to get a Slim PS2."

2008: "I used my paycheck from my first Real, Adult Man Job at the campus to get myself an XBOX 360 and Fable II! I'll spend years playing it while ignoring the game's obvious flaws!"

2009: "I kinda hate myself for it, but I splurged on a PS3 after a friend showed me Super Stardust HD."

2010: "Fuck you, getting myself a Wii for the express purpose of playing the Metroid Prime Trilogy. Also, ow, this exact fucking thing will also send me off to my first serious GP appointment as an adult, for a Carpal Tunnel Syndrome diagnosis. I'll spend two years wearing a wrist brace and playing through all three games in short bursts. The tendon responsible for retracting my right thumb is on permanent fire and every gameplay session puts me through a physical gauntlet, but every new gameplay component the series introduces makes me feel like a kid again."

2011: "Skyrim. Just - Skyrim. I'll perpetrate my first and only acts of professional truancy to devote entire weeks to my quest log. It helps that this winter was particularly Siberian, so I had plenty of excuses to stay home and slay dragons."

2014: "I power through Destiny on the PS3 and spend about four months being extremely hooked onto the game's universe and lore. I'll design character after character even after finishing the main quest four times, because I finally discovered what Halo stans have been enjoying for years - which is an approachable and still complex Fantasy/Sci-Fi shooter that hasn't yet lost its narrative compass...

Luckily, I also find out about Middle-Earth: Shadow of Mordor and realize I have a thing for Uruk-Hai labelled as "The Friendly". I'll spend a year at the pace of an hour or two per day trying to populate my two camps with nothing but Friendlies."

2015: "As is usually the case, I come into this a few years too late and discover the joy that is Saints Row: The Third. GTA never grabbed me, while Volition's total lack of self-seriousness delights me. I buy Saints Row IV immediately after finishing my first run-through, and find that Volition's writing team is the only thing that keeps me going. If it weren't for JB Blanc's mouth-watering portrayal of Emperor Zinyak, I'd be playing a fun, if average third-person shooter."

2016: "Bigger job titles means more disposable income, which means my first custom-built tower PC after years of prebuilts - and a PS4! Destiny 2 and GTA 5 are big ones on there, but the first one disappoints me with how it gatekeeps the lore behind high-skill activities that are unfriendly for players with navigational or reflex-related issues (i.e. moi) and the second turns absolutely turgid at any moment that doesn't feature Trevor Philips.

Seriously, who do I have to call at Rockstar to let them know I don't give a rat's ass about Michael DeSanta's midlife hoodlum crisis?!"

2017: "Middle-Earth: Shadow of War, baby! Copy and paste my fixation from 2014, except now Friendlies are voiced by JB Blanc. Thank fuck for apartments, 'cause I wouldn't have wanted my folks to see me aggressively blush any time a Friendly crossed swords with me, claiming to want to be my pal."

2020: "Welp, guess it's nothing except slaying demons and building an island commune on my brand-new Nintendo Switch... Oh, and wouldn't you know it, Cyberpunk 2077 just came out, and in such a state that I won't seriously touch it until September 2022..."

2021: "What's happening to me? Why am I so psyched about Power Washer Simulator? Why did I spend nearly as much time in Mechanic Simulator 2021 as I did in Skyrim? Why do I persist in being hyped for House Flipper despite reports of horribly unoptimized code?"

2022: "I might as well embrace it: I have no hair on top and grow a mo' in an afternoon, I can only maintain a very mild case of fitness and there's fifteen to twenty pounds I just can't get rid of no matter how hard I try. I am a Dad, now. I have the Dad Bod - the real one, not the one perpetuated by misaligned kiddies who'd call British Pop Music starlets Daddy - and I am now oddly hyped for Construction Simulator. I've finished Cyberpunk four times, played through Elden Ring twice, and I'm at the point where I'd honestly be excited by a game that finds some way to simplify the act of grading papers.

I dream of a twist on Papers, Please where one plays as a lecturer and where the goal of the game is to grade papers while avoiding interpersonal or professional scandals, as well as meeting faculty quotas..."

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