#'how do you remember anything?' i just do. except when I don't.

[undercoverpena]

meet me in the city where we won't sleep

javier peña x f!reader | main masterlist

summary: home: a place where we feel most comfortable, loved, and protected — where we most feel at home. except javi, who has returned from colombia and feels his home is living miles away.

wordcount: 9k (i'm so sorry)warnings: childhood best friend!javi. flirting. 18+ - although just a little smutty with fingers. brief mention of drunkenness years ago. emotions (ugh) and feelings (yuk) and idiots who just don't wanna confess things but really should. javi calls you flor and you call him a pineapple. alternating times.

an: originally started for april showers, it's taken me an age to get this done because i wanted it to be perfect. i really hope it is. the biggest thank you to @thetriumphantpanda who read all of this and gave me a gold star. it would have stayed in my drafts if not for you. thank you to @rhoorl for checking my spanish.

It would have been cliche to say he fell for you in a field of bluebonnets—your dress white, face glum, hands ripping up blooms from the soil that you clutched in your hand.

Lost, aimless, both in the blue of the petals and in your thoughts as you continued to yank stems up and bring bunches to your nose, unaware of him watching from the tree. His legs swung, and a smile slid into one cheek as the leaves rustled above in the warm breeze.

It took a while before you noticed him, practically half a field’s worth in your hands, hands wound around them as your dress swished at your ankles.

“What do you want, Piña?”

He supposed, for kids, that was an insult.

“What you doing in my field, Flor?”

Javi didn’t know your name then. Now he struggled to go a minute without thinking it.

Sitting still hadn’t seemed a possibility in the days since he’d been back.

And then, that’s all he’d done for the last eight hours before he was greeted by rain.

It’s relentless, an onslaught that blurs the world into a watery haze. The kind that soaks through every layer of clothing like a challenge; the type that drips from everything, making pools in the streets and turning them into dark mirrors, reflecting the grey and full clouds from above.

Not that Javi cares.

If anything, he likes it. Finds it cleansing, like the world is being washed clean, even if he knows how untrue that actually is as his eyes follow a bead rushes across the glass of the cab.

The driver has been mumbling about the weather for the entire journey—a thing he’s barely listened to since he’d recommended waiting for a break in the weather. It was likely they just didn’t wish to drop him where he’d described, rather hoping Javi would opt for someplace warmer, most likely smokier, so that he could call it a day too.

Javi doesn't do that now—smoking, that is.

Hasn’t done since he left that apartment that never felt like his, in a city that he’d spent years in that never felt like home. Threw them in the trashcan before his Pop had picked him up, craved and wanted all the way through dinner. He’d done it once, he’d do it again.

When the cab screeches to a halt, he pays, steps out (bag in hand) and spots the phone booth all in one fluid motion. It’s barely lit, front weathered by time and neglect. Smirk curling into his cheek as he remembers you telling him about it—that on cloudless days you can see it, likes to make stories about it as you enjoy a meal-for-one or crunches down cereal.

It hadn’t been a thing he’d thought much about.

Then, it was all he had thought about.

Standing there, making a story that could become real. A gesture, kind and deserving of someone who had put up with his shit since they were children. You’d always liked those big moments in the movies—his eyes glancing over at you, finding yours big, wide and shimmering with tears that wish to glide down your cheek.

Although, that had been well over a decade ago—the two of you had remained in touch, close, or as much as he could allow. Your visit to Colombia had still felt like the sunniest day, a bright spot in a sea of dark; a day that coloured his world in shades he hadn’t known existed, that dulled the moment he’d had to bid farewell at the airport.

It hadn’t been safe for you to do another, pleading in fact to not risk it. A thing, he suspects, is not a thing he’s been easily forgiven for.

He supposes it’s why he hasn’t told you he was coming. The flight had been booked, bag packed—fingers tapping, soul hoping you wouldn’t turn him away once he’d gotten here. To the phone box over the bridge from your place—the one obscured from view by the downpour that seemed never-ending.

Because, as soon as two weeks had racked up at him being home, he found himself itching to move, to be somewhere other than surrounded by fields and the watchful stare of his Pop. Parental worry a hard thing to hide from in a home washed in memories.

Sliding open the door, cramming himself into the booth, Javi had no concern about remembering your number. It was burned into him, etched into him with a blunt tool—almost studied, committed to memory while he ticked over godfathers and the weight of right and wrong.

He remembers when you’d changed it, when your voice informed him of the move, the chance—all excited tone, a pitch closer to a squeak than your voice: no more roommates, just me, myself and I.

He also remembers the ember inside of him pleased that Tom joined the underserving list, slid under Mia and Rich as you informed him you were single again.

Sliding quarters in, finger punching the numbers—he hopes you’re home. A niggling feeling threatens to unwind inside of him as the tone drills into his skull—attempts to drown out the rain rapping against the glass booth he’s standing in.

“Hello?”

“Flor?”

It kisses his ear, your snort. Light. Sweet. “Javier Piña, what do you want?”

You sound like you did in Colombia. Having half-expected the crackle meeting his ear to be down to the distance, rather than your shoddy home phone.

Pressing the receiver to his head, a smile there—desperate to flow out across his lips and exhausted face, he moves it back. “Tal vez te extrañé.”

“Mierda. I don’t believe you.”

Even amidst the noise of passing cars and the relentless drumming of raindrops, he catches the melody of your laughter—a symphony of joy that unravels a part of his soul. It releases it, unlocks it, beckons it to be free—metaphorically makes him release his shoulders, and take a breath. The part of him hidden away, floods back through him—no longer fearful of being taken, clawed or wormed from him as he handed other parts of himself to the job, the task, the goal.

Not you, though. Javi would never surrender you.

A pocket of sunshine he’d kept close to him like your chicken-scratch letters and your tipsy phone calls when he’d caught you coming in after a night with friends.

“Where are you, Piña?”

Wiping his mouth with his thumb, he pauses. Traces his index along the hair growing above his lip, glancing out through the rain-smeared glass, the one cracked in places. Not sure if any of the lights on the other side are hers, but lingering on each just in case.

“In a phone booth on a bridge…”

He hears you swallow, loud, almost difficult.

“…right across from your place.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Smirking, teeth nibbling at his bottom lip. “Are you lying to me?”

Smirking, he stares out again. “No.”

Because he couldn’t, not if he tried. Not just because you see through it, but because it wounds him to do so. Picks at him, and makes him bleed in ways that don’t ruin him in scarlet.

“Give me five minutes.”

The call ends before he can get in a bye.

The receiver placed back, bag straps cutting into his palms again as he exits, the heavens lashing against him as he slowly walks. Taking his time. Nervousness bubbling like a broth inside of him with each step, coming up to the top curve of the bridge, trying to look up, spot you—

Then he does.

Running, coat billowing behind—flapping in the wind as it breaks out over your face: that smile. The one that lit fires inside of him, the one first doing so at the time his bedroom at home had its last lick of paint, it now peeling, cracked.

Dropping his bag, Javi isn’t sure whether to brace or not—taking three more steps forward before you collide with him. Arms around him, chest to chest, your wet cheek sliding past his as your soaked clothes marry to his.

It would be odd to say it felt like home hugging you, but it does. It feels right, safe—a piece completing him as he digs his chin into your head.

“You smell the same,” you muffle into his chest.

Javi smiles, knowing the bottle on his dresser is the one from his younger years. Sun-ruined and likely faded, yet managing to linger on his skin enough to cause recollection.

Pushing past lilies, excusing himself through swarms of bodies adorned in black fabric, Javi found you sitting cross-legged between two tall stands of flowers.

Your eyes were puffy—red, swollen—and your dress was as black as his suit; your fingers were balled around a single lily and a scrunched-up tissue, the skirt of your dress skated over your bent knees.

“What d-do you want, Piña?”

But it didn’t land with the tone he had come to know.

Instead, he extended a hand you thankfully took, pulling you up from the ground before he opened his arms—letting you move in, slot yourself between them as they enveloped you close.

Letting his best friend fall apart at the back of the church, your sobs vibrated against his bones and his chin rested on your head as he whispered he had you, over and over again.

A thing you repaid when his mother passed a few years later.

Talking had always been a skill—unless he had to discuss feelings.

It wasn’t that it was easy to lie, or that he found the idea of feeling difficult—if anything, it was as though he felt too much. Guilt. Affection. Righteousness. Protection. Each one a little harder to carry, to wear.

More so around you. The walls had to be tighter, or they’d crumble into ruin, the dust spilling all his secrets before he’d confess whatever wasn’t already written over his face. But, you don’t needle him—instead, you make him a plate from leftovers, tell him about some gossip your mom had informed you of, until you offer him your shower, your sofa and bid him goodnight.

“You’ll be here in the morning?”

“Not going anywhere.”

Lingering in the doorway to your bedroom, fingers playing the piano on the wood. “You’ve said that before.”

He knows he has.

It rises up in him like a storm, whipping around his organs, making his chest tighten as he lies down in comfort but stares up at the unfamiliar. He can hear the rain, how it pitters and patters—how it likely streams down the windows behind your curtains.

He should find it odd that he'd rather fall asleep here, than in his bed back where he grew up. A strange solace in the unknown here, a quiet surrender to the whispers he usually has to hear when the night comes.

But, they're not here.

At some stage, he must sleep, before he wakes to the scent of coffee and soft sunshine. His ears catch the sound of you calling in sick—a cough, a put-on voice, one all removed when you throw a throw cushion at him and ask him what he wants for breakfast.

That’s how he finds his knee kissing yours under the small table as your spoon scoops cereal before letting it drop back into the bowl. Just like when you were kids. Just like when you were all excitable, too in a rush to sit for a moment, stomach likely fluttering with agitation.

“You keep staring.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Flor.”

The thing is, you’re not wrong.

Each time he has a second, he lingers—gazes. Metaphorically pinching himself as he forgoes digging a nail into his skin under the cuff of his shirt, just to make sure he isn’t dreaming. A thing he finds he’s doing now, after a night of laughing until you couldn’t keep your eyes open and a full day of exploring, you walk a little ahead before spinning on your heel to smile at him.

“I have to show you my favourite place—before you go.”

He hates that there’s an end date on this. Bought himself a few days of normal, before returning to something that feels anything but.

Scratching his jaw, brows raised and eyes wide. “You’ve replaced our spot?”

Rolling your eyes, you take his hand—fingers slotting, palm pressing against his. For a moment, a reflex, he thinks of pulling away. Thinking of what else sat as perfectly in his palm as you—a thing that took, but never gave. A thing that he held more than he had ever held a woman.

“My favourite place here.”

He expects a lot of things, maybe flowers, maybe a bar, but he finds himself inside a bookshop. One with floor-to-ceiling shelves, dark wood, the large window letting in light that barely reaches the back. He supposes it’s good they have a chandelier, one that sparkles, shines—like it’s as well maintained as the shelves.

“Books?”

“Books.”

Your finger prodding into him, facing him, body fully twisted. That smile there, the one which slides into one of your cheeks and makes his eyes flick from it to your eyes and then back.

It’s there when you turn on your heel down an aisle, it remaining when he follows—when he hovers close, so easily able to pin you, cage you in between his palms.

“Which do you recommend?”

Shooting him a look, you trail your finger over spines, over the shelf they sit on. “Didn't know you could read?”

“Funny.”

Grinning, you pull on one, handing it to him. His eyes take it in, the cover, the name, the author.

“I think you’ll like the characters,” you explain, eyes lighting up as you lean. “They're flawed but resilient.”

Chewing his cheek, he swallows. Listening, hearing you read the blurb after you lift the book in his hands so you can read it, word for word as he focuses on you. Noticing the way your eyes shine when talking about something you love, the way one of your hands begins to move as you describe the plot, and the characters. Realising, that he could listen to you talk about anything all day.

“You should read it,” you suggest, as he flips through the pages. Having never been much of a reader, time being a factor, his job has been the reason.

“Alright,” he nods, tucking the book under his arm. “I'll read it.”

Your smile brightens even more if that's possible.

“Chucho is gonna be so shocked when I tell him you bought a book.”

Frowning, he follows you, leading him down another aisle. “You talk to my pop?”

Shrugging, like it’s nothing. Like the words that are about to tumble out of your mouth don’t matter like they won’t stitch themselves to him and make him feel like pulling you to his chest.

“I check in—make sure he’s okay. Done it weekly since you left the first time.”

His face falls, descends slowly. He feels it—watches you take it in as yours slowly mirrors him. And, even if he’s been thinking it, it bubbling at the back of his throat, he finds himself unable to stuff it back down—to shove it between other regrets and unsaid words.

“I’ve really missed you.”

Each word lands, your eyes widening as your nose does a little twitch as they do, before you whisper, resting against the edge of a bookcase, “I’ve missed you too.”

Sat on the rock, the sound of a car door slamming disturbed the peace. Not needing to look, knowing that gait, that little kick of the ground as you stopped in front of him.

Hand shielding your eyes from the sun, flower tucked behind your ear.

“Hello, Flor.”

“Piña. Heard you were cursing Laredo.”

Smirking, you sat next to him, nudging him over. The two perched on a rock overlooking part of the city—as his head turned but his eyes stared at you from the corner of them.

“I give it a month and someone else will do something bad enough that people cross the street.”

Swallowing, he exhaled. “Thanks.”

“Did you love her?”

Turning his head, staring at you—eyes flicking from yours to a place on your face he shouldn’t look. “Not enough to marry her.”

“Then you did the right thing.”

A thing he only believed when your hand slid over his, hooking your little finger over his.

“It’s because you’re in love with me, isn’t it?”

Snorting, head shaking, your words washed back over him and he broke into a laugh. “Shut up, Flor.”

Nudging him, taking the flower from your hair and handing it to him. “It’s okay if you do, I know I’m a catch.”

He's embarrassed that it isn't until the second day that Javi finds the chance to really admire your place.

How it’s exactly what he imagined. So very you, all cosy, muted, with spots of colour. Plants and throw cushions, blankets and wicker baskets stuffed with things he suspects you have no recollection of.

What catches his eyes are the photographs, the memories frozen in time around your walls and on shelves. His eyes sweep over them, in a trance still from the scent of your perfume mixing with vanilla from a lit candle.

Each time he sweeps his sight over, he spots new things, remembering brief conversations, smirking to himself until his eyes land on a frame that makes his mouth part and his heart clench.

Him and you; you and him. Sunglasses far too big for your face, staring up at him as he beams at the camera. The backdrop of his ranch, his home, the one he so often left behind like it hadn’t mattered.

Done it weekly since you left the first time.

The words roll around his head now. All metal and round, bouncing against other thoughts, trying to dig his heels into the present and not wonder about what kind of calls you make—whether they’d be about him, whether you’d confess things you’d never admit to him.

Your clanging around is what pulls him to the present. The bangs of cupboards and pans clattering as he stares at it—as he notices how different his build is, how many years have passed. The occasional cursing from you is a rather nice anchor that keeps him in the present.

“Flor?” He waits until he hears you hum. “Order in again, I’ll pay.”

It’s here within the hour.

A favourite, you had told him. A quick apology that you’ll be messier than last night, that you’re dying of hunger. He reminds you he doesn’t care. Not as you slide the triangle slice out, the tip kissing your chin before it’s absorbed by your mouth, sauce lingering on your lips—dust from the crust resting on your nose.

He’s not sure what’s better, the taste of the pizza or the sight of watching you. Having the chance to watch you.

“So I have to ask.”

Grumbling, he pulls at the topping on his slice. “Here we fucking go.”

“Did you like the tie I sent you?”

Half-scowling, swallowing the mouthful of pizza—recalling the box on his desk, atop files and paperwork with a note attached: One down, three to go. Written in that same handwriting he could spot in a lineup—the one he had wished there and then would be etched into him, a mark left, a thing he could brush his thumb over when his heart ached and he felt lost.

“I was disappointed not to see you photographed in it.”

“You knew damn well I wasn’t going to wear a fucking pineapple tie to a press conference.”

Pouting, you smirk. Picking at another slice, staring up at him from the floor, all cross-legged. “Thought you might have for me.”

It’s there, ebbing—words that feel far more intimate than they should—crystallising, burning upon his tongue.

I’d do anything for you.

It’s there, unwritten, pulsating and breathing in the space between you and him, existing, never diminished. Memories where it’s been all but similar rising like lava, singeing him, threatening to burn away the walls he throws up for the sake of friendship.

Because he knows what people think. Saw it hung in his pop’s eyes at his Tia’s wedding when you came as a guest, an uninvited plus one that was welcomed like you were already part of the family. Heard it, in the wind between the grass before he’d left the first time, a farewell outdoor thing, your parents crestfallen, as though they’d assumed—like he imagined a lot of them—the two of you would have figured it out by now.

Watching you stand, hand outstretched for his plate, you take it with a smile. A shout of two options for drinks, an unsurprising one chosen by him—it bubbling in the glass when you hand it to him, settling in beside him.

“Not sure I told you, but you have a nice couch.”

“Most expensive thing in this place—probably better than my own bed,” you smirk, sipping your drink. Head rolling towards him, brows raised, eyes that bit wider. “So, are you okay?”

You’re the only one who could ask and get a reply, he supposes. Those same words were said to him a handful of times, down the phone from Murphy, over the table from Pop, even on aisles of the supermarket when he’d been staring between brands he hadn’t heard of.

“I gave you a day to tell me, and since you won’t, I’m gonna ask. Are you okay, Javier Peña?” you continue, body shifting, thigh pressing against his—heat radiating from between yours to his. “Because you’re methodical. You’re not… get on a plane and fly to a different city just because.”

“You not happy I’m here?”

Grinning, all teeth—it reaching and hanging in your eyes. “Los más felices. But, are you?”

Yes. It’s all he thinks.

Chewing his tongue, his eyes drop to his soda because he’s unsure how to say that. Not as he watches the bubbles float up and burst—the song that had been playing coming to a stop, allowing the rain to play an interval against your windows.

It doesn’t make sense, in some ways: how he’s kept you—been able to keep you close. Somehow not ruined you, twisted this thing between the two of you, made it rot, sullied it with disappointment and selfishness.

“I am now,” he replies.

Good, you breathe. Letting it sit, simmer. Paper over any cracks as your eyes sparkle and remain fixed on him, tracing him as though not completely sure he’s real.

That is, until you grab the remote, excitedly telling him about the night of television they have ahead of them. A blanket, at some stage, finds itself over him, you nestling into his side—like when they were teens before the world became a problem and narcos were all he hunted.

For a while, you catch him up, explain plots and characters. Then, you fall silent, brows crinkled in concentration. His eyes slide to the side to watch, to spot the little things you do as she settles in closer, brings your legs up, and rests almost all of yourself against him.

Between one show and another, he feels the rhythm of your breathing change, your body relaxing further against him. He glances down and finds your eyes closed, features soft and serene in sleep. Realisation dawns on him—you’ve fallen asleep. His heart does a slow tumble in his chest, a wave of warmth spreading through him. All of a sudden aware of the gentle weight of you against his side, the way your hand is loosely holding onto him. He watches, just for a moment, taking in the sight of you, so peaceful and trusting in your sleep. This moment is so intimate, so precious, he wants to freeze it in time.

What else is a guy like you gonna do…

This, he thinks. Looking at you, asleep, peaceful—curled into his side, fingers around his forearm.

Smiling, he takes the remote from your fingers, turning the volume down as he gets more comfortable—pressing a soft kiss to your hairline.

He carried a single red rose down the side of your house—nudging open the window the rest of the way, climbing in like he had done years ago.

He didn’t need eyes, didn’t fancy having to explain to his parents how he could do that to that nice girl and her family. Javi had faced enough judgement, enough stares.

The only eyes he wanted were staring at him, remaining so as he stepped close and handed you the flower with the thorns picked free. “Come with me.”

Sighing, eyes averting, you swallowed loudly in the thick quietness. “You don’t want that. Your best friend following you.”

Eyes flicking up to meet his, you took another deep breath. Fingers flexed at your side, weight shifting from one foot to the other before you exhaled—louder than before.

“I don’t want to follow you, best friend.”

Then don’t be just that, he thought, thumb swiping over the tips of his fingers as he hovered, waited. Then he took a step closer, and another. The gap closed, becoming shorter and shorter—

“What are you doing, Piña?”

“Kissing you.”

Lips pursing, trying not to smirk, you took the rose and put it on your dresser. “Don’t feel your lips on mine, Javier.”

And then he kissed you, his fingers clutching at your jaw—body pressed against yours, tasting your whine, your moan.

He felt your fingers clutch at his shirt as he told you to be quiet.

Laid you on your bed of flowers, knees digging into stitched roses and sunflowers, as you arched off the bed when his fingers slid between your thighs—like he wished he’d done a handful of times before now.

He’s not sure of the time when he wakes, but it’s dark.

A contentedness in his bones that doesn’t fade as he begins to blink, as he takes in his surroundings and remembers where he is. Feeling you, warm, pressed as close against him as humanly possible. Able to see the outline of you, before his eyes manage to paint the rest, how his knee has slotted between your legs—bodies a mess of limbs that takes him back to years ago.

Javi notices how the television is switched off as you try to move, to wiggle and escape. His shirt discarded, the cool air misting over him, pebbling his skin as he slides his arm around you, pinning you tighter to him.

Brain all addled with dreams and sleep, as his awakening state tries to remind him what he’s doing.

What door he’s trying to open all over again.

“Javi…”

Not Piña, Peña or Javier. Javi, all soft and whispery, like honey dripping into his ear as he turns his head to find your stare in the dark. Somehow finding it shimmering, fixed, more than awake.

Then you whisper his name again, and it’s heavenly, a piece of it anyway. A sound he realises he’s missed more than he cares to find words to describe as he hears you push out a breath—fingers finding his arm, stroking, sliding their warmth up and down the muscle of his arm as he swallows.

It’s slow, hand cupping your cheek as he shifts his body, and finds yours moves with him. The beginning of a partner dance, one it feels you’ve both practised in small spaces but never actually have as he slides his lips over yours. Moulds them to yours. Tasting faint mint on your tongue when you deepen it—when you pay attention, listen, taking each cue you give him from the movement of your mouth to the way your hands grasp at him to come closer.

A whimper tries to break through, to escape through messy kisses and tangled bodies, but it vibrates through him. Makes him shudder with how much he wants you, moving your knee, hooking it over his hip as he slots his waist between your thighs and you gasp at the feel of him flush against you.

Practically whine.

Nose brushing your cheek, palm flat, fingers spreading out over your hip as he feels you roll your body into him, he smiles—breathy, teeth nipping at his bottom lip. “Forgot how soft you are.”

You hum, head-turning, mouth latching itself back to his.

“Forgot how good of a kisser you are.”

Snorting, he lightly bites your lower lip. “Best remind you then.”

“Best do,” you whisper, pulling him by his hair back to your mouth.

You write a poem against his lips, signing it with your tongue against his as his fingers snake under the band of your sleep shorts, tasting your moan, your hiss and whimper when he touches you like he’s wanted to since he landed back in the States.

When two fingers slide slowly inside of you, curling, the sound of his name is like a fucking sin he wants to be draped in, wrapped in, even dressed in. Him seeking, searching, finding that spot that has your legs opening for him, nails scraping against his scalp.

“More, Javi. Please—”

“You’re so tight, Flor,” he croons, burying the words in your neck, the tip of his tongue swiping over your collarbone as you grab a handful of his hair. “Feel so good around my fingers.”

Your hips writhe, roll them against his hand, gasping. Making a mess, dripping, practically gushing over his hand, as he fights pulling his hand free and getting a taste.

“Be better—dios mio—around your cock—”

Smirking, teeth nipping at your neck, “I remember.”

Head lifting, thankful the night sky is clear, that the moon is draping you in a slither of milky light so he’s able to see your eyes flutter shut. Able to witness what his fingers do to you, the effects of their teasing and the languid movements as he finds that angle, the one which makes you grind against his palm, and has your chest heaving.

He moans your name against your tongue, drinking down a blend of pleases falling from your swollen lips as he plunges deeper, walls squeezing him.

There he thinks, lips pressing kisses to your shoulder, as you dig your nails further into his scalp, tensing, bearing down on him to the point he hopes you’ll leave a mark, leave a cut, a signature of this moment he can run his fingers over.

“Kiss me,” you gasp, all wrapped in desperation as you pull at his shoulder.

His mouth only just pressing to yours when your cry buries against his tongue, when you flutter and arch as he continues to work you through it. His name breaks through messy kisses, it escaping effortlessly like it doesn’t wish to be buried anymore.

You don’t let him pull away, hooking one leg around him. Watching, not able to take your eyes from him as he retracts his hand—as he licks your pleasure from his fingers and you stare with a twinkle in your eye.

“You best fuck me now.”

Smirking, a low laugh escaping. “Yeah? Want me that bad, Flor?”

Lifting onto your elbows, he waits for a taunt, a tease—something that’ll bring him down a peg or two. What he finds, instead, is your fingers slowly crawling up his bare chest, around his neck, your chin tilted up.

“I need you, Javi. Need you to fuck me.”

“Yeah?”

“And then I wanna get on top,” you whisper, dragging each syllable out, “and fuck you until the sun comes up.”

“Murphy is a nice guy.”

Eyes narrowing, he shot you a glare—watching as you shimmied your jacket from your shoulders. Bare arms, bare legs—except for the thin tank and shorts adorning your body—that had him thinking un-best friend things.

“You jealous, Piña?”

“Of a married guy? Fuck no.”

Grinning, you moved closer—boxing him in. Staring into his eyes, in a way that made him feel like he was being seen, read, and admired all at once. “Is that because you left a bite mark on my hip?”

Tracing his fingers along your neck, he felt himself smile. That flutter in his chest again, the one which had appeared one day when the two of you were teens and hadn’t gone away since.

“Ask me to stay,” you whispered, hands on either side of him—all boxed in. “Ask me, Javi.”

Running his tongue over the front of his teeth, he raised a hand, knuckles brushing over your cheek. Wanting nothing more. A week gone too quickly. Already feeling the pressure slip back over his muscles, seeping into his bones. But he knew. He pictured it, the things he had nightmares over—even when you were far away, never mind when you were asleep in the room next to his.

“Too dangerous.”

“That it? I can learn—”

“No.”

“No?”

He stared. Thought of the things he had done. The people he had already let down. The things he had let happen to people who deserved far better. It layering, and layering, and layering and—

Nodding, disappointment spread, before it was washed over in acceptance. “What’re we eating?”

When he wakes, he expects to find you dressed in corporate and apologising in a voice that’s accompanied by a pout at the foot of your bed. The place the two of you found yourself on at 4 am.

Instead, you fake another performance. Earn an Oscar over the phone before switching to the excitable one you present to him when you sit at the foot of the bed.

There’s something there. It hangs in your eyes. A secret, a thing shifted and dislodged now your mask has slipped from the few hours of sleep and the ruining of your sheets.

But he doesn’t ask, because if he does, he fears he’d tell you things in return. Alter the way you see him. Change it, taint it. Practically ruin the man you think he went to be and the one he's returned as.

It'll hurt him if you look at him with disgust. You’ve burnt him after all, left him winded, air knocked from his lungs each time he’s laughed. All but imprinted into his mind, a thing never filed but rather pinned up and forever there, like artwork on a fridge.

“Wanna get a coffee?”

Hands pulling on a pair of jeans, buttoning them as he sees the peaks of your nipples through your white tee. And he knows your face is bare and you're dressed in clothes you just pulled out without thought—yet, you are, as always, the prettiest damn thing he’s ever seen.

A thing he thinks when he showers.

When he smiles as he scrubs the shampoo into his hair, feels the soreness at parts from where your nails had dug in. He doesn't stop beaming when he smears his palm across the glass, takes in his appearance as you open the door, a towel hung low on his hips, eyes dropping down.

“Now who's staring, hermosa.”

“Don’t be a work of art to be admired then.”

He dresses in record time, your hand swinging beside his, so within reach, so easy to grab. But he doesn’t.

None of last night mentioned, even if he knows he’s left bruises on your inner thighs from keeping them apart; even if you've left scratch marks on his shoulders from when you sunk down on him, head thrown back, jaw elongated as he rolled your nipples between his fingers.

Javi doesn't even mention it when he hears you gasp at the taste of your coffee, a noise similar to when he'd licked a stripe up your pussy, when he tasted both you and him.

It was just like in Colombia.

A thing buried, hidden underneath other topics the two of you don’t discuss. Dead parents and a town you both ran from. A thing he almost wants to change, correct, but then you stop outside a flower shop.

The sign battered, peeling. Hidden between two nicer shops, yet the scent made his nose twitch.

“You should buy me flowers.”

“Should I?”

Smirking, teeth biting your lip. “Por lo de anoche.”

Head shaking, he finds himself following anyway. Unable to stop his eyes from falling to the back pocket you shove your phone in, hand reaching, palm pressing to the globe of your ass as he hears the muffled sound of a giggle—

“Piña.”

“Flor,” he whispers, practically breathes it against your neck.

The bubble expands, knowing at some point it’ll pop. Too happy, he thinks. Too settled for a man who has a solo flight back. It’s why he drops his hand, lets you move further in, watching as you scan over already-made bouquets for one he knows you won’t find.

Because they don’t know you. Not like him. There’s not years between you and this shop—this place.

His fingers lightly roll over a stem, staring at the flower, before he has pulled it free from the bucket, and then another, and then another. Not at all a florist—or someone artistic enough to make a bunch—but a person who at least knows you. Knows that in each of the pre-made bundles there’s a flower you dislike, one that’ll remind you of something, someone.

“Here.”

You blink, eyes widening as they move from the bunch in his hand to his face. “Javi…”

“There your—”

“Favourites,” you finish, eye narrowing, lips still parted. “You remembered all my favourites?”

Shrugging, aware of how close he is to real—to something that could shatter, break. A thing he’ll do, just give it time. Feeling it wrap its tendrils around his chest, around his heart, squeezing and squeezing until your hand slips in his. Palm to palm, fingers finding their way between his slowly, cautiously, your eyes not leaving his face as you do.

“Didn’t know my pussy was good enough for flowers, Piña,” you comment, voice low, a smirk there.

“You deserve more than flowers.”

“I’m that good?”

Shaking his head, hand still in yours, he presses a kiss to your forehead, swallowing. “Siempre has sido.”

“Hello?”

He heard the hiccup, the slur of his name as he smirked against the phone—finger and thumb massaging his forehead as he heard you hiccup again. “Flor?”

“Piña, did you know that I miss you?”

Adjusting the tie around his neck, staring down at the pineapples—the box open, atop a bunch of files, in the office he should have been thankful for. “You sound like you’ve had a good night.”

You howled, the laugh all high-pitched. “Maybe I have—maybe I haven’t. What I do know is that I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“No. I love you.”

Smirking, thumb tracing an outline of one of the pineapples. “You’re drunk.”

“Still love you.”

Swallowing, he let out a heavy exhale.

“You doing okay, mi Piña?”

He wasn’t sure how to answer, how to respond. Head tilting back in his office chair, the ice melted in his whiskey and the hour so late he wondered why you were still up as you extended his nickname out into as many syllables as you could.

“I am now—okay, I mean.”

It needs to be left alone.

He knows it. Reminds himself of it when it rears its head at every second he doesn't. Because, it doesn't need to be needled, or picked at until it bled.

But, Javi picks at it all the same when you avoid his question again.

His hand slides over his face, index finger tracing a line down his nose as he waits until your laugh fades. Your fork twists the spaghetti round and round, and when it falls, it simply lands on the table between the two of you—the air tinged with the scent of dinner and the flowers from the shop.

“When were you going to tell me you hate your job?”

Your smile shrinks, like the sunlight being muted by the night. Spine straightening, chin lifting. The walls coming down both literally and figuratively, seeing you prepare for war when he’s army-less and unafraid.

“Si significo algo para ti, no lo hagas.”

He snorts, resting on his arm, letting the sheets fall to his waist. Because of course, he cares, and of course, he wants to do this. Balling up the hand beside his hip, seeing the murkiness in your eyes, the joy snuffed out and hidden, as though the hatchets were coming down to protect against his storm.

Javi says your name, softly, honeyed—delicately drip-feeding the air each letter until it’s out there existing.

One by one, it happens. Your eyes avert, chin dipping down; your tongue drags across the front of your teeth and then your arms fold. “I hate my job. Happy? I wanted it so bad—and now I have it, I hate it. I hate going in, I hate doing it. I can’t tell anyone that because it’s all I wanted.”

“It’s okay.”

Snorting, fake smile sketching across your face as your eyes harden to the point they’re brittle. “It isn’t. I left. I turned my back and got as far out of there as I could, and now I’m stuck.”

It breaks him a little.

Seeing it then, the many shards inside of you that you’re trying to keep whole. The pieces that are so worn and tired from doing their best to fit, but struggling to do so.

It’s why he protests that you’re not. He tries to rationalise and says the same words he knows you’d say to him if he called—if he had told you the truth about everything when he was over there. He tries to add kindness to his words as you continue to stare at him like you wish your bed would swallow him whole.

“—You’re saying this like I didn’t say the same thing to you, and you went and did another five years.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?” you spit, standing now, finger pointing and nose flared. “Because your job means more?—”

“No, because I’m a fucking idiot, Flor. You’re not.”

You mutter under your breath, curse him—a blend of poisonous Spanglish that has the heel of his palm pressing against his forehead.

Because it’s like last time.

The words surge up inside of him—except you’re both older now, both carrying more pain and hurt from a world that continues to pile on when bones are already struggling. Walls threw up, keeping him out in all the same ways—except now his mess is also between your thighs, and you aren’t half as good at hiding how his words hurt you.

“Come home with me.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

Folding your arms, your head shaking. “I can stick it out—work my way up, it’ll get better—”

“You know it won’t. Know how well that went for me.”

Then you scoff. It blended with razors and sharpened to injure. “No, I don’t. Because you don’t talk about what happened.”

“You read about it.”

“But that’s not your story, Javi. That’s theirs.”

For a moment, he sees it. How hollow you look, how weak, sad and broken. So he repeats it, the request, the offer. Come home with me. But the door shuts, locks, a bolt thrown over.

And everything, all of it, splinters; it doing so before your mouth even opens and he sees what his request has done.

“I’m not coming home just because you’ve decided you want to play happy fucking families, Peña. The world doesn’t stop turning just because you’ve decided to run away, and it doesn’t begin turning again because you’ve come home and decided what you want.”

“That isn’t—”

“You left. You left me.”

“—Flor—”

“—and I asked you to let me stay—when I knew you were hurting. I asked and you said no—”

He whispers your name, broken—like it shatters the moment it greets the air.

“—I wasn’t good enough then. So why am I now?”

Shaking his head, legs flung from under your sheets, he stands—aware he’s half-naked, aware this isn’t the time as you step back.

You shake your head, tears dangling, resistant to fall. “I bet you’re not even staying.”

“I am—”

Head tilting, a crystal tear falling down your cheek, you scoff. Loud. Brutal. “Have you even unpacked? Or did you just get on a plane here?”

Swallowing, Javi rolls his jaw. Fingers flexing at his side, staring, urging himself to find words as his tongue thickens in his mouth. Because he’s staying, he’s staying, he’s staying—

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Flor—”

“Save it.”

The door of your bedroom slamming behind you is the final sound that echoes out between you both.

It was different.

Hearing you cry down the phone—than when the two of you were younger.

When your first love broke your heart and he lay beside you on sheets covered in stitched flowers. Your head turned to him, the bedroom door open, as you teased your lip between your teeth. The tears had dried, but the rest had still been there, written in markers across your face as you sighed, staring, waiting for him to answer. “What do you want, Piña?” you’d asked, and he’d swallowed that he wanted to punch them.

Now, though, there were miles between the two of you. Distance far more than there had ever been—cities, a whole country.

“I’ll be home soon—can visit you.”

He heard you laugh, it hanging, echoing. “Yeah, yeah.”

“I mean it.”

“You mean a lot of things, Javi.”

“Flor—”

“I wish you'd never kissed me.”

It's a whisper, the way he said your name. It cracked, snapping as it left his tongue.

“I should go shower, early morning and all that.”

He asked you to stay and he heard you sigh.

“What do you want, Piña?”

Swallowing, Javi tapped his fist on the desk—tiredness having crept over him, the last ditch at doing right in Colombia suspended over him. Tell me I’m doing good, that it's worth losing you, Flor. “Have a good day, Flor.”

It’s weeks.

Eight weeks and four days to be exact.

At some point, it becomes less of a want to get in touch and more of a need not to. Your number is always there on his fingers, but his digits never dialling it when his Pop nips out to go to the store, and he’s left alone with his thoughts and memories in a house stuffed full of them.

Javi doesn’t expect anything else.

Having woke that next morning to find a note attached to the book he had bought: Had to go to work. Have a safe flight. Speak soon—a thing he both hoped and prayed for, even as he nursed a drink on the short flight and chain-smoked at the airport before he did the drive home.

Home.

A thing it felt even less of when he arrived this final time. Pulling his truck into its place, dust swirled and kicked up around him. Staring at the house that hasn’t changed much, just the paint thinning, the sun-dyeing it.

Each day that ticks by, he thinks of you. Each week that’s collected, he fights with himself when he’s sat alone at the dining table about flying back out and apologising.

Because he knows what he did.

Did the same thing back then—assumed and foolishly acted as though your wants never mattered. But they do matter. A thing he rehearses in his head when he’s feeding the animals; a thing he runs over when he’s repairing a door here or a fence there.

One week adds up, then another, and another.

If his Pop thinks things, he doesn’t share them. Just shakes his head occasionally, not asking what is wrong, likely knowing. Suspecting he wears it like the rest of his shame, brightly coloured and decorated in bright lights.

A fool’s outfit, he thinks. A thing he is, a thing he knows. It carved into him at this point. Scratched into the skin and muscle, yet everyone else sees the word hero.

It’s eight weeks and four days when the door of the party opens, the sun streaming in—illuminating the back of a person in a dress adorned with flowers. It takes a second, the condensation on his beer dripping down his wrist as he stares, trying to place the shape and the style of the hair. Not wanting to imagine, not wanting to jump ahead of himself until he hears your mom say your name, all excitable—practically a shriek.

He’s not prepared.

Yet, it’s out of habit he moves.

Like the two of you are magnets, that realised they were supposed to be a pair. The music doesn’t quiet, and the room doesn’t hold its breath, but Javi does—and he suspects you do too.

Just as time comes to a slow stop—the hand in his watch takes an age to flick to the next second as his heart hammers into his ribs. Staring, fingers itching to reach out and ensure you’re not something he’s fabricated, not a mirage from wanting so badly and convincing himself he’d never have it.

“Hi.”

“Hello, Piña.”

It weighs heavy then—clots on his tongue. Almost shapes itself into bile and rests horridly against his tongue as he follows you around, hand close to reaching out to place on your lower back, but stops when he remembers where he is.

Home.

A thing it all of a sudden feels like when you turn your head, lift your chin and stare at him—eyes full of forgiveness, and understanding. “We should talk, right?”

Right, he thinks. Trying to stop the twist in his chest from tightening, trying to stop the dread from filling him and drowning from within. Conversations never go well. A thing he thinks over, and over as his hand strokes over his face, following, one foot after the other, until the warm sun kisses his skin and he finds himself leaning against the side of the building.

“I didn’t come for you.”

He says nothing, not sure if there are any to say.

“I quit. Moved back a week and a bit ago—” your hand comes up to halt him, half-pleading with a tilt and a raise of your eyes. “—and I needed to find things for me, first.”

Folding his arms, he stretches his legs, lets himself elongate, and tries to fill his lungs with air.

“Because I’d have resented you for being right.” Your chin dips, eyes following. “A thing I would do, because you, Javier Peña, know me. And sometimes I really hate that.”

Exhaling, he finds you do the same. Head tilting, lips rolling as you take him in, trace him with your eyes as though you can't quite believe he's real.

“Did you know that every person I’ve been with, it gets to a point where I think ‘Fuck, Javi wouldn’t do this to me’?” Meeting his gaze, you exhale. “And then, no matter how much I felt for them, it goes.”

“Flor…”

Swallowing, you offer the smallest smile. “It’s never gone for you, though. Not when you left. Not when you came back, and left again. Not eight weeks ago when I should have asked you to stay.”

Tongue sticking, flat against the roof his mouth, he grabs your hand—holds it. Runs his thumb over the knuckles as you avert your eyes.

“I live in Laredo now, further north. Did you know I’m so good at what I do, people seek me out?” you say, beaming, letting him pull you closer. “Think they’d have cloned me you if I’d asked for it.”

Dragging his knuckles down your cheek, he’s unable to stop the way it flares up in him—that joy, that ember of happiness—when you smile.

“Because I don’t think I find the idea of being yours that terrible—”

“That so?”

Shaking your head, fingers playing with the buttons on his shirt, he watches your smile falter—just for a moment. “Don’t do this, if you’re going to up and leave again, Javi. Because I’d have died happily not telling you what I feel for you.”

“Not doing it again to you.”

“Okay. Then,” you sigh, sliding your arms around his neck, his hands finding a home on your waist. “Well, I guess I should tell you that I really like your moustache.”

“Just really like?” he teases, swaying you as you purse your lips together.

“Fine. I love it.”

Smiling, walking you back until your back meets the wooden railings. “I love that you love it.”

Rolling your eyes, forehead meeting his chest, he feels the laugh roll through you. Rumbling.

“You owe me flowers.”

Snorting, he rests his chin on your head. “I’ll buy you a field, Flor.”

“That’s a good start.”

Thought so, he thinks. Wrapping his arms around you, keeping your head against him, rocking you, like he's wished to do so many times before now.

Home now feeling right.

#javier pena x reader #javi peña x reader #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena x you #javier peña x f!reader #javier peña x reader #javier peña fanfiction #javier peña smut #javier pena smut #javi peña smut #narcos x reader #narcos fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

[lani-heart]

|| series masterlist || next // previously ||

genre(s) -> angst, fluff, smut, non-idol, hybrid au, poly au paring(s) -> ( eventually ) ATEEZ x reader warning(s) -> mentions of violence, mention of putting down / death, etc. words -> 2.4K

abstract -> “I hope we can get along” 

y/n's perspective

San has been spending more time with me to try to remember. He’s refused to actually spend time alone in his room but also refused to go out with me. I had to go to the hospital for a change in my bandages but recently Yeosang and Wooyoung have been very adamant on bringing one of them with me. I couldn’t do that however, since I needed someone to look over San. 

I saw this as an opportunity to patch things up with Hongjoong. He’s been trying to find his place here but when he tries, he ultimately fails. 

He was firstly banned from the kitchen and Seonghwa refuses to have him help him clean saying he’s clumsy. Yeosang and San never really assigned themselves roles except when Yeosang chose what I wear. 

Hongjoong felt that he was out of place even though he had been helping… quite a lot with San. He couldn’t match his strength but did help hold him down when he turned… aggressive. San has been having night terrors of his past in the fighters ring, luckily however he hasn’t turned aggressive on any of us. 

I’ll mostly however just have San with me as I write my novel revamped like old times. 

“I don’t want you to go,” he said as he gripped my waist firmly and I sighed. “Sannie, I have to but I'll be back soon okay? Do… you want me to bring you anything?” I asked and he shook his head. 

“Just come back” he muttered and I smiled. “I always do,” I said and he nodded. “I know, '' he muttered and I knew his memories were there… they just confused him. He says that he knows that he attacked me, he remembers it clearly and he’s starting to remember his time in the kennel and meeting Wooyoung.

I left my room in hopes of getting to see Hongjoong. 

“y/n… are you leaving already?” Wooyoung asked? I nod as I notice his worried look. “Yeah, but it should be fine, don’t worry–” “You should take Wooyoung with you” Yeosang cut me off and I smiled softly. “You know he doesn’t like places like that… besides the doctor doesn’t allow hybrids inside and I’d rather not trigger an attack or episode,” I said while smiling at Wooyoung. He looked upset but I didn’t want to jeopardize his mental health. 

“I’ll go with you,” Yeosang said and I shook my head. “I need you to help with San,” I said and he sighed. “Can I go?” I heard and I saw Seonghwa. “He’s scared of hospitals… especially doctors,” Hongjoong said while getting hit by Seonghwa for catching his lie. 

“Then why don’t you come with me?” I asked Hongjoong and he looked at me confused and shocked. “He’s the one who–” “Yeosang… second chances remember?” I asked and his eyes widened slightly before looking away. “I’m ready when you are Hongjoong!” 

hongjoong’s perspective

I don't understand why she wanted me to go? I get that she needed the canine hybrids to help with San and his disturbed memory. However, I couldn’t let Seonghwa go knowing he had a fear of doctors and hospitals… he would’ve been panicked and upset. 

But why would she trust me?

The walk was silent… I made sure to keep an eye on her and she only walked with a smile on her face. Why? When we made it to the hospital I was glared at by the paramedic who saved her… he was her friend I believe. 

“y/n!” he said happily and I saw that her face had a smile to see the man. 

“I can see you chose to trust the tiger that caused these wounds,” he said while pointing at her bandaged jaw… I didn’t want to show him how I felt but I also couldn’t help but look at the ground. Why was I even here?

“This is Hongjoong… and it's okay, everything was a misunderstanding on both our parts,” she said and I sighed, "How was she so forgiving? “Well maybe you should have Kun do special training with him like he did with Yeosang '' he suggested… 

Yeosang did special training?

“Here, just sign in and I'll tell the doctor you’ve arrived,” he said as he left and she started answering some questionnaire he gave her… I didn’t notice how lost in my thoughts I was when I heard her ask me

“Are you okay?” she asked while I nodded not wanting to worry her. “I noticed you aren’t bad with others… you just have a lot of mistrust,” she said and I sighed. 

“You don’t have to be scared of anyone,” she assured and I didn’t want to accept that. 

“What did he mean?” I asked and she looked at me confused. “Yeosang? He did training?” I asked and she nodded. “He had many behaviors that he had trouble with stopping. It was mainly because of his training by his old owner it was hard to override it,” she said and I understood what she meant. 

“Would it help me?” I asked and she shook her head with a comforting smile. “It's the same reason why San isn’t doing any training… you can’t be around strangers and Kun won’t risk that” she said and I knew that it was a reasonable explanation. 

“Hongjoong I know you’re sorry… you don’t have to try so hard you know? I didn’t give you any reason to trust me and you were a hybrid who just escaped hell. We both didn’t make an effort.” she said and I shook my head. That was my fault… I made her doubt herself. 

“Do you know what you ripped that day?” She asked and I felt my body freeze… I knew it was some draft of a book she was writing… all I read was that it was named Circus. It angered me to think I inspired some fictional story for others to enjoy… based on my life of suffering.

“There's this character named Jum… he’s a lion hybrid. I first started with circus being a hybrid story of two hybrids who were mistreated and how they’d end up dead because of the hands of their ring leader–” she explained and it did remind me of the actual circus 

“–but then I added another hybrid and now it's gone. It originally was gonna end sadly. I restarted my story however, I added two more hybrids wanting to make almost a rebellion-type story” she explained…

A rebellion?

“The hybrids will end up escaping and defying society. Government laws will purge themselves and ultimately become an apocalypse-type end” she spoiled and I almost liked the sound of that. 

“Jum is inspired by you,” she said and I was shocked… just how did she see me? “He’s a lion hybrid… star of the show. He’s gonna lead the other hybrids to escape,” she said with a smile and I was shocked she’d give me such a big role in her book. 

“You’re the protagonist… it used to be San in my other version. But you naturally lead so I thought it was better to be inspired by you” she said and I smiled softly… It made me feel happy that she saw me that way and not in a bad way.

“y/n?” I heard as I saw the nurse call her. “They don’t let hybrids in so you can wait. Here and don’t rip it to shreds this time” she joked as he handed me a draft…

Hybrids, an experiment gone wrong. Human hybrids of animal counterparts. Animals but also humans. Considered disgusting creatures morally disgraceful.  Below Humans… until they decided to embrace their animalistic counterparts. Seen as pets, attractions, objects.  Standing in front of a stadium of people doing dangerous tricks that a normal person would never dream of doing… only to be cheered for almost dying.  To do degrading acts against our will… “Jum!” I heard as I saw the ringleader command me to behind the curtains… where I'd be stuck in a cage rotting for the rest of my life…  “You’ll be sharing a cage from now on,” a clown said as he pushed me into the cage where I saw the leopard hybrid. “Hello… I'm Si-woo” he introduced. He looked scared… confused as to what was happening.  “Where do you come from?” I asked curious as to who I would be performing with from now on and sharing a cage with. “My owner sold me. She decided I was too old to keep so she sold me to the man in charge,” he explained making me scoff.  Age, Species, and Appearance were important for humans when it came to hybrid collecting. “How long have you been here?” he asked softly. “All my life” I answered. “HEY! WATCH IT!!” I heard as I saw them now put a black and tabby cat hybrid in a cage. The black hybrid thrashing around in protective equipment. “Make sure that black cat gets punished later” I heard and I sighed. New recruits… I wonder how long they’ll last.  “Yong calm down! They’ll kill you if you continue behaving this way” the tabby cat softly said. “Tch! Don’t you get it Kyong! We’re gonna die here!” he yelled.  “What?” Si-woo said and the cats now looked at us.  “What? Did you assume you're here to learn tricks? They’ll use us until we’re dead.” Yong said and I agreed. “We can’t stay here! I-I don’t wanna die!” Si-woo yelled and I sighed. “As long as you behave, you won’t die” I heard a familiar voice.  Yeong was the only hybrid allowed outside. He was one of the popular acts with the magician… and is considered the best-behaved hybrid here.  “HEY! You can get us out!” Kyong exclaimed… how naive was he? “And risk my life for you? No way” he said and the hybrids physically deflated.  “Jum, you know the rules” the rabbit warned and I rolled my eyes. “Don’t you wanna leave?” Si-woo asked and the hybrid scoffed. “Where would I go? I would be adopted just to get mistreated there? I’d rather be here and play human than out there” he said and the cats glared.  Outside wasn’t safe… not until hybrid laws were outlawed. “So we live here? Until we die?” Si-woo muttered. “It’ll only last a few years if you're lucky,” Yeong said while looking at the ground. He was a hybrid in charge of the rules… played human but I could see the guilt in his eyes when a hybrid died. “If you’re lucky it’ll be painless,” I said and I knew this wasn’t right… but what could I possibly do? It's not like I could start a movem– 

“All done!” I heard as I looked up to see y/n. She had a change of bandages but otherwise looked fine. “Do you think it’s okay for now?” she asked and I couldn’t help but feel shocked. 

How did I judge her so wrong?

“Hongjoong?” she said and I smiled softly while handing her the story with shaky hands. “I’d love to read it some more,” I said and she smiled brightly. “Maybe you can help me!” she said as we started walking out of the hospital when I saw a boy probably her age maybe even younger?

“y/n!” he said happily while smiling almost like a samoyed dog hybrid would… “Jeno! How are you? I hope Johnny isn’t working you too hard” she said and he chuckled. “No… not yet anyway. And you?” he asked and she smiled. “Working but so far everything is okay,” she said and he nodded while staring at me cautiously… 

I knew they all looked at me as a threat… they also looked at the panther the same way as well as even the Doberman

“Make sure to be safe. There's been pickpockets… a lot of people have lost their wallets,” he said and I scoffed… pathetic.

“Huh?! I lost cash, probably two hundred dollars worth” she said and I was shocked… usually someone was with her so how did they manage to steal from her?

“Most people lost their entire wallets,” he said and I scoffed… I wouldn’t allow them to steal from her again.

“I will, I have Hongjoong with me! He’s probably the most intimidating besides San” she said and the boy nodded. “Be careful… and no more emergency room visits” he scolded as they said their goodbyes.

“Don’t go too far” I said as I grabbed the back of her shirt to be closer and she chuckled. “Don’t worry too much! The only times I've lost money were when I was alone” she said and I nodded. “I need to protect you” I confessed and she smiled. 

“No you don't–” “I do… it's the least I can do for you. I’m not good at other things. I can’t cook like Wooyoung or Seonghwa, I just end up making more of a mess when I try to clean–” “You don’t have to be… just as long as you're happy” she said cutting me off with a genuine smile and I felt my tail wag slowly… something it hasn’t done I think ever. 

“I will protect you… no matter what you say” I vowed and she smiled. “Thank you, Hongjoong,” she said and I nodded. That would be my purpose… protect her. 

We walked in a peaceful silence when I noticed a tall man looking at her… he smelt like a dog hybrid. He looked at me as he panicked and hid…

A hybrid was the pickpocket.

I soon saw another big hybrid come out and point at her but before I could growl at them—

“Hongjoong… I hope you’re happy by the way. I don’t want you to hate me… not hate anyone from the apartment even if you don’t consider it your home” she said and I sighed. I didn't at first… I hated you, thought you were another hybrid collector, another consumer who’d enjoy the stupid two-hour show of the circus. 

“I really do… I like my new home and I’ll do anything to protect it even if that means going against my own species” I said while looking up at the two hybrids… though I knew it wouldn’t make sense to her. 

“I just hope you don’t feel like the beginning where you hated me” she said softly and I smiled. 

“I don’t think I could hate you… I was wrong about you so let’s just go home”

@wonuangel @danirael @angelsaway @krissroo @minkysmilk @mayonnaise-on-toast @robertsbbygirl @superbbananananana @hyukssunflower @kitty4hwa @justconniez @senpai-of-doom @kibs-and-bits @caityelise99 @ilovekinny @ateezennie23 @wooahaelemons @purplelady85 @watamotee33@chidess97 @littlelostdemonofthelight @maliamaiden @burntarm1n @spooo00oky @eastleighsblog @momo-peachy @kitstar1117 @quartzpirate @sunnyhokyu @iwishiwasrichasfuck @theginger543210 @pandolinka @ddaeing @kpopnightingale @slid3er @kekdo-520 @puppyminnnie @sparklinghwa222 @calicanbeevil @itsvxlentine @atinism @loumin908 @smally97 @rxnexxi @acetruepunk @majesticbeluga @namjooncrabs @tashizxy @itstheghostofmypast @smilefordongil @teeziny @totallynotlyntv @kyeos4ng @prodsh00ky @acescavern

please don't be a silent reader !! reblog, comment, and like <3

#ateez #ateez x female reader #ateez circus #ateez x reader #ateez smut #ateez seonghwa #seonghwa x reader #seonghwa smut #ateez hongjoong #hongjoong x reader #hongjoong smut #ateez yunho #yunho x reader #yunho smut #ateez yeosang #yeosang x reader #yeosang smut #ateez san #san x reader #san smut #ateez wooyoung #wooyoung x reader #wooyoung smut #ateez mingi #mingi x reader #mingi smut #ateez jongho #jongho x reader #jongho smut

[radioapplerevue]

Radioapple Fic Recs

Finally got around to organizing a rec list. Going to pin this, since I see people ask for recs a lot. I expect I'll be updating this periodically, too, as I've only just started adding things to it.

These are my personal favorites. For context, I'm an almost 40 year old aroace person whose favorite fics tend to be those who take you apart and then put you back together, haha. Putting them under a read more because I expect this to get long.

The Ruination of Lucifer by @syaunei. (Explicit)

Remember what I said about taking apart and being put back together? Nothing has come close to toppling this fic for me when it comes to emotional catharsis. One of the things I love most about it is how directly it deals with Lucifer's severe depression and the consequences of it, as well as the many, many centuries of him having to deal with just being Who He Is, Where He Is. He's terribly wounded and suffering, but he's also indisputably the King of Hell, with all the power and all the knowledge and all the experience that comes with it.

This fic also stands out for being from Alastor's POV, which I love, because as much as this fic is called The Ruination of Lucifer, the subtitle could be "How Alastor Fucked Around and Found Out". Both of them are getting broken down here, and both of them are -- hopefully -- learning how to grow and move forward. It also takes into account Alastor's asexuality and his unconventional approach towards sex, and what it can (or can't) do for him.

Mind the warnings, though, because shit does get heavy in here for a while. And enjoy the gorgeous illustrations by @betti2024.

2. Lucifer and his Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Relationship by @keelywolfe (ratings vary by part)

This series has me in a chokehold. It's considerably softer than many Radioapple fics, but it really draws you in and makes you so invested in these two idiots and how much they care about each other but also how bad they are at understanding how much they care about each other. It's Lucifer's POV, which causes Suffering not only because he's an incredibly unreliable narrator, but because there's Something Going On with Alastor that we know nothing about except that it's Bad. And we (and Lucifer) are dyiiiing to know what it is, haha.

There is a lot of sex in this series, but there's something about it that's very compelling to me, especially from Alastor's side. The way he is written in these encounters is just so... tender. It's obvious that (most of the time) he's not getting anything really in terms of sexual gratification, but he's getting a great deal in terms of gratification of a different sort, and the fact that it's so clear that he derives as much -- or perhaps more -- pleasure from that as Lucifer does from the sex itself is so delicious.

But my favorite aspect of the whole thing is that no matter what conflicts are going on -- whether outside of themselves, or of their own making -- Lucifer has become Alastor's safe harbor. And that kills me.

3. Bedtime Rituals to Try Out Before the Next Angelic War by @miribalis (teen and up)

Did I mention I like soft? Because I do. And there's something so lovely about the slow, careful way their relationship progresses here, especially on Alastor's side. My issue with this fic is that it ended, haha! I was so looking forward to seeing where it went, because I got addicted to the particular tender rapport that the two of them built. But being left wanting more is hardly a knock on the fic itself, and it's absolutely a treat to get to read.

4. devils don't fly (don't expect me not to fall) by @corgiss (mature)

I think it's becoming apparent that I really enjoy fics that begin with the two of them butting heads, and sometimes stumbling into a huge blunder, only for them to slowly grow together into something much softer than either of them likely intended. This is one such fic. It also involves some fun stuff with the rest of the cast, and a masquerade. Gotta love that.

5. All changed, changed utterly by @tollingreminiscentbells (explicit)

This series is very different from the rest. It's a canon AU where Lucifer and Alastor first met when Alastor was still alive, and then proceeds to go into canon events from there, with Lucifer being the one holding Alastor's leash. There's a lot to chew on, and the author has chosen to go a very different route regarding biblical mythology than the show does. Definitely something I recommend if you want a deep dive into a really meaty series, that delves into both the dynamics of Heaven vs. Hell as well as the worth of free will, as embodied by Alastor (for better or worse).

It also includes one of my new favorite recurring things, which is Alastor's 'delusional not-sex'. (It's sex.)

6. Of Saints and Sinners by @morningstarwrites (teen and up)

This fic is probably the most lighthearted of the radioapple fics I read, haha. It's a fun romp and has definitely made me laugh out loud on more than one occasion. So if you're looking for something that preserves that antagonism-to-grudging-friendship-to-oh-no-we've-caught-feelings kind of story, but with more comedy and less angst, this is the fic for you! (I mean, I have no idea if angst is going to happen in the future, but so far.)

7. hit me where it hurts (the bruising will be worth it) by RestlessWanderings (mature)

This one can only be called radioapple if you squint, but I'm including it because a) it's by far my favorite take on the hotel battle scene, b) I love when Lucifer gets fucked up and people get scared for him and c) it's technically part of a radioapple series. I don't know if that series is still going to happen, but I do enjoy this plenty on its own!

Hold here for more! There are a bunch of fics I’m following but am unsure if they’ll ever be finished — which is fine, writers don’t owe us anything! But it will definitely determine how high up they are on my favorites, haha. And of course people are posting new ones all the time.

#radioapple #appleradio

[yuri-is-online]

New scenario in the car: I don't know if you youngster's remember a tv show Recess, but there's one episode where everyone is curious about kissing and stuff and decide to do an experiment and TJ and Spinelli draw the short straws to kiss and report back. When they do kiss, there's this scene of like, fireworks and rainbows going off in their heads (This one)

And just picturing Ace and Yuu playing Spin the Bottle or Truth or Dare (or whatever the kids are playing these days) and having to kiss, mentally it's like this but Seven forbid they let anyone know they enjoyed it, especially Ace/Yuu, so they make a big performance of gagging and going "ew gross" once the kiss is over. Smash vut the them alone in bed flustered screaming into a very tired Grimm/Staring at their ceiling paralysed with committing the feel Yuu's lips to memory.

Or something, hope you're keeping well x

The only thing I really know about this show is that my mom didn't allow me to watch it. I'm oldish myself just. Homeschooled :/

Truth or dare makes the most sense to me. And for some reason I see Epel as being the one who would put up the dare.

"C'mon." He's smirking because he can't really help it, he does find this situation hilarious. "What are ya, chicken?"

And sure, you and Ace try to act like it's a gross idea and make your standard embarrassed protests but Jack is the only one really siding with you because he's a stick in the mud but of course Ace has to call him that out loud. So you know what never mind, Ace have fun kissing the prefect he's doubling Epel's dare and now Epel is clucking a surprisingly accurate chicken call with Deuce as Sebek turns this around on you because. idk you made a joke about "kissing the homies goodnight" to Malleus once and he asked if that meant he should give Sebek a kiss on the forehead and he's never forgave or forgotten.

Anyway Ace tries to play off the nerves because don't worry he's had a girlfriend before. He knows how to kiss somebody alright? Doesn't matter if you've dated before or not, whatever you have to say on the subject is going to fluster him because well. However you feel about this he's wanted to kiss you for a while, and unlike anything he shared with his girlfriend kissing you... he doesn't know how you feel but he can fool himself into thinking there's love in it. It's hard for him to lie when he's pressed so close to the truth. So you both pull away and make big fools of yourselves, but the act is bought because your friends are admittedly sort of dumb.

All of your friends except Grim who has to see you stare at a wall between treating him like a plush toy and screaming about how you are so fucking stupid for not putting an end to that dare while you still could because you wanted your first kiss with Ace to be REAL-

(he doesn't sleep at all that night or really talk to Deuce the next morning. he's got a stupid text message three words long he's typed out and deleted so many times but he really wishes he had the guts to hit send this time because- he wants a do over. he didn't get to kiss you right the first time.)

#<3 asks #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #aceyuu #ace trappola x reader #ace trappola x yuu

[ramhaiba]

𝖮𝗇𝖾 𝖸𝖾𝖺𝗋 (𝖸𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖸𝗎𝗎𝗍𝖺 𝖷 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋)

SNEAK PEEK

a/n- i haven't posted in a while and i don't have anything done (yet) so i decided to post a sneak peek on my next work) contains- kidnapping, manhandling, intense bullying, stalking, sexual themes, tba...

One year. It’s been one year since you were attacked from behind. You still remember every tiny detail of that event, you were struggling to find your stupid car keys in your purse, cursing under your breath. There was something eerie about being in a empty parking lot so late at night- but you were desperate for groceries. So there you stood, struggling to find your keys while your grocery bags rested next to your feet. 

You don’t know why you couldn’t hear him, it was like he was a ghost. It was all sudden, the feeling of his stern chest on your back, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding a black cloth over your mouth. You remember trying to fight him off of you but each second of inhaling the chloroform infused rag made your eyelids grow heavy. 

When you woke up, your heart felt like it was about to run out of your chest as you noticed you weren’t in your room, realizing that your last memory wasn’t a simple dream. 

The room was unfamiliar, you were lying on a queen-sized mattress, the white walls were decorated with two small portraits of flowers, and the hardwood floor looked spotless as if someone had just finished polishing it. The room itself looked normal except that there wasn’t a single window, the only light coming off a bulb from the ceiling- in addition to the security camera hung in the corner. 

Your first instinct was to run to the door, only to find it was locked. Then you banged your fist on the sealed entrance, cursing at anyone who was behind the door. 

That’s when you heard his voice for the first time, soft and slightly comforting as well. 

“Take ten steps back from the door,” he uttered, sounding more like a suggestion than a command. 

“What the fuck is this, let me out” you shouted back. “Ten steps away from the door” he repeated, tone with a hint of annoyance. “Where even am I? Asshole, if you don’t let me go right now I’ll-”

“I said ten fucking steps away from the door, Y/n” he shouted, his voice booming, banging his fist on the other side of the door, causing you to flinch in fear. You didn’t dare to utter another word like your lips were stuck together by glue, slowly retreating a good distance away from the door.

You heard the voice sigh from behind the door before unlocking it.

He walked, dark hair swooped to the side, a light grey baggy sweatshirt paired with black trousers. There was a sliver argyle patterned masquerade mask wrapped around the top half of his face, highlighting his dark tired eyes. 

You don’t need to see his entire face to know you’ve never met him before. “H-how did you know my name” you questioned, taking a step back the second he took a step closer.  

He gave you a disappointed look, his eyes narrowed through the mask, “because we know each other. Y/n” he replied. 

“I- I don’t even know your name, you sick fuck” you remarked, clenching your fist. “Pancakes? Do you like pancakes? “ he asked, joyfully as if you hadn’t just cursed him out. 

“What? Why the hell are you asking me if I want pancakes” you scoffed. “For breakfast, of course” he beamed, lips curled in a sweet subtle smile. 

“I- I don’t want pancakes, I want to leave” you replied, voice stern. “Try to get some rest, you hit your head pretty hard before you got here” he suggested, as he began to retreat to the door. 

You looked at him in disbelief as his silhouette left the room. 

The next morning- or what you assume was the next morning, the ringing of a bell woke you, as your vision slowly focused on your surroundings, you noticed him sitting on your bed, holding a tray of breakfast assortments, head tilted as he smiled.

“I hope you slept well. I made you breakfast- I’m not the best chef, so don’t get too excited” he laughed embarrassed, leaning over to lay the tray on your lap.

You looked at the food, fresh pancakes drizzled with syrup, a glass of iced orange juice, and toasted bread on the side. Then you looked back at him, his innocent happy appearance pissed you off- it was like he wasn’t unaware of how morally wrong his mistakes were.  “I don’t want your fucking food- I want to leave” you shouted, trying to tackle him with the butter knife from the tray, the spread of food falling over as you pushed him to the ground, knees straddling his chest.

In an instance, his hands are on your waist, flipping you over as if it didn't take any effort difficulty, pinning your hand above your head, making you drop the butter knife, strands of dark hair dangling off his forehead. 

“If you ever do that again” he uttered, putting crushing pressure around your wrist as he squeezed them, he leaned over, his breath on your neck as he tilted his head, 

“I will fucking break your arm.”

That’s when you realize the man in front of you isn’t just your abductor - he’s a sociopath.

#yandere x reader #yandere jjk x reader #jjk x reader #yandere jjk #yandere yuuta #yandere yuta #yandere yuuta x reader #yandere yuuta okkotsu #yuuta okkotsu #yuuta x reader #yandere yuta x reader #yandere yuta okkotsu x reader #yuta x reader

[essektheylyss]

I will be honest, every time I'm reminded that people in grad school take notes on lectures and readings I have to stop and buffer for a moment to process it. Not because I think that they shouldn't, to be clear, like that is absolutely the responsible approach, I am just so fundamentally incapable of taking notes that I forget it's a thing that the majority of people do.

#literally I do not take notes on anything my brain absolutely will not. #not meetings not lectures not readings not dnd sessions #'how do you remember anything?' i just do. except when I don't. #this is actually a MAJOR inhibitor for me with worldbuilding actually. like I desperately need to get better at jotting things down #cuz goddamn I am terrible at it #in fairness I also remember things much better if I just hold onto them cuz writing them down is a kind of thought exorcism for me so #that probably also factors

[protect-namine]

I was thinking the other day that man, kokuto neji is such a character and I haven't liked a writer character like this since... shang qinghua?

which naturally led me to this thought: jj fic with svsss-style au where neji transmigrates/gets isekai'd into the world of havenna. as domina, of course.

it's extra fucked up imo because at least when sqh transmigrated in his book, he made up all of those characters and they mostly stayed in the realm of fantasy. like, sure, lbh was kinda based on himself in some ways and mbj was his ideal fantasy, but they still mostly stayed fictional, you know? sqq (sy) had to fix his plots because the characters sqh wrote strayed too far from their original plotlines

but theater makes a fictional world a bit too real and personal, especially when you use real people as inspirations for your writing. with neji, he'd be looking at rukiora and see three different people (mitsuki acting as rukiora; rukiora who was written based on a younger version of neji; rukiora who is her own person in this weirdly real world of havenna). neji would see fugio and to him that is both sou acting as fugio and the fugio who grew up with poison flowers. miguel is both fumi and the guy who ran away from his neshiromi fields. the only constant would probably be chicchi. she is too much like kisa in that... well. neji didn't really have a backstory for chicchi. chicchi is a blank canvas just like kisa is as an actor.

anyway. yeah, very sv-style character arc where neji, much like shen yuan in sv, is forced to humanize the villain. except this villain was his creation and is also tied to a bunch of personal issues for neji that he Doesn't Want To Think About and also he doesn't? really understand the character he wrote tbh?

isn't art supposed to process your emotions for you!! why must he process these himself!!

can you imagine neji, who always casts himself as a seer of some sort (fortune teller, ushinoko) or someone who generally has some control over his future or his "creation" (who is mary if not just another side of neji anyway; she's takihime redux, and takihime is also. neji). imagine this dude being transported inside the play he wrote but he doesn't understand it and he has no control over it and everyone's acting both in character and out of character. he both knows and doesn't know these people. they're fictional but also... real? does he treat them as real people? is domina real? he wanted his actors to imbue parts of themselves into his characters. are these people really just characters from a script? are they his quartz classmates? is he allowed to even hope that that's the case?

it's both THE improv exercise of his dreams and also. a nightmare

#mine musings #liveblogging jj #jack jeanne #i do kinda want to write this eventually. like separate from a njmtsks fic #oh god. not me wanting to write a fic about a story within another story. oh rama havenna... #we can even throw in the whole prayer theme. like yes the priest preaches in a godless town and he carries a bible but hear me out #what if the god he's preaching about is himehiko instead #like. prayers and confession as offerings to a theater god. said theater god put you in your own play to “help” you fix it bc you #as the scriptwriter don't even understand anything about your own play #i kinda envision this as a neji & kai fic #though neji mostly struggles with rukiora and chicchi and the way domina prevents him from reacting authentically #neji knows everyone's backstories and inspiration but them BAM he has to face chicchi and he doesn't know anything about her #bc he was banking on kisa making chicchi her own character and being the 'transparent vessel' that helps everyone improve #and also he just had zero notes about chicchi lmao #neji every night at pontartia: is she being ooc right now or is this how chicchi was supposed to be all this time #like remember that time when he said to sou that he only realized what mukai's character was about after kisa got her act together #it's happening agaaainnnnn with chicchi #meanwhile rukiora hates him soooo much and neji is sad that he can't even confess about this to the priest bc it would be ooc for domina #mikki hates him!! except that's not mikki. but she looks and sounds and acts like mikki!! and also like a younger version of neji!! #he'll look to jire and he's all sad and mopey and neji is like. suzu having nuance is GREAT but also suzu not being cheery feels so bad man #where's my moodmaker? hachipochi missing hours :( #he tries to talk to sou but that's not sou that's fugio and also. fugio only cares about chicchi #domina barely even interacts with miguel so neji has to devise ways for domina to talk to him while being in character #but the minute he gets close rukiora is there and miguel would never talk to someone that makes rukiora upset. go away madame!! #neji is left to commiserate with otori/facchio and himehiko is laughing in the background

[cakemoney]

finding out that kaito and shinichi have been revealed to be cousins is like finding out there was a huge earthquake in the country you used to live in

#which also just happened. these experiences are roughly equivalent. snmcmdmcmdllc #detective conan #laughs awkwardly #LIKE. idk how to put into words. detective conan's fandom is.... something #these are people who have been invested in the (often romantic) trials and tribulations of a 17 year old who looks 7 years old #for upwards of 20 or 30 years. this is not a casual reveal #detective conan is not some labor of love and artistry that the author has a specific vision for. it's the longest cash grab that never end #it has had movies during golden week every year for longer than i have been alive and distributes it in several countries #and kaito/shinichi is very popular. i think if you know anything about manga/anime fandoms i don't even need to explain why #for the author to publicly canonically rip up one of the most popular ships of the series... it's hard to imagine that it wasn't deliberate #it's not just a matter of 'omg just ship what you like ignore canon'. they HAVE been doing that (conan has a canon female love interest) #this is very destiel-coded in the sense that it feels simultaneously like the author acknowledging that section of the fandom #while doing the worst possible thing about it. like NO ONE wanted that dnvkdmlvmdk #except for me. this is so funny. I've ALWAYS HAD SUSPICIONS OKAY #kaito and shinichi's canonized same-face syndrome might have started as a meta joke. but remember. this is one of those series #where people are frequently revealed to be a.) not dead all along and b.) secretly someone else all along and #c.) secretly related to someone plot-important all along. all these have happened MANY times #when you have a franchise that has run for this long you kind of have no choice but to up the stakes to the point of absurdity #so basically. it feels like walking in with pizza to the burning room meme except the author was the one to set the fire

[steakout-05]

headcanons i have about Craig the scientist :)

as are most of the characters i have headcanons for, Craig is on the autism spectrum. he has a flat effect to his voice and facial expressions, doesn't really get most social cues, doesn't know how to react to others in pain the "right" way, misunderstands metaphors and speaks in quite a direct manner because it makes the most sense to his brain. he's quite a literal thinker. he also tends to hyperfixate so hard on a task that he forgets his basic needs and hygene, and thus has quite an unkempt look underneath that hazmat suit of his (which i will get into later!). Barry often ends up needing to get Craig something to eat because of how long he hyperfixates on something.

Craig sometimes doesn't exactly pay attention to his tone of voice, so sometimes he can say something that, to him, sounds completely normal, but because of his tone, can end up sounding really ominous to other people by accident ("We know who you are, Barry.")

Craig has traumatic cataract in his left eye (or wherever the fuck craig's visor crack is supposed to be in canon lol) from the explosion in 'Level 2' and is half blind in that eye. his eye has a very clouded look as a result of the injury. he's also got a huge scar there too that required some pretty gnarly stitches later, and his skin is almost completely numb around that area.

Craig also never really had the best eyesight before the injury, so he's always wearing these big ol' nerdy glasses underneath his helmet. and yes, they are tacked together with a band-aid lol

Craig is one of the few scientists who is not a clone of Peter Simpkins, the late friend of both Professor Brains and (in my headcanon'd canon) Craig. i like to think that Craig and Simpkins knew each other when they were first recruited by Legitimate Research and was pretty close to both him and Brains, and since Simpkins died, Brains has kind of taken more of a liking towards Craig (mostly out of loneliness and needing someone to help around at the lab, but he has a genuine fondness for him under his demanding and angry exterior).

There's a bit of a fan theory that Craig is the same guy as the scientist in the 'Robot Bird' rock opera, which i like to believe is the case. i mean, he's got the same monotone voice as Craig, it's gotta be him. i hope this does end up becoming canon because i think it'd make for an interesting conflict between Barry and Craig!!

Craig may or may not be related to Lab Lady.

Craig's counterpart in the mirror universe is named Kayla.

Craig is demiromantic and is questioning his sexuality (he thinks he might be bi or pan), though he definitely knows he loves Barry <3

Craig has an unhealthy habit of wiping his embarrassing memories, like, a lot. he wipes memories of awkward accidents in the lab, particularly painful failures, and most importantly, the memories of losing literally all his stuff and his career to Barry, which is why he doesn't immediately recognise him in the shorts. Craig has a lot of trouble recounting stories from the past because of this memory-wiping and felt a sense of emptiness, which getting hit in the head certainly didn't help with, so he tried inventing that apple in the Multiverse Madness event to get some of them back. it was pure dumb luck that Barry didn't end up witnessing what happened to Craig in the 'Robot Bird' opera and both are completely unaware of the disastrous can of worms that could have opened. bro's gonna end up like wallflower blush if he doesn't keep that memory erasing under control

and finally...

under his helmet, Craig has messy dirty-blonde hair, a rounded face that has a few stray facial hairs he forgot to shave, a long scar down the left side of his face, hazel coloured eyes and pale skin. this design is inspired by the designs made by @dexterno-artz and @schnabel53 respectively :D

this is a sketch of my finalised(ish) craig design!!! i've shown earlier versions of this guy in a couple of older posts but i haven't really revised his design much until now. i kinda had the idea of him looking like a stereotypical nerd and then made him messier. i might tone the amount of hair he has down a tiny bit but also i really like the nerdy bird's nest thing he has goin on :) i like to think he literally hasn't brushed his hair in several weeks and it's just become a bird's nest from nights of staying up doing science stuff

how i feel about barry tbh. he's literally so dumb i love him

(also apologies for the photos being kinda blurry and me forgetting to turn off the filter. again. in my defence it looks really nice and orange on my phone)

sometimes i like drawing him saying stuff from the shorts to get a feel of how he'd look when talking and make sure he looks juuuust nerdy enough for me to go "yep that's craig". also his big,g, handns,s,

drew this as a quick side profile sketch to get a general idea of how i want to draw him from this angle. he's talking to barry offscreen and falling in love with him <3

stupid little comic with a stupid little interaction that would definitely happen between these stupid little guys <3 barry being a little asshole every now and then is very entertaining to me. i need to see him antagonising craig and starting an old couple bickering argument with craig, that would heal me i think

i think i'll post more of this design in the future, i really quite like it a lot :)

#jetpack joyride #craig jetpack joyride 2 #jetpack joyride 2 #headcanon design #yeag sorry the photos are so fucked looking #my room does not have good lighting.... like..... at all #my sketchbook is also literally falling to pieces lmao #i'm gonna get a new one soon but damn. my poor sketchbook #i didnt even do anything to it....... why must it fall apart and die on me.......... #anyway YEAH craig design!!!! #i quite like this design a lot #i feel like there's something that could be added to it but i don't wanna make his design more complicated than it already is #that first drawing of him kinda looks like his eye is bleeding lol #it's just a really big scar dw #craig having traumatic cataract was inspired by my dog getting traumatic glaucoma in his eye #also i think craig would go hard as like. a character who's similar to wallflower blush #except instead of everyone forgetting her but her remembering them #it's craig forgetting everything that happened to him and then finding a way to restore the memories and then he gets SO PISSED at barry #they'll sure need a lot of couple's counselling after that blunder #i kinda wanna make designs for steve and toni #especially steve!!! #how do you think they'd identify steve from the other scientists. would barry just stick a big piece of paper with an S on it to his face #answering my own question: yes he would absolutely do that #steve is the one i feel like both barry and craig tease the most #i find steve literally being so nervous about being perceived that he runs away and damages property to be extremely relatable #also fun fact: craig's hair and eye colours are kinda based off the colour i see the word craig in??? #ok this is gonna be tricky to explain but i think i might have grapheme colour synesthesia #it's basically a condition where you can see or VERY heavily associate colours to a specific number or letter #and for some reason my brain has christened 'craig' as being a very specific sort of yellowy green! it's what i see in my head when i think #-of the word 'craig' so i decided to make him kinda blonde and have hazel eyes (which is basically a mix of green and yellow)!! neato!!

[dredshirtroberts]

okay note to self: it takes approximately 2.5 hours (fed and hydrated properly) for the ibuprofen to kick in enough to give me the ability to move *some*. It does still hurt but oh god is it less than it was.

#chronic pain #i'm *very* bad at taking my meds #i know it helps i enforce med taking on others when they need it #but i will put off taking it for myself because i'm ''supposed to power through'' or some bullshit #and i'm working on not doing that and just taking meds when it hurts #but goddamn if that isn't about half as annoying as the pain in the first place #like yes it helps but like remembering to take the medicine then keeping up with how long it is until i can take more #and making sure i've got proper nutrition and hydration to help it work the best and not tear up my digestive track #and then waiting for it to fade out before i'm allowed to take more meds #and having to sit in pain just long enough that i forget the medicine worked initially so i don't take more when i'm supposed to #because well it didn't do anything anyway (except it did a little tho) #and then...anyway yeah i'm just like... #you know on top of the physical reasons i was blamed for my body hurting i was told it was due to my depression #and that as soon as my depression got worked out and i felt better it would stop hurting #except that didn't happen and actually it hurts more now that i don't have as bad of depression #because i'm not feeling it through the fog/using it as a punishment on myself for being sad #i hate this shit

[charlattehotte]

I would umm like to stop finding out things

#like #oh i wasn't going insane there you literally were ignoring me back then cool #see i thought it was my imagination but okay #everyone else noticed you were talking in full sentences to everyone except me #oh also you were super huffy to other people about me wanting to go to a cafe with you? #okay you literally could have just cancelled lol #remember when i was worried about coming off clingy and asking you to stuff #and you said just ask anyway worst i can say is no #that wasnt the worst thing you could do though was it #and i LOVED finding out you intended to break things off for ages before you actually did #remember when i explicitly asked you how long you'd been thinking about it #and you said a few days at most #and i took that as truth because youd never lied to me #thats not even touching on the fact rhattyou DIDNT break it off. I spent days being gaslit by you before finally saying fuck it #obviously theres an issue so talk to me like an adult about it #fuckin. 'no yeah we're fine' my ass #i dont even care that he broke it off i really don't i care that i was lied to and disrepected and brushed off and gaslit about it #and im furious that he'll never realise he fucked up there because hes never fucking wrong about anything #i dont have the patience for him anymore honestly and theres no way to even bring this up because it was months ago at this point #but if he asks whats up im gonna just go a little hit ham #:3c

[brothersonahotelbed]

scrolling through my good omens board on pinterest before bed hoping to have dreams about them when i go to sleep

#if im being honest i dream about once maybe twice per week #including any and all naps i take #its not so much as me forgetting my dreams because i know what that's like and its different #you wake up knowing you had a dream but you cant remember what it was. all you remember is that you did dream #but for me. i go to bed and then it's morning. like it happens in the blink of an eye #and i wake up without any feeling like i dreamed. like i simply laid down for a moment and then boom its morning suddenly #my headspace when im sleeping is empty. thats the only way i know how to describe it. it wasnt filled with anything its just blackness #except for the rare occasions when i do dream or dream only in little snippets of scenes. those i always remember but they don't come often #trying to dream again tonight wish me luck 👍🏻 #loquitur

[ozzgin]

Omg bro yk whats been on my mind for do long?? A demon king trying to court a hero reader. Like the hero has already fought and defeated the king but somehow he comes back and he's desperately trying to get the hero to join him (in more ways than one). He wants the reader to be his spouse and leader of his army against the corrupt human race and the reader (now fallen from stardom due to the evil kings defeat) just wants him gone and to be left alone. Idk if this makes sense but I need to see SOMEONE write abt it before I lose my last marble.

-Doll

This is giving me Dragon Quest vibes, haha. Not a trope I'm too familiar with, but it sounds interesting nonetheless. I shall do my best! Sorry for the delay, I hope it's close to what you imagined. :)

Yandere! Demon King x Hero! Reader

As it goes with villains, they always find a way to return. This time, the Demon King has a different plan in mind. You were prepared for anything, from evil schemes to ancient conjured weapons...except for a wedding ring cordially placed before you. Do you say yes?

Content: gender neutral reader, monster romance, 🔥proposal (literally)

[Part 2]

You still remember everything so fondly. How you crawled out of that enormous crater, body battered and weak, as everyone watched in horror and held their breaths. Finally, you raised your fist victoriously. The Demon King had been, at last, defeated. The people cheered and cried and pulled you up under thundering waves of applause. Peace was no longer just a dream.

A sweet, innocent memory, even more so given its fleeting nature. The genuine smiles of gratitude quickly turned into crooked grins asking for favors. Before you knew it, you became some sort of political accessory to convince the masses. Posing for photos, shaking hands, being interviewed with bizarrely planned questions reeking of propaganda. You suddenly felt burdened, heavy, disappointed. This was not the kind of fame you envisioned for yourself.

Thus, you gradually vanished from the limelight, keeping your distance from everyone else and spending most days in solitude. Better than having to look into those unscrupulous, opportunistic eyes measuring up your worth. You had fulfilled your job and purpose.

This morning you're woken up by the sound of your belongings rattling in their shelves. The wooden frame of your bed is creaking, and you struggle to get up. An earthquake? A wave of nausea flushes over you. You recognize this feeling all too well, though you never expected to deal with it again. This is a disaster alright, yet the forces of nature have nothing to do with it.

You rush outside, swinging the door open and nearly tripping in your hurry to confirm your suspicions: the demonic creature is approaching your humble adobe with heavy steps, as the ground crumbles and shatters underneath. The Demon King himself, in flesh and blood. Although the blood splattering his armor is most likely not his. Same for the visceral remains threading his weapon. Regardless, your jaw tightens nervously, and you stand back, in a defensive pose. "You're a stubborn one", you say smugly, trying to maintain your composure. "Can't say I'm a fan of dying, that is correct." A ragged, monstrous voice erupts from the tall, armored figure.

"What brings you back?" You demand. The surroundings are too peaceful for him to have tampered with the city. Did he stop by to formally announce his destruction? "I have an offer that might interest you." The Dark Overlord has closed the distance between you, now looming above your much smaller body. You shiver. "I don't barter with Demons!" You conclude, turning around, prepared to leave. "Even when your precious people are on the line?" The horned beast warns with a grin. "If there's nothing better to do as a Ruler of Realms than killing petty humans..." You swiftly retort, going back into your house and slamming the door shut.

He stands for a moment, speechless. "Y-your Majesty? Should I take care of the humans, or (Y/N)?" Only now he notices his scaly butler, bowing to his side with claws resting over the weapon. The Demon King raises a hand, shooing the servant away. The annihilation of the human race can wait. There are more important matters to deal with presently. He'd expected your rejection, naturally, but not in such fashion. The indifference, the flat voice, the empty eyes devoid of emotion. Have the city dwellers tampered with his hero? He expected to see your fierce rage and in return he was met with a hollow shell.

Bright blue flames erupt from the openings of his armor, resulting in a menacing show of lights. He's known it for the longest time, of course. Humans are rotten to their very core. Vile, deceitful creatures that have slithered their way up, exuding undeserved arrogance. He's been trying to show you this very fact, yet you were blinded by naive faith. Your unwavering, honest heart that won him over has turned out to be your early demise. Not anymore. His vengefulness knows no bounds when it comes to traitors.

The sudden spike in temperature alerts you. Was it your rudeness that angered the Demon? You don't care anymore. Whatever happens to the city is out of your hands. And yet...you're buckling the straps of your old suit made for battle. Sword in hand, you gaze at your reflection. What could the Beast want? The fortified city no longer holds the value of its olden days. Just like you've left your hero days behind. Without much contemplation, you run out and head for the main gates. The path is paved with ash and rubble and your grip on the weapon tightens. Regret immediately wells up in your chest, ready to burst out. Is it too late? The entrance is engulfed in fire, charred corpses toppling against the ruins of the walls.

You reach the town hall - or rather, what remains of it - and face the Demon King. Has he gotten stronger since your last encounter? You hold your breath as the horned monster turns towards you. "I've tried to tell you, again and again. Time after time." He sighs, defeated. "Between the two of us, I'd say you were the stubborn one all along." His voice is softer than what you would've expected from someone that had just massacred an entire settlement. There's not a single scratch or sign of struggle. Was he merely holding back during your last fight? One thing is certain: you're his final obstacle. You raise your sword, determined. Hot sweat trickles down your face as the flames surround you. "Well, at least you've convinced yourself now, I hope. There's nothing left for you here." The Demon King lowers himself, extending a fist towards you. A spell? Secret weapon? Your leg muscles contract in anticipation.

His fingers open and stretch out, slowly. In his palm, a barely noticeable ring. Given the ridiculous size difference, you assume this is better fitting for a human. You stare at it in confusion, discerning the wedding vows carved in the noble metal. "What's the meaning of this?" You mutter, glancing at the Beast now resting on one knee before you. "What? Is it not your human custom?" He looks away for a moment, clicking his tongue. "That useless butler. He told me- Forget it! You are to return with me to my Kingdom. As my spouse."

Of all the things you've prepared yourself for...Your brows furrow and your mouth hangs open in shock.

What is your answer? The Demon King will not leave empty-handed.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere x darling #yandere headcanons #yandere imagines #yandere scenarios #yandere monster #yandere monster x reader #monster x reader #monster x human #yandere demon king #yandere male x reader #gender neutral reader #monster romance #monster boyfriend #yandere oc

[saturnicos]

Giving a bracelet to them

With: Adam, Alastor, Angel Dust, Charlie, Lucifer

ps:: reader's gender is not mentioned

. Charlie

She absolutely adores! Extra points if it have some decoration with rainbow.

She'll use all the time, only take off when goes to bed and when goes to take a bath — she is worried if she ends up breaking or losing the pieces, so try to be as careful as possible.

As she organizes and takes care of hotel paperwork she tends to feel stressed, and unconsciously looks at the bracelet, a smile forming and her spirits slightly picking up again. She's really happy with the gift.

"Wait, this's for me? Really? It's so pretty, thank you so very much!"

—

. Alastor

He... Definitely have it.

Like, don't get me wrong, he just not knows how really feel about it since he has never received a gift before from anyone, except from his mother.

Deep inside, he actually likes it! The color scheme matching with his clothes, and it isn't so much decorated and colorful; or how he would like to say, simple things are more pretty.

Alastor isn't using the bracelet frequently, most because he not like that type of accessories so much. He'll probably use when is far from you, like a way to remember of you and stuff (this man don't use phone not even if the world frozen), but in the most of the time the bracelet probably will be in the pocket of his coat.

"What do you have there, my dear? Oh, a bracelet, that's very interesting."

—

. Adam

He... Definitely have it/2.

But it's the opposite.

He's a bitch that will probably mock about it, but will quickly change when you feel upset and try to leave him alone, saying something like "Just joking, Sugartits/Hunk, I actually liked that, give me".

He'll use ALL the time, except when he's going to the extermination.

He will 100% brag about the bracelet to anyone when he gets the chance, saying how you spent your time making gifts for him (he's a complete idiot that loved this thing, but will never admit bc high ego lol).

Lute can't stand him talking about this damn accessory anymore, please, she begs you not to give him anything else.

TOTALLY extra points if it has a guitar pendant.

"Of course you make it for me, after all, you are madly in love with me"

—

. Angel Dust

Now, I think it's important to point out that Angel would act a lot more like Anthony with his S/O.

Using this as a base, he'll be SO happy receiving a gift from you. Obviously, he'll make some dirty joke about it, but deep down he wonders why he received it if it's not a specific date.

This poor boy is emotionally broken, little acts like this make him feel so moved and loved ☹️

Every time that him have a breakdown and isolates himself, Fat Nuggets comfort him, laying next to him and gently plays with the bracelet (or if he isn't using, Fat Nuggets will pick it up and take it to him, as if knowing it is an object of comfort).

"A gift? For me? You're so kind, baby~."

—

. Lucifer

Listen to me: this man would probably feel so much like crying — with joy — and nothing convinces me otherwise.

He'd passed the lasts seven years alone, without any love or compassion, having you in his life it's a great gift for him. Now, receive a gift from someone that he considers his greatest gift? God-

He would also be one of the will use all the time. Seriously, this guy probably don't take it off in any occasion, it's a regular reminder that there is someone else besides Charlie who loves him.

He's so grateful to have you.

Later, he'll make matching necklaces with duck pendants for you, he thinks that's a lovely way to say thanks :)

"What is this, sweetie? Oh... I'll use, that's so beautiful, thank you a lot."

Thank you for read !! I'm so sorry if this is ooc, but I hope it was pleasant anyway :)

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #angel dust x reader #alastor x reader #lucifer x reader #lucifer Morningstar x reader #charlie x reader #adam x reader

[inconveniently-discorporated]

I think I have a potentially controversial opinion on Aziraphale and the ending.

So one of the things that made me smile so, SO much, was THIS:

That PURE ABSOLUTE UTTER JOY.

We have not seen ANYTHING like that from demon Crowley. We've seen him be drunk and silly, we've seen him be amused, but we've not seen this.

Now, let's consider what we know about Heaven:

It's never fully populated. ALL of the shots are completely devoid of angels, except for a few, who are almost always just getting somewhere and never really talking to each other.

Where I thought the archangels were a tight clan, it really looks like they're super catty and prone to jealousy. No doubt they would stab each other in the back happily if it came down to it. How much of Heaven is like that, if even the archangels all hate each other?

Aziraphale already has a nervous disposition when he meets Crowley. Is he perhaps an angel that NEVER fit in? Is he familiar with being ostracized by his peers? Just how lonely IS Heaven? Crowley seems to be a pretty powerful angel, and HE doesn't even know that it's all getting shut down in 6000 years -- it's like no one talks to anyone.

Aziraphale, during their whole meeting, looks absolutely smitten. At one point, Crowley goes, "Look at you! You're gorgeous!" and Aziraphale looks over with happy surprise, just before realizing he's not looking at him but rather at what he's created. And then, when Crowley starts going on about making suggestions and asking questions, Aziraphale is IMMEDIATELY concerned and doesn't want him to get into trouble.

Aziraphale is hooked on this angel, and I cannot help but think that this is perhaps the first angel who has ever WELCOMED Aziraphale into his company.

He is hooked on this angel, and the way Crowley smiles is with the light of all the stars he's just created, and it's infectious and it brings a smile to Aziraphale's face as well. And then this angel shields him from the oncoming falling stars.

He is hooked on this angel, and then this angel goes and joins the Great Rebellion, and becomes fallen himself.

"You were an angel once," Aziraphale said, softly, at the bandstand. He remembers.

I think it's reasonable to guess that Heaven has never felt so warm as it did in the presence of millions of exploding stars, next to the (arch?)angel that may perhaps be one of the few (only?) to pay him any positive attention.

I think it's reasonable to assume that Heaven was not the same after Crowley fell. I wouldn't be surprised to find out Aziraphale had wondered about the angel, wondered if he was okay. I would imagine that Aziraphale keeps that picture of pure, angelic, unbridled joy somewhere inside of him.

So, really, is it any surprise that threaded throughout EVERY interaction, Aziraphale has this deep-down feeling that Crowley is good? Would it be any surprise that Aziraphale, an angel who goes along with Heaven as far as he can (which isn't always), feels that if HE is still an angel, then what was done to Crowley was a great injustice?

I think it would make sense that we are shown "before the beginning" not just because it is fun, but because THIS is the foundational context for everything Aziraphale thinks Crowley is, everything Crowley enjoys. I think he remembers this moment and wishes he could live there forever. With Crowley. The two of them with this happiness, forever.

But nothing lasts forever, as much as he wishes it did.

I'm not saying Aziraphale was right with what he did to Crowley at the end of s2. There is a lot I think he did wrong. I think he held onto this picture so tightly, he didn't realize that Crowley had long since let it go, and painted a new one with Aziraphale with all the shades of grey he picked up as he sauntered (or plummeted) vaguely downward (into a pool of boiling sulfur).

I don't think he was right, but I do think he is understandable. I think there was a lot of selfishness, but also some misguided selflessness too. I watched that first scene with angelic Crowley and my heart actually broke a little, because I thought, "What a shame this joy was taken away from him."

I think Aziraphale is trying to right the injustice he feels has been done. But I also think Aziraphale doesn't realize that Crowley can never go back. The concept of falling never crossed Crowley's mind when he suggested that he ask a few questions, and he will NEVER get that kind of innocence back. And Aziraphale doesn't understand, because Heaven has clearly always just been that way for him (he is already aware of the danger of asking questions).

Crowley does not want to go back because he can never go back. He can never be the same angel he was when he thought he could build a universal machine that would crank out stars for eons and eons. He can never be the same angel he was when he thought he could make some suggestions and ask some questions and co-create with THE Creator.

Crowley understands that, and Aziraphale doesn't. But I can understand why Aziraphale would want to try. And I think it's all because of this:

#good omens #gos2 spoilers #good omens meta #aziraphale analysis

[aboutwerewolves]

@lulz-nematode-belmont ask and you shall receive 🫶🏻 and i'm sorry this took soooo long.

Since you were little you've always feared monsters and the dark. Especially the monster under your bed. But as you grew up, you managed to convince yourself that it was just a myth. But now, as you've moved to your new house, over the course of past few months, you feel that the monster under the bed thing wasn't just a myth to scare children.

You wake up in the morning, not even remembering when you went to bed, with bruises on your thighs and your pussy sore. You tried setting up a camera, but "somehow" the camera didn't record anything except darkness.

This time around, you're prepared to stay awake the entire night, so you get in your bed and close your eyes. After almost an hour, you feel your blanket being pulled down from over you. You remain still, and you feel giant hands on your thighs spreading your legs apart.

You feel a presence hover over you, and suddenly you switch on the lights, just to see a tall dark figure, he looks almost like a human, except he has a skin that matches the darkness of the night, his hair as white as snow. His face is pleasing to look at. Even the razor sharp teeth, you feel safe with him around, he starts to retreat wide eyed, but your voice stops him— "You've been visiting me?"

"Yeah" he replies kind of guilty. "I'm not....mad, just surprised" you laugh. "What have you been doing in your visits?" you add on. "I've been fucking you with my tongue. Couldn't resist" he speaks softly.

You blush at his straightforwardness about what he had been doing. Honestly you didn't mind, just hoped that you could've stayed awake while he was busy eating you out. "You're aroused?"he grunts. Your eyes widen, how could he sense that? You, yourself couldn't. "Am I?" you ask to no one in particular.

"Yeah, more so than the other days." he replies anyways. "Now what?" you question to him. "I can leave if you want me to, but if you want me to stay, just know you'll never get rid of me. You will be mine and I will be yours." he replies, his voice turning dark at the end.

You pause for a bit and then just say one word, "Stay." And all hell breaks loose, you're on your back, legs spread, shorts ripped apart and him face to face with your cunt. You try to close your legs out of shyness but he holds them apart, his voice rough as he speaks "Don't try hiding yourself from me, sunshine. You're all mine."

He then wordlessly licks up your pussy. His teeth carefully toy with your clit. He eats you out with so much vigor, it makes your back arch off the bed, and he pins you down by your hips to the bed. He gets so messy, it's like he's eating you out for his own pleasure rather than yours. He continues his ministrations on your poor cunt and you cum around his tongue. He keeps on going until you come 3-4 times more.

"I think that's enough for you tonight. yeah?" He speaks. You're too tired to say anything and wordlessly pull him closer to you to cuddle him.

#monster boyfriend #monster fucker #monster smut #monster x human #tw teratophilia #teratophillia #terato #monster under the bed #monster #monster bf #monster romance #monster x reader #monster x you #tw monsterfucking #monsterfucking nsft #monster nsft