#bc i feel like i don’t have friends that are actually friends.

[astralis-ortus]

love, am i home?

✱ bestfriend!bc × gn!reader

— how can you tell it's not simply an infatuation?

w.count → 0.6k genre → angst, one-sided love warnings → minor cussing, mention of alcohol but no described consumption a.n → honestly i don't even know what i wrote i am feeling feelings soooo yeah! also, there's a few mentions of bambam as the home owner lol

“do you reckon i’ll fall in love someday?’

chan’s odd, unprovoked question nearly made you choke on the strawberry-lychee juice you were trying so hard to savor. worse, your heart also took a hit from it—which, frankly, you should have been preparing yourself for from the day you realized that your hiking heart bpm whenever chan was sitting a little too close was not exactly a normal reaction between friends.

“yeah,” you barely managed to quip a reply, setting your half-empty paper cup on the coffee table across the tan leather couch before chan could send another unwarranted hit on your poor heart. “i mean, didn’t you have a few relationships before?”

well fuck—now he’s going to elaborate, isn’t he. good job, dumbass.

sometimes you wonder why you’re trying so hard to be a good friend when you do realize it will only further tighten the chains wrapped around your chest. does bambam have some alcohol in the fridge? also, where the fuck is he?

“fair point,” a long sigh escaped his lungs as chan fully leaned onto bambam’s ridiculously large sofa, eyes tracing whatever interesting shape he could find on the ceiling of their still-missing friend’s apartment, “but i wonder if those feelings were actually… love, you know? not merely infatuation?”

“i don’t, actually,” you playfully snickered, hoping the faint smile on your lips would help in numbing the dull ache spreading on your chest. “i mean, as far as my experience goes, i think it has always been love for me.”

“and how does that feel?”

“how?” the faint urgency in his voice pulled your line of gaze towards chan—unexpectedly meeting his pair of curious brown eyes, and you sighed. are you really going to say it?

you were preparing a joke, really. deflecting, avoiding his question, all that thing.

you really were.

and you know, with every part of your bones, you’re probably going to regret this.

“uh, well, it feels like…”

the butterflies when i see your name lit up my phone screen.

the odd twist in the pit of my stomach when i hear you talk about that new friend you made and how you thought they were beautiful.

the way my lips followed yours into a smile when you excitedly told me about a new song idea and how spring flooded my chest when you said it’s our little secret.

the sudden void when you told me you asked that new friend of yours to go out for dinner, and how my heart went numb when you brightly exclaimed that it would technically count as a first date.

an excruciatingly long roller coaster of emotions,

an endless hike under the scorching summer sun,

a long night staring at where the waves breaks,

and yet…

“it was home.”

“…home?”

“yeah,” you shrugged, fingers hiding inside the sleeves of your hoodie while you pull your knees closer to your chest, “home.”

“it’s everything that is good, everything that’s not quite there, and yet you can’t help but find yourself longing for every piece of it. you accept that it’s not going to be perfect and never will be, and yet you’re still willing to continuously nurture that feeling because, well, you love them, and even if it eventually didn’t work out… you’d still think it’s worth the effort to try.”

you don’t know what the silence between you now meant.

you don’t know, and probably would never want to find out.

you’d hate to know who he thinks about when he opens his mouth,

and you’d forever thank bambam for his impeccable timing with bags full of thai foods in his hand.

©️ astralisortus, 2024. | likes and reblogs are highly appreciated♡

#stray kids angst #skz angst #bang chan angst #bang chan x reader #stray kids x reader #skz x reader #chan x reader #stray kids imagines #skz imagines #bang chan imagines #stray kids fanfix #skz fanfic #stray kids scenarios #skz scenarios #bang chan x you #skz x you #stray kids x you #bang chan scenarios #bang chan fanfic #bang chan au #stray kids au #skz au #isa's fics

[yumeboshi]

𝜗𝜚。．． ❛ #BODY WORTH A THOUSAND BULLETS?

𐙚 synopsis。．As the boss of his organization, Gojo needs to kill you because you’re Geto’s daughter, even if you’re a gullible college student who has no idea how her father earns money. And he will kill you, as he did with countless other innocent people．．．right?

．。𝜗𝜚 cw。nsfw . MINORS DNI, dacryphillia, dub/ncn, gojo is just mean, choking kink, corruption kink, age gap (reader in early 20s, gojo at least in his late 20s or early 30s), gun play, teasing, spanking, virgin!reader, nicknames ‘princess, darling, baby,’ degrading w praise, dark humor bc gojo is just evil like that, mentions of violence, dead dove do not eat

．。𝜗𝜚 a/n。3am daydreaming about mafia boss gojo and how he’d make megumi do all the work for him

YOU HAVE ALWAYS FOUND LIFE EASY. When you came back home after your uni lectures, you’d be welcomed by a luxurious feast already freshly made at your table, accompanied by butlers ready to tail you to make sure you feel comfortable. You never had to worry about your tuition bills, or losing your favorite necklace, because the next day, it would just be there, clean and new.

And the source of all your luxury was your father. His name was Geto Suguru, and that was the only thing you knew about him. He never came home, and even if he did, it would be way past night hours. It was like that since you were a little child. You always had caretakers looking after you instead, a feeble attempt by your father to fill in the position of a mother.

You couldn’t hate him either. You knew his efforts to make you feel happy. But you couldn’t have a regular father-daughter relationship like your friends did. You wished for it badly. You wanted it more than any other luxury. No amount of Dior bags or Versace could fill that up.

And today, you are looking at the mirror with piles of dresses behind you. Today, you are going on a night-out with your friends. It was a uni party hosted by your best friend. You could not just miss it out because your father insisted you to. No, you will not miss it out.

After long hours of phone calling (and your father constantly hanging the phone up because he was busy), you were finally able to convince the stubborn Geto to allow your girls night.

Don’t drink too much alcohol, sweetheart, he’d said during the call. And make sure you get home by ten.

That’s unbelievable, you’d said. It was a night party. You’d barely be there for an hour if ten was the curfew. But Geto was not having it at all, so you decided this was the best you could do to negotiate.

And after your disgruntled agreement, he’d summarized his rules for your first ever party- one— don’t drink alcohol too much, two— get home by 10p.m, and three— do not hang out with anyone who flirts with you.

A ridiculous set of rules, because who would actually flirt with you, you thought. You were certainly much more naive than your friends, so you’d never get any inside jokes. You were about as fun as a rock.

This was all thanks to Geto limiting your social interaction. You could barely keep up a conversation with your friends, and you were about as free as a caged dove.

But today, your father’s butlers did not tail you. Perhaps he wanted to make sure you tasted an ounce of freedom. Although you appreciated his sentiment, you were quickly overwhelmed by the foreign atmosphere you were experiencing alone. Waves of color startle you, as you were used to the monochromatic interiors of Geto’s mansion. You awkwardly sit at the nearest bus stop. In reality, you had no clue how to get to the party.

It did not help that it was quitting hour, and everyone seemed busy doing their own thing. You clutch your white handbag and pretend you are relaxed and fine, when you are not— you did not have a phone with web search functions because your father did not allow it yet again, and you had no clue where you were. You almost regret telling Geto you were going to the party by yourself.

Maybe this is a sign I shouldn’t go to the party, you think feebly. Would you contribute to it at all? You think not. Even though you did not have enough social communication, you could still read the faces of your friends when you bored them. You felt your chest tighten and your eyes sting.

You close your eyes for some liberation from the dizzy hurricane of emotion. You slowly open them and you almost jump when you are not met by the vacant gray sight of the road, but a pair of infinitely blue eyes.

You immediately back up and nearly trip over the bench you were sitting on. You gasp in pain when you feel the jagged wood rip your stockings as well as a part of your thigh, probably.

“Ouch, watch where you fall over, pretty. I felt that sting.”

Hearing an unfamiliar voice, you peel open your eyes and blink away the blobs of unreleased tears trapped inside. They reveal a man with ghostly white locks, teal eyes like ocean diamonds, and porcelain skin. His lips quirk up when your doe eyes meet his, as if he had achieved something spectacular.

But although his face is youthful and flawless, his attire strikes you as odd. He has on a slick suit that seems freshly ironed, the thick smell of cologne seems to linger every time he brushed off his hair locks. He seems almost old, at least as old as your father. But, that cannot be possible. He looks too young, in his prime.

“You like my suit? Just bought it a week ago. Had to clean it up because some idiot ruined it.” He continues, paying no mind that you were gawking at him— spontaneously sliding next to you on the bench. Your mouth is turning dry as you clutch the broken wood. He looks too pretty, too perfect for you, and this beautiful stranger is suddenly talking to you. You do not know how to respond. All thoughts of running late to the party seem to be forgotten.

“You know how it feels to have… let’s say, ketchup, sprayed all over a pretty white dress? That’s exactly how it was like, darl’. It’s hard maintaining something like this— oh, did I scare you?” He stops talking animatedly and stares into your face, noticing you were staring at him with your facial features frozen. But his smile gives it away that he knows the truth behind your reaction.

“No, um.” You falter, trying to compose yourself. You try to look confident, not wanting to let this guy think you were a pushover, because he certainly was thinking so. “Who are you?” You demand.

You see his lips quiver, biting back a laugh. You feel infuriated that he just finds you amusing. “And why do I have to tell you my name?” He asks, smirking at your confused reaction.

You haven’t had much conversations but you know this is not how one is supposed to unfold. “Well….” you try to find an answer, but you realize there is no concrete reason. You could just ignore weird strangers like himself. Why were you trying to maintain talk with him, you think angrily. You glance down at your watch and realize you are running late.

“I need a ride,” you blurt out of hastiness. Your stupid phone didn’t have internet, so you could not contact your friends- they’d be worried sick. And now it seemed like the easiest way to get there was to ask this handsome weirdo for a ride, if he knew how to drive a car, you think.

“Oooh, really?” He drawls, flicking his iridescent gaze to the bus stop you two are sitting in. “You could just take the bus, you know. Is there a particular reason you’re asking me to drive you somewhere?” His tone has a mocking undertone as if he knows exactly why you are asking him. “Poor princess can’t ride the bus alone?” He coos with a pout.

“Yes,” you admit, clutching your handbag hard to hide your embarrassment.

To your surprise, he doesn’t drag the matter and shrugs nonchalantly, his pristine face falters a little to slip out a grin, but it is not mocking— rather, it is a smile of adoration that makes your heart flutter. “Sure. Be a good girl for me and stay here while I get my car, yeah?”

You are discomfited by how nice he is being, but you nod obediently— how could you deny such an angel like himself, you swoon, and then you smack yourself inwardly. He chuckles again, the same adoration is too much for your fragile heart to bear. You feel your cheeks heat up, and a tiny part of your heart wishes you can hang out with him a little longer rather than going to the party.

His cologne is still present in the air, and you take a nice whiff after double checking that he was gone— you would rather die than to let the stunning man know you were inhaling his scent like a pervert. It is a woody, masculine smell, combined with something that smells oddly like iron. But the metallic smell blends in with the musky notes so well that you think it is intentional.

You could smell something else too— and this time you feel it is not intentional at all. It is a chemically sweet smell that strikes your nostrils and crashes right into your brain.

The next thing you feel is a jarring pain against your head, the sound of wood cracking around you, and at last, your eyelids fall shut.

YOU ARE DEFINITELY NOT GOING TO THE PARTY TONIGHT.

You slowly peel open an eyelid cautiously, and the first thing that occurs to you is that you are unable to move. You try moving your arms, and then quickly realize they are bound behind your back with your wrists, and they hurt. They must have been tied up for quite a while.

You try ignoring the panic that starts to drum into your ears as you assess your situation. You see a pretty view of the city, and your faint reflection on the glass. And then it dawns on you that you are definitely not in your friend’s house, or your home.

I’m fine, you think, but your heart is screaming otherwise. You try not to start screaming for help, just in case this was a prank, or a trap. Your breathing gets unsteady. You knew it was not a prank, and you were kidnapped, and you could not move an inch.

What now? You think. Maybe you will die here tonight. By whom, you wonder. You try to recall whatever happened the past few hours, but your head feels like it’s underwater. You recall crying at the bus stop. You maybe recall someone offering you a ride. But that is all you remember.

You try to roll your body sideways, but the cold iron against your thin dress causes too much friction. You gasp in pain when you feel something unpleasant scratch you during your attempt.

”Enjoying the view, angel?”

You yelp, trying to crane your neck to the side to see who just talked, but a veiny hand seizes your throat, successfully knocking out anything you tried to utter. You remain silent, shivering like a lamb ready to be slaughtered. The familiar scent of cologne seeps into your system like unpleasant goo, and now you remember.

“You…!” You snarl, but your breath hitches when he gives your neck a little warning squeeze.

“Do you remember now? Aww, how flattering.” He purrs, which makes your stomach twist. “Yes, darl’. I’m afraid you won’t make it to the party… or to your daddy.” He chuckles at that, and your eyes widen.

“Why are you doing this to me?” You ask, your voice is labored and it wavers at the lump in your throat. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Why would a pretty dumb girl like yourself cause trouble? Of course not.” His hand squeezes a little tighter, making you let out a gasp. “That’s adorable, thinking you did some shit. Think a little more, yeah?”

You do try to think, but it is hard to do so when you cannot get enough oxygen. You list all the things that could’ve ended you up here. Maybe your friends. Or maybe the party upsetted him. Or maybe you were not respectful at all. Or maybe—

“Stupid girl.” His other hand strikes your ass hard, making you squeal in pain. “It’s obviously about your father.” Your eyes widen as he continues— “Tell me, pretty, don’t you ever think about where your daddy gets all those pretty dresses for you?” When you hesitate, he sighs out of disappointment. “—There’s nothing in that pretty little head of yours. I bet you’d scream and cry and call me a liar when I tell you that Geto Suguru is a mafia boss.”

You felt like throwing up and crying, you did. But you try your best not to look shocked, out of fear of what he’d say. He starts to laugh, and laugh, and although it was a sound so sweet, it sounded like a song of death. “You should’ve seen the look on your face. Priceless, really. Shocked that your daddy isn’t a successful millionaire who magically has legitimate money to provide for you? No, angel— he kills fucking loads of people while you worry about what to wear. And I do as well.”

The last sentence is a lilt, a taunt. You bite back a sob, trying to hear the rest of the story as he continues.

“But we’re not on the same side of the coin, you know? Then, now, it’s quiz time!” You could hear his sinister smile from behind. “Now why, oh why, would I kidnap such a helpless little dumb girl?”

You hesitate but reply, not wanting him to hurt you, or worse, kill you. “B-because I’m a useful bargaining chip.”

“Oooh! Maybe you aren’t that stupid! Yes, that’s absolutely correct.” He cheerfully claps. “Geto is paranoid after you didn’t come back to your house, you know? He’s willing to do anything for you, princess.” His hand on your throat loosens, and you gasp for air. One of his slender fingers prod up your chin, and taps your lips teasingly. “And I mean everything.” His voice is deeper now, slow and dangerous. Your mouth starts to dry.

”Obviously, killing you would be incredibly beneficial. Geto won’t be able to think straight. He’d be too heartbroken to do shit.” His finger strays to your neck, sliding his nail against your throat as if to cut it, and you hold your breath in dread. He bursts into giggles seeing you in terror.

“But oh, why would I just finish off such a useful pretty thing? You have plenty of other uses, angel…” he trails off and without warning, flips you over easily.

You are greeted with familiar blue eyes, painfully beautiful as usual, ivory locks dangling downwards. You wince at the light on the ceiling, a luxurious chandelier. He has on the same suit, you notice, and then realize it was a mafia attire all along. His hand is still at your throat, and his other hand has released your ass, but instead held a dangerously silvery gun aimed right at your chest.

“Please don’t kill me,” you blurt out.

“Hmm, I established that I won’t. Scared already?” He drawls, his eyes flickering over your body to inspect you. You feel too vulnerable, especially since your dress is too thin for your sake; but with your hands tied back, you are powerless.

“Fear suits you, princess.” His eyes have that adoring look again, as he squeezes your neck, your eyes roll up, feeling dizzy without air. “Fuck,” he groans, looking at your beautiful expression. Yes, fear really does suit you, he thinks. He could feel his erection tighten in his pants. He wants you, he wants to drill his cock I right fucking now, oh, he just wants to see that dizzy dumb look on you. You look so pretty, for what?

“Why are you so fucking beautiful, princess?” He tightens his grip around your neck, and tears form in the corner of your lovely eyes. “Shit,” he whimpers, pushing in his gun harshly between your tits and you whine at the cold iron intruding your skin. Your heart is thumping fast enough to make the gun bob up and down, but you feel your thighs start to clench for unknown reasons. His eyes are entrancing enough for you to think that it is not so bad to let this man have your way with you.

“Oh, oh my.” His voice drops, and he grins when you arch your back so your tits jiggle between the pistol. “You’re a dirty little freak, angel. You’re enjoying this.” He shoves the gun into your mouth without warning and you choke, thin stripes of saliva seep down to your chin. “Your poor daddy doesn’t know his girl’s a slut.” He prods the gun in deeper, making you gape your mouth, and he chuckles at your expression. “Does it hurt?” When you meekly nod, he smirks and pushes it even deeper to make you gag. “Of course it does, it’s meant to hurt.”

Maybe it was his harsh treatment that made your eyes water- or the pain. You feel your eyes start to sting, and a tear escapes your eye. You wonder what Geto would say, or if you could ever come back home alive.

“Hey, focus on me, will you, pretty?” A single prod of the gun forces your attention back on him, and when he sees your red eyes, he laughs, and a subtle moan is mixed in it. “If you’re trying to make me pity you, it’s not working,” he snickers. “In fact, it’s doing the absolute opposite, angel.” His other hand takes a harsh hold of your hair and shoves your head towards the gun. You scream at the sharp sting that likely made something bleed inside your mouth, but he pays no notice.

“Ever sucked dick before?” He asks you, nudging the cold metal up, and when you shake your head quickly, hoping he’d stop- he snickers. “It shows,” he teases you, but his eyes are not amused at all- instead, there is a primal flare inside of them, and he slowly drags the body out of your mouth and down to your tits again. You shiver a little at the sticky wetness- but you are relieved as you gasp in short breaths.

“Bet nobody ever got the chance to touch you like this.” He tosses the gun carelessly next to you, and you jolt a little at the loud noise. With a chuckle, his hands find your panties. He hooks one of his fingers under them and plays with the thin fabric, and then looks right at you with his ethereal eyes, waiting for your reply.

“No,” you whisper, avoiding his intense gaze. Every corner of your skin feels raw and cold, except for your cheeks and your pussy- as he was tracing a teasing line on it. You didn’t like how you were feeling. Your heart was beating fast- out of fear or out of lust, you do not know. Your stomach churns out of guilt. Geto must be worried sick—

A sharp spank against your now-bare clit makes you cry out and buck your thighs, cutting off your thoughts. You look up shakily to see him stare at you condescendingly.

“That’s no way to behave, princess.” He shakes his head in mocking condescension, seizing your head with his hands when you try to look away again. “Weren’t you begging me to fuck your tits with a gun earlier?” When you shake your head, trying to deny it, he laughs and pushes in a digit into your pussy without warning, making you whimper. “You lie so badly, baby, it’s cute.” Your thighs start to shake when he adds in another, and a foreign coldness enters in as well. You glance down as far as you can with him holding your head in place. His fingers quickly disappear in and out, covered with your cum.

“Barely even started, and she’s already so fucking wet.” He leans back to let his snowy locks tremble a little, letting out an unapologetic groan. You hate that it has an effect on you— you feel something right inside of you burn and unveil.

But just as the strands of your pleasure unwind, he abruptly pulls his digits out, smirking at your flushed and hazy expression as he licks the white substance clean from his fingers.

You are confused, and your pussy is angry for release. You stare at him with pleading eyes silently, but he tilts his head as if he is clueless.

“Is there something you need, sweet?” He asks innocently.

You nod, staring back at him, hoping he will get that you need his fingers pumping into you right now. But his eyes darken and he chuckles.

“No wonder you were so easy to drug and kidnap. Did your daddy give you everything you wanted without asking? Use your words, dumb girl.” He flicks your forehead with his fingers and you wince at the pain that rings through your skull as if he had just punched you.

“I-I need to cum,” you whisper. Your eyes and nose burn with incoming tears.

“You’re gonna have to try harder than that, angel.” He tuts at you, and you feel your clit throbbing in frustration.

“Please,” you finally crack, tears are painting your face but you ignore them as you sniffle. “Please let me cum,” you beg.

“Are you doing that on purpose? Aw, what a dumb and pretty whore you are.” You look up at him, the mean words go through one ear and exit the other. All you wish for is a sweet release- but he does not give you his fingers. Instead, they fly to his belt, unbuckling it with a smooth click. The expensive black leather falls on your thigh.

And he suddenly picks up the discarded gun next to you, and he loads it. Your heart that was beating with desire soon warped into terror. That was it, this devastatingly handsome maniac was going to kill you.

“Geto has no problem looking at guns. Why are you so afraid of them, angel?” He teases, and nudges the icy metal inside your leaking clit. Angry at the foreign intrusion, it immediately clamps over it. With one hand, he bucks the pistol in and out. It is shoved in with such force that you can feel the tip hit your womb. You whine out, crying that he is being too harsh. He ignores you.

“mmm, f-fuck.” Your lips are tapped open by his angry dick, red and huge. It was huge. You open your mouth a little, and he snorts— “—angel, open up wider, I can’t fit my cock into your cute little mouth.” The gun prods your sensitive g-spot and you let out a loud moan. “A-ah!” When your mouth opens up wide, he takes the opportunity to push in his gigantic erection. You tentatively suck at it, lolling your tongue around his cock like it’s a lollipop.

“ah— fuck!” He throws his head back to moan shamelessly, grunting out strained words. “mmm— jus’ like that angel, now you’re sucking properly, s-shit, who taught you how to suck dick?” He pushes in the gun harder in sync with his erection, and you squeal— “-y-you, daddy, you t-taught me how,” you mewl between sucks- and he grunts breathlessly. “aah, attagirl. Only I get to teach this pretty slut how to suck off.” He thrusts into your mouth, and your mouth gapes. “—this pretty mouth,” he adds in a finger with the loaded gun, scissoring them in and out rapidly until your thighs tremble so much they hurt- “—belongs to me.”

“P-please,” you beg again- tears trickle out of your eyes again this time because of the constant stimulation- they trickle down the same path over your cheeks. “please, ah!— ‘m g-gonna cum,” you plead desperately.

“f-fuuck, cum, angel,” he groans against your ear as he thrusts in violently- “mouth so fucking good, wanna fill it up with my cum—“ with a loud moan, your thighs shiver and a thick wetness is released. Your mind goes blank and you gasp, dizzy, the world spins around you and everything tastes too sweet. You blink rapidly to look properly, and feel a sticky substance run down your throat and over your face, trickling down your chin, painting your lashes. It tastes sweet, and you smile dumbly at him, whose dick hovers above you, dripping with thick ropes of cum.

“You going home tonight, princess?” He asks with a smirk. Your eyes are glazed and your head rings with the intensity and the throbbing of your pussy that still clenches around his fingers. “Want me to set you free so you can go to your daddy?” He teases, but he knew he was not letting you go now- oh, not when he found out that your mouth was too good to be abandoned.

“‘wanna stay here longer,” you whine- the words come out slurred as you lull to the side a little and smile widely. “don’t wanna go home,” you mewl, staring up at him with a plea. “—wanna, wanna f-fuck all night,” you continue with a dizzy grin, eyes drooping.

”When did you become so greedy, angel?” He chuckles at your dumbed-out expression, but his eyes glitter with victory. Yes, this was better than making Geto feel pain. You were an angel, yes, straight from heaven, to save him from his boring days of bloodshed.

“Oh, I’m introducing myself late.” He remembers he hasn’t even told you his name, and he grins when you don’t seem to hear, but to stare at his cock that lowers down to tease your entrance this time. You are adorable, dumb, naive, an innocent little thing who is too easy to convince.

“I’m Gojo Satoru. But jus’ call me daddy, m’kay?” He puts both hands around your waist and leans on your shoulder with a contented sigh. “That’s alll you need to know about me right now, angel.”

©yumeboshi 𐙚 ．。do not copy/repost my works outside tumblr ・ MINORS DNI

#𐙚．。articles #jjk x reader #jjk smut #gojo x reader #gojo smut #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #gojo #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk

[thelastofhyde]

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

pairing. narcos!javier peña x fem!reader

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

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

word count. 14.3k

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

if you see any typos, no you didn't 🫣

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

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

The year moves too fast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He’s a show-off, that boy.”

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

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

“Hmm?”

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

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

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

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

He’s fast, agile, stealthy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ve made worse attempts in the past.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It happens when you’re finally being served.

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

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

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

Friendly.

Too friendly.

Till it crosses the border into flirty.

You’re not interested.

At all.

But it’s flattering, to feel wanted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gasps fill the air.

Half the crowd boos.

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

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

Turning on your heal, the scene unfolds.

The ball, abandoned on the ground.

The players, scrambling to grab it before one another.

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

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

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

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

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

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

If you don’t love me, What was April?

You’ve always been organised.

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

You compartmentalise.

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

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

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

Caution tape holds the lid shut.

Fragile stickers cover every corner.

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

A late night.

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

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

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

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

Go still.

Worry you’ve woken him.

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

He’s tired. Exhausted.

Work was getting to him as of late.

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

You know him. You can read him.

Can tell in the way he moved slower against you.

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

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

Unlike other nights, you’re trapped awake.

Something feels off, makes you queasy.

There’s something nagging at your mind.

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

You just know its absence is wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not fair, you think.

Sleep is usually where you see him at his calmest.

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

His grip loosens, though slightly.

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

So you do your best to slip out his hold.

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

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

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

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

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

Then, you open the tap.

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

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

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

Your hair frames your face, though messy.

Your eyes are bloodshot, yet carry less bags.

Your cheeks are rounder, fuller.

You look different.

You feel it too.

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

Has he noticed a change?

Is he the reason for it?

Does he feel different, too?

Your stomach flips.

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

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

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

You don’t remember.

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

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

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

The stir in your stomach becomes more intense.

Eyes refocusing, you find yourself in the mirror again.

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach.

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

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

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

It feels like you’re suffocating.

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

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

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

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

There’s a soothing motion over your skin.

Up, down, up, down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He calls your own name back to you.

“I’m late.”

You await the sharp inhale.

And the unwinding of arms.

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

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

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

Then he’ll turn the blame to you.

That’s what men do, right?

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

None of it arrives.

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

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

He dries you off, delicate drags over your skin.

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

Only, this time you’re wide awake.

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

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

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

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

After all, the blame is yours, surely.

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

“But I-”

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

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

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

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

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

Lips press against your own, soft and subtle.

A quiet greeting, a wordless goodmorning.

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

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

You don’t want him to leave this bed.

Or this apartment.

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

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

Eventually, he peels himself away from you.

You watch him dress.

Tell him which tie to wear.

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

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

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

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

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

He presses a kiss between them, hums in enjoyment.

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

“Good,” you reply.

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

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

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

Leans down, brushes his lips against it.

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

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

He keeps his word.

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

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

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

The thought has you pressing a hand against your womb.

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

With a grimace, you admit you haven’t.

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

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

“I’ll probably just have toast.”

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

The call goes on a little longer.

It’s mostly him talking.

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

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

“I’ll be home soon, okay?”

That sounds nice coming from Javi.

Home.

Not his home, just home.

A place he feels his soul at rest.

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

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

He keeps his word, again.

Comes home barely three hours later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod, then audibly reply.

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

The drive is quiet.

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

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

You welcome it, covering it with your own.

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

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

He’s right.

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

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

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

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

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

You smile, and thread your fingers between his own.

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

The clinic is bright.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A confused sound leaves Javier.

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

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

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

“You hoping for a boy or a girl?”

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

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

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

But you don’t want to ruin the moment.

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

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

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

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

Javi’s still not correcting him.

It makes you nauseous for a whole new reason.

“Mr. Miller?” A voice calls out.

A nurse, you imagine.

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

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

He takes a few steps, till Javi interrupts him.

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

“A girl.”

Eventually, it’s your turn.

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

Shuffled into some room, reluctantly separating from Javi.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re not pregnant.

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

This time, the drive is silent.

Not quiet.

Silent.

You watch him drive past the turning into your street.

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

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

Over your empty womb.

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

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

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

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

You played a game But I run the table

You’re avoiding your dad’s calls.

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

See, you know why he’s calling.

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

He’s hosting another poker night.

He wants you there, as always.

Some baseless theory of you being his good luck charm.

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

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

“Fill in for me, will ya, kiddo?”

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

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

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

He turns out to be no threat.

None of the officer’s are, really.

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

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

But, taking from Javi?

That’s something else, entirely.

Each time you win, he gets more agitated.

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

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

And intoxication.

And something else.

Something you know all too well on Javier.

Lust.

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

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

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

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

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

He’s on the younger side.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe, he’ll offer you a sip.

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

He asks about college.

You ask about working with your dad.

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

He tells you about a new bar, downtown.

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

It’s light, it’s easy, it’s friendly.

You’re enjoying his company.

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

His hands grip his sides.

You’re clutching your chest.

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

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

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

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

You both gather some decorum.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then two steps, which you also match.

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

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

It’s alarmingly gentle for his stoic features.

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

“What’s going on with you, huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s worked up, frustrated, angry.

And it’s hot. A turn-on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wonder what positions he put them in.

How many rounds he lasted with them.

How often he made them cum.

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

That single action changes the game, entirely.

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

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

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

The grip tightens.

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

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

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

Every ounce of feminism evaporates within you.

Who could deny such a tentative offer?

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

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

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

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

Your panties, soaked.

His jeans, tight.

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

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

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

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

“C’mon, don’t be shy.”

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

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

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

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

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

He has his mother’s eyes, you notice.

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

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

A picture of Javi, and you.

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

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

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

There was no point risking your father ever finding it.

But this picture, this one you do not remember.

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

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

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

He does good to bring you back into the room.

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

They sit in the sink, growing wet.

And you are too, frozen on the spot.

You glance down, count over the different bills.

Five dollars.

Twenty dollars.

Hundred dollars.

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

In the mirror, he’s watching.

Not the sink bowl, no.

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

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

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

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

The card is plucked out your hand.

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

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

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

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

Desirable.

And attractive.

And pretty.

And smart.

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

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

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

Javi hisses, muttering something to himself.

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

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

A few seconds pass. 

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

You feel the air tickle your skin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Smack!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hear a cheer.

From the basement.

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

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

If you can hear them, they could hear you.

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

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

It’s not a pleasurable act, in itself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For him, you can do it.

“Fitting big things in your little pussies?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The unbuckling of a belt.

The unzipping of teeth.

The shucking down of-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A hand, reaching up to cup your cheek.

A kiss, gentle and longing against your mouth.

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

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

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

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

“I’m a very patient man, corazón.”

You scoff.

“Just not when it comes to you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You feel lightheaded.

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

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

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

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

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

He consumes you, mind, body and soul.

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

There’s just Javi.

Beautiful, gorgeous, deserving Javi.

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

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

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

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

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

Hands hurry off your waist, slipping between your thighs. 

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

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

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

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

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

He’d catch you, if you fell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You both crash and burn, together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damn Javi and all the memories he haunts you with.

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

Days grow colder.

Nights grow longer.

You change your bedsheets, stuff a comforter back inside.

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

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

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

Lights, baubles, action.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is this some tactic of yours?”

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

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

“Some what?”

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

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

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

Bare legs, messed hair, smudged lipstick.

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

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

“You weren’t complaining earlier.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When he offers the cigarette your way, you hesitate.

Picture your father, disappointed to see you smoke.

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

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

You and Javi were never meant to happen.

Sure, the line had already been crossed weeks ago.

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

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

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

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

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

Until tonight.

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

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

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

He’d offered to take you home.

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

He squeezed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which brings you here, fifteen minutes later.

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

“Huh?”

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

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

“Is that what you want?”

He shrugs.

Pulls in another breath of his cigarette.

Stubs it out on the arm of the chair.

And says nothing.

You assume it’s a yes.

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

Silence falls upon you both.

You twist in his lap.

He tightens his hold.

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

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

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

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

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

Each year, it’s the same.

The station, decked out in decorations.

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

It’s not just Christmas.

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

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

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

Their spouse, their mothers.

Anyone, and everyone, is welcome.

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

It’s the part you look forward to most.

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

Fishing out a pen, some paper.

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

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

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

This year, there was none of that.

No list of pros and cons for each gift option.

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

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

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

Hinted at it, slightly.

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

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

Hold it up to his ear, shake it.

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

The whole room stops.

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

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

Fades to grey.

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

He knows.

Of course he knows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next time you see Javi is hours later.

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

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

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

You say you’re tired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Javi plays it cool.

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

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

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

Well, better than anyone but you.

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

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

Your dad stares at you.

Your mum stares at you.

Javi stares at you.

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh! Yeah, I- Sorry, I meant that I-”

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

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

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

At least that’s the reason you give yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your hands, brushing.

Your eyes, meeting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it isn’t, and you’re not.

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

His lips brush your cheek like an autumn breeze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You and Javi don’t spend time alone anymore.

You and Javi do not exist together anymore.

Maybe you never did.

“It’s okay, I already called a cab.”

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

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

For a second, he just looks at you.

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

“Get home safe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

First, just a little extra weight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One more glance in the box.

There’s a note, tucked at the bottom.

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

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

#javier peña smut #pedro pascal smut #javier peña x reader #javier peña fanfiction #javier peña oneshot

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for saying different stuff to my friend’s face and behind his back?

As you can tell, I’m pretty genuinely worried I screwed up here.

So I (17F) and my friend (17M) both auditioned for the school musical. We both have done every high school show, so we’re very immersed in the theater world. We are seniors and this was our last show. This is just some context—the point of which is that my friend and I both have tons of friends in the theater department, and that’s where a lot of our socialization happens.

My friend was the male lead in the last school musical, so it was likely he’d be the main male lead again this year. However, when I saw what musical we were doing, I actually thought he’d be better as the supporting male lead. Still an ENORMOUS role, but due to his personality, casting type, acting, and tap dancing abilities, that just seemed like the better role for him.

Meanwhile, this other senior guy who had only done one show also was auditioning. Now, he’s also very talented, so in his first show he actually got a pretty big role, but he also proved really difficult to work with during that show and also at the auditions for this new show got so upset he actually stormed out for a while.

However, his acting and singing audition were perfect for the main male lead.

If he was cast as the main male lead and my friend was cast as the supporting lead, our show would have looked SO GOOD.

But after the whole storming out fiasco, I was pretty sure that other guy wasn’t getting a big role at all. But when the cast list came out, my friend was the main lead and this guy was the supporting lead.

Now. I was super happy for my friend. But it was not a good casting choice for him, and since that other role is so big, it doesn’t really punish the other guy for walking out either. So it doesn’t save us the headache of working with the one guy AND puts my friend in a role that isn’t as perfect for him.

But my friend is BELOVED in the cast, and not just by me. He’s practically worshiped by everyone who isn’t his close friend, and his close friends love him for obvious reasons (cause we’re friends). So everyone made a huge deal about how he’s PERFECT for the role, and blah blah blah, and I kinda silently disagreed but I wanted to suppose my friend so I was like “yeah! You totally deserved it! Good for you!”

This other guy though kinda got irrationally angry that he was given the supporting lead (he’s definitely an asshole regardless of whether or not I am) and even quit the show… even though he got a big part. And then he started talking trash about my friend and saying he wasn’t talented?

But when that guy talked to me (weird decision considering everyone knows we’re really close), he said, “my acting was literally so much better for that role. I SHOULD have gotten the role.” And I said, “yeah. My friend really would have been better in the other role. I agree.”

And then he went on to say, “my acting is so much better than his anyway.” And I didn’t straight up agree, but my response was, “well, you know politics plays a huge role in these things.” Which definitely didn’t deny what he said. (And my friend actually is disproportionately benefited by director politics bc he takes private lessons from our choreographer, so I wasn’t WRONG—but I wasn’t being the good friend I should have been either.)

So I sorta feel like I told this other guy, who probably didn’t get the main lead bc of politics/being a nightmare to work with (probably both, tho the second is less likely since he got a big role anyway?) that he was right about my friend, even though my friend really is talented and I never MEANT to imply that he wasn’t. But I think I did.

I’m happy for my friend getting the lead. And I’m not sorry for thinking he would have been better cast in the other role. But…something feels icky about telling him he’s perfect for the role and then telling his rival that he would have been better for the role.

I don’t know. Let me have it if I need it, tumblr. AITA?

#aita #am i the asshole

[kisses4kaia]

mmm sub!patrick gripping on your tits when you bounce up and down on him. he wouldn’t be able to keep his eyes off of ur tits bc of how much they were glistening w sweat

right! (fwb!stanford!patrick x fem!reader, you already know it’s gonna be filthy, mdni.)

patrick never asked for permission. he was unlike art in that way, taking what he wants when he wants it and only stopping to see your consent.

but he was so much like his best friend when he got to touch you. it damn near put him under a hex, the bounce of your tits in front of his face, highlighted by an afternoon glow cracking through the dorm room’s blinds. your sweat gleamed off of your collarbone and a tear swam down the valley of your breasts.

patrick never asked for permission, and he wasn’t going to start as his mouth attached to the inner fat of your left boob, swiping his tongue to catch the salty secretion and knead your right tit with a soft hand. he swirled his tongue around your nipple a few times, not neglecting her twin as his hand flicked and rolled the sensitive bud in tandem with his wet muscle. as much as patrick loved to drink in your sounds, he needed to see you, and this position didn’t provide much a view.

regrettably, his head was soon level with yours, and his hands on your hips travelled to your chest.

it’s not to keep himself on the ground, it isn’t even to pleasure you, but his gripping and kneading of the fat is for no other purpose than to feel you. every part of you fascinated him, and when your tits were shining like a sin, the most worthwhile sin at that, he had to take them in his hands and feel.

you’ve noticed his sounds have died down and his eyes have shut. poor boy, he was being fucked stupid. “open your eyes, baby,” your hands warmed the backs of his, still welded onto your chest. he nodded, a dumb ‘mhm’ muttered, but by his lack of actually obeying your imperative, you knew he hadn’t registered. “eyes, patrick. give me your eyes,” moving his finger on your breasts to run over and button at your hard peaks.

he understood this time, and as his eyes opened lazily, you sped up your pace, hips going sore but never slowing down.

“do you wanna cum?” you ask upon feeling his hips stutter up into yours, and he nods. “ask.”

patrick had the audacity to scoff. “if you don’t ask, i’ll never let you stop coming. ask,” the reiteration of the order is posed as a warning, and patrick groans at your growling tone.

“can i cum?” it seemed to pain him to ask, but you pouted pitifully at him. “what’s the magic word?”

patrick zweig never asked for permission, and he certainly never begged, but with your tits in his hands and your vice of a cunt squeezing his cock, he had no mind to hold to his self-established beliefs. “please—please, may i cum?”

he was so much closer now, so much more desperate, and you simpered at his politeness. he watches for your nod, and upon catching your go-ahead, he’s flooding the condom with warm, slimy spend and squishing your sweaty breasts together, sticking against the other before slowly pulling apart.

“thanks, mami.” he peeled his hand from your chest and kissed the back of yours, just before pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“anytime.” patrick gives you a high five after you redress and you’re gone.

#.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ 𝐤𝐚𝐢𝐚 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 ! #my brain is melting #he makes me so hot and bothered #fucking hell #angelnon 🤍 #kai's got mail <3📑 #patrick zweig x reader #patrick zweig #patrick zweig smut #patrick zweig blurb #patrick zweig imagine #josh o’connor smut #josh o'connor #unproofread.. 😴😴 #kaia writes patrick

[justyourtypicalwriter]

I just saw the post SERVICE DOGS HCS PLEASEEE !!!

HERE WE GO GANG! These are the one's I have so far! Feel free to suggest recs for any characters or disabilities y'all wanna see! (feel free to rec it even if it's for a character on the list)

STAN:

Service Dog: Brown Newfoundland, Delta (F)

Psychiatric Alert & Response Dog

Disabilitie(s): Major Depressive Disorder (MDD), Occasional Psychosis 

The hair dye oh my god. He can rarely drag himself out of bed during depressive episodes but occasionally he’ll get a random burst of impulsivity and re-dye his hair. Most of the time he does the same shitty job at bleaching it blonde

“DARLING! GUESS WHO’S BACK FROM THE PSYCH WARD” vibes

Sharon and Randy officially divorced when he was fifteen. He got a little better now that there isn’t constant screaming or the threat of a drunk or high Randy doing something stupid

Don’t get me wrong, he’s still a total mess-

Patched his relationship with Shelly

Misdiagnosis club AND public breakdown club

God his entire aura just radiates LOSER energy but he’s somehow insanely popular

Not cousins with Craig & Red in this AU but their parents are insanely close so they hang out a lot

CRAIG:

Service Dog: Irish Setter, Saturn (M)

Medical Alert & Response Dog

Disabilitie(s): Epilepsy

Lowkey autistic but Saturn isn’t task trained for anything related to that

Goes non-verbal at times but it’s pretty spontaneous. Most people outside his group can’t tell if he’s actually non-verbal or just not talking to fuck with everyone

Peru drama was secretly worked out when they were twelve. Craig was hospitalized for a while when they were running tests to get a diagnosis, it was roughly a month long stay. He told Stan he’d call it even if Stan looked after Stripe until he was out. Tweek was away for the summer and he knew Stan wouldn’t let anything happen to her since he’s a massive animal lover

Gotta maintain the bitch personality 

TWEEK:

Service Dog: Doberman, Latte (M)

Psychiatric Alert & Response Dog

Disabilitie(s): Chronic Anxiety,

“Ah fuck, the magic school bus is waiting outside to take me back to rehab-”

I kid you not, he was absolutely terrified of Latte when he first got him

Which is funny because Latte is the sweetest goddamn thing, not at all like Fable whose a fucking demon shit

CPS was called on his parents right before senior year

Placed with the Broflovski’s so he and Kyle got closer

Public breakdown club

BUTTERS:

Service Dog: Boxer, Haven (F)

Psychiatric Alert & Response Dog

Disabilities: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), Depression

Public breakdown club (IN DEVELOPMENT)

KYLE:

Service Dog: Black Giant Schnauzer, Noble (M)

Medical & Psychiatric Alert & Response Dog

Disabilities: Diabetes, Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS), Avoidant Restrictive Food Intake Disorder (ARFID)[This one might be switched]

Tubie Kyle (I fucking LOVE this one)

For once I give Kyle an ED that doesn’t stem from body image issues

Humancentipad trauma bc I love being problematic about the episode

DESPISES his lows because it means he has to eat something

Also goes non-verbal but only during times of high stress

Noble is a program dog. Kyle got him when he was 14 and initially he was so against it. He wants to function independently but he really fucking can’t. As he grows older he learns to accept the help more

HATES mirrors. The Humancentipad incident left him with scars

Public breakdown club

KENNY:

Service Dog: Anatolian Shepherd Dog, Harbor (M)

Medical Response & Mobility Aid Dog

Disabilities: Muscular Dystrophy, Chronic Pain

Regularly hospitalized, fucking dies, and revives the next day

DUMPSTER DOG<3333

He trained Harbor mostly by himself (Wendy, Tolkien, and Kyle pitched in a bit and bought him books on training techniques)

MOM FRIEND! Bro I just love making Kenny one of the parental figures of the group. He’s just got a bag of shit he carries around for both himself and everyone else. Stan forgot to swap his bandages? Boom, Kenny’s got new ones. Kyle’s sugar is low? Boom, he’s got whatever little snack the boy is able to tolerate. Someone needs a distraction? Medical episode causes them to need a vomit bag? Boom, done. Mom friend Kenny

So fucking ADHD

JIMMY:

Service Dog: Grey Great Dane, Kitty (F)

Mobility Aid Dog (IN DEVELOPMENT)

TOLKIEN:

Service Dog: Papillon, Jax (M) (IN DEVELOPMENT)

WENDY:

Service Dog: Black German Shepherd, Nike (F)

Psychiatric Alert & Response

Disabilities: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) (IN DEVELOPMENT)

CLYDE:

Service Dog: Husky, Fable (F) (IN DEVELOPMENT)

BEBE:

Service Dog: Golden Retriever, Bucky (M)

Medical Alert & Response Dog

Disabilities: Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS)

Misdiagnosis club

Went to multiple doctors from 13-15 who all told her it was all in her head

And she’s just sitting there like “bitch please, the only thing in my head is my girlfriend and how hot she is. Now tell me why I keep experiencing these symptoms-”

HEIDI:

Service Dog: Chocolate Labrador, Isa (F)

Psychiatric Alert & Response Dog

Disabilities: Autism Spectrum Disorder

Public breakdown club (IN DEVELOPMENT)

#south park #service dog au #kyle brovlofski #stan marsh #kenny mccormick #craig tucker #tweek tweak #wendy testaburger #butters stotch #jimmy valmer #tolkien black #clyde donovan #bebe stevens #heidi turner

[stewieonthewall]

I feel like the obvi reason they have not said anything about being together is bc it would take away from their shine being on a team bc they are on the same one but I wonder why neither of them have come out yet? Other girls on the team have and no body really talks about? Maybe it’s because they have bigger names but I’m not sure🤷🏼‍♀️🤷🏼‍♀️🤷🏼‍♀️

i mean… have you interacted w paige’s content ever? shit’s pretty gay if you ask me idk

i actually saw a good tiktok abt this basically talking abt how ppl are so entrenched in their “don’t speculate” view they’re doing the same thing bc if the person is generating enough discourse for that conversation to be had perhaps there’s a reason

basically them never having said anything shouldn’t be taken to mean that they’re not queer like we shouldn’t feel entitled to/expect an explicit tweet, photo, etc

azzi is just not likely to publicly come out bc that’s not how she approaches social media but i would argue that paige dresses and acts queer enough (including being aware of her fanbase being heavily composed of women in love w her and heavily encouraging that) that this is how she’s gonna display it for the foreseeable future

it could be bc she doesn’t want it public for personal reasons, bc she doesn’t wanna deal w the inevitable repercussions of coming out, could be bc she’s waiting until after college

and yeah as for them not talking abt being tg, there’s def a chance that they don’t think the relationship is at that point (like we dk what exactly is going on there), but it really would cement them being so permanently associated w each other in a way that could take away from individual or team recognition (azzi already kinda has this happen w the “paige’s best friend” title)

#pazzi

[corvidjuice]

Was gonna make a joke post about being brave when people talk about how hard highschool was bc of friend drama and exams, but actually I have a lot of thoughts and feelings.

Sometimes it feels really isolating to have struggled with severe mental health issues as a teenager. Not that exams and interpersonal problems aren’t difficult, but people know how to respond to those issues, you’ll get empathy and relating and the conversation continues. Whereas, in my experience, mentioning mental health issues often causes a lot of discomfort, overplayed pity, or just honestly shitty comments.

Of course I don’t expect people to know what to say or be mental health experts, but it does suck to not be able to refer to an entire chunk of my life. It’s not just a small detail in a story that I can omit, it IS the story. So, of course I try not to participate in the conversation, but when prompted to join, answering that I’m uncomfortable talking about it doesn’t feel that great or genuine to be honest (and harshes the vibes anyway). I want to talk about it, I want to connect and be open. I don’t want to hide things from my friends.

I thought after seeing a lot of ground being made in normalising and understanding mental health it would be ok to explain to friends how bipolar affected most of my teenage life and therefore my stressors were different, but I was met with “oh you don’t seem bipolar, I have a bipolar coworker and she’s crazy” and “but you’re on medication now right? you’re normal now” and “wdym it sucked, mania sounds so fun” (No?!?!?! Pls I don’t want to keep explaining that mania can include paranoia and psychosis and is not partying disease) or just any random story about a time someone with bipolar fucked their life up??? Which like ok, but can I finish my story first lol????

Thankfully sometimes another person with mental illness is there and we get to have a really lovely conversation, so everyone who mentions their mental health in these conversations I love you and you are literally a beacon for me regularly. Also I now have some wonderful friends who I can relate and talk to, which is amazing.

But ANYWAY I’m not sure what the point of this post is, I guess I just wish medical history and personal history weren’t so closely tied, or I wish that more people accepted and understood that they are.

#long post #rant #? kinda? #also breaking the not talking too specifically about my mental health online rule I have with myself

[secretdonderwolk]

Sorry max getting to like top 20 of fifa coinciding with daniels RBR exit announcement will forever be the best fanfic fodder of all time. Like… WHAT!!!

Also that interview where max is asked if he thinks daniel left the team bc he didn’t like being teammates with max (they can both deny it but like… objectively the truth to a degree) — and max gets that wounded look— “I don’t know, you’d have to ask him :)”

so true and so real! teenage boy misery straight from an early 2000s movie........ max pillow-creased face, unshowered for days, on his stomach on the couch muffled voice like, i'm actually completely fine and feeling normal about everything. daniel can do whatever he wants!!! i don't care........ i'm okay!!!! not max doing the ASK TAYLOR.............................he was rattled fr!!! tender little heart like wait.... but daniel said...... it wasn't anything to do with me......................... actually saur interesting to moi how you can see them kind of doing the animals circling each other sniffing the air like what are the vibes those first few weeks of daniel at renault. they did nawt know how to handle that whole thing!!!! even daniel, like say what you want about him, but he knows how to handle an awkward sitch with grace usually...... but even he was kinda lostish like, what are we dot jpeg. and then at one point them both realizing like hold on, maybe this makes things easier actually...... maybe we can actually just be legit friends.....and then they WERE. they ARE

#ask! #max/daniel

[fumifooms]

You're always so on point with your posts. On that note, it made me realize that; Considering the themes of desires in DunMeshi. It's also to say that what you think you want isn't what you actually want.

Like, Marcille thinks she wants the handsome prince from the novels she reads... But what she actually wants is someone maybe more like her father who she admired so much. Kind, virtuous, caring to a fault, a family man. Things she later finds in Chilchuck.

Because as traumatizing as it was to see her mother's spiral after her father's death; Her memories of her father itself are some of the most important to her. And it fits with her pursuit to increase her loved ones' lives, because she does want what her mother and father had.

Sipping. I do go over ‘what you think you want vs what you actually want + what you need’ in my (upcoming) Marcille & Chil arc analysis ;) It’s a part of Dunmeshi that I really like and is super fascinating, I’d honestly like to make an analysis-post on the topic: all the different threads and characters in canon that reflect that, desires vs wants and themes of idealization in Dunmeshi, but it’s one of those things that’s just so huge to make. See this is the freaking problem with doing Dunmeshi meta you start talking about the themes or a narrative and everything is so interwoven you get distracted with tangents BUT IT’S ALL COMPELLING AND RELEVANT

I know that’s something laimar does a lot too, the dad thing, with Marcille in a post-canon comic knitting beside him paralleling her parents and whatnot. I don’t know if I fully agree on the angle but there’s definitely stuff to dig at there…

Like I know that I’d like to analyze Marcille’s succubus more, it comes up in my analysis draft but it’s not the point I’m trying to make there so I focus on other stuff but… I always saw the focus of Marcille’s succubus as that she sought out an emotional connection most of all, it’s romantic and courtly in nature but more importantly there’s personality and behavior there and it’s a character she already loves and knows deeply from having read the series, so it’s not like Chil where it’s just a pretty face whose identity doesn’t matter. A friend of mine though, @room-surprise, goes with the angle that it shows she isn’t ready for a relationship and that the appeal is very self-centered, and I def think compelling points are made…

Point I was trying to make, the succubus is definitely at the crux of figuring what it is Marcille wants and craves in someone I’d say, where she’s emotionally at wether consciously or subconsciously, or how she sees herself being involved in romance at least… It’s true Marcille is enthusiastic about romance, but always someone else’s, never hers, and she seems unwilling to examine her own relationships with people. She oversteps boundaries either obliviously or carelessly and doesn’t like change…

and then there’s how complex people’s relationship to fiction can be on top of that and graaaaah

Edit in bc I forgot I wanted to mention this like an idiot: OH and I do think the Daltian Clan serves a role in the general tapestry of Dunmeshi as well, sometimes in in depth ways that Room-Surprise will tackle in their research paper way better than me I’m sure. My understanding of the importance of general Hagreus in a more general narrative sense is that he reinforces the theme of idealization/fantasy vs reality that’s super present through the manga. Beyond just Marcille’s arc and his importance to her he’s designed uncannily close to Mithrun, it feels parallels of real elves and their very flawed military system and the broken people it cultivates vs the romanticized elves put on an aesthetic pedestral in novels, especially considering it’s "general" Hagreus

To give some previews of the analysis wip: Thus the succubus targets Marcille’s wish for a perfect knight who could cherish her forevermore, someone safe and known and fantastical, just hers in a way, free to see and construct however she wants because he’s a character to interpret Dungeon Meshi is in part about resisting desires, the irrational cravings, mostly through the character of the demon. I mentioned needs earlier, and to ideals vs wants we also add vs needs, both emotional and physical. And needs alongside wants are what Dungeon Meshi wishes to promote for a healthier person. Dungeon Meshi illustrates very well with the dungeon lords that you can be a slave to your desires. Dunmeshi prones the important of balance for both a healthy body and a healthy mind, and the arc of optimism vs pessimism with Marcille & Chilchuck is one such case <3

Ouuuugh how flawed relationships with flawed people can still be made into somehing good and healthy that make the world brighter…

We’ve gone far from the topic of how her family shaped what she seeks in relationships haha, I think you put it well already though I don’t have much to add on that front Edit in 2: SIKE! I’ll add that there’s an interesting thread in the manga of Marcille maturing and becoming more like her mother, which would be interesting and fun to pair with the fatherhood of Chil. Because Marcille is sometimes a mother figure as well: she’s the mom friend. I go over it here, and since when I made that post I’ve seen more interesting analysis on the topic too, like noticing she hides behind her mother’s portrait in the nightmare chaoter, perhaps the inspiration behind her more mature reserved academic persona she sometimes has. Her parents are def important to her so it’s interesting to see how all the dynamics and her own psychology fit into that….

But yeah I think what she (thinks she) wants out of romance has a lot of layers, both conscious and subconscious… I haven’t gone into the bigger picture of how fiction affects her relationship here but it’s the central topic of my Marcille & Chil arc analysis so. She idealizes the trope of the prince charming and finds it attractive but is that what she would actually latch onto… Is it fully superficial, is it more about herself than it is about her potential partner... Is it mainly because she wants to get validation, from being special that she typically gets from high academic performance… We do see she can be rather insecure and worried about others’ perspective of her, that they think she’s not useful or capable enough, especially in the mandrake chapter… Unconditional love perhaps

What is your emotional landscape Marcille. How emotionally intelligent are you. I don’t think she knows what she wants romantically. I think she has a job so she don’t really care about that rn I’m just not sure if we can figure out what she ~actually~ wants on her behalf that might be too many levels of interpretation but idk idk, thinking on it still

#Ask #marchil #Spoilers #Dungeon meshi manga spoilers #As an aroace obviously obsessed with shipping. Me 🤝 Marcille very possibly being uncomfortable at the thought of being in a relationship #Considering her fear of loss + loss of control at categorizing her relationships and the Falin bath scene analysis yk the one #How she pushes herself to think of Falin as a kid still bc it’s more digestible and less scary. Bc change and aging and vulnerability #Like she could totally be super on board to get into a romance at a snap of fingers buuut there’s enough material where also could be not #The post ended up not being very marchil but yeah… in the end i ship it bc i think chil is both what she wants and needs in a lover #It’s ok even if they don’t do much pda she’ll just romanticize that it makes it more special #Marcille donato #Meta #Btw big recommend the youtube video essay on OFMD season 2 by The Sin Squad… Makes me think about Marcille v much

[prettyboysmlm]

wish i’d stop being left out of things.

#in every friend group. i always get left out of big things. #that’s been the case for the past 5/6 years #bc i live far away from my school and therefore my friends #and before i got a license #my mom would refuse to take me anywhere bc it was ‘too far’ #and so my friends just. stopped inviting me to things. #bc i’d always say no. #and now that i have a license and a car and can go places on my own #they still don’t invite me to stuff. #i’ve like completely shifted friend groups in the past year bc i felt very unwanted in general #but it still happens. and it makes me feel horrible. #bc i feel like i don’t have friends that are actually friends. #what’s worse is that my house has been a wreck since september so i can’t invite them to my house #also ik that a lot of their parents might also say that i live too far away #so im just stuck. #even my online friends leave me out of shit #and i know for some of it there’s a good reason but. #it still makes me feel bad. #bc being left out of things constantly makes you feel like shit #but then again #i’m used to it at this point ig #idk i’m just sick of being alone #k.txt #vent tw

[stuckinapril]

friend wanted to see my tumblr, and when i told him i can’t show it to him bc it’s basically my personal diary he went “oh so I can’t see it but a bunch of strangers on tumblr can??” he literally does not get me. no one will get me like the people in my phone get me

#It’s just so different #even though it’s public it still feels secret and safe. i feel comfy sharing a lot more on here than I do in my actual day to day life lol #in my head I’m also just speaking to myself 90% of the time which helps #if a friend off tumblr saw my thoughts I’d feel so weird ab it #esp bc they might get the vagueposting about certain situations and tell mutual friends #no thank u. this is for me. I’m not about to start censoring my thoughts bc someone I know knows my tumblr #u guys literally saw me have LIVE BREAKDOWNS #meanwhile I’ll have the worst fucking day in history and tell no one about it. I’m already cripplingly private but way more so in real life #this is basically a low stress journaling outlet for me. it’s so important for me to maintain the separation #like this is actually my diary & has been so handy for letting out emotions / articulating thoughts / staying on track !! #& I’ve met so many kind people on here who actually get me. which is so hard to find irl bc I’m surrounded by pre-med gunners/overachievers #who are by standard not very good w emotion & can be competitive/judgmental. or at least it’s hard for me to be vulnerable in front of them #and I’m part of that crowd so I reserve my emotions only to a handful of very close friends #it’s nice to hop on here and express negative emotions!! or positive emotions!! just whatever I want and it’s low stress and people get me #I don’t have to worry about judgment or competitiveness etc etc #like everyone on here is so kind & nice & understanding. & just a breath of fresh air from the types I run w. it’s just nice to have this #so idk that’s why I think I’ll always be strict about keeping the worlds separate. it just works #p

[o-wild-west-wind]

tumblr algorithm stop feeding me takes that this show is just a silly goofy comedy that shouldn’t include death or that Izzy is the token disabled elder queer on the show where an actual disabled elder queer is literally the romantic lead or that Lucius and Pete being called “mateys” is diluting their gayness because it’s not “husbands” or that it’s sexist that Zheng lost her fleet and later prioritized her love for a man or that Ed is Izzy’s abuser because we conveniently forgot all of season 1 or that trauma is never followed through with because sometimes actions are used instead of words or that Ed learned nothing because the inn was apparently a whim as if he hasn’t been obsessing over retirement from day 1 I swear did we even watch the same show?? I literally feel like I’m in backwards land?

I have a really novel concept for y’all complaining about character’s arcs not being fully resolved or healed and that’s called there is supposed to be another season of this show

I also have another really novel concept as to why every single character did not have a one on one trauma apology session and so much time was spent on Ed and Stede and that is because this is literally the Ed and Stede show and also sometimes parallels are meant to be inferred and extrapolated because that is what efficient storytelling does instead of spoonfeeding you

And my most novel concept of all as to why some beloved characters had less screen time is because Max is a massive jerk and cut the budget

Y’all this wasn’t personal and maybe this show was never about Izzy maybe the show called our flag means death is actually about death maybe sad does not equal homophobic letdown maybe the brown gay character introduced as the love interest from day 1 gets to outlive the angry white guy that had a redemption arc after actively bullying and trying to break up every gay couple for a season I don’t know what to tell you just can you please let non-white people have this arc for once without assuming it’s an attack on you I’m BEGGING y’all

#I’m sorry for overusing y’all I grew up country lmao #anyway. critical thinking when #I didn’t want to make more posts about this I’m just tired and seeing people denounce the show as homophobic #for killing the subtextually gay internalized homophobia character #in favor of the canonically gay brown protagonist #makes me feel more and more uncomfortable the more I see it #WHY do you defend him over the actual gay people esp. poc gay people like make it make sense #be sad he died I have a million posts about that but this strawmanning is getting concerning #bc what does this mean of your ability to recognize real homophobia #it’s not about you!!! and if you think his death means something about you PLEASE unpack that #I had a lovely night with friends and am not sober lol so if I seem salty that’s why I’m sorry for being a broken record #this is not anti-Izzy this is anti-baffling takes on Izzy #I’m sorry we’ll be back to our regularly scheduled kiss gif programming soon I don’t like these posts either #I just can’t resist a good hill #ofmd #ofmd season 2 #ofmd spoilers #ofmd s2 spoilers #fandom crit #our flag means death

[miciiq]

Got Aventurine in 60 pulls!

He’s so auxhuehuche I’m so happy I have him now

#This is actually from 10 days ago but i forgot to post it so #I started on the 20th and i just got to equilibrium 3 #Im at the part where we should leave luofu but we visit a few friends we made along the way or smth #Im so happy hes my first limited 5 star i love him #Hes my second oshi after dan heng or maybe even my first #I want to change the voicing to english for aventurine but i cant bring myself to abandon ito kento as dan heng #Maybe i can just change it to en for most of penacony and change it back when jing yuan and dan heng somehow appear #Ugh im still regretting missing out on jing yuan voiced by cyyu #But Ito kento #But i also like english dan heng too omg #Oh i also want to hear eng dr ratio bc he acts slightly differently towards aventurine compared to like jp #Like he sounded much more uh passionate in the aventurine keeping up with star rail video and i was living for it #hsr #hsr aventurine #honkai star rail #Aventurine #aventurine hsr #star rail aventurine #Hm idk im not sure if i should skip all 4 characters in 2.2 and after that (firefly and jade etc) #I have almost 100 tickets saved rn but like im not rly sure ab pulling for any of them #Idk im not really attached to any of the characters rn #Maybe i should wait for ruan mei? I don’t particularly love her tho shes inhumane but pretty idrc #Firefly and robin are apparently rly good but i feel like im baiting myself everytime i read another reddit thread and watch another video #Like idk the only 5 stars i have are yanqing dr ratio and aventurine all e0s0 and i dont feel like pulling for topaz either (boothill idk) #im really tempted to pull for jingliu but im probably going to pull for dhil maybe next year when he reruns just bc i like him so again idk

[animalsandskyyy]

being homeschooled means not being able to feel normal or at ease when interacting with peers.

it means never learning how to casually text or speak within groups of people.

it means being great with authority figures or people you deem above or more adult than you, but being completely unable to communicate with anyone your age you'd want to be friends with.

it means desperately wanting to befriend people you've met in life and follow online but failing to do so, and then having every time you see them cause you to grieve the possibility of a friendship with them because you desperately want it but know you're incapable of it.

it means being severely behind in pop culture and not really being mad at that, but still knowing that it causes an even further divide.

it means going from being extremely mature as a teenager to being extremely behind in a social life in your twenties.

#just my personal experience #having the yearly ‘i’m so completely alone and don’t have anyone to do anything with irl’ meltdown lol #and just learned my family is going to be out of town for like the rest of the month #and so I have no one to do anything with now #you’d think i’d be better at this by now but nope lol #I even joined a discord server by someone who made a tiktok about having a hard time making actual friends #and so everyone is there with that shared struggle and trying to make friends #but I can’t even talk there bc i’m so completely clueless on how to interact in group chat type things and group settings #and get too scared to send anything ahd I take so long to type one message bc I have to think about it and reread it 20 times #it doesn’t help that I feel like i’ve always been like 40 years old mentally and just don’t understand the things people my age like to do #but anyways #grace is dramatic

[aforgottenthing-in-space]

Ok so. Miles Edgeworth is trans. Gregory was definitely a trans affirming father so when Miles told him he was like “sure son. What name do you want to go by?”

And so all Manfred von Karma knew was that Gregory Edgeworth had a son. When he gains custody of Miles, he just. Does not realize that the kid he’s now in charge of is a trans boy. (Maybe Miles already had a name change. Idk. Somehow legal name wise, von Karma just. Does Not realize.)

So Miles grows up being raised as a boy and von Karma just. Doesn’t realize. Until puberty begins.

And he notices something, that Miles isn’t experiencing puberty the way he would have expected and he’s like hmmm. I am not sure what is happening.

And then like preteen Miles, incredibly nervous, comes to him and he’s like, “excuse me, Mr. von Karma, sir, but would I be able to start puberty blockers please?”

And von Karma’s just like “WHAT!”

He’s so caught off guard and so used to thinking of Miles as “Gregory Edgeworth’s pathetic son” that he just… kinda lets Miles medically transition bc he’s so caught off guard by the realization.

And for his entire life, Miles is like. Unable to wrap his head around von Karma being surprisingly trans accepting???

#especially because von karma was decidedly NOT accepting of the fact that miles is gay #for the rest of miles’ life he is forever confused about this. and he never realizes that von karma just. didn’t know he adopted a trans kid #in my headcanon franziska is also trans and basically i think that like. von karma was so shooketh by having one trans kid in the house #that he was like. I. I. I don’t know what to do #and also Franziska would TOTALLY weaponize the fact that miles had transitioned without comment #‘why does miles edgeworth get to but I don’t??’ #also also. Manfred von karma probably has some toxic ideas about what it means to be a man. that were definitely taken to heart by miles #especially bc he wanted to prove himself as being ‘valid’ in the eyes of bin karma #I like to think that as he let go of the other ideas von karma taught him he also let go of this ideal and let himself embrace #less ‘traditionally manly’ things #this is the ‘not traditionally masculine transmasc’ in me coming through #I feel like that’s such a specific thing to work through when it comes to reconciling masculinity ESPECIALLY if you’re someone who’s #felt like they’ve had to fight to be accepted for it #wow. that got actually serious on my stupid lil post. #anyway miles as of chief prosecutor wear jewelry and makeup and maybe sometimes skirts #also fun like trans kid headcanon: Phoenix comes out during the year he miles and Larry were best friends and his mom went to Gregory #for advice about how to support your trans son :) #ace attorney #miles edgeworth #phoenix wright ace attorney #manfred von karma #trans miles edgeworth #miles edgeworth is trans dammit #and so is Phoenix Wright #Phoenix Wright #mention #gregory edgeworth #franziska von karma #tw transphobia #like. Hinted but tagging just in case