#would this be the first time somethings written based on one of my drawings

[gornackeaterofworlds]

have a peek at my wip list 😏😏😏

WHAAAAAT LUCKY WHAT OH MY GOD. FOR ME?? FOR MY ART?? DIES

[occudo]

An incomplete list of TMA fics I adore

-beacuse of this ask

(If you liked the fics I previously recommended/made fanart for, I think you'll gonna like these as well, but you know, read the tags, know what you are going into)

Yesterday is Here by CirrusGrey @cirrus-grey

Time Travel Fix-it! Slow burn! So good! So much sass from future!Jon- I doubt I have to introduce anyone this amazing author, but if you somehow missed them till now, this is your time! I highly recommend all of their other fics as well, for example one of a more recent one, The Stranger I Know Best is also a lovely read.

enthralling by Prim_the_Amazing @primtheamazing

Vampire!Martin!! I have no words of how much I love this concept, this story, everything about this. I think I'm going to repeat myself through this list, but I also recommend everything else they've written!

to fill... my heart with music? by godshaper @godshaper so their Martin and Jon design are different from mine, also they made a way better art for this- but still, I wanted to include this really good fic in this list.

Do It All Anew by inkfingers_mcgee or @crit20art

You know the feeling when you read a book that makes you cry, and after that you recommend it to your friend? Well- there is no reason I mentioned this, I'm just so normal about this fic. Or any other fic from inkfingers_mcgee... like Strange Manner of what I made another fanart way back. Also, check out their art!

Anyway, here is Aamal- she is not going to cause emotional damage.

And they were sidekicks (oh my god, they were sidekicks) by arthureameslove @arthureameslove

A lighthearted series where Jon and Martin are sidekicks of supervillains- it's just a really fun fic, also recommend everyting from this author - I previously draw fanart here for an other fic of theirs Like a Lighthouse, Call Me Home

neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor well by saintbleeding @saintbleeding

To quote the aurthour: "Post-divorce Jon and Martin in a wedding-based romcom" It's such a comfort read, also has a Tim/Sasha wedding, and lots of cameos! I realised most of these authors I made fanarts for before- like this one for some kind of miraculous bind, this one is oneshot and a bit more serious in tone.

Give Me the Words by rakel @rakel-on-ao3

"Jon and Martin try to make the most of a bad situation in the Scottish Highlands. The situation is worse than they realised." You know that one post about wanting to write PWP, but it keeps turning into character study? Well, this one comes to my mind each time I see that.

i wanna find a home (i wanna share it with you) by heartshapedguy @transgenderboobs

So what would have happened if instead of the cot (tm), Jon offered Martin his own flat to stay? There is no way it's going to change their relationship, right? Such a good read, if you want some fluff, I highly recommend it!

Lucky Stars by magnetarmadda @magnetarmadda

Martin has a lovely family (except his mother) but still, he needs a fake boyfriend, and Jon comes to the rescue. It's one of the first fics I remember reading after I finished the series. It is such a comfort read of mine~

(+enjoy a rare tall Jon from me)

There are so many more fics that also deserve the spotlight, these are just the ones I read multiple times and/or didn't made fanarts for before. If you find something here you like, give them some love! Kudos and comments! They deserve it. (Also, just an extra disclamier some of these are PWP or rated T- just mind the tags)

I tried to link and tag everything, I hope it works.

[inkedinshadows]

Unraveling Truths

This is a bonus scene for my miniseries "A Helping Hand". You can read part 1 of 3 here. I know I wrote it in August, but I got a few requests for more so here we are.

Pairing: Azriel x f!reader

Summary: Azriel finally explains to his mate what the wingspan business is all about.

Warnings: smut, oral (m receiving), written in 3rd POV (matching the rest of the series)

Word count: 2.6k

A/N: I love time zones because it’s 2am here but it’s still the 16th in the US so I’m technically not late :) This fic is just another proof that I can't write drabbles lol. Anyway, hank you @azrielsshadows42 for the inspo 🫶🏻 and thank you @azrielappreciationweek it was so much fun writing for this event 💙💙

“You still haven't told me.”

She watched him from his bed, the sight still so new that Azriel's heartbeat quickened each time he saw it.

For the past week, she had spent every night with him, usually in his room. Yet walking in to find her reading a book while she waited for him was something he was still getting used to. And something he would never take for granted.

Azriel sat on the edge of the bed, leaning closer to brush a kiss to her temple as she set the book down. “Told you what, beautiful?”

The corner of his lips curled up at the small blush that colored her cheeks, even after a week of hearing that nickname. He was never going to stop using it.

He began to take off his boots, holding his breath as she knelt behind him and unfastened the latches of his shirt. Her fingers brushed the base of his wings, and he had to muster all his self-control to keep his body from reacting.

“About wingspan,” she replied casually. “You still haven't explained it.”

He froze, sitting a bit straighter. “Why do you want to know?”

She undid the last latch, and though the shirt now hung loosely around his torso, he made no move to remove it.

“Because I want to know all about you.” She moved to sit beside him, seemingly unaware of his slight change in demeanor. “And because you said you'd explain, but you still haven't.”

Azriel swallowed thickly. He'd been happy to hold her in his arms every night, knowing she'd be the first thing he saw in the morning. His hands had never wandered too freely over her body. He wanted to take things slow with her, not only to respect the trauma she had endured, but also because she wasn't just another girl. She was his mate, and he'd be damned if he ruined things by rushing them.

But he couldn't deny he had thought about how she would feel. How she would taste. How she would look while he pleasured her.

Her question about wingspan certainly didn’t help.

And if she was bringing it up again after a week, her curiosity wasn’t likely to fade anytime soon.

“Alright,” he finally said, and she rewarded him with that beautiful smile of hers—the one that never failed to make his heart skip a beat. “Rumor has it that the span of an Illyrian’s wings reflects the size of… certain body parts.”

She frowned, a small crease appearing on her brow. He resisted the urge to smooth it away with his thumb.

“What body parts?” she asked, her gaze wandering up and down his body as if she could see the answer somewhere.

He was glad she wasn’t looking at his face when he replied, “Intimate body parts, Y/N.”

Her eyes shot up to meet his, wide with surprise and shock. A faint blush colored her cheeks as she looked down again. Straight at his crotch.

Azriel had to draw on five hundred years of composure to keep himself from shifting—and, more importantly, from hardening under her gaze. She’s just surprised, he told himself. That’s why she’s looking. Nothing more.

When she met his eyes again, her voice was quiet, as though she was too shy to ask but couldn’t help herself.

“And, uh…” She paused, clearing her throat before finishing. “Are those just rumors?”

The words slipped out before he could think. “No. It’s true.”

She studied him for a moment, and he feared he’d said too much and made her uncomfortable. But before he could apologize, she spoke again.

“Does Cassian really have the largest wingspan?”

He couldn’t stop the smirk that spread across his lips. “He likes to brag about it, but no, he doesn’t.” And though he knew he probably shouldn’t, he added, “I do.”

Her eyes widened, dropping to his crotch again. This time, his body reacted before he could stop it, and he felt himself beginning to harden in his pants. Her cheeks flushed an ever deeper shade of red.

“Hey, it's alright,” he murmured, tilting her chin up so she would look at him. “I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

To his surprise, she gave him a soft smile. “You didn't. I asked. It's just…” Her voice trailed off, and she looked away for a moment before returning her focus to him.

“I just don't have much experience,” she whispered.

Azriel needed to change the topic immediately before his mind began running wild, thinking of all the things he could show her, all the sensations he could make her feel, all the possibilities. He reeled in his thoughts.

Sliding an arm around her waist, he pulled her closer. “It's alright,” he repeated, pressing another kiss to her temple. “We don't have to do anything. I don't want you to feel pressured.”

“But what if…” She hesitated, but as she bit her lip, she placed her hand on his leg, just above his knee but close enough for Azriel to be acutely aware of every small movement of her fingers. He was caught in a suspended moment, where everything hinged on her next words.

“What if I want to do something?”

His heart pounded in his chest. “You… want to?”

Despite the blush still coloring her cheeks, she held his gaze and nodded, a shy smile playing on her lips. He struggled not to kiss her right then and there and let his hands explore every inch of her body.

“Tell me what you want, beautiful,” he said instead, keeping his voice quiet and steady. “Anything you want, you can have it.”

She looked down, her gaze landing on the erection he could no longer hide. “I want to help you with that,” she murmured, her hand sliding up to his thigh and squeezing gently.

Azriel sucked in a breath. Unable to stop himself, he shifted, spreading his legs slightly to bring her hand closer to where he wanted it.

“Are you sure?” he asked. He needed her, desperately, but he didn’t want her to feel obligated.

Instead of answering, she stepped off the bed. Her eyes never left his as she moved between his parted legs, her fingers reaching for his shirt. He didn't stop her as she tugged it off, revealing his tanned chest.

“I'm sure, Az,” she whispered, her finger tracing the swirling lines of his tattoos. She'd done it many times before, but now it felt more intimate, more intentional. “Let me do this for you.”

He couldn't hold back any longer. Not when she looked at him with rosy cheeks and eyes full of desire. They both wanted this, and he wasn’t going to turn her down.

Cupping her face in his hands, Azriel pulled her in for a kiss. As their lips met, the bond between them came to life, glowing bright and golden in his chest and filling him with warmth that had nothing to do with the heat of his growing arousal.

“Go on, then,” he murmured against her lips when he finally found the will to break the kiss. “You can do whatever you like.”

She smiled, and under Azriel's attentive gaze, she knelt between his legs. From where he sat, the neckline of her nightgown left little to the imagination. He swallowed, his breath catching as she began unbuttoning his pants. He lifted his hips just enough for her to slide them down his legs, along with his underwear, leaving him bare before her. Her eyes widened slightly as the took him in.

“You weren't lying about it,” she murmured, glancing up at him. “I didn't expect you to be… this big.”

His smirk turned smug. “You certainly know how to flatter a male's ego.”

She chuckled, averting her gaze for only a moment before reaching out. Her hand wrapped around his aching cock, making him gasp audibly. At the sound, a smile of delight appeared on her face, and she began to stroke him slowly, her movements gentle and exploratory.

His eyes locked with hers, and, encouraged by the connection, she grew bolder. Her grip tightened slightly, and he instinctively bucked his hips forward. Still, he held back as much as he could, letting her set the pace she was most comfortable with. But she leaned closer, her eyes searching his for permission, a silent question lingering in them.

Azriel brushed her cheek, his thumb tracing her bottom lip. “Whatever you like,” he repeated in a whisper.

She nodded, and as his hand slipped away, she leaned in, her tongue flicking out to run along his cock before her lips closed around his tip. He sucked in a breath, resisting the urge to push himself deeper into her mouth and holding his body still. The only sign of his impatience was the faint rustle of his wings behind him.

She continued to stroke him slowly, teasing him with gentle squeezes and soft touches, her tongue swirling around his head until precum leaked out. But with each of his sighs and the small, involuntary twitches of his hips, her confidence grew. She took him a few inches deeper, hesitating briefly sliding before her lips farther down his cock, stretching her jaw to fit as much of him as she could.

“Fuck…” he groaned, the word escaping his lips as she hollowed her cheeks. Her mouth was warm, wet and impossibly tight, and it took every ounce of his self-control not to thrust into her. Instead, he tangled his fingers in her hair—not to guide her, but to ground himself, needing the connection, needing to feel her any way he could.

His little outburst seemed to wash away the last traces of her shyness. She began to bob her head, still using her hand to cover what her mouth couldn’t take, her tongue swirling around him with ease. Her eyes stayed locked on his, and Cauldron boil him, Azriel could have come right then.

His mate was on her knees before him, pleasuring him in a way he had never dared to dream of. Over the last week, he'd fantasized about it once or twice, but he’d assumed she wasn’t ready to take that step and relished the simple intimacy of a gentle, teasing touch while cuddling.

But here she was, her boldness lighting a fire inside him.

“Gods, you’re so beautiful like this,” he murmured, a moan spilling from his lips.

She blushed again but only moved faster, taking him deeper. His eyes rolled back, and his fingers tightened in her hair. When she whimpered softly, the sound sent a shock of pleasure through him, clouding his mind and driving him closer to the edge. He rocked his hips once, unable to hold back any longer.

“I’m… I’m close, sweetheart,” he panted. He didn’t care if he didn’t last long, didn't care that she’d been working him for only a few minutes. His release coiled tighter in his gut, his breaths coming faster, and he knew he couldn't hold it back. “You should stop if you don’t want me to come in your mouth.”

But the desire in her eyes only burned brighter, and she didn’t stop. Instead, she put even more effort into it, her free hand resting on his thigh while the other one squeezed gently at the base of his cock. When she hollowed her cheeks again, her warm mouth enveloping him so perfectly, Azriel’s control shattered.

With a groan, pleasure crashed over him, his release spilling down her throat. She swallowed every drop, the rhythmic contractions of her mouth around him drawing out his pleasure for a few more moments before he relaxed again, loosening his grip on her hair as he struggled to catch his breath.

After a moment, she pulled back, and Azriel immediately felt the absence of her warmth around him. Her hand slipped away as well, and for a beat, they simply looked at each other, twin smiles of satisfaction on their faces.

“You were wonderful,” he said eventually, helping her stand and guiding her to sit on his lap. “That was incredible.”

Her blush returned, deepening at his praise, an endearing sight he would never grow tired of. It made him want to keep complimenting her, especially after the pleasure she’d just given him.

He kissed her, savoring the softness of her lips and the familiar taste he’d come to cherish over the past week, now mixed with a hint of own release. His tongue slid into her mouth, entwining with hers while his hand drifted down to her thigh, brushing the hem of her nightgown. She didn’t pull away, but Azriel sensed the sudden tension seizing her body, despite her attempt to hide it.

He immediately withdrew his hand, silently cursing himself for assuming too much, especially after being so careful to let her dictate their pace.

Pulling back from the kiss, he searched her eyes. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I should have asked.”

She shook her head, but she didn't look at him. “No, it's my fault. When I said I don't have much experience, I… I actually meant I don't have any experience.”

Azriel did his best to mask his surprise, not wanting to make her feel more self-conscious. Gently, he placed his hand on her waist, drawing slow, soothing circles over the fabric of her nightgown.

“Why didn't you tell me?” he asked softly.

Her eyes remained fixed downward as she nervously fidgeted with her fingers. “Because you're five centuries old,” she whispered. “You must have so much experience with these things, and I don't, and I didn't want you to be disappointed if I—”

“Hey,” he interrupted, unwilling to let her continue down that path. Tilting her chin up with a gentle finger, he waited patiently for her to meet his eyes. When she didn't, he murmured, “Can you look at me, sweetheart?”

Slowly, her gaze slid to his. Azriel offered her a soft, reassuring smile, hoping it would ease her worries.

“I don't care if you don't have any experience,” he said, his hand still caressing her side. “I'm not disappointed. All that matters to me is you and whether you're comfortable with whatever we're doing.”

She nodded, though some tension still lingered in her body. He could tell she struggled to believe him, but he wanted to make it clear that he would respect any boundary, any hesitation. She came first, and she always would. Everything else could wait.

“We can take things as slow as you want to,” he continued. “I won't rush you. You're in control, Y/N. Always. Okay?”

At last, he felt her body relax, a relieved smile appearing on her face. “Okay,” she said quietly. “Thank you.”

“Good.” Azriel smiled back, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Will you let me get up for a moment? I'll wash up quickly, and then we can go to sleep.”

Her smile grew, a hint of playful anticipation gleaming in her eyes. “Can we cuddle?”

He chuckled. “Of course we can cuddle, beautiful.”

As she slid off his lap, he stole one last kiss before getting up and heading to the bathroom. He could feel her eyes following him, and he couldn't help but smirk.

He wanted her, but if she needed more time, he'd give it to her without question, even after what she'd just done for him. After all, her trust and comfort were more important than his need, and he knew that waiting would only make the moment she was truly ready even more special. The wait would be worth it.

Because she was worth it. She was worth everything.

General taglist: @mrsjna @navyblue-eternity @paintedbyshadows @highladyandromeda @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @azrielsmate3 @mollygetssherlockcoffee @mirandasidefics @tinystarfishgalaxy @cynthiesjmxazrielslover @anarchiii @readinggeeklmao @anneas11 @azrielslittleslut @lilah-asteria @aaahhh0127 @lorosette @azrielsrealmate @pey2618 @mellowmusings @k8r123-blog @daughterofthemoons-stuff @minnieoo @saltedcoffeescotch @georgiadixon

Azriel Week: @fourthwing4ever

[obsessedwhyyes]

Chasing Lightning

Summary: You've spent all day teasing, tempting, taunting - you've really tested Astarion's patience this time. But pushing his boundaries is your favourite past time. Now, here you are, over his knee, about to receive the punishment you longed for, all according to your devious plan. Not that you'd ever admit it, of course.

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 2003 Pairing: Astarion x Fem!Reader Content: Shameless smut, bratty reader, Dom!Astarion, spanking, light BDSM elements, rough sex, PiV.

Gif by silverformymonsters on Tumblr!

A/N: This, uh... Yeah, no, this is just shameless smut. I am so sorry. Behold, my spanking fic, written in a moment of madness.

You lay over his knee, eager, anticipating - a willing sacrifice on the altar of his desires. Each trail of his fingertips across the bare skin of your backside is a promise of what is to come.

You deserve this, you think to yourself. All your teasing, all your temptations. The way you pressed yourself against him when no one was looking, your face a pretty picture of faux innocence; the way you swayed your hips as you sauntered ahead of him, glancing back to meet his eyes, knowing they would be heavy with that predatorial hunger which ignites the flames of arousal deep in your belly. All part of your plan, which he is more than willing to oblige.

You hear Astarion’s voice, dark and dripping with honey.

“I propose a game, darling. A test of your intuition, shall we say?” You hear the wicked smile in his voice and it sends shivers of sweet anticipation coursing through your body. “I'll think of a number, one through ten, and you'll have to guess it based on how hard I spank you. Guess wrong, and I'll spank you again - the same strength - until you guess correctly. Understand?”

“Yes,” you breathe, wilfully yielding to him . There’s an intoxicating power in surrender. Your submission is a choice, freely given, and that makes it all the more potent.

In yielding, you become more. More alive, more aware, more you than you've ever been. The world narrows to the point of contact where his hand meets your skin. You are the ocean, and Astarion the moon, pulling you into new shapes with the inexorable force of the tide.

“Very good,” he purrs. His thumb rubs the gentlest of circles on your wrists as he binds them behind you with his spare hand. “Of course, if it becomes too much, just say the word. I can be merciful… on occasion.”

The game begins, a dance of unseen touches and breathless anticipations. Astarion’s hand hovers above you, its presence like the charge before a lightning strike.

“Let’s start with a simple one, shall we?”

His touch against your bare arse is a whisper at first, cool fingertips ghosting across your skin. More caress than slap. You shiver, every nerve alight with anticipation.

“One,” you murmur, more exhale than voice.

Astarion’s chuckle vibrates through you, a low rumble that you feel more than hear as you bury your face into the fabric of his shirt. “Oh, my dear. We’re barely getting started.”

The next strike lands with purpose - a sharp, precise sensation that blooms across your skin. It’s not quite pain, not quite pleasure, but something exquisitely in between that draws a gasp from your lips.

“Four?” you venture.

“Warm, but not quite.”

He strikes - the same strength once more, as promised.

“Three!” you gasp, revelation and pleasure mingling in your voice.

“Good girl,” Astarion praises and gods, how those words affect you. They sink into your skin, sweeter than honey, headier than wine. You crave his approval like air, each word of praise stoking the flames of your arousal higher.

The dance continues, each strike a new verse in this poem written on your skin.

Smack.

Five is a starburst of sensation. You feel this once, twice, three times until you finally guess correctly.

Smack.

Seven lands with the force of a thunderclap, reverberating through your body and leaving you trembling in its wake.

Smack.

Nine leaves you gasping, teetering on the knife-edge between pleasure and pain. The sting melts into a deep, throbbing warmth that pulses in time with your racing heart.

With each strike, each caress, the heat builds, a delicious tension coiling tighter in your core.

Four. Two. Six. Six again. Eight.

You find yourself arching slightly into his touch, eager for more, your body's reactions beyond your control.

Then, finally, comes ten.

It cracks across your flesh like lightning splitting the night sky, a white-hot streak of sensation that sears itself into your very soul. For a moment, the world whites out, every nerve ending alight with electric sensation. You cry out as the sensations overwhelm you, the number torn from your lips. The pain is exquisite, pushing you to the very limits of your endurance.

In the aftermath, you float in a sea of endorphins, your body humming with the echoes of Astarion's touch. Each point of contact throbs in time with your racing heart, a map of exquisite sensation etched onto your inflamed skin.

His cool hand soothes over the heated skin. The contrast sends fresh shivers through you, and you moan gently in response, despite yourself. Your skin is hypersensitive, your mind a mess of exhilaration and desire, eager for more, more, more.

Through the haze of lust, Astarion's voice chimes clear. “My, my. Such enthusiasm,” he purrs. “Tell me, darling, did you spend all day dreaming of this? Because I certainly did… in excruciating detail.”

You turn on his lap to look up into his eyes, suppressing a smile. “Who, me? I would never!”

Astarion's eyebrow arches, smirking at your obvious lie. “Is that so? So the way you rubbed yourself against me all morning like a worg in heat was just a coincidence, was it?”

You can't help but giggle at his accusation, which only seems to fuel his amusement.

“Do you have any idea how long you left me aching today?”

“I'm sorry,” you pout.

“Sorry who?”

“I’m sorry, Astarion.”

You don't mean it. And he knows it.

You could be good - a sweet, obedient little thing. But to be bad - to challenge him, to tease him, to test his patience until he finally brings you to heel - why, that's just so much more fun.

“That’s better,” he coos, his voice and his praise caressing you like silk along your skin as he gazes back at you, expression equal parts warmth and something much darker - hungrier - beneath. “Cheeky little pup."

He pauses, and the air becomes heavy with anticipation.

“But I'm not done with you yet.”

He rises and shifts you in a blur of motion, bending you over the edge of the bed, leaving your face buried in the soft sheets. Suddenly, you're exposed to him, your arousal on full display, and you feel the air against your hypersensitive flesh. Yet, in this moment, there is no place you would rather be than at his mercy. You are eager, dripping with expectation.

In the midst of your lustful haze, you hear the rustling of clothes - the familiar sound of his trousers unlaced. It sends your imagination soaring. Your core aches with what is to come.

But Astarion, the cruel man he is, doesn't enter you. Not yet.

Instead, you feel the head of his cock slide maddeningly, agonisingly slowly up the slit of you. You feel him become slick with your arousal as he slides down, and back up your slit once more, just barely skimming your clit, which throbs desperately with need. Such delicate, teasing touches - enough to drive you to madness.

“Do you want it?” He purrs.

“Mmhm,” you mumble pathetically into the fabric.

“Tell me, love.”

“I want–”

He inserts himself before you finish, colliding with you with the force of planets, stealing the breath from your lungs. The union is electric, a completion so intense that it borders on painful.

His desperation is evident, at odds with the image of restraint he was attempting to conjure as he ruts into you with wild abandon. His hands are everywhere at once, desperate and searching. Your own fingers claw at the fabric of the bedsheets, mindlessly, drunk on the sensation of him.

Astarion’s hands soon settle on your hips, pulling you to him as you collide again, again, again. You aid him, pushing yourself against his hips with each thrust, needing to be closer, always closer. You move together in a frenzy, chasing that elusive peak with single-minded determination. The world beyond ceases to exist; there is only this moment, this need, this all-consuming desire.

Breaths come in ragged gasps and are punctuated by moans and whispered pleas. “More,” you beg; “please,” you exclaim, though you're not sure how he could possibly get any closer, any deeper within you.

You feel his hand slide beneath you, and you lift your hips to greet him. Your throbbing clit welcomes his expert touch as he begins to unravel you as easily as he picks locks. He rubs circles around the bud, gently, in stark contrast to his wild rutting - indicative of the tiniest threads of self-restraint which remain within him, spared only to bring you to your peak. But gods, in the heat of the moment, you are especially sensitive, and his touch quickly brings forth rippling waves of sensation which threaten to overwhelm you. Your body twitches of its own accord and you know your climax fast approaches.

Your own voice surprises you, high and desperate. Soft whimpers escape your lips, growing in intensity and frequency as the tension builds.

Behind you, Astarion's sounds are a primal counterpoint to your own. His usual smooth tones are roughened by desire, a gravelly undertone that sends shivers down your spine. Low growls rumble from his chest - they speak of a hunger barely contained.

As you both near the edge, your voices mingle and intertwine. The sounds blur together - gasps and moans, growls and whimpers. The volume rises, unchecked and unashamed. You care not who hears you now.

It is you who first reaches the point of no return. A cry escapes your lips, raw and primal. Your body quakes, and pleasure crashes over you, a torrent of sensation that drenches every nerve ending. You're swept away in the deluge, currents of bliss pulling you under, spinning you in their depths.

His release soon follows and, although you don't see him, you feel the intensity in the air, in his increasingly erratic pounding, in his breaths. A growl rumbles from deep in his chest, vibrating through your bodies like rolling thunder. His grip on you tightens, fingers digging into your flesh as he releases into you, claiming you as part of his tempest.

He collapses against your back. His weight is solid and grounding like the calm after the storm. He pants slightly, aftershocks rippling through you both like distant thunder.

Slowly, the world comes back into focus.

Astarion's weight shifts behind you as his arm drapes lazily over your wrist. You feel his cool lips brush against your ear, and he nips it gently.

“If I didn’t know any better,” he muses, “I would say you enjoy being punished.”

You can’t help but laugh, the sound still slightly breathless. “If that’s what I get for misbehaving, I might have to do it more often.”

"Careful what you wish for, darling," he murmurs, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. "I have a whole arsenal of 'punishments' at my disposal. This was merely a taste."

“Is that a promise or a threat?”

“Why not both?” he replies, his tone rich with suggestion. “I do so enjoy keeping you on your toes.”

As he rises to his feet and helps you to yours, he kisses you, his gentleness a stark contrast from your earlier activities. Where there was an inferno, now there is now the warming comfort of the hearth. Where there was urgency, now there is patience. Eventually, you find yourselves settled once more, cocooned in the soft comfort of the bed. The lingering scent of your encounter mingles with the fresh smell of clean linens, a heady reminder of the night's activities.

“Alright?” Astarion’s voice is soft.

You nod, words unnecessary in this moment.

As you nestle closer to him, a contented sigh escapes your lips. Being bad certainly has its thrills. But these moments, wrapped in Astarion’s arms - these are treasures in their own right. The mischievous spark in you knows you'll seek out more opportunities to 'misbehave', but for now, you revel in this gentle aftermath, every bit as intoxicating as the storm that preceded it.

No Pressure Tags: @silverfangmarks @roguishcat @sparrowbard @chonkercatto

Masterlist can be found here.

[finnlongman]

When I was an undergrad, I made a point of trying to sidetrack my supervisors as much as possible during supervisions, so that we could go off on a tangent and use up half the time discussing something barely related to my essay, and therefore have less time to dwell on its flaws.

(For those unfamiliar with the Cambridge supervision system, each week you're required to write an essay about a topic you probably knew nothing about before being handed the reading list, and then you spend an hour discussing it one-on-one, or in small groups depending on the subject, with your supervisor, who may be a random PhD student or may be the person who wrote half the reading list, depending on your luck.)

Once, I'd had a particularly bad week and had not written my essay about Scandinavian settlement in England, so I was having a more discussion-based supervision drawing on some bullet points I'd written. This would have been in my first term of first year, if I remember correctly. And we were talking about reasons why Vikings might settle rather than simply raiding, and my supervisor made some comment about them wanting "somewhere to wash their socks".

Sensing a potential avenue for distraction and also genuinely curious, I immediately asked, "Did Vikings wear socks?". My supervisor took the bait, and we passed the next ten minutes discussing a sock found preserved in York, of seemingly Scandinavian make, that would appear to answer that question in the affirmative. I remember very little else from that module, but nine years down the line, I remembered that there was a Scandinavian-style sock found in York.

Anyway, today I showed up to the department's graduate presentations (compulsory) and discovered that the first of the two talks was entirely about this sock. I was honestly so pleased. I now know several more things about this sock! I have some details to pad out my vague understanding that there was something distinctive about how it was made! I have been introduced to the complex question of "did the English wear socks or were they a Scandinavian fashion?"! (Answer: there is no definitive evidence for widespread early English sock-wearing, but textile evidence is complicated, so this may not be conclusive.)

This is probably not what most people took from the "England Before The Normans" paper, but frankly, I never was any good at keeping track of kings. I would rather learn about the socks. And today -- just as in that supervision nine years ago -- I did.

[meowmeowriley]

Ghost had been on his phone since Soap had entered the rec room. Not unusual, he tended to read emails or news articles in his spare time. No, what was unusual was that he had his phone sideways. Occasionally tapping at the screen with a thumb. Gaming then.

The 141's resident emo was full of surprises, one being that Ghost loved video games. The man had an old Playstation 3 that might as well have been his first born, the way he adored it. If the PS3 were his first child, then his Xbox One was rebellious problem child, the way he cursed it constantly, threatening to dismantle it and use its husk as a doorstop. Something about changing constantly, and adds on startup had been his most recent rant. He swore he loved it too, but the favoritism was obvious.

Ghost would be found in his room on one of the two consoles nearly every evening. With how often Soap found him gaming, this behavior shouldn't have struck him as odd, and yet it was the first time he'd ever seen the man play anything on his phone.

"Ya winnin', Lt.?" The glare he earned for that comment had him cackling as he fixed himself a midday coffee.

Soap sat down on the sofa with Ghost and turned on the TV. Ghost continued with whatever he was doing.

Beneath his mask the man's brow was pinched, he chewed his bottom lip, and each tap of his thumb was marginally more firm than the last. Ghost was seething, then.

Soap abandoned his show and instead watched something much more entertaining; Ghost's apparent descent into madness. He huffed on occasion, shifted in his seat, hunched his shoulders, and glared daggers down at his phone, a look that could make any of the rookies on base cry and wet themselves.

Soap was delighted. After he finished his coffee he jogged back to his room and snatched his journal so he could draw Ghost having his fit, he wanted to commit it to memory.

Soap was nearly done with his sketch, though it was a bit more than a simple sketch, nearing realism with how much detail he'd poured into Ghost's stormy eyes, when Ghost spoke quietly and for the first time in nearly an hour of them sharing space. "This game is for godless heathens." 

Soap nearly lost it, just barely managing to smother the laugh that bubbled forth. He coughed to hide what little escaped him, and used his hand to hide his face, scrubbing down to erase the smile that tried to give him away. "What, ah, what're you even playin', Ghost?"

"Tile Towers, on Webkinz."

Soap did lose it then. He'd seen the now ancient stuffy in Ghost's quarters, a scraggly looking leopard, but couldn't wrap his head around the man actually playing the game, let alone getting this angry over a mini game for children. He laughed so hard it hurt, tears streamed down his face, and Ghost booted him off the couch without even looking away from his phone.

***

Written by someone who recently found out that webkinz classic has a mobile app, and rediscovered their utter hatred for Tile Towers. Why do I keep playing it? It's awful, fucking stupid! And yet I keep. Going. Back. I'm also miffed that my original account has been deactivated. I've only been absent for like 13 years! Come on! 🤬

[ff-killjam]

How The Tables Turned [Ford x reader oneshot]

Summary: This time, its Ford making you stop what you're going to make sure you get sleep.

Rating: SFW and very fluffy

Warnings: Aside from a slightly suggestive part, none!

AO3 version

A/N: Actually based on a period of time where I tried to learn how to use unity (before the whole drama of it happened). I refused to do ANYTHING but to work on my little project no matter how much I was starving for a few weeks straight. lol.

It’s basically routine at this point for you to drag Ford out of his lab to head for bed. Even if you remind him of the benefits on sleeping and how the lack of it will impact his work, you still needed to get him into bed, sometimes having some food ready for him to make sure he didn’t sleep on an empty stomach.

That’s how its USUALLY IS.

Lately, you’ve started your own personal project involving learning a game engine to play around with. It was mostly just a random idea one day, wanting to try your hand at making your own little “video game”. Nothing too fancy, just something fun to put together and to learn some new skills along the way. There was A LOT you needed to look into and learn to make this happen, however.

From learning a coding language, the game engine itself, a mix between finding free to use assets and even making your own when nothing suited your taste- you had a lot on your plate. It wasn’t all that bad really, considering how this whole thing turned into a full blown hyper fixation fairly soon after starting it. It was easy to let the hours fly by as you were split between watching tutorial videos, drawing and fixing any errors/bugs in any of the codes you wrote down. You were aware of when you needed to sleep, eat and do other things for your health, but something about working on this project made you refuse to move from your chair. And you weren’t the only one to noticed this.

After a decent amount of time being with you, Ford has grown used to the routine of you coming to his lab to check up on him. It got to the point where he purposely stayed late in the lab to get you to come in and “pester” him to take care of himself better. The feeling of knowing you cared and loved him so much to go out of your way to make sure he knew that was something he relished in. Of course, he did felt a little “silly” and “immature” doing this instead of straight up telling you, but there was no harm being done anyways, so it was fine.

So when you stopped checking on him after a few nights, he couldn’t help but to worry a bit. At first, he figured you were just a bit busy, possibly even out for the night, so he didn’t think too much of it. However, when walking into your computer room and seeing you up staring at your screen with an open notebook with various random things written on it, he couldn’t help to smile a bit as you reminded him of his university days. You were just working on something, nothing too bad.

But as time passed by, he soon realizes he only ever sees you in your computer room. You barely went out for anything, even for food. Ford didn’t want to jump to any conclusions, but he was worried. Things escalated for him when he barely sees you in bed anymore.

It’s not like he didn’t talk to you as you were deep in your work. He would sometimes check in on you when things felt a little too quite after he started to noticed your absent in his lab. Ford was happy you were able to pursue something new and to take the time and effort to do it. He was aware of the little game you wanted to make for the sake of saying “I made this!”. When he had the free time, he’ll listen to you talk about the things you learned, some of the issues you faced and how you fixed them, etc etc. But he can only take so much before he had to really step in for your own sake.

The sky was dark out, and it was around 1am. You weren’t in bed yet. Again. Ford was really concerned for you now. Walking through the dim hallway, he opens up the door of your computer room. He can see you fully concentrated on your screen, looking over some codes you put together, as if you were trying to find any errors in the lines of text that was presented in front of you. It was obvious how dry your eyes were, how your body longed for rest, but the urge to keep going and to fix this one mistake kept you from wanting to sleep despite how much you felt the need to do so.

It was almost funny to him. A taste of his own medicine some would say. It reminds him of the many nights on how he too would refuse to stop for the night, always needing to do one more thing before he could let himself rest. How you would do your best to persuade him to let himself walk away from his work, to take care of himself to avoid any health complications, and to spend time with you in the comfort of your bed.

It made him feel guilty as well. The things you did for him and how much you loved him to always go out of your way to show it. Ford knew he was taking full advantage of that, and he wanted to repay it back.

You jumped a little in your seat when you felt his familiar six finger hand land on your shoulder, being so focused on the lines of text on your screen that you forgot where you were for a good bit. You look over at Ford as he stood beside your seat, giving him a weak smile.

“Oh hey! Do you need anything?” You asked before quickly looking back at the screen again.

“Love, when was the last time you ate?” Ford asked you in a gentle voice.

“Uh… I had breakfast?” You answered, only remembering you had some toast with a sunny side egg on top when you last ate. It didn’t seem like it mattered too much though.

“Its almost one am” Ford replied, a little stern this time. You quickly check the clock on your taskbar, feeling surprised from how much time had passed.

“Oh… oops” you spoke mostly to yourself, feeling a little silly for not checking the time more often. “I’ll probably head to bed soon”

“Not soon,” Ford points out, “you’re going to bed now.” His words made you look at him again, confusion viable on your face.

“Just let me do this one fix-” Ford says your name, stern voice again, causing you to stop your sentence.

“You are fully aware of the effects of not taking care of yourself” Ford spoke to you with a smirk on his face. You knew that he was referencing the many of times where you brought out the facts of how the lack of sleep and self care can affect your health and day to day life. It was the best way to convince him to come to bed and let you cuddle with him until you were both asleep. “You’re no different form me, sweetheart. Got to practice what they preach, as they say”

“Uh…. I’m built different?” You gave a half shrug and a low chuckle at your own joke. Obviously, this did nothing to change his mind. You knew he was right, and had nothing to say to argue back. Ford knew this too. “Fine… let me quickly save and shut off my computer…”

Ford watches you quickly save any progress before shutting off your computer, the light of the screen turning off and making the room dark as it was the only thing on. As you start to stand, your body fully conveyed how tired you really were. You were about to walk to the hallway door before Ford lets out a ‘let me’, and you were now being picked up bridle style in his arms. You let out a small gasp, often forgetting how much muscle the older man has as he often hides it away in his iconic turtleneck. The comfort of him holding you made the realization at your own exhaustion hit hard. You can feel yourself somewhat go limp as Ford carried you to your shared room.

Ford felt you quickly relax in his arms, feeling prideful as he carried you to your bed. Sitting you on the side and pulling the blanket back. He lays you on your pillow before fallowing suit into his usual spot on the bed beside you. Your eyes were shut as you let yourself sink into the soft mattress, the weight of the blanket being pulled over you giving a sense of security, along with how his arms wrapped around you to pull you close to his chest. You let out a sigh of relief as you feel him nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck, getting a few shivers down your spine.

“Sorry…” You mumbled to him, feeling guilty now for making him go out of his way to get you to bed. You feel him chuckle into your skin, the smile forming on his face being easily felt on your skin.

“Nothing to be sorry about sweetheart,” his replied, voice audibly sounding more tired, “I should be the one to apologize, making you go through this almost every night. I see how doing this almost all the time can be a bit frustrating for you.”

“Not if its you,” You were quickly to reply, “I’m always happy to make sure you’re okay”. Ford felt his heart flutter at your words. You always did surprised him with how much you loved him despite how many times you pointed it out.

“The feeling is mutual,” Ford placed a kiss on your skin as he caressed one of his thumbs that rested on you, “lets get to sleep now, I’ll be sure to do something for you in the morning” Ford gave another kiss on your skin, and you can’t help but to feel excited for what he had planned.

Silence followed as you two let yourselves slowly fall asleep in each others comfort. Feeling his steady heartbeat on your back lulled you to your sleep.

Ford smiled when he realized you fell asleep before he did. It was no surprise, you needed it really bad. Without fail every night when he has you in his arms like this, he feels like the luckiest man in the multiverse. He didn’t deserve you, but it was almost as if this is the repayment he deserved after many years of suffering, a way of life saying sorry to him.

And he wouldn’t ask for anything else.

[tamberella]

Congratulations on your author debut, I'm so excited for your book!! 😇💕

Would you consider talking about the whole process of becoming a book illustrator /children's book author?

Thank you so much, I really appreciate it!! And I'd be happy to share the process!

It all started for me with my 3dTotal artbook. 3dTotal is a small publisher in the UK, and they mainly focus on collections of artists' work. They use Kickstarter to fund each book, and my agent (the amazing Seth Fishman at Gernert) discovered me through the Kickstarter for my artbook Windows to Worlds!

He asked if I had any interest in working on graphic novels or picture books, and I had already been thinking about picture books! He found me my first picture book project with Penguin Workshop, Mother of Sharks, written by the awesome Melissa Cristina Márquez, which came out last year!

While I was working on Mother of Sharks, I was also talking with him about developing The Bakery Dragon, based of course on this painting, which was (and is) one of my proudest artistic moments.

For a little background on the painting, I painted it right after a really challenging couple of months medically - I was dealing with medical complications from my chronic illness for about 6 months, and I wasn't able to finish a single painting the whole time, I was just too exhausted from hospital visits and being in pain. That painting was the first piece I was able to actually complete (both emotionally and literally) in about half a year. So it always held a really special place in my heart, and I really wanted to keep living in that little world. I think there's something in it that is very special to me, about being outside in the cold, seeing warmth and love through a glass barrier, and wanting desperately to reach it.

With Seth's guidance, over a couple months, I developed a pitch for it. The script developed slowly alongside the designs for characters, locations, etc.

(Early version of Ember above! He has changed a bit!)

I thought I had already read a lot of picture books, I've always loved them, but I read hundreds and hundreds during this process. There is something uniquely fun and challenging about telling a complete narrative in 48 pages (which is already a long picture book, many are 32!) My book also pulls some elements from comics, such as speech bubbles, which I found to be incredible assets for humor and character development.

My pitch included designs, some early example spreads, and a rough script with story beats and jokes! My agent took it out into the world, and the publisher we ended up going forward with was Knopf, an imprint of Penguin Random House! I absolutely love the Knopf team and the beautiful books they put out! My editor, Katherine Harrison, really understood what I wanted to accomplish and has been so incredibly helpful in her guidance!

And from there... through rewrites, dialog adjustments, and lots and lots of drawings, it became a book! I'm happy to answer questions about the process! I'll leave you guys with a little preview from the interior of the book! (And of course you can pre-order it here, gotta learn the author skill of always including that link haha!)

[cyanhydrangea]

Unconventional

[Sakusa Kiyoomi x Artist! Fem! Reader]

Sakusa chuckled, "You got a very unconventional way to propose a friendship"

Sakusa always notice your presence whenever you're nearby.

You're always on your phone among the cheering crowd in Itachiyama's tournaments. Sakusa is always wondering if you're actually recording his matches or something.

He also wondered why he wishes you would cheer for him rather than doing whatever you do with your phone.

"I don't even know her name...", Sakusa muttered under his breath after he put on his mask again as he walked out of the gymnasium with his teammates.

"Whose name?", Komori asked, startling Sakusa a little as he didn't realized he was thinking out loud.

Sakusa stared at his cousin for a second, considering if he should ask him or not.

"The funny looking girl who's always on her phone on our matches", Sakusa's curiosity wins him over this time.

"Oh, her? I believe her name is [Last Name] [First Name]", Komori answered his question.

Sakusa hummed as a response, trying to make it seems like he's done being interested. Deep down, he knows he's far from being done looking for anything about you.

~~~

Apparently, you're a relatively new transfer student in Itachiyama. Your class is next to his, so Sakusa sometimes see you at the hallway.

Whenever you make eye contact with him, you always smile at him but says nothing.

Sakusa noticed how your eyes would lighten a bit whenever you noticed his presence. He also noticed you always bring a book wherever you go. For three months, no words are exchanged between the two of you, despite how badly Sakusa wants to.

"Sakusa! Someone is looking for you", Iizuna shouted from the door of the school gym.

Sakusa saw you panicked and said something to his team captain before you practically running away from the gym.

"What happened?", The curly haired boy was saddened as he thought he finally got a chance to talk to you.

"Here, she said it's for you", Iizuna handed him the book you're always carrying everywhere. He can read the book title right away, [First Name]'s Sketchbook.

Sakusa decide to open the sketchbook when he's finally alone in his bedroom.

The book is full of your headshot and bust up drawing of him, from rough sketches to fully rendered ones. Sakusa noticed your artstyle varies based on the media you used, although he can't name them one by one as he's not an artsy type himself. However, there's something remarkable about your artstyle that anyone will recognize.

~~~

The next day, Sakusa wasted no time to go to your class first thing in the morning.

You were already sitting at your desk by the time he arrived. Mixed feelings swirling inside you as the curly dark haired boy approached you.

"Why do you give this sketchbook to me?"

You smiled at his question, "Consider it as something I offer in exchange of a friendship I want with you"

Sakusa chuckled, "You got a very unconventional way to propose a friendship"

You sheepishly answered, "I'm not very good at expressing my feelings in words"

"Same, but I'm not skilled at anything else than volleyball. I'll just buy you another sketchbook in return, sounds good?"

You giggled, "Is gift giving your love language?"

Although he's wearing his mask, you can sense a smirk across Sakusa's face, "Isn't it yours too?"

Your giggles subsided, "Yeah, you're right"

The two of you know these remarks a new friendship bond that's going to differ from the usual.

#CyanHydrangea Date Written: 11/11/2024

[existentialcrisis-9-5]

DCA Subnautica AU

Version #2 of the designs, including the bioluminescence! + fun tidbits on each of the goobers and a visual on Y/N!

(Edit: it’s out now! Check my bio for the link)

Eclipse is up first!

Theirs was the first design I drew out in any detail (as shown in the crude MS Paint drawing), so it's the one that needed the most work. Even after making the more detailed version with the lights, I still ended up changing things as I got a better grasp on what direction I wanted to head in. Fun lore tidbit! Eclipse is a freak of nature and should not look like that! They're properly split down the middle between day and night. Also I messed it up in the drawing because I was tired when I made it, but they're also covered in scars and bite marks.

Sun !!

I did Sun next, and here I had a better idea for what I was going for. There were still a few problems with this design though, which got changed. This is also where I started drawing the pattern on the tail, which I felt looked weird in this picture. Fun tidbit! Sun has an inability to express his feelings in the appropriate fish mermaid way, leading to much confusion.

Moon !!

Moon was done last. Once again, I learned from this drawing and changed Moon's design to match, however Moon is the one that remains the most unchanged! I knew what I was going for by the time I got to him each time, so I guess that helped. Something I did alter, however, were some of the lights. I found that they either blended together too much or weren't as visible as I would have liked. Fun tidbit! This is pose actually based on a scene in one of the chapters. It was actually one of the earliest written scenes.

Y/N, my beloved <3

I did 2 versions of Y/N, one with longer hair and one with shorter. It was important for me, when writing the story, that I kept the person I'm imagining as vague as possible, with the only physical descriptions being "physically fit" and having a few scars (for plot reasons), so this is only for me and whatever drawings I do. As a result of trying to keep it vague, I ended up going with the shorter hair (though in the final reference I made it a bit longer than shown here). Fun tidbit! The green is because whenever I'm sketching, I have 4 colours I sketch in to differentiate parts of the picture (usually background vs foreground or different people), and green was the one I used here (red, blue and purple were taken, I'm sure you can understand why). It ended up sticking, since I didn't want to go with the orange that's on Ryley's suit in order to avoid possible confusion.

That's it for now! At some point, I'll post the full references for each of them, but until then, the next thing I post will probably be chapter 1!

[uva124]

¡ Valentino redesing!

We finally have the baby!

(This redesign belongs to the Wish Au "Kingdom of wishes", written by @annymation and illustrated by @emillyverse and me)

This will surely be the redesign where I have the least things to say lol, but I still have some things to comment on so let's go!

At first I hadn't thought much about how I would redesign Valentino, what I was sure of was making him more adorable and cuter so that everyone would want to have a goat as a pet, because if I'm completely honest, Valentino's official design in the Disney movie I didn't find it adorable at all (sorry Disney artists, I know they put effort into drawing and animating but I just didn't like Valentino's design)

(Do you get my point? He's just not cute or adorable, and the voice they gave him didn't help either, or the face idk ,but I thought the joke about his voice at the beginning of the movie was funny ¯_(ツ)_/¯)

So I made a mental list of things I wanted to do (which aren't many if I'm honest): -Make it fluffier and fluffier -Give him other clothes -Add even one symbol in your redesign

Anny sent me several references of goats and concept art, among them I found this one, which I based myself on mainly because 1-I have always liked that animals had moles or spots on their fur or skin 2-When I saw that on their clothes You could see the seams that joined the different fabrics, I realized that it coincided with Asha's redesign (on the sleeves) so I was like: "AWWWWW it matches his mom's clothes!"

In the end I only added a part of it with a different fabric because I didn't want to complicate the design too much, but I liked how it turned out, I added some symbols of the tattoos that exist in the Amazigh culture, which is also to protect the person (or animal in this case) of the bad influences that are around them

I also liked adding that little ball of curly hair on our goat's little head, it just looks so cute!

FINAL COMMENTS!

As I said, this is not very long, but I'm satisfied with how the drawing turned out, I wanted to try something new that looks like the lighting was a sunset, I don't know if it's noticeable but at least it turned out nice lmao, as a curious fact, with this drawing I realized how MUCH my sketches change when I paint them in detail

…..BRO HOW THE HELL DID THIS CHANGE SO MUCH WITHOUT REALIZING ME? (ESPECIALLY ASHA)

Well that's all for now, until next time! ✨✨

[distant--shadow]

The witch and the widow chapters 1-4 author’s notes

Ok, so first off I feel I gotta preface this by saying I am absolutely not a history buff. Kinda the opposite of one really. I was one of less than 10% of the kids in my year of 300 or so that didn’t take history at GCSEs, mostly caus a subject taught and based around names and dates etc is the definition of something not suited for my type of brain, also I hugely lost interest in it caus we moved past the fun trebuchet eras and all that real fast and it became of slog of me falling asleep in lessons caus I had a teacher whose method was putting on movies and shutting the blinds (I’d always fall asleep and he was later jailed for being a p*edophile, so that’s a thing.) Anyway, all that to say I’m not good at this shit, but as ive gotten older I have taken a bigger interest in queer history in particular, and that often if not always links into other areas such as fashion, women’s rights, religion,the arts, class, and race etc. (I’m still not good at names and dates though!)

They are outfitted and arsenalled - the stones of the wall - in a manner to rival any army; tapestries of red and gold perhaps once brandished on battlefield as banners promenading around death now retired and indoor-still-air-still as taxidermy giving colour between all of the shades of metal, burnished and polished and in some cases rusting, some still purposefully left blood-stained, swords and pikes and maces arranged in wallpaper patterns as though flowers or fans, sword-sheath beams spreading from chest-plate armour suns.

Let’s start with something easy and recent. The Baron’s armoury was inspired by a few castles I’ve visited, these rooms are always so bizarre to me. I don’t know if this is at all of the time/how they were decorated or a more recent thing, but either way it’s pretty wild but I do love the visual and metaphor of it. In this one castle I found out from talking about the carpentry to an attendant that the decorative ceiling work around the chandelier above the dining room table actually hid a trapdoor - and there was other hidden doorways for passages and to secret rooms in this castle, that’s not that unusual - but this particular trapdoor was to allow for the chandeliers to be switched out. Why? Caus they had them in multiple colours of glass, and the lady of the castle liked the chandelier to co-ordinate with her dress if they were having guests round. Aint that such a flex? Definitely some food for future thought.

Aight. Clothing. So anyone that chats fic/au to me or is in my server has probably heard me yell to go watch Kaz Rowe’s videos many times. As I’ve said this fic aint meant to be historically accurate but it does kinda straddle histories, one of which being our own; so women wearing trousers and the like at this time would still be a crime, and draw a lot of attention . Imogen in men’s clothing genuinely isn’t meant to be much of a gender thing but a thing of practicality, and she has mostly lived in the countryside or in the outskirts, so she does not get into the trouble she would should she go into the towns and cities (another reason to keep away past the potential noise, but this Imogen will happily don a dress or skirts if she needs to, she’s just usually working – and maybe it’s a bonus that dressing as a man acts as a sort of flagging for any women who might be interested lol.)

I guess here I should mention how I think this version of Imogen's powers and how they’ve manifested (along with everyone else being unaware of them) will have somewhat changed her disposition and personality, it is a lot more aligned with later campaign Imogen who has more confidence and empowerment, she hasn’t been ostracised for her abilities or particularly bombarded by them, think more like when she has her circlet on, she chooses to listen in (mostly), although of course she has still heard many terrible things (and her life has still been pretty brutal but that’s to be written still).

(it’ll be really fun in this regard getting to explore and explain this version of Laudna, but early days for giving much away on that yet!)

Her skirts are full and structured and plumed by many layers of petticoats that hide the movement of her feet across the wildflower lawn, causing her to appear to be drifting like the bees do from petal to petal, pollen dusting her pleats though ghostly her skin in contrast to the fine fabrics that she dresses for the part, black in mourning, still, bodice tight and sleeve leg of mutton, an ornate decorative layer of black lace laying over each yard of textured textile like spider webs on porcelain patterns, her husband's tableware collecting dust in the kitchen cupboard.

real impractical for how tending towards practical the Lady dares to be, hands on, too busy for errant hairs in piano key ivory and ebony windswept and loose from the high bun she pins in place with a cameo broach, a memento mori engraved in silver and inlayed with ruby eyes and tied with red ribbons. Her skin also proudly displays the age and perhaps trauma that her hair does, lines from laughter and furrowed brows and the feet of the crows that cry from the top of the chimney pots

A little note as to say that Laudna’s appearance is heavily influenced by Victorian mourning wear, with some of the clothes cuts altered to be a little bit more regency and earlier in places. (her  attire is a little outdated, further suggesting her distancing from society and fashion)

A couple of days ago Imogen happened upon a bird with an injured wing, crying helplessly and rolling in circles, feathers taking flight away from the bird that could not, settling around it as it panicked itself bald-

The bird could not live without the use of its wing, and it didn’t, whether that was by Prosciutto or a fox, only its feathers were left in a pile.

Imogen had gathered them into an empty burlap sack; taken them to one of the maids downstairs to clean, repurpose them for filling pillows.

Here’s a silly little easter egg for my p(r)oof reader. Last time he visited we was enjoying a cinnamon roll from the local bakery by the city river (as you do) and a cyclist hit a seagull. It was real distressing, the seagull was distressed too. A handfull of middle aged women stood around it not wanting or knowing how to intervene as its wing was twisted at a crazy angle and it flapped about in a pile of its own feathers, there’s still bird flu about so it is wise to not touch wild birds, and as bleak as it is I was saying to freshy that a wild bird who’s wings broken like that is gonna die, and probably slowly and painfully. Some man came along and lifted up the bird to take the bird off the path and laid it to rest behind an old bridge building, I think he must have mercy killed it too as the bird was already dead when we walked past 10 or so minutes later after finishing our cinnamon roll and giving a cautious glance. So there’s a nice happy memory thrown in there for him.

what appears to be driftwood breaches the surface, then another point, then another

the water belches

Ceviche scares, whinnying as he rears onto his back legs, the Lady leaning forward and clinging to his harness. Imogen stands in her stirrups, leaning across the gap over to the black stallion, grasping his reins and cooing

“All good, boy, all good-”

What had appeared to be driftwood lands on the surface with a slap, looking like the carcass of an old boat left to rot in the muddy bed of a dock, timber ribcaged and leathered skin cladding.

A femur surfaces, followed by a jaw.

Second easter egg for the p(r)oof is a quick one (I’m such a considerate writer, I know.) On a train ride to a loch we went to for a day out there is a stop that is on another lake/body of water, and right by the train tracks (which are at water height) there are 4 or 5 old ships stuck in the mud, most of them just the frames/structures of the old boats, mostly wood and some bits of metal, but they’re pretty big boats! It really looks like whale carcasses. I’ve always wanted to get of there and check it out, and we were gonna stop by on the way back but my health being what it is was giving me some grief that day so we missed 2 trains and then soon the daylight, so hopefully next time buddy.

There’s alotta meat and gore talk and Imogen being a vegetarian without the label for such is just another way of me playing round with all of her complex feelings about what the Lady might be doing, her feelings towards Angharad butchering and nourishing the women with these communal stews and all of that. I’ve been vegetarian myself for 20 years now, and it was all triggered by an existential crisis in my mid teens (still a huge fan of leather and blood though) – Imogen greatly cares about animals, struggles with the thought of anything being slaughtered, she is in some ways more empathetic than most because she knows those she does on so much more of a personal level, really feels how someone is reacting to a situation they are in, but also because of this she knows humans are often corrupt and vile and she is spared such thoughts from animals, only knows their instincts and the love and comfort and service they bring – and yet she will obsess over the Lady’s (potential) tooling on that saddlework leather that’s really fucking brutal if she thinks about it one way and beautiful if she thinks about it another hmmm what if everything’s not black and white.

Oh, and the stew is a homage to @picturesofthegoneworlds’ pre-campaign fic Intertwined which I am lucky enough to co-parent and her writing is hugely influential on mine.

There’s a few things being bread crumb trailed here that I can’t explain in the author notes yet, but I’m looking forward to when I can. One small detail I will give away is just a silly thing about the chapter headings. They are something of significance from within the chapter, given in its ‘proper’ name – maybe someone gets access to some books to do research at some point?

anyways, thanks @astoriacolumnstaircase for enabling me. will do another post like this for future chapters if folks find it interesting.

[jesncin]

Lil' musing about Public Domain, AI theft and Transformative creativity

Old essay originally written on Cohost in February 2024. With additions.

I'm putting my thoughts here because I don't want to risk going viral for subtweeting discourse again, here we go! So with the Steamboat Willie Variant of Mickey Mouse going to public domain I've seen the usual cynical pushback over transformative art. Particularly in response to overplayed EDGY DARK WINNIE THE POOH and EDGY DARK STEAMBOAT MICKEY and YOUR CHILDHOOD THING DARK NOW that inevitably happens around this time.

But to group all transformative art as derivative, soul-less, profit-driven, lazy and "reliant on past successes" is frankly just...really silly? I saw a notable concept artist making this over-simplified talking point, and I find it odd that someone can look at the most visible (by being formulaic, provocative and made by rich people) examples of public domain adaptations and just generalize all art ever inspired by a thing as uninventive and compare artists who do that to being "ai-like". It feels like the false dichotomy constantly set between "real books" and fanfiction.

We've seen marginalized people reclaim cosmic horror from Lovecraftian fiction. I've seen queer people reckon with and reclaim the queer history of Peter Pan. There's something special about taking a familiar thing and informing it with a perspective that wasn't present in its original iteration. It takes a whole other part of your creative brain muscles to adapt and reimagine something that already exists. And it can be just as creatively fulfilling as making original stuff.

While it's important to recognize and remember the origin of archetypes in stories or movements in art, I think there's sometimes a misplaced reverence put towards the original version of something. Whenever I talk about how Asian writers like Gene Yang and Sarah Kuhn have more thoroughly integrated Superman's immigrant themes in their re-imaginings of his mythos than their white peers have, I get hit with the constant "hey remember Superman's creators were the sons of Jewish immigrants (who made racist jokes about Chinese people)" and "hey remember, Gene Yang and Gurihiru's Superman Smashes the Klan was based on a radio show arc made by WHITE people first (who made the story about a binary of Good white people vs Bad white people, along with centering how white people feel about racism)".

Especially if it's a means of centering white creatives, people love to dismiss the transformative contributions of marginalized people, but especially that of people of color. It took until 2016 for the World Fantasy Award to change their statuette to not be based after the face of renown racist H.P Lovecraft, after all.

Last year I gave myself the goal to do something "unnecessarily ambitious" with no plan of pitching/printing/selling it. Just "art for art's sake", something really not-algorithm-friendly. And yeah, that ended up being a fully rendered, 40-page martian manhunter fan comic. I did it for no other reason than being a huge fan of a severely unpopular character and feeling like there was a new story I really wanted to tell about the character that would never happen in canon with how little there's been written about him. I don't think it's fair to call writing 40 pages of a new origin story, drawing fully colored pages with unique re-designs, reading hours of martian manhunter comics to tie different aspects of his lore into coherent worldbuilding, putting that comic up for free for the few other Green Justice League Guy fans to read, as lazy, profit-driven, and soul-less.

There's tons of artists who do stuff like this all the time. It just comes off as being very out of touch to view true creativity as only existing one way. That transformative media must inherently be "less". One time a white guy pitched to me some ideas he had for Superman if he ever had a chance to write him, and I said "that sounds cool, you should write a fanfic about it" and another white guy (who felt the need to come to the first one's defense), viewed what I said as an insult. There's something about doing fanart because you enjoy it and don't need to profit out of everything you make that's seen as lesser than having the seal of canonicity from a company.

My motto with making needlessly ambitious fancomics is "You don't need to work for DC Comics to make DC comics". Because canonicity has nothing to do with what makes art special.

To bring this back to edgy Mickey Mouse spin offs, even if you do just want to make cliche mascot-horrified stuff because you enjoy it, then by all means go ahead! I always go back to this video Sagan Hawkes did about petscop-inspired video series. There's a running theme about grappling with the concept of Originality in Art in relation to youtube horror projects (the thesis comes around at 2:04:10), and some valuable words are shared in the collected interviews with web series creatives (2:18:47) in the end. SeireaSong (creator behind Diminish) talks about how misguided conversations surrounding "originality" can be (2:29:43). It's so worth it to watch when you have the time.

Anyway happy 2024! Be good to each other.

[thelastofhyde]

you cut your hair, and take some space. (1)

pairing. narcos!javier peña x fem!reader

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

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

word count. 15k

hyde’s input. this was written over the course of four months and could easily be used in court to prove i am, in fact, unequivocally in love with one mr. javier peña. if you take the time to read it, just know i appreciate it so much. i really poured my heart and soul into this and, as someone who's been writing for years, it's been so long since i've written something so self-indulgent that's brought me nothing but joy to write. as the fic has surpassed 40k words, meaning it would likely crash the tumblr site for anyone trying to read it, i've decided to post it in three parts. the fic will be posted in full on ao3 once all three parts are available on tumblr!

“i told you, corazón mia (my heart),” he can't meet your eyes. “made it clear from the start i wasn't looking for anything serious.” “i know,” you heave in a breath, hold back a sob. “but if it wasn't serious, why'd you treat me like it was?”

I cut my nose to save some face You cut your hair and take some space.

The mirror is not clean enough to see yourself.

Where there are usually your eyes, there’s a discoloured splotch of brown. A crack runs down the left of what should be your face. Someone’s taken it upon themselves to draw a cartoon penis just where your mouth is. But in your drunken haze and laser focus, you don’t care enough to notice. All you see is the spot where your nose is, a tiny ball of silver nestled just above your right nostril.

It’s something new to fidget with.

On the flip side, it stings like a bitch. Or, more appropriately, like the tequila shots that led you to this run-down tattoo parlour.

You wonder if, come the morning and mental clarity, you’ll regret it.

If you do, you’ll blame him.

Your night was going fine. Good, even. And, with a lack of good nights in the recent week, that was an accomplishment.

You’d dressed up, let loose, had fun. A friend on either arm and a drink close at hand, you’d giggled and gossiped your way through this impromptu girls’ night.

They’d ambushed you, in a way, forced their way through the barricade of tissues and take-out boxes into your apartment. A skimpy dress tossed at your head and four hands dragging you, limb by limb, into the shower.

Get some dinner, hit the town, get fucked up. That was the plan they set out for you.

You skipped dinner, dove head-first into the town.

You were careful all night to never speak of him.

One part fearful it would summon him, another part embarrassed to admit just who you’d gotten tangled up in. A third part, tucked away in a locked closet, ready to do it all over again.

And then it happened.

You didn’t say his name, no.

Not aloud.

You thought it, for just a second, hearing the person beside you at the bar order the same drink you’d watched him nurse time after time. It wasn’t him but, instead, a man far too short and a clean-cut kind of handsome to even begin to compare to the ex-agent.

But it was enough to make you want to leave.

Giving up your space, you’d made your way back to your girls and made up some little white lie, surprised neither of them called you out on it- what kind of bar doesn’t have white wine?

They left to find someplace with wine, you left to find some peace of mind.

The bar they dragged you into was familiar, the setting of many of your father’s stories. It only took you walking through the door, tugging down the dress-too-short, to hear your name called across the floor.

“Hey kiddo!” Your dad’s a tell-tale kind of drunk, his eyes giving away even the smallest sip of alcohol he has. He was just tipsy, scooting his way out of a tattered booth to wrap you up in his arms. It felt as nice as it did guilt-inducing, knowing you’d been avoiding his calls all week since The Incident. A punishment to yourself more than one aimed at him. “You here yourself? Could join us for the night, if you like. Ain’t that right, boys?”

It was only then that you’d realised two men were sat within the booth, collars undone and ties loosened after a week’s work.

There were usually three of them.

"We’re just waiting on Peña." Oh god, it made you feel sick. Heart in your throat, stomach at your feet. His name no longer feels real, not when spoken by anyone but you.

“And raising bets on his tardiness,” one of your father’s friends said. You recognised him from a few of the barbecues and Christmas parties your dad's thrown. He's nice, responsible. Married, to a woman his own age. “I’m saying he’s chasing some tail. God knows he could use some stress relief. Boy’s been wound up all week, nearly bit my head off for asking him about some files."

It’s a wonder none of the three men- one a retired lawyer, the other two members of the force- noticed the blood drain from your face.

“My guess is he’s pulled some muscle in his back and can’t get himself out of bed,” a nudge from your father’s elbow, delivered straight to your ribs. “Whatcha think, kiddo?”

You didn’t have an answer.

You didn’t get to give an answer.

“You need to quit speaking ‘bout me like you’re not a whole decade my senior, viejo (old man),” it came from behind you and threatened you to look. Like the foolish final-girl in a slasher, you ignored your basic instincts and glanced over your shoulder.

You’re not sure what you were expecting, but you know what you were hoping for.

Tired eyes, chewed lips, unkept facial hair. A twitch of sadness drawn between his brows and the stains of cigarette ash on a worn-out suit.

Javier Peña was none of that.

The suit, grey. One that fit him all too well and had you wishing you could stain it with your drink.

The signature moustache, perfectly groomed, sitting perched above the bow of his pouty lips, rosy-red and fresh for picking.

His eyes have always given him away but, staring down at you in that moment, they read only as passive, unaffected.

It was like, nothing.

And, yes, that’s what you’d asked for- from now on, whenever you see me, can you at least pretend that none of this happened?

But he's smart enough to know you didn't mean it, right?

“Hey officers, sorry to interrupt but,” a hand curled around your arm. It tugged and you let yourself be inched away from heavy brown eyes and your father’s smile. “She’s ours for the night. We’re going clubbing!”

That was never part of the plan.

Neither was skipping dinner, though.

You caught the back of him as you were dragged away, some pleading from your father to take it easy and call me in the morning, and noticed it only then.

His hair, freshly cut.

“‘S getting too long,” a mumbled sort of thing, hidden in your neck, spoken against your pulse. A kiss placed upon it, and then another for extra measure. Fingers dragging through his hair, ridding him of the knots your very same hands had worked into them an hour of passionate touching ago. “Lo sé (I know).”

A pause of silence. The blissful moan birthed from nails on his scalp. And, then, “no. It’s nice, I like it.”

That puppy-dog stare, so particular to the cool-down moments between you, meets your own, chin propped upon your sternum. He’s sweet like this, honeyed skin and pleasant smiles.

“Yeah?” He asks, like he even needs to. “You like it, corazón (sweetheart)?” You opt for a hummed confirmation, finger tracing over the arch of his nose. “Guess I better keep it this way, then.”

Now he’s gone and chopped the overgrown curls off.

In a way, it feels like he’s cut you off with them.

We don’t speak cause it’s too tricky But if I’m tricky, why’d you kiss me?

The next time you see him, a wedding is taking place.

He sits on the groom’s side, you sit on the bride’s.

It feels unreasonable to be surprised by his presence. Why wouldn’t he be here, sitting four rows from the back, at his cousin’s brother-in-law’s wedding?

The bride is gorgeous, the groom is in tears. The priest drones on a little too long.

Somewhere between the exchanging of vows, and the ceremonial kissing, and the cheering of guests, your instincts get the better of you and you glance back at him.

He’s already staring right back, eyes ignited with something that weakens your knees and shakes your confidence. The newlyweds walk down the aisle, cut through your line of sight. He’s still staring at you when they’ve passed.

The reception takes place in the events room of some glammed-up hotel, the kind you can barely afford the one night you’re booked in for.

An open bar, a local band. The catering is tasteful, handpicked by the couple, and the table you feast at is so far away from his that you don’t get that chance to see if he chose the chicken or the beef.

You find a friend behind the bar, in the shape of a bottle and toothpick-impaled olives.

You dance till your feet hurt, slip away to your table, take off your heels. You’re back on the dance floor in time to catch the bouquet, too busy basking in the envy of the other women to notice his eyes burning a hole in the back of your head.

If it weren’t for the dent in your bank account made by the room you booked, you’d gladly dance away the whole night. But if a bed with a view costs double your rent, you’ll be damned if you don’t get to sleep in it.

So you stumble to the elevator.

Clutch your heels and flowers to your chest, struggle to remember your floor number. The fifth floor seems to ring a bell, but it might’ve been the eighth floor. Your room key! Maybe, you hope, that’ll have your floor number on it. You struggle with your purse’s zipper, trying your best to pry it open.

You succeed, but at what cost? Heels and bouquet tumble to the floor, thumping and clunking as they knock against it, flower petals falling loose.

You try to bend down, stretch your fingers out to grasp the clasps, seize the stems. A wave of exhaustion mixed with too much alcohol washes over you and you stand up straight again. Take a calming breath, do a little song and dance before reaching down again.

“Déjame. (Let me.)”

Scuffed shoes come into view as you’re halfway down, bent at the waist and holding your balance with one arm against a wall. You stand up straight, too fast, lose your balance and stumble forward.

He catches you.

For a moment, it feels like you’ve never left his arms.

“C’mon, let’s get you to your room.” You hate the way he ends his sentence, no term of endearment and no impure intentions.

He asks for your floor, you give him your key. He punches the number into the elevator and it shakes to life.

Neither one of you makes an attempt to part. There’s a chance he pulls you closer to him. You let yourself melt, regardless, muscles relaxing and sinking into his arms.

He’s still warm. He’s still steady. but his cologne’s different and it makes your eyes sting.

You’d warned him he was about to run out of his signature bottle, made a note to buy him another one for his birthday or Christmas, whichever came first.

“You look like you had fun,” he rasps out, eventually, as the elevator slips past the fifth floor.

“I did,” you tell a partial truth. You would have had more fun, if he’d stood at your side, ate at your table, danced in your arms. But you can’t say that, because he doesn’t want that.

“I’m glad.”

It turns out your floor is the ninth. He’s careful to guide you out the mobile-box, hand on your hip, pressing you to his side. Your heels dangling from one of his fingers and the bouquet gripped in his palm, smacking against his thigh every other step. A little down the hall and there you find it, your precious and expensive home for the night.

It’s easier to let him open the door, he tells you.

It’s easier to let him guide you to bed, you tell yourself.

Dropping the heels on the floor, he disappears out of your line of sight and you stare motionless at the ceiling above, buzzing in your brain and pain in your heart.

You’ve never shared a space like this with him, one that’s hollow and decayed. The shell of a creature that’s long abandoned it, grown too big for its home.

Your eyes sting all over again, this time enough to brim with unfallen tears.

A thud against the nightstand.

You roll onto your side and find he’s still here, a glass of water and some painkillers lay to rest at your bedside. The first tear gives way, running down your cheek and dropping to the crisp white sheets below. Even more fall as he raises a damp cloth to your face, wiping away smudged mascara and bringing your lips back to their natural colour.

The undressing is gentle and so unlike his usual impatience.

Fingertips drag down each inch of skin released as he unzips the back of your dress, tugging it down and folding it by your heels. The weight off your chest helps you breathe as he unhooks your bra. Left only in your underwear, the sheets ruffle as he drags them up your tired limbs and tucks them under your chin.

“Get in bed, please,” you plead like you have any right to ask that of him. “Javi.”

It’s the first time you’ve said his name since that night in May. His shoulders tense and release, his fingers smooth down his moustache. He looks like he’s going to fulfil your request, slip in behind you and wrap you up in his soft but steady embrace.

He looks like he wants to.

His back cracks as he bends down and presses a kiss.

Against your forehead, lips that linger.

Then, he stands up straight and walks out the door.

On the forehead, way up north Pressed the scar and found the source

Vermont, ‘98.

That’s where it all began.

Your dad, turning fifty.

Javi just hit forty.

It was someone in the station who had the wild idea they celebrate it together. The sheriff and the station’s rookie- really, a hardened, inching-out-of-a-fresh-retirement former DEA agent your father manipulated back into the force, some promise of a light workload and a hefty pension. With no need for money, you wonder why he ever accepted the offer.

Plans were set, money was put in a pot, and a wheel of fortune was spun. It landed on the northern state, a downpayment to rent a ski lodge placed within a matter of twenty-four hours.

Somewhere along the way, you’d been roped into joining this boys-only trip. Your dad argued you needed a break from studying. Your mother argued there needed to be a responsible adult to supervise your dad. and, well, a free holiday never hurt nobody, right?

Wrong.

The final evening, with a constant pounding of a hangover never-quite-nursed, a litter of bruises down your back from falling and a firmly closed chapter on any possible career as a ski prodigy you may have had, you trailed your way down to the only bar in the tiny ski town.

Textbooks on the table, glasses on your face.

A half-drank glass of cabernet, an empty plate.

Peaceful and quaint, until it wasn’t.

The cheer of a frat-boy out in the wild warrants the same response as hearing a lion’s roar in the dark of the Saharan night.

The kind you hear them before you see them, spilling through the door in their obnoxious jerseys and their face-painted cheeks. one wore the badge of honour, a giant Soon To Be shackled Married printed poorly onto the back of his jersey.

You put your head down, breathed more subtly.

The pride stormed their way over to the bar, pounding their fists onto the surface and gnashing their teeth, spit spilling down their mouth as they brutally tore into the bartender, demanding pints of beer and rounds of shots.

The key was to avoid eye contact, keep low and out of sight.

They dispersed through the area, sniffing out free booths and the occasional local to irritate out of their seats.

One of them found the jukebox and wasted his coin on blasting Pour Some Sugar On Me. The group of older women playing bingo scowled and made their way out of the joint, calling it for the night.

You got up to follow suit, hands slowly packing up your belongings and slinging your bag over your back.

Inching towards the exit, footsteps light as a feather.

“Woo! Look at you,” just as you were close to slipping out the door, a single member of the pack spotted you, prowling his way over. He already had his chest puffed out by the time you turned around. “Ain’t seen an ass like that since we left the city!”

Hardly charming. Tame, compared to other things frat boys have said to you.

“Why don’cha come join me and my buddies over there?” He nodded back at them, like they weren’t the obnoxious centres of everyone’s attention.

You were not scared of him, exactly. But you’ve seen where things can go. Heard about it, countless times, from your own father.

So you spoke with caution, gripping your bag a little tighter, “thanks, but I’ve got an early flight. Have a nice night-” He told you his name, like you cared. “Yeah, thanks, bye.”

And then you were stepping out into the quiet of the night.

Fresh air, cold enough to sting your lungs. You breathed it in like it was going out of fashion.

You barely got a moment to compose yourself before that grating voice was back in your ears.

“Oh don’t be a buzzkill!” He whined, you cringed. Took a step back, watched him move an inch. “It’s early, stay. Have a drink.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

“To have fun?! C’mon, it’s too cold to be out here by yourself.”

“I have an early flight.”

“It’s just one drink, sweetheart. I ain’t asking you to sign your life away.”

A couple bumped past you both, weaved their way between you. His eyes trailed after them, your feet twisted around, carrying you away from him slowly, carefully. Best not to make yourself look like prey, not to this predator.

“Hey!” He called after you. Your steps sped up. “Where you going, sweetheart?”

It didn’t even matter that you were walking in the opposite direction of the ski lodge. You told yourself you would find your way back, once this lion was off your back.

“I ain’t done talkin’ to you!”

The lion pounced, sank his claws into your back and ripped through you.

Your hand flew out to break your fall, the contents of your bag spilling out onto the sidewalk.

Pain, the kind that stings. It nipped at your knees, and your hands, and your eyes. Pushed it down, pulled yourself up.

He froze, maybe surprised at his own actions, maybe waiting on the chance to pounce once more, this time with his fangs instead of his claws.

You wouldn’t give him the chance. Filled your bag, collected your senses and ran.

It was tricky on frozen ground, trying so hard to not look back.

He followed and you knew it, heard it. Roaring and growling, chasing you down streets you’d never walked.

You slipped, momentarily, slammed into a wall. A crossroads, go right or go left.

You don’t remember which direction you turned.

“Quit running, you bitch!”

He was still following, how was he still following?

Caving in, you glanced over your shoulder and saw the blurry figure of him running after you.

He was getting faster. Maybe you were getting slower.

You came to a screeching halt, body smacking into something solid. Eyes shut, mind alive. You feared the worst, hoped for the best, expected to open your eyes and find yourself trapped in a dead-end, nowhere to run from this predator.

Instead, you heard your name. Called softly, at first. Gentle, coaxing you to pay attention. The second time it was more urgent, worried and aggressive. You sank deeper into the wall, felt your feet shuffle on the gravel below.

“...Gotta let me know, nena,” the wall pulled you back from it, a firm grasp on your forearms. Your eyes opened and met his. “Fucking Christ, look at the state of you.”

You’d not known much about Javier Peña at the start of the trip.

Your dad had mentioned something about a family ranch. Your mom let it slip that he’d enjoyed the pumpkin pie she’d brought to the station’s Thanksgiving feast.

There’d been one time you’d caught the end of a conversation between him and your dad. Nothing concrete, just some shameful mutterings about Colombia and Los Pepes. You’d left once you heard your dad start to comfort the man, deciding your intruding on the moment had already gone too far.

You now knew he liked his whiskey, no ice. His coffee, no milk. His bread, no butter.

He didn’t like the mess of mixing things, and you had to wonder if it had always been this way. Or had he learned his lesson, the hard way? Mixed the wrong things, burnt his own blessings?

“You’re bleeding,” he announced it, fresh news for you.

A pleasant warmth thrummed through your veins as he took hold of your hand, inspecting it under his scrutiny.

His thumb swiped over your palm.

Your mouth winced, your arm pulled back.

He held you in place.

Something visceral shifted in him, enough to coax you to glance at him.

He was looking past you, eyes a deadly killer stalking their prey. You followed their line of sight and found the lion at the end of the street. Standing still, arms at his side, eyes a little wider than you remembered them. You’d not really been looking, in the first place.

The former agent twisted you behind him, an effortless shield. Took an urgent step toward the frat boy, and then another three.

You grasped at his sleeve and tugged him back, didn’t let him stray too far.

“I’m fine,” you lied. He didn’t believe you, furrowing his brow. “I’m just cold.”

He seemed to hesitate, softened by a tremble in your voice.

He glanced back to see the lion was retreating, staggering his way back to the pride of frat boys. A perfect opportunity for him to attack, from behind and unexpectedly.

“Leave it, he’s not-” The sting in your eye got the best of you and a tear tracked itself down your cheek. You wiped it away with your scraped hand, leaving behind a smear of gravel and blood. “It’s not worth it.”

You said it not for the agent’s sake, but the boy’s.

The agent puffed out a breath of frustration, then followed your plea. Turned back to you, licked his thumb and swiped off the dirt on your cheek. Pulled you in, against him once more, and pressed a deliberate kiss against your forehead.

It was instinctual, no thought placed behind his action.

He did it because that seemed to be in his nature: to nurture.

“C’mon, the lodge is this way,” he pointed in some direction.

You didn’t bother paying attention, more than willing to follow wherever he led.

“Put this on.” It was not posed as an option, not when the agent tugged off his coat and draped it over your shoulders.

Somewhere along the path, you realised you’d lost your key to your cabin. Your dad carried the other.

Officer Peña offered to take you to him, drinking down in the ski lodge’s bar with the rest of the men.

You shook your head, told him your dad couldn’t see you in that state.

He took you back to his own cabin instead.

Cleaned up your hands, put on the fire, poured you a drink.

Then fucked you into his bed, till you clawed and sobbed around him.

If you don’t love me, Why’d you act it?

Late june brings nothing but gloom.

You get bored quick, no college to fill your days. Pick up extra shifts, hope to combat the empty feeling in your chest with the rush hour traffic that torpedoes it’s way through the cafe.

Friends invite you out, you rarely go. They tease you’re becoming a recluse, and that just makes you want to shut yourself in even more.

Tonight, you’re appeasing them.

Some line dance event, downtown in a bar that’s only gimmick seems to be a worn-down mechanical bull. It’s missing a horn and no one seems to know why.

Truth be told, you don’t want to go.

You want to stuff your face with take-out while you melt into your couch, watching reruns of the first season of Friends and drooling over Joey till you forget about another smooth-talking, raven haired man.

Here you are instead, fighting against the cheesy cowgirl hat till it sits on your head correctly.

In the mirror, it’s still lopsided.

The clock sits at eight forty-seven.

They’re 2 minutes late.

You give up, decide to pretend you want the hat this way. Slip on your jacket, do a sweep around your apartment: windows locked, flat iron off, fridge closed. Grabbing your purse, you unzip it and wrestle around in it’s contents, searching for your keys.

You pull on something and- it’s a pack a gum.

Dive back in, search again.

An empty tube of lipbalm.

Third time’s a charm, you think, and try once more. Something scratches your fingers, coaxes you to tug it out and inspect it.

A broken earring.

A familiar car honk’s outside, you stay frozen in place, staring at the broken hoop and counting one, two, three.

Bile burns the back of your throat.

He opens on the fifth knock.

Any other night, he practically rips the door off it’s hinges and tugs you in, before you can so much as raise your fist for a second knock.

Maybe he was busy, on the toilet or on the phone. You don’t think too much into it.

He steps aside, lets you in. Stands so far away, it’s hard to read his eyes.

The air’s uncomfortably quiet.

You think’s it’s all in your head, self-doubt at an all time high after a bad day.

“My earring snapped today,” there’s a growing pit in your stomach, just from staring at him. He looks so distant, not present. Mind a galaxy away. "Your favourite ones, too. You know, the little hoops with-”

“The hearts dangling from them.” He finishes, on your behalf, and it’s the first green flag you see. Green enough to lull yourself into a faux calm.

The silence returns.

You rock backwards on your heels, glance around the apartment. Try to find what has changed, because this no longer feels like the place you’ve grown so familiar with. And neither does the man observing you from a distance, hands glued to his sides.

He should be touching you by now, in any way he could: his foot bumping against yours under his dining table, his hand trailing patterns over your shoulders as you settle into his side on the couch, his tongue delving between your folds as you lay splayed out on his sheets.

You notice his bedroom door is shut.

It’s never been shut before.

“Is- Am I-” You don’t have to find the words, but the courage to speak them. “Do you have someone over?”

He blinks, slowly.

It’s hard to tell if it’s from guilt.

“Because if you do, that’s fine!” It’s not. “I understand,” You don’t.

He doesn’t answer.

You keep talking.

“Totally chill, I’ll comeback some other night. Or, you can just come by mine! Yeah, actually, that sounds better. Won’t risk interrupting again-”

“This needs to stop.”

You don’t have to question it.

You do, anyway.

“What?”

“Us. This-” He’s pointing between you both, a little haphazardly. It’s like he’s rushing to get the words out, get it over with. Get you out his apartment. “Thing we’re doing. It’s done.”

“I don’t underst-”

He cuts you off with your name. “Why’d you come here tonight?”

He’s stern.

Not in the way that makes you want to bend to his will and indulge in all his sins. But in a way that makes you feel dirty, wrong. A child scorned for touching fire and getting themselves burnt.

“I,” you’re beginning to wish there was someone else in his bed, so she could stroll out of his room in one of his stupidly soft shirts and interrupt this conversation. “Uh, I had a bad day.”

“Okay,” he nods. Smooths a hands over his chin, pops out his hip. “What’s that got anything to do with me?”

Everything, you want to tell him.

For every single thing that went wrong throughout your day, seeing Javi gave you something to look forward to.

“I just thought-”

“You thought, what?” His face twists up, just like your insides. He’s angry and you’re the one to blame. “This isn’t a- I’m not your boyfriend.”

I know, you mouth.

Because you do know. Repeat it to yourself all the time.

When he calls to make sure you got home safe.

When you sneak off to pee in the middle of the night and are welcomed back to bed with a forceful tug into his chest, a sleepy, gruffed out ‘where’d you go?’ whispered into your neck.

When he picks up on the things you say, remembers silly things like your favourite toilet paper brand and the exact milk to cereal ratio you enjoy.

Javier Peña is not your boyfriend.

So why does he act like it?

“Look, kid, you’re young, and I know-”

Kid.

That makes you angry.

He wasn’t calling you kid when he bent you over your parents’ bathroom counter.

“Don’t call me kid.”

“And I know,” he pushes through your protest, keeps up the distance. “This can be a lot at your age. Don’t blame you for getting caught up. But whatever you think you’re feeling for me, it’s not-”

“Is this about the p-” The word won’t come out of you, so your change the verbiage. “The hospital? Because I told you, Javi. We’ve been safe. Safer than a pair of purity-ring wearing teenagers-”

“No, this is about me needing to do the right-”

At this point, you’re just interrupting one another.

Fighting to get in the next word, frowning at what you do hear.

He tilts his head back and pinches the bridge of his nose, a groan leaving his cracked lips. You’d imagined him doing that tonight, but not like this.

Eventually, the back-and-forth stops.

Silence.

You take the lead.

“So, what? That’s it just... over?”

“I told you, corazón mía (my heart),” he can’t meet your eyes. “Made it clear from the start I wasn’t looking for anything serious.”

“I know,” you heave in a breath, hold back a sob. “But if it wasn’t serious, why’d you treat me like it was?”

It takes him a few minutes to answer. There’s a twitch, in his hand, reaching up only to drop back down at his side.

Usually, he wipes your tears before they get chance to fall.

The rug at your feet turns darker with each wet spot that drops.

“I got caught up,” his eyes seem so sad, so lost. Staring across the ocean of his living room, searching for a lighthouse to pull him safe to shore. But he won’t let you be that. “In the way you deserve to be treated, instead of some sleazy secret.”

He breathes out your name, the most painful melody you’ve ever heard.

“This has to end,” you’re unsure if it’s only you he’s attempting to convince. “Before someone gets hurt.”

Too late, you want to say.

You’re already being torn apart by his hands, and he’s standing ten feet away.

“Corazón, I’m so sor-”

The car honks, again.

You breathe in, and find it’s hard, snot piling up in your nose and tears splashing down your cheers.

Another honk.

You never make it to the line dance.

You curl in on yourself, instead, and fall asleep to the sound of Joey and Chandler’s bickering.

Love’s a verb And not a bandage

In retrospect, it’s hard to tell where the lines begin to blur.

A promise of casual, turned into something fragile.

Whenever you think about it, for too long, your mind carries you back to the same night. A few months after Vermont, you don’t recall the exact date.

All you remember is a pounding at your front door.

1 am. Too late to be causing ruckus.

You nearly trip over discarded shoes, curse earlier-you for assuming you would remember their existence. Undo the bolt, grab the key and then-

Pause.

This could be anyone, anything.

You check the peephole, find exactly who you were hoping for.

He’s on you like a moth to a flame, pressing you flush against him the instant he can fit through the crack in your doorway. Mouth on mouth, hands on waist. The door thuds as he closes it behind you both, you’re too distracted to notice.

You let him invade your senses.

Smell his aged leather and nicotine thrill. Feel his strong arms and bulging crotch. Hear his laboured breaths and muttered pleasantries. Taste his whiskey tongue and metallic lips-

You pull back. He follows.

It’s flattering, his inability to get enough of you, but you halt him nonetheless.

Cup his cheeks, pull down his face, and stare.

“My dad finally figure out who those panties in your glove-box belong to, Peña?” It’s meant to be a joke.

There’s nothing funny about his bleeding lip and split eyebrow.

He graces no response, dives back into you and submerses himself in your touch. Kisses you slow, with deliverance, his final mission to arrest all your sense of self till you turn yourself in to his embrace.

Only as you pass by those discarded shoes do you realise he’s inching you both deeper into the dark of your apartment.

This time, you do trip over them.

It’s okay though, Javi’s there to catch you.

He finds refuge in your neck, burrowing in deep, mouthing at the skin like a dog does a wound. Your arm shoots out to find a light-switch. A warm glow fills the apartment, bathing you both in an orange hue.

The gold of his skin shines brighter.

The red on his skin appears darker.

“What happened to you?” You don’t need to worry about him. And, yet, doing so comes naturally.

“S’not important,” it’s spoken against your skin, as if he intends to seep his gravelled tone into your pores and have it grow a new life for itself within you. A gentle scraping of his teeth sends a shiver down your spine. “I’ll tell you later.”

Later with Javi never seems to come.

‘If you’re not busy, I’ll make you dinner later.’

‘Keep it up and I’ll be fucking that attitude out of you later.’

‘I’ll get these back to you later.’

He’d never made you that dinner.

He’d dragged you into the station’s bathrooms and fucked the attitude out of you only seconds after.

You’d never gotten those panties back.

You decide to grant him no time for later. Shove him down into a seat at your dining table-for-two. Roll your eyes as he asks if you’re “gonna put on a show for me, corazón?”

The makeshift first-aid kit put together by your mother resides at the back of a cupboard, hidden by mugs and cups. It takes several minutes and a smashed glass to manoeuvre it out. You step over the pieces of glass and head straight back to the table, dumping out the contents.

You click your tongue, point your finger. He scoots the chair back from the table and you slip between the space. Press back against the surface, stand between his parted knees and do your best to not look down at the jeans that grant him no modesty.

Distractions are not welcomed, your patient needs tending to.

He’s insisting he’s okay, yet he’s hissing when you dab at the tears in his flesh with betadine. His hands find a place upon your hips and give a tight squeeze as you press butterfly stitches to his no-longer bleeding brow.

“I,” he starts up, an indefinite time of silence passing between you both. He shakes his head.“It’s stupid.”

“Javi,” you stroke your finger over his jaw, tilt his head back to meet your eyes. “The less you tell me, the more I’ll worry.”

It does the trick, unlocks his tongue.

“I was just wanting one drink, was gonna head home... Or to you, after. I had a shitty day at work and... You probably don’t care about that,” he has no idea you’ll hang onto those words for the weeks to come, wondering how to lighten his workload, ease his tension. “Heard some loud-mouth kid beside me at the bar, he was talking to this girl. She gets up to leave, he follows. I was just gonna go back to nursing my drink but-”

He hisses.

You’re pressing too hard on his fragile lip.

There’s no malice in his eyes as you pull your hand back, only soft and tender. He must sense your remorse for hurting him, chasing after your fingers and grazing a gentle kiss upon them.

A splotch of red stains your skin.

“Corazón,” he croons, shifts himself closer to you. His hands grip the backs of your exposed thighs, his chin presses into your lower stomach. A few movie-strand hairs cover the molten brown eyes that stare up at you. “You’re exhausted. Vamos, basta de preocuparte (C'mon, stop worrying), I’m fine. I just wanna crawl into your tiny bed so I can wake up to your bedhead and more back pains.”

It’s a tempting offer, and one you’ve given into far too many times acceptable for the casual agreement you both share.

A deep breath. Your hand lands on his cheek, his eyes flutter shut.

There’s bags under them. Heavy, dark. Bearing the exhaustion he hides behind charming winks and dashing smiles. Your thumb grazes over one and you ache to give him the rest he deserves, the rest his body craves.

“But, what?” You persist, pleading for him to continue his story.

Javi sighs, gives in.

He always gives in, to you, eventually.

“I just- I don’t know, it’s crazy, but I kept thinking of you,” his eyes reopen, sorrow buried deep in his soul and a worry-line etched into his brow. “In that bar. Alone, in Vermont, when you...”

He doesn’t finish his sentence.

He doesn’t need to.

“So what did you do?” It’s best to keep him talking, drag his mind away from whatever dark thoughts those memories bring up.

“I followed them outside,” he admits with a tinge of shame. “Tried to be subtle about it. Lit a cigarette, took a few drags, scoped out the street. Neither of them were around,” you’ve long abandoned the first aid kit, transfixed by the tight grip he holds you in, his hands smoothing up and down the backs of your thighs in an attempt to soothe himself. “I thought I’d maybe read into it wrong. Maybe she was into him, and they’d got a cab back to her place. Or his.”

He’s rambling.

Stumbling through words he deems unimportant, rushing to push out the thoughts that clog up his brain pipes.

You listen closely, swallow up every morsel he offers.

“It was just as I turned to go back inside that I heard something,” his hands no longer dance over your skin. They sit stagnant, halfway up your thigh, fingers flexed and nails digging into flesh. He’s burying himself into any part of you he can, rooting himself in your solid figure. “Rustling, or something. Coming from the alley. And I just... I felt my stomach drop. Followed after it. Found them, him-”

He chokes.

On his words, on his breath, on his failure.

You run a hand through his curls, soothe the lines off his face.

Bend down, drag him up, press your lips to the arc of his nose.

“Didn’t think, I just dragged him off. Punched him, a few times. Felt his nose crack under my fist.” He’s still pushing through, his earlier unwillingness to talk now a streaming fountain you can’t switch off. “I must’ve tripped on some glass, lost my balance. Gave him the space to get a few hits in, and-”

“Did you arrest him?” You cut him off.

He nods.

“Did you help her?”

Another nod.

“Did you get her someplace safe?”

This time, a reply.

“An officer checked her in at the hospital, stayed till her friend arrived.”

“Then Javi,” you make a point of saying his name, remind him of who he is when he’s not on duty. Not parading around with a badge and a gun, and answering to Officer Peña. The shift in his stare tells you it helps. “You did enough.”

A weight slips off his shoulders and he slumps further into you, eyes squeezing shut.

“I didn’t,” frustration steals the show, coursing through his voice.

“What more could you have done?”

“I don’t know... I could’ve-” He groans, like something pains him, and purses his lips. “I should’ve helped her sooner. Followed them, the minute they left. Shouldn’t have let...” A whiff of whiskey reaches your nostrils. Javi pulls you in tighter, breathes in the mixture of sleep-sweat and lingering cologne on the shirt you wear- Pink, the top buttons undone, left behind by him. “Shouldn’t have let you go out alone.”

You whine out his name.

The air is miserable, dragging through your lungs and staining them.

The chair creeks at the loss of his weight, knees straightening him up to his full height. Instinctually, you lean back into the table, head tilting to meet his broken eyes.

He’s searching for comfort, in the only way he knows how.

Slap a bandage over a bullet-hole, place a kiss upon his gaping-heart.

“Not everything about that night was so bad,” you play into his game, splay a hand upon his shirt. Trace a finger over a stained blood spot. “If I hadn’t gone out, then maybe we wouldn’t be...”

The words catch in your throat.

Partially because you don’t know what you are anymore. Boundaries crossed, lines blurring. Hands that hold and eyes that linger. Too close to be nothing, too reckless to be something.

But mostly because he kisses you.

Desperate, hungry. Groaning into your willing mouth.

He’s a man on a mission, to consume your soul right out your willing body. Unravelling you where you stand, he takes pleasure in peeling his shirt off you.

Hot mouth to hot skin, the tip of his tongue meeting the peak of your breasts. Your hands pull at his hair and he grips at your waist.

The descent into madness is quick, bodies melting together in a dance that’s unique, improvised, and yet always in sync.

He tugs at your panties and you undo his belt. He hooks your thigh over his hip and you anchor yourself to his chest. He teases you with a pinch to your clit and you torture him as you cup his heavy balls.

When Javi fucks you, he fucks with purpose.

The table thuds and scrapes along the floor with each punctuated thrust he gives, driving his cock deeper and deeper into your welcoming cunt, the coarse hairs at its base gifting you the occasional thrill of friction on your aching clit.

He’s slurring out curses and pet-names, lavishing you with delightful proclaims of what a pretty girl you are when you 'shut up and take my cock'.

When he does manage a full sentence of logical wording, his forehead’s pressed to your shoulder, his cum coats your thighs and the sweat between your frantic bodies holds you both together.

“There’s not a universe where this doesn’t happen, corazón,” you feel him softening against your thigh, yet you still delight as he drags a finger coated in his own spend up your folds. “Want you too damn much to miss out on you.”

Curling up into your bed that feels too big these days, you grip at the pink shirt and wonder when that changed.

When did Javier Peña stop wanting you?

And I’m spiritual cleansing (but the truth) Is I’m good at pretending (oh and you)

By July, things change.

The stud in your nose is traded out for a silver ring.

The lonely nights in your apartment turn into stumbling back home from some nameless club in the early hours.

Boredom leads to hobbies.

At first, you try pottery.

Four plates broken and a crumbled mug later, you put on your dance shoes.

Slip. Almost break your arm. Wrestle with the doom placed on your budding dance career. Throw out the dancing shoes, bring home running shoes.

You hate it, running.

You sweat, you ache, you exhaust.

But when you’re gasping for a breath and your feet pound into concrete ground, you don’t think about it.

The heartache.

The headache.

The agent.

You drop a few pounds, tone up your muscles. Watch your body’s shape outgrow your wardrobe, investing in a new one while clinging onto the items you love too much to lose.

Like the dress that now rests just below your ass, instead of it’s usual place mid-thigh. Or the sweater that once hung loose, that now hugs new curves and creases. The jeans that were tight now sliding off your hips.

The pink shirt still lives on one of your hangers.

But you’re not thinking about it, or it’s previous owner.

Not right now.

Now, you’re balling your fists and counting your breaths. Music blasting through your headphones, sweat dancing on your forehead.

The sun is warm on your back, even as it makes way for night to begin. This is the best time to run, dusk, you’ve discovered.

No kids loitering on park grounds, no threat brought on by the dark, no slow-walking pedestrians crossing your path.

You run your self-made circuit with freedom, switching off all your senses and emptying your mind.

Today, however, it’s more challenging.

The thought of him creeps through, no matter the effort you put in to fight it. Your father’s the one to blame.

You have to come, kiddo.

The phone-call still echos through your thoughts.

Because it wouldn’t be the same without you there.

You’d wanted a better explanation than that.

Then, you tried some lame excuse of already having plans.

You had no plans.

Bring your friends then! The more the merrier!

You nearly groaned out loud at his enthusiasm, but held back. Your father’s light didn’t deserve to be dampened by your shadow.

C’mon, kiddo! I’ve not hosted the annual barbecue since you were still wearing your braces!

You bit your tongue. Fought against telling him that, back then, there were no pretty-eyed, heart-breaking agents for you to worry about.

The whole station’s gonna be there, you have to come!

He said it, like that would persuade you.

Keep asking about ya, the whole lot of them.

The more he spoke, the less you wanted to go.

Just last night Javi was asking how you’re doing!

You’d hung up.

Immediately.

Called back, 3 minutes later. Mumbled an apology and an excuse- I lost signal!- and ultimately agreed to going to the damn barbecue.

Now, you run from the phone call, from the impending doom it brings.

All this heartache and pain, it’s not good for the soul.

Of course, being dumped is a lot easier when the person isn’t your dad’s closest confidant.

It gets hard to breath. Each pound against concrete shakes the cassette player glued to your hip. There’s a sting of tears in your eyes.

Until you come to a screeching halt.

Double over.

Place your hands on your knees.

Dry heave.

You pay no mind to the figure sitting a few feet away on a bench.

Nor to the dog that’s chasing it’s ball back forth between it’s owner’s throws.

You let the sadness flood your soul, deflate you like some discarded party-balloon.

You’ll have to see him.

Spend time near him.

Watch him laugh, and smile, and share beers with your father.

It’s unfair, and you hate him for putting you through this.

For not quitting the force.

For being your dad’s friend.

For not wanting you the same you wanted him.

Want him.

You wipe your face with the back of your hand. Try to stand up straight, get lost in the knots you’d tied into your laces. Sloppy and uneven.

You’re usually more careful.

You catch, in your peripheral, the figure on the bench move. Take it as your sign to compose yourself, get over yourself.

You pick your pace back up.

Manage only a handful-or-two steps.

Your feet fly out in front of you.

Land ass-first on the gravel below.

Beneath the sounds of Olivia Newton-John demanding you get physical, you hear a muffled sorry! yelled out. Spot as the dog rushes to grab it’s ball, halfway down the path thanks to your kick.

You groan and prepare to get back on your feet.

You’re met with a hand in your face, palm open and waiting for you to accept the open offer. You take it, no hesitation.

Big mistake.

The hand tugs you.

You glance up.

And meet the eyes of Javier Peña.

“Easy, tiger,” he coughs up a laugh, like you don’t wind him as you slam into him, full-body force, nerves on fire and all systems shutting down. “You trying to break my ribs?”

It’s no less than you deserves, you think.

And instantly regret it, heart turning blue at the thought of him hurt at your hand.

You take a few steps back, create a safe distance where you can’t smell the remnants of his last cigarette or count the eyelashes that line his eyes.

He asks you how you’ve been, and tries his best to smile.

It comes off as awkward. A crooked line across his lips.

You try to remember the last time he smiled at you and meant it.

You come up empty handed.

Maybe it was back in April. A hospital hallway, one hand clasping yours, the other peeling through the leafs of some medical pamphlet.

Or, was it after, on the drive home, back to his apartment, hand still holding yours while the other spun the wheel?

There’s a vague memory that toils in the depth of your mind.

Sharing an elevator, your heels in his hand, his lips on your forehead.

Wedding attire, a post-party glow.

It’s toyed with you since you woke up in that hotel room, driven half-mad by an image you can’t quite form of him tucking you into bed.

Had he smiled, then?

Had he even been there?

Or was he merely a product of martinis and negronnis-

His fingers grasp your chin, no warning, and tilt your face.

His eyes don’t greet your own. Instead, they’re focused on the centre of your face, inspecting you like a piece of evidence.

“Hmm,” he’s so close, you smell the mint of freshly bitten gum on his breath. Dart your eyes down, catch the glint of his badge poking out his pocket.

He’s still on duty, a tailored uniform contrasting the hair roused by stress. Maybe at his desk, in the office next to your father’s, hands running through his tresses to express frustrations, tensions.

Were they his own hands, or someone with longer, brightly painted nails? Your stomach turns at the thought, your loins warm at the memory of writhing in his desk chair, legs thrown over his shoulders whilst his own dug into the ground below, eager to please mouth and a happy to taste tongue working you to a orgasm muffled by your own hand.

He’d slapped your ass, kissed your cheek and sent you out his office door, wiping your own wetness off your cheek just in time to greet your father.

“You suit the ring,” his voice and a gentle breeze bring you back to the present. To the park. To the heavy feeling that hangs between you both. “I prefer it to that stud.”

“I- What?” Confussion.

You furrow your brow, wipe your sweaty palms over your thighs.

He just smiles, still crookedly, and brings his hand up to your nose.

Adjusts your piercing, swipes his thumb over your cheek.

It’s hard to breath, but you do it anyway.

Thank him, in a struggle to find your voice, with a whisper.

His eyes bore into your own, chase them as you look off to the side, watch the dog still chasing it’s ball and failing to catch it.

You wonder if it’s a cruel metaphor sent by the universe, a symbol of you and Javi.

And then you wonder if you’re the dog or the ball.

Or both.

“You never answered me,” his voice, honey, sweet on your ears. It melts away your other senses, turns you blind to anything other than him. “I want to hear how you’ve be-”

“Peña, if you don’t report your skinny ass to my office in 5 minutes and share a celebratory drink with me, I’m putting you on cleaning duties at our next poker night.”

A static-filled voice blares out his walkie-talkie.

Your father’s voice.

It’s enough to set things right, force your body to retreat from his.

He’s not your Javi anymore, desperate to hear about your day and kiss any aches away.

He’s Peña, your dad’s best friend, meant for nothing more than to be a passing figure in your life.

His eyes are heavy with emotion as he fishes out the device.

Maybe it’s sadness you see.

There’s definitely remorse.

Guilt, too.

“We... Your dad caught the guy that’s been breaking into college girls’ apartments.” He tells you, shares information that should help you sleep better at night. You’ve not done that since the last time he lay next to you. You watch him press down on the call button, hold the speaker up to his mouth. “Do that and I’ll shit in your shower, pendejo (asshole).”

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d commit an indecency within your parent’s bathroom.

But none of that matter, anymore.

You’re already walking away.

Wringing your hands and hoping the tension in your limbs falls out.

He calls out your name, loudly.

Attracts the nosy eyes of people around.

People who know fine well who your father is, who Javier is.

You turn in time to see him half-jog, half-pace his way over to you.

He reaches out for your hand.

And quickly gives up on the thought of holding it.

“I’ll, um,” his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, grinds his teeth in an attempt to say something. “I’ll see you at the barbecue, right?”

He knows the answer.

You still give him it, “yes.”

Smile, uncomfortably brightly, before you turn and walk away once more.

You feel his eyes on you.

And pray he takes no notice of the sob that shakes your shoulders.

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

You’re laughing but it’s mostly fake.

A courtesy, a polite gesture. A signal that you’re still listening, despite tuning out her voice five minutes ago.

She’s a nice lady, someone who works alongside your father. Specialised in forensics, she balances the darkness of her job with the brightness of her wardrobe.

Today, she’s paired a lemon-yellow skirt with a vibrantly orange camisole. She looks like a walking cheese cube.

You’ve known her since you were a kid, even if you can’t remember. She claims you used to stand on her desk, make a big spectacle out of nearly matching your dad’s height.

You’d got to talking to her after she helped you wipe ketchup off your chin.

That was half an hour ago, and the discomfort of wanting to be anywhere but here is finally settling in.

It’s not her fault. You know.

She’s not the one who roped you into going to this barbecue.

Your dad is.

And right now he’s stood on the other side of his backyard, half-drunken beer bottle in one hand and Javier Peña’s shoulder clapped under the other.

Even from here, you can hear him bragging.

So then Peña’s on his ass.

Chases this guy, whilst he’s driving down the street!

Catches him at an intersection, physically rips him out the car.

All while the man in question shrugs, sheepish. Dismisses your father’s praising.

He’s exaggerating.

The guy was barely going 5 miles an hour!

He stepped out the vehicle at his own will.

Sweat lines his forehead, shirt-sleeves hug his biceps, joy wrinkles his eyes.

He’s happy, at ease. Enjoying himself, in a way he was always meant to.

Something about him fits so perfectly in this picture: laughing with your father, complimenting your mother, playing fetch with your dog.

If you step inside the frame, it cracks.

Shatters.

And maybe he knows that.

Knew it all along.

Broke things off before you could try find a frame large enough to fit you all in.

And, though it hurts, you see why things had to end between you and feel relieved it happened before it was too late.

The feeling lasts all but four seconds.

“Kiddo!”

Your father’s voice is obnoxiously loud. Several of the party-goers turn their heads, follow his line of sight. Spot you, frozen in place, glass full of watered down lemonade and a belly full of dread.

It takes a moment, but you wave.

“Come over ‘ere!”

Not the response you were hoping for.

Still, you do as he asks. Smile at your mother, shuffle your feet, make your way across the yard. Do everything in your power to not look at Javi.

Even if the weight of his stare threatens to crumble you.

“You having a good time?” Your dad’s got this smile, big and dopy and oh so caring, that you can’t bring yourself to ruin with the truth.

“I’m having a great time,” you barely manage out before he’s squeezing you into his side.

The condensation on his bottle of beer seeps through the shoulder of your top, his arm secured safely around you.

He must be tipsy already, a buzz in his veins making him more affectionate than normal.

“I can’t believe it,” he laments, speaking to no one in particular.

In your peripheral, you fail to ignore tight jeans and a loose-fitting shirt.

It’s hardly buttoned, the top three undone and leaving a golden plain on display.

Perhaps you’re going crazy but he seems thinner, skin drawn a little tighter against his ribcage.

It’s not a sight you want to see.

It fills you with dread.

Pulling you out of your own head, you father continues to drone on.

“My little girl’s spreading her wings soon, going on her first adult holiday to-”

“London.”

Javi’s voice, interrupting your father, finishing his sentence.

All eyes snap to him.

Your own, wide and panicked. Scared. Trying so hard to dismiss how intensely he’s staring back you.

Your mother’s, amused and curious. Flicking back and forth between his face and her husband’s.

Your father, confused and perplexed, “I- Yeah...” He speaks slow and the arm on your shoulder slips down. “How’d you know?”

“I’ve been, you know?” Two hands dance in front of you, somewhere in the dark, intwining and unwinding. It’s a nervous habit, of Javi’s. You welcome the contact of soothing touches. “To London.”

That peaks your interest.

Enough to shift positions. Rip your hand out his own, roll onto your side and rest a hand under your propped up head. Your other, inevitably, finds its way upon his warm chest, rests over his no-longer-racing heartbeat.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’ve been a few times, actually. I’ve got some friends out there.”

With Javi, friends could mean anything.

A fellow agent, a government official, a moonlight lover.

For all you know, this friend could be the Queen of England.

So it’s best you don’t inquire on it.

“Where do you recommend I visit then, Mr. Bond?”

“Mr... Bond?”

The room is dark, but you still notice the furrow in his brow.

You can practically hear it, in his voice.

“You know, like James Bond.” That’s the thing about jokes, explaining them makes you realise how dumb they are. “‘Cause you were an agent and you like London, and he’s an agent in Lon-”

He cuts you off in the way you like best: his mouth against yours.

The kiss is brief, and leads no place further than the simple act of wanting to silence you.

And, though it goes unaddressed, because it’s been too long since he’d last done it.

Even if he’d done so less than an hour ago, naked bodies intertwined on ruffled bedsheets.

“That was the worst pun I’ve ever heard, corazón,” somehow, the words don’t bruise your ego.

Instead, they make you giggle and burrow your heated face into the crook of his neck.

His lips press against your hairline before speaking again.

“I’d need to write you a list of places to go, too many for me to pick one.”

“Maybe I need a tour guide,” a hand of his greets your back, strokes soothing motions back and forth. It’s lulling you to sleep, at last. “Y’know, show me all the places a real Londoner goes.”

“I could,” he pauses. Clears his throat. Pulls you a little tighter against him, till your limbs are tangled and it’s hard to tell where he stops and you start. “I could check my calendar. See how many holiday days I’ve got left. Could come with you, to London, if you want me there.”

It’s too late though.

You’re already snoring against his skin.

“How does he know?” Your mother shatters the silence, tone incredulous. “I mean, seriously, are you blind!?”

For a minute, it feels like she knows.

She knows why Javi knows.

You should be panicking.

Both of you should.

Should look away from one another, should wipe the guilt off your faces, should already be working on some excuse for when your mother exposes what once was between you.

But you aren’t. Neither of you are.

You’re just staring at each other, as if you’re working to commit each other’s face to memory.

“He knows because you won’t shut up about it!”

Your dad gives an unceremonious oh.

Your mom rolls her eyes.

Javi takes a sip of beer and looks off to the side, eyes breaking contact from your own at last.

“Ok but,” your father’s back to talking before you can fully work up the courage to leave. At least that’s the excuse you try give yourself, anything to distract from Javi. “I bet I’ve not told you what she’s decided to do on her travels!”

“You have,” your mother’s tone is pointed.

Javi laughs, sputters up a little beer back into the bottle. Tilts his head back, accepts his own backwash.

There’s a worn-out cigarette box squeezed tight inside the front pocket of his jeans.

You try ignore the fact he’d promised you he was working on quitting.

“Shh,” your father waves a hand in your mother’s face, dismisses her teasing with a playful wink.

Pulls her close, kisses her shoulder.

Gives both you and Javi a display of what a relationship is.

Open, celebrated, acknowledged.

Not secretive, dirty, scandalous.

Javi cuts the tension with a chuckle and a gentle shove to your father’s arm.

As his hand retreats back to his side, his knuckles brush your skin.

“She’s gonna get herself a christmas-tree decoration every holiday,” your father reveals. You’re frozen at the fact he even remembers you mentioning it. “What was it you said again, kiddo? So in the future, when you’re decorating the tree with your kids, you’ll think of the places you’ve been and tell them all about it?”

Your heart drops.

Javi’s seems to do the same.

For a moment, you worry he’s stopped breathing.

Till his chest rises and falls, no thanks to your father’s stupid rambling about you, and the future, and kids.

“Uh, yeah,” the ground can’t swallow you sooner. You’re already planning your exit, from this conversation and, hopefully, this party as a whole. Your dad’ll understand. You just need to tell him something came up. Or came out. Tell him you’ve got food poison. Blame it on some dodgy take-out the night before. “Something like that.”

But I’m actually bloody Motherfucking batshit crazy

There are moments in one’s life where they must question their own sanity.

You’ve lived plenty of such moments.

But none quite like right now, half-crouched in the middle of a grocery store aisle, peeping into the next one through a gap between two cereal boxes on the shelf.

And all because you heard his voice.

“This is what you’re craving?” Through the crack, you see him wave about something in his hand. It’s hard to see what exactly he’s holding, though.

He’s facing a woman.

She’s pretty.

With dirty blonde hair, piercing blue eyes that not even the shelves and produce between you both can block the shine of.

And a well-rounded belly.

“No, Javi, this,” she doesn’t say his name the same way you do- did. There’s a jovial tone, but there’s no awe, no seduction. Maybe that’s just what your bias hears. “Is what the baby is craving.”

You’ve never seen her before.

Not on the mantel of photos that line Javier’s television. Not at any of the station thrown parties. Not in his wallet, tucked behind the picture of his mom.

She’s a total stranger, to you.

But that doesn’t mean she’s a stranger to him.

A very pregnant, non-stranger.

“We gotta get this kid some better taste.”

His hand rests on her bump.

She welcomes it, placing her own against it to hold him in place.

The image of the American dream, a beautiful woman and a handsome man. The promise of a child, soon, half her and half him.

The blood drains from your face. There’s a lump in your throat and a sting in your eyes.

You won’t let it fester.

Take deep breaths, pretend there’s no shake in your exhales.

It’s not enough to stop the vicious thoughts that sink their jagged ends into the soft tissues of your brain.

Was she the reason things between you and him ended?

Had he got her pregnant, decided to stand by her, and found love along the way?

Was he with her, all along, while he was with...

Surely, he couldn’t have.

But, then, why couldn’t he have?

You were never exclusive.

You were never anything.

“Did-” Somewhere, between the aisles, Javi speaks in amazement. The smile is practically dripping off his words. “Did it just kick?”

Your heart’s palpitating.

Your hands are sweating so badly, they threaten to drop the box of Cap'n Crunch in their grasp.

Jealousy turns to misplaced anger, irrational in every form but impossible to conform.

Because, how could he do this to you?

Make a mockery of you, turn you into the other woman?

Love you so deeply and leave you so easily?

Settle down with this woman and her baby, yet run from you at the first scare of a-

“He’s a real kicker, ain’t he?”

At first, you think it’s spoken to you.

But, no, it’s too distant. Too far.

A third person enters your view through the window in the shelf.

He’s handsome, in the typical sense.

Blonde haired, a nice smile.

There’s a little girl in his arms, resting on his hip, half asleep and clinging to a worn-out giraffe doll.

“He?” It’s Javi who echoes.

“Don’t get him started,” the woman seems to beg, rolling her eyes.

The man nods, pride on his face, “I’m telling ya, Peña, it’s gonna be a boy. It needs to be a boy, ‘else I’m gonna be overrun by little girls.”

The woman must give him a pointed look, or a gentle nudge, for not two seconds later he’s following his words up with a tickle to the sleepy girl’s side and “little girls who I love very much.” Pause. He leans closer to Javier, hand covering one side of his mouth as if to block the woman and the child from hearing him. “I still want a son, though.”

“Olivia,” the pregnant woman strokes a hand over the little girl's head, coxing her to keep her eyes open. It’s hard to tell if there’s a drool mark on the man’s shoulder. “Why don’t you show uncle Javi your favourite toy?”

The bile in your throat burns more than ever before.

The misplaced anger bleeds into sadness, shame, embarrassment.

Here you are, going stir-crazy over a man who never wanted much of you in the first place, raising your heart-rate at the thought of him moving on from something that never even existed.

And there he is, fine as can be- in every sense of the word-, sharing laughs and exchanging smiles with old friends in the grocery store.

Friends his own age.

Worlds apart, yet nothing but a shelf between you.

Through the gap, you watch him lean down to the little girl’s eye-level. A twinkle in his eye, he happily tugs at the stuffed giraffe’s tail.

“Glad you liked it, Olive,” curse him, and his soft voice, and his gentle touch and his everything, for still forcing you to swoon over him, knees weak and ovaries treacherously screaming. “I had to go all the way to Africa to find him.”

The little girl perks right up at that.

Eyes widened, head off her father’s shoulder.

“Really?!” She’s amazed, and how could she not be? Javier Peña is beaming at her, ear to ear.

“Mhmm,” he nods, feeds into his own lie, ignoring the disapproving looks from the other man. “If you’re lucky, maybe I’ll go back next year and get you a zebra.”

“Quit lying to my kid, Peña.”

Javi, undeterred from keeping the little girl’s smile, rolls his eyes and pokes his tongue out at her father, huffing under his breath “Your dad’s a right grump, Olive.”

You begin to wonder how long Javi’s known this couple, how he knows this couple.

“Just wait till you’ve got your own kid and I’m feeding it lies.” The man punctuates his empty threat with a dull punch to Javi’s forearm. Javi barely flinches, unfazed. “Speaking of, when are you making me uncle Steve?”

In sync and apart, you and him both physically freeze.

Your breathing stops.

Javier stands up straight. Rolls his shoulders, scratches at the back of his neck, clears his throat and, “not any time soon.”

“Really? What about that girl you’ve been seeing, the-”

“That- We- It didn’t work out, we wanted,” you begin to see cracks in his facade. Fake laugh, solemn eyes. “Different things... I want, wanted to settle down but, yeah, no it was for her best that we-”

“Sorry, can I just,” your heart jumps in your chest, flying back so quickly from your peep-hole that you nearly knock over the person behind you. “Grab one of those?”

You nod, gain composure, watch the stranger pick up a box of cereal off the shelf.

They walk away and you’re left alone, again.

Your eyes flicker up to the shelf and-

He’s no longer standing on the other side.

You turn on your heel, ignoring your half-filled cart and book it out of the store before you fall apart.

Try as you might, you can’t shake off the weight of his stare as you pass by the check-out.

I kept it in, but it wrecked my organs So pour the gin and call Graham Norton

You wake up early.

You tell yourself it’s because you’re seizing the day.

Making the most out of your time upon foreign land.

The early bird gets the worm, and all that proverbial bullshit.

The truth lies in that you can not sleep.

Jetlag. Your body clock is at odds with the timezone.

Which lands you here: strolling upon the cobbled streets of Notting Hill.

A quarter past six.

Its barely light out, the sun still fighting to rise over the horizon and the streetlights still shadow your every step.

Colourful houses, cosy shops, a melodic thud each time your feet meet the ground.

It’s picturesque, straight out of a romantic comedy.

Yet, somehow, you’ve never felt more gloom.

In the silent bustle of a city awakening to a new day, you’re startled.

Trip over a cobble, nearly meet the floor, and just about save yourself from rolling your ankle.

Your ringtone is the culprit.

Loud, imposing. It scares a flock of birds off a wire and gains you a stare from a man stepping out his home.

Scrambling to get the clunky cellphone out your bag, you spare the screen a fleeting glance.

You question if it’s one of your friends, awakened back in your shared hotel room to find you’re not there, and press the green button.

“Corazón.”

It’s funny how one word can drain the blood from your face.

You swallow the lump in your throat, made of equal parts anger and sadness.

Anger that this is the first time you’ve heard Javier Peña’s voice in nearly two months.

Sadness that it sounds so broken down the line.

“I- Shit, I can’t tell if I’ve even dialled the right number...” He’s muttering in your ear, confused and at odds with himself, mouth a fountain his thoughts pour out of. “... Probably changed it or- Can she even receive calls all the way in-”

“I’m here,” it’s only a whisper.

It’s enough to shut him up.

Silence rings down the line, a static buzz that reminds you of the distance between you.

“You’re in London,” he states.

“I am,” you affirm.

He hums, sips something.

Ice clinks against glass, and you feel a little sick.

“How have-” His voice sounds strange. Muffled. Different. Maybe it’s the poor connection. “Was your flight okay?”

“Yeah,” you spare him the details.

The truth.

The boredom, the turbulence. The fact you’re dreading the flight home.

“I’m glad,” he sighs the words out, worry going with them. “Know you’re not the biggest fan of planes, kept thinking of you alone and afraid on it.”

“I wasn’t alone,” it’s defensive, and ironic.

You sure felt alone.

“That’s right, corazón, you weren’t,” something slips, rolls, smashes. Glass shatters and is met with cursing anger, an oh, shit! followed up by hollow laughter. “You’re never alone.”

“Are you...” The street’s a little brighter, a few cars have begun to back out of driveways and you’re still there, frozen in the middle of the street, phone pressed to your ear. “Drunk?”

“No, I’m javi.” If his laughter is anything to go by, he thinks himself the comic of the century. “Had a few drinks with your dad, sweetheart, that’s all.”

For a moment, it feels like you shouldn’t be here, in London.

You should be home, in Laredo, dragging a drunken Javi to bed.

Stripping him of his clothes, kissing his rosied cheeks, urging him to go to sleep. Leaving him a pair of painkillers and a glass of water for his breakfast before curling yourself into his soft arms.

You blink, and feel the familiar weight of a tear on your lashes.

“Why’d you call me, Javi?” It’s a desperate plea.

For answers, for clarity, for closure

“I wanted to hear your voice,” that’s too vague of an answer, too unfair of an answer. Your heart swells nonetheless. “Wanted to go to London, with you. I should be there.”

“It’s your fault,” that’s as cruel as you can bring yourself to be towards him.

Even then, it kills you to do so.

“’S half my fault. Joder (fuck),” you can picture him, leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. You wonder how much he’s drank, and if he spoke to any women. Maybe he took one home, fucked her nice and good before dialling your number. “Wanted to give you my answer, too.”

Someone bumps your shoulder on the street, walking past you.

You pay them no mind, vision blurred to the world around you.

“What answer?”

“Where you should visit, Mrs. Bond,” he says it, like it doesn’t send you into cardiac arrest.

You miss the nights like that one, tangled in your bed, smelling him on your sheets and feeling him against your skin.

He’d woken up first the next day, coaxed you out of bed with the promise of homemade pancakes and his head between your legs.

“There’s this little bar in Inslington, called the Distillery Club. The owner, he makes his own gin. You like gin, don’t you, corazón?” You nod, and it’s almost like he feels it. “It doesn’t look like much from the outside. Or the inside, either. But it’s some of the best gin I’ve ever had, in the greatest company.”

You try to picture him, sat amongst friends you’ve never met. Friends who don’t know your dad.

You try to picture yourself, next to him, scooting your bar stool closer to his.

The image doesn’t quite form.

“Want you to go there, get yourself a drink. Tell him Javier Peña sent you, and that you’ve not to pay.”

It’s like he’s given you a piece of his soul. A piece of his history, someplace he’s sought out refuge in his lowest moments.

Refuge he’s willing to share with you.

That tear finally gives way, dropping off your lash and rolling down your cheek.

You wipe it off with the sleeve of your sweater, before anyone can see.

“Promise me you’ll go, corazón.”

Your reply is instant, “I promise.”

“Ok, I’ll let you go,” it’s solemn, regretful, devoid of truth. You almost beg him not to, but that didn’t work last time. “Enjoy yourself, okay? Come home, safe.”

“Javi, I-” the line cuts off, disconnecting before you even finish. “Miss you.”

I’m gonna throw you down the river Your mum can watch it over dinner

“How you feeling, kiddo?”

You startle awake at your father’s voice, eyes heavy with exhaustion.

Before you can give him an answer, you erupt into a fit of coughs.

“Not good,” he grimaces and slowly steps into your room. “Got it.”

Stepping off the plane, you’d managed only one night back in your own bed before the fever had taken over.

All it took was hearing your nasally voice over the phone for your mother to demand you come stay with them.

Just till you’re back on your feet, she’d said, like she ever needed an excuse to have you over.

She’s not quite adjusted to being an empty-nester.

Neither of them have, really.

“Actually,” your tone is matter-of-factly. “I almost smelt something earlier.”

“That’s great, kid!” And he means it, you know he does. Even if his shoulders slump at any sign of you feeling better and returning to your apartment. “Now we just gotta figure out if it’s your sinuses unclogging or your stench just growing more rancid.”

Try as you might to aim the pillow right at his head, he still manages to catch it inches from his face.

“Hey, I’m just saying! You’ve got the flu, you ain’t dying! Could be a little courteous to those who’ve gotta be around you and take a shower.”

“You’re literally in my room!”

“Which is literally in my house!”

Downstairs, your mother yells something unintelligible.

Likely, she’s telling you both to shut up and to quit behaving like children.

Making eye contact, you both can’t help the roll of laughter that comes out.

He steps a little closer, and that’s when you spot it.

Tupperware, clasped in his hand.

The contents are hard to decipher.

Luckily, your father spots you eyeing it.

“Your mom said ya wouldn’t be up for eating much but, if you’re hungry,” he pauses, at the foot of your bed. Tugs a little on the homemade-blanket you’ve had since you were in grade school. You wonder if he remembers making it with you. “One of the guys down at the station made you some stew.”

Your stomach growls, hungry and unfed.

The prospect of a hot, boiling bowl of brothy stew suddenly peaks your interest.

In fact, you can’t think of anything better.

“It’s a family recipe, he said it would cure ya right up.”

He’s popping the lid open, presenting the delicacy before your eyes. 

Immediately, you spot chicken.

Some corn cob, a couple lumps of potato, flakes of chilli.

You wish you could smell it, ingest it through your nasal canal and get a taste of it before you even put it in your mouth.

Your father continues, practically talking to himself.

“What’d he say it was called again, ga-sue-lay day ah-vay?”

“Cazuela de ave.”

A change into warmer, drier clothes.

Your hair still sits wet upon your head, but it no longer drips puddles onto his floor.

Thirty minutes it took him to drive from where he’d spotted you, walking soaked upon the sidewalk.

It would’ve only taken him seventeen minutes if he’d dropped you at your apartment.

And that fact is partly what warms your insides.

You watch him, tie discarded and the top buttons of his shirt undone, strutting around his kitchen.

Objectively, you think, he’s gorgeous.

Yet the word somehow doesn’t seem like it’s enough to summarise him, when he’s making his way round to you, two ceramic bowls in his hands and a look of pride in his eyes.

He put his own bowl down first. Sloppy, uncaring, spilling a little of it’s contents over it’s edge.

And then yours. More careful, slowly, both hands guiding it down.

The scent alone is enough to have you salivating. 

Warmth and care, all encased in a bowl of brothy goodness.

“It smells delicious,” you inhale deeply, for dramatic effect.

And to get more of that meaty, comfort-food goodness.

Javi sits on the opposite side of the dining table, and you try hard to stop your mind from wandering off to visions of you both sat like this, out in public, in a restaurant.

A real date.

Only, this isn’t even a fake date.

You guys don’t do that.

“It’s- It was my mom’s recipe.”

Frozen in place, you wonder if the shock spills over your face.

He’s never mentioned his mother.

Or much about his family, really.

There’s the occasional comment about projects he takes on at his dad’s ranch, and tid-bits of information you hear across a dinner table that's set by your mother and seated by your father.

But you’re no fool blind enough to not realise the obvious.

A worn-out polaroid in his wallet, his mother smiles brightly in permanent ink each time he opens it. It contrasts her impermanence in the real world, dead and gone long before you became so much as a ripple in the lake of Javier’s existence.

Across the table, he’s relaxed. At ease.

Open.

His eyes, his mind, his heart.

And so you try venturing inwards, test his waters with a dip of your toe.

“Was she a good cook?”

Lukewarm, they appear, when he favours you with a tiny smile, his eyes staring somewhere off in the distance.

“No,” and he laughs at his own admission.

Not just a scoffed out chuckle, or a gesture meant to feign joy.

A full, hearty laugh, that shakes his shoulders and splits his cheeks.

It’s disturbingly beautiful.

You wonder if there’s a life where it could be like this, always.

Javier laughing at his own jokes, you smiling at his visceral joy, plates of homemade food filling the space between you.

“No, she, uh,” he restarts, relaxing a little bit. He wipes under one of his eyes with the back of his palm, a rogue tear breaching his waterline. “She was awful. She burnt every slice of toast she made, and even served an unbaked cake at one of my birthday parties. This dish is actually one of the few she knew how to nail.”

You can picture it, a young Javi, party hat on his head and a cheesy grin topped by rosy cheeks, eating away at gooey batter mix sprinkled in icing. 

It’s hard to imagine him complaining, or getting angry at her.

In spite of his reputation, and the career he’s undertaken, Javier Peña is a gentle soul, who nurtures and protects anyone he can.

A modern-day hero, a knight who’s exchanged his shinny armour for form fitting jeans and unbuttened shirts.

“Tell me more about her,” the words are out before you can reel them back in.

Because you like this feeling, and you like this Javi, reminiscing on his late-mother.

“She not only was awful at cooking, but she had the worst coordination too.” It’s like he’s been waiting to tell you this, with how easy he slips into doing so. “She was forever falling and tripping over herself. And her driving, god! Pops used to dig out his rosary each time she’d be out on the field, driving the tractor.”

There’s something intimate about him recalling details so many would see as flaws, whilst he sports the most earnest, heart-wrenching smile.

Like nothing about her was wrong, all of her perfect and angelic.

“She was brave, too. I’d like to think I’m just like her in that respect. She didn’t let anything stop her from doing things she set her heart on, and she never let her inabilities hinder her,” he’s getting a little emotional now, you can hear it in his voice, see it in the lump he swallows back. You stretch a hand across the table and watch as he leans on you for support, fingers interlocking with your own. “There was this one time when I was a kid, I was swimming in a river and got stuck in a current. She dived right in to save me... She didn’t even know how to swim!”

You don’t know what to say.

You opt for saying nothing, silence speaking more than a thousand words.

Give his hand a reassuring squeeze, feel him squeeze back harder.

Your stomach rumbles, but it doesn’t ruin the moment in the way you feared it would.

“Listen to me being a sap and starving my poor lady to death,” still, he tugs your hand closer and plants a kiss on your knuckles. You’re still trying to process the possessive adjective he’d used to address you. My. His. “Eat up.”

Both of you settle back in your seats.

You pick up your spoon, scoop up a piece of chicken out the steaming bowl and-

“Asi no, corazón (not like that, sweetheart),” he spews out, panicking to pry the cutlery out your hand. He ignores the questioning looks you give him. “You drink the soup first, eat the filling after. Like this.”

Leaning over the table, he scoops your bowl up in his careful hands and guides it up to your lips.

When your lips part and rest against the bowl’s edge, he tilts it and you feel it’s warmth invade your mouth.

And then your chest, branching out over your heart, your lungs, your stomach.

Horned-up bias you so often show towards Javier aside, it’s one of the best things you’ve ever tasted.

Like a hug on a gloomy, wet day, all wrapped up inside a ceramic bowl.

You hum, hands taking over his own to allow him back into his own seat, focusing his attention on drinking his own soup.

“Javi, this is...” You trail off, eyeing the small ring of liquid pooling at the bottom of the bowl. One more mouthful and you’ll get your taste of the stew’s fillings. “Amazing. Your mum would be proud.”

Instead of modesty, instead of 'thank yous', instead of bashfulness, Javier smiles, takes another sip from his bowl.

“She would have liked you.”

You stare across at him and find no jest in his eyes.

They’re as open as before.

“Really?”

“Mhmm. She always liked pretty girls smart enough to put me in my place.”

“Kiddo?”

You’re ripped out your own head by your father’s voice and his hand, waved repeatedly in front of your face.

“Hmm?” 

“You okay there? I was talkin’ to you but you seemed lost in thought.” There’s a little excitement in you father’s voice as he presses his cold hand to your sweated forehead, the prospect of you still being ill, still needing taking care of, filling him with the relief of keeping you in your parents' home a little longer.

“I’m- Yeah, just tired, s’all.”

“Ok, let me know when you’ve finished your food,” he presses a kiss atop the crown of your head, and you hold back the pointless comment of not risking getting himself or your mother sick. “Need to get the tupperware clean ‘fore I give it back to Javi.”

Your stomach twists and longs for the meal before you, while your heart shatters into pieces you doubt will ever be repaired.

[bright-side20]

Elain, Azriel and Lucien

LoA, Helion and Beron

First, let's recap the actual story of LoA because today, all the theories about her are based on headcanon, not on what is written in the book.

“She was still young—though she’d been married to that delightful male for nearly two decades. Married too young, the marriage arranged when she was twenty.”

"I heard "her family wanted internal ties to power, and that they didn’t give her a choice before they sold her to Beron.”

LoA had an arranged marriage with Beron, and apparently, she wasn't given a choice to reject it.

“Hybern attacked their estate. Her sisters bought her time to run. Not because she was married to Beron, but because they loved each other. Fiercely. She tried to stay, but they convinced her to go. So she did—she ran and ran, but Hybern’s beasts were still faster. Stronger. They cornered her at a ravine, where she became trapped atop a ledge, the beasts snapping at her feet.”

She was helped by her two sisters, who died during the war, to run away, but she was trapped by Hybern's beasts.

I said quietly, “You saved her. You found her, didn’t you?” A coronet of light seemed to flicker over that thick black hair. “I did.” There was enough weight, anger, and something else in those two words that I studied the High Lord of Day. “What happened?” Helion didn’t break my stare. “I tore the beasts apart with my bare hands.”

Until Helion rescued her. (Sounds familiar, huh?)

“You had—an affair after you rescued her?” “How long did the affair last?” I asked Helion shrugged. “On and off for decades. Until Beron found out. They say the lady was all brightness and smiles before that. And after Beron was through with her … You saw what she is.” “What did he do to her?” “The same things he does now.” Helion waved a hand. “Belittle her, leave bruises where no one but him will see them.”

LoA had a forbidden love affair with Helion until Beron found out about it and abused her, which he still does to this day.

“If you were her lover, why didn’t you stop it?” The wrong thing to say. Utterly wrong, by the dark fury that rippled across Helion’s face. “Beron is a High Lord, and she is his wife, mother of his brood. She chose to stay. Chose. And with the protocols and rules, Lady, you will find that most situations like the one you were in do not end well for those who interfere.”

LoA chose to break up with Helion and not let him interfere because of societal pressure. As a High Lord's wife with children, choosing Helion would have caused a big scandal and potentially led to war. Therefore, preferring to stay with Beron wasn't a free, unconstrained decision, it was a result of social pressure. In canon, for them there isn't a mating bond rejection, which doesn't even align because leaving Helion wasn't a choice to begin with. If you think otherwise, then your definition of choice is biased.

Now, let's draw parallels between LoA and Elain based on canon texts:

*LoA's right of choosing her partner was stripped of her by an arranged marriage.

*Elain's right of choosing her partner was stripped of her by the Cauldron's mating bond.

*LoA had two sisters who loved her fiercely.

*Elain has two sisters who loves her fiercely.

*Helion rescued LoA from the KoH trap and tore the beasts apart with his bare hands.

*Azriel rescued Elain from Hybern, and she kicked the beasts with her bare feet to free Azriel.

*LoA and Helion had an affair after this event until it was discovered by Beron.

*Elain and Azriel were about to kiss while her mate was sleeping on a level above, but Rhys stopped it.

*Helion couldn't interfere even though he loved LoA because she decided to stay with Beron. As a High Lord's wife, she is pressured by rules and protocols that would lead to very bad consequences if she chose Helion.

*Rhys told Azriel to stay away from Elain because Lucien, as Beron's son, has the right to invoke the blood duel. Elain and Azriel's relationship could jeopardize the alliance with the Autumn Court and potentially lead to war, so their situation is also constrained by rules and protocols.

The difference between LoA and Elain will be that Elain will not submit to societal pressure. She will choose to be with Azriel and face the consequences of her free will choice. Unlike Helion, Azriel will not care about rules and protocols. Similarly, unlike Beron, Lucien will not force Elain to be with him, especially when he learns that his mother was forced to endure an abusive relationship and leave Helion, who is his father.

Elain will be an example for any female whose choice was stripped from her under the pretext of societal pressure. Hopefully, because of Elain, rules and protocols that treat females as property will change.

[certainlynotasimp]

Hii, i think a good idea for a one shot could be that there's a canon event where the spiderperson!reader have to do the iconic Spiderman kiss in their universe, like Spiderman 3 (toby's one) with Gwen stacy or whoever you want, but they are in a relationship with Miguel LMAOOO btw im sorry if there's something wrong with the grammar, english is not my first language <3

Rewrite the Stars

((Miguel O’Hara x Female! Reader))

A/N: A non Sunny x Miggy post? How odd for me lol. I’m so sorry this is super late and to everyone whose requested, I’m working slowly but surely on y’all’s stuff. If you wanna read some stuff in the meantime, here’s the Masterlist and feel free to join my discord.

A/N: I tried doing the you/yours pronoun thing because this isn’t a Sunny fanfic but I really don’t like it lol.

Warnings: Jealous Miguel?, Unrequited/Forbidden? Love, Female Reader/Female Pronouns, Barely use of Y/N, and no Spanish this time ((I’m trying to find a new translator and hopefully an editor))

The universe.

One of life’s greatest mysteries. A mass of stars and galaxies that housed so many lives within its many pockets. The lives of so many people whose lives were already written within its cloudy arms and their ends cemented in its pools of nothingness.

A beautiful cycle of cruelty and destiny.

A cycle that was the reason for your utter misery as you sat at a bar listening to your dimension’s Ben Riley blabber on about some football game you cared nothing about.

His oblivious brown eyes sparkled at the fascination with the game as his dimpled smile accentuates his sharp jawline. The warm lights from above caused a healthy glow to bounce off of his shaggy blonde hair, almost making him look like an angel. You can see why Spiderverse assigned him as your love interest.

In your earth’s canon, you were a typical woman who had gotten bit by a radioactive spider during a high school field trip and you spent your entire high school experience thrashing goons instead of chasing boys. Even helped take down some aliens with the Fantastic Four and the Avengers at times before college finals. Spiderwoman was New York’s beloved hero and the cockiness of being its one and only SpiderWoman quickly got into her head.

That was until six months ago.

Six months ago, you were fighting the Vulture over the Empire State Building when another, more mutated version of the same villain appeared. They both decided in your state of delirium over the doubles that you would be a good plaything.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Hey, I didn’t ask for a combo with my chicken!” A feminine spider’s voice screeches as she avoids the hooked talons of the erratic variant.

The two villains took turns flying menacingly around the scope of buildings to throw the hero off of their location while the other swooped in and tries to rip her throat out.

As she attempts to escape the feathered monster, its companion would come and slice away the web of salvation, continuing the vicious cycle.

Blood blinded her vision as the loud ringing at the base of her skull grew louder. The causes of that annoying alarm grasp their razor claws into her shoulders before sweeping her exhausted body into the air with a victorious snarl.

‘I guess this is the end…’

As the heavens draw closer to her doom, her life hanging up by the slicing of her muscles and bones, a glimmer of fate happens. The warmth of a flash barely registers as the first ache disappears with a startled squeak and a burly force. The sudden change in feeling takes her breath away as she suddenly begins to plummet below.

Her eyes quickly adjusting to the suffocating drop, she can see that one of the Vultures was now fighting an even more prominent blue figure, his howls of pain and unintelligible cursing heard from the stumbling brawl.

As the flash from her familiar foe reaches around the building, she shoots her web at him and used him as a glider.

“Time to ground you, birdie!” She yells as she throws the villain through a window. Catching her grip on the building, she looks at her new foe in the sky and the wind is knocked out of her from the sight.

The man who saved her was in a futuristic spider suit with his mask now off. His dark hair flutters in the wind as the setting sun makes his tanned skin glow. His red eyes glare at the wiggling mutant as his full lips pull back into a snarl. His jaws open revealing a set of large fans before he plunged them into the mutant.

Who the hell is that?

~~~~~~~~~

“(Y/N)?…” Ben frowns as he realizes his date was lost in her thoughts.

You snapped out of your head and fake an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I was remembering something….”

That wasn’t a complete lie. You remembered the day you met Miguel O’Hara. The Spiderman of the year 2099 and the leader of the inter-dimensional Spider Society. The anomaly that had come into your world had brought the two together and you were recruited due to your stubbornness, much to Miguel’s annoyance.

~~~~~~~~~

“No.” His annoyance dripped from these words as he glares down at you. You were caught in wonder at the idea of there being other Spidermen and that they worked together to stop the collapse of the entire universe. The thought seemed too good to be true that you just had to ask if you could join until those red eyes shot your dream through the heart.

“What do you mean ‘No’?” You ask in disbelief. Your own eyes glared deep into his soul as your hands balled into fists. “I’m a Spiderman just like you! How could you-!”

“You are not like me.” He coldly snaps at you, your ranting briefly interrupted as the man towers over you. His clawed hand grasps your face as his glare sets a spark of fury down in your chest.

“You will never be like me and you will never-!” “Is that our new recruit?” A smooth British accent appears behind Miguel as a spiked-headed Spiderman peeks around his bulking figure.

“No, she’s-” The tall punk pulls you away from Miguel with a mischievous laugh as he introduces himself. “Ello, love, my name is Hobie. Hobie Brown.” He leans down with a sly smirk as his mischievous attitude infests your being like a plague. “Just play along, mate. Let’s riffle this wanker’s undies.” He whispers as you giggle.

“Nice to meet you, Hobie.” I allow a sly smirk to slide onto my face as I look back at the now very annoyed Miguel. “My name is (Y/N) and I’m happy to join.”

~~~~~~~~

The distant sound of screams filters through the bar as the distinct sound of a car being tossed into another building.

Looking at my gizmo disguised as a watch, you realized that the canon event was starting.

~~~~~~~~

“You did well today,” Miguel admits under his breath. Looking at him in shock, you realize that he wasn’t scowling like he normally was. He had a softer expression, his eyes shining with approval as his lips quirked into a mimic of a smile.

The mission had almost gone rouge with the escape of a prowler and him hiding low in a crowded dimension. Despite the obvious danger, Miguel opted to go alone like usual, but his lack of spider sense caused him to get caught up in a trap. Talons and Fangs don’t really help if you can’t exactly move around to use them, so he ended up taking serious blows.

Luckily, you managed to get there and tumble with the villain long enough for the others to rescue Miguel, and the team managed to recapture the prowler. Of course all of them looked pretty bad injuries wise, but the look Miguel had as you sat there bandaging up his wounds made it worth it for some odd reason.

“Thanks Boss.”

~~~~~~~~

June 27th : SpiderWoman of Earth 648 will rescue love interest, Ben Riley, from an attack against The Rhino….

The roaring of the mechanical beast fills the panicked screams of the patrons as the sinking feeling falls in your chest. Ben is quick to play the hero like any guy would as he grabs your arm and drags you out towards the emergency exit. Just like the timeline said it would.

You use the chaos to your advantage as you pretend to trip and get lost in the crowd of people struggling to escape from the emergency exit.

~~~~~~~~~

“What do you mean by that?!” I snapped at an irritated Miguel.

Lyla was surprisingly quiet as she watched the duo argue. Miguel whips around at you as his ruby eyes scorched into yours. His talons point at you accusingly as he reiterates your next canon event.

“On June 27th, you are going to be out on a date with Ben Riley. The Rhino is gonna attack that street and you’re gonna save everyone, and afterwards you’re gonna have to kiss him.” His frustration evident as his permanent frown creases.

You stare into his eyes in defiance as you coldly utter, “No. I’m not gonna kiss Ben Riley.”

“And why not? He’s your love interest!” Miguel exclaims, obviously more furious than before. “You’re the Peter to his MJ. You gotta kiss him because you’re destined to be.”

“I don’t love him! I don’t even like his whiny ass!” You snap as you felt your frustrated tears roll down your face.

It’s true. Before you joined this team, you would have been thrilled that you were destined to be with Campus Hunk Ben Riley. He was everything you could ever want from a guy. He was good looking, sensitive, athletic, and social able. The all around good guy you would be proud to bring home to your folks.

But…

Sharp grasp on your shoulder alerts your attention back to Miguel as he slams you back against the desk. His eyes burning embers as he glares down at you.

~~~~~~~~~~

Changing into your spidersuit, you began to fight The Rhino with a distracted daze in your movements.

The memory from a week prior burning in your mind as you sloppily avoided cars and harsh blows. After a few well timed flips and back kicks, the brute decides to throw a large street cleaning truck towards the alleyway. Just like Lyla predicted when she handed you the file.

The Rhino is gonna throw a street cleaner towards the alleyway where Ben is. SpiderWoman will stop the truck before impact and sling it back towards The Rhino ending the fight.

~~~~~~~

“And why is it that you are being so difficult?!” He snaps as his fangs glimmer from his scowl. A cute trait you used to love about him until it was pointed at you. “You are no better than a spoiled child with how you are acting so you better have a good fucking reason!”

You growl back at him with a tear rolling down your enraged face.

He had no right to argue with you about your life, not when he’s the one making it difficult.

~~~~~~~

Shooting a web out towards the buildings, you catapulted yourself into the air and landed in front of the truck. Quickly reusing the web with some enforcements, the truck was bounced back to the The Rhino. The enormous foe gets trampled by the machinery as the crowd cheers for SpiderWoman’s dreaded victory.

“Way to go SpiderWoman!!” A familiar voice joins the crowd as I see Ben on the ground, obviously he either tripped or fell back to avoid the truck. You offer a hand towards him as you thank him softly.

“Thank you.” I faked the smile in my voice as the crowd disappears, leaving the two of you in the alley way.

~~~~~

Finally snapping at him, you yell out in fury,

“BECAUSE HE’S NOT YOU!”

With a frustrated slap to Miguel’s face, you run past him and escaped back to your dimension, heartbroken over how the events to come and what just happened that despite everything you couldn’t change fate.

No matter how many times you fell asleep during long nights talking on his observation deck. No matter how many playful sparring matches turn into flirty comments. Not even the little gestures of bringing the grumpy spider his coffee and him bringing you some sweets during meetings could change that the star already written your path.

You fell in love with a man who isn’t meant to be yours.

~~~~~

It’s been a week since that fight and you still haven’t seen or heard from him. It hurt to know that your confession was brushed aside while you had to continue the continuity. You half at least expected him to be here to make sure you at least followed through with the canon event.

“Would you like a swing home?” I offer just like I’m supposed to. The moment that was meant to be a nervous beginning to a love story felt like the beginning of heartache as I watched a blush form on his face.

“Sure,” he answered before a flash of realization that his date was suddenly not with him. Another trait you wouldn’t have noticed if you were as in love with him as you were suppose to be.

“Hey my date isn’t here…I think she got hurt or lost during the panic.” His concern caused a pang of guilt to stab her in the chest.

Recovering quickly, you shoot out some webbing and playfully hang upside down infront of him. “Well I guess that swinging date will have to be postponed.”

“Wait it was gonna be a-!”

Quickly, you pulled down the mask enough to deliver a quick peck to his rambling mouth. You force out a giggle as he stood looking at you flabbergasted.

“See ya, Riley.” You swing off as the man bumbled to even ask how you knew his name.

Lyla just said it was a kiss, not a what kind of kiss.

With a heavy heart, you swing back home as you tried to remember that this was all for the sake of the canon. That Miguel didn’t care for you the way you did for him. You tried your hardest to tell your aching heart that those past few months were you just making too much out of nothing.

You mournfully entered your apartment through the bathroom window you normally kept unlocked . You stripped away the skin tight fabric before wrapping yourself in the familiar comfort of your robe as you exited the room into a dim lit living room.

You heart stick in your chest as you see Miguel standing there in your living room in his bright blue spider suit and a beautiful spring lily in his hand.

“Miguel? What are you doing here?…” You ask as yoy warily approach him, scared he’s gonna do something to you.

He shakes his head, refusing to answer as he hands you the flower. It’s soft white petals shining in the pale moonlight as you smile fondly at it. They were your favorite flower. Something you told Miguel a million times before.

Before you could thank him for the kind gesture, a soft thump above you alrets you to look up. A spindle of glowing webbing cascaded down the ceiling with the large spiderman now suspended upside down from it. His free hand caresses the side of your face as his eyes stared softly into yours.

“I can’t change the canon, mi amor…” he whispers sadly before mischief lights up his molten gaze. “But we certainly can try to rewrite the stars for us.”

An excited nod from you causes his chest to rumble as he pulls you into a slow passionate kiss.

You were glad this is a canon event for spider men despite it not going as planned.