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soapskneebrace · 1 year

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gravity

Pairing: John Price x f!Reader Rating: General audiences Word Count: 3.9k Warnings: none Author's Notes: LIKE CHILEAN MINERS (iykyk). I want to express a tidal wave of thanks to everyone for waiting so, so patiently for this chapter. Life got hard and is remaining so, but the kindness I have received has been so incredibly comforting. Please enjoy the longest chapter of Neighbors I have written to date. Also a HUGE shoutout to Lev @yeyinde as ALWAYS for her advice, the pub is a direct result of her guidance. MASTERLIST Now on Ao3!

It’s a cold and windy morning that, as you hover just a little closer to his warmth, you ask him about decent places to eat nearby.

“Fancy pub food?” he asks in response, and it takes you a moment to process what he’s said. Today he’s in a thick, soft-looking knit sweater, which makes it infinitely difficult not to imagine huddling up against him.

You think he’d let you. You’re not sure how you know this. Maybe it’s the way he positions himself next to you, standing at an angle toward you just slight enough to be casual, but open enough to be purposeful. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you, like he’s trying to warm you up with his eyes alone—he asked you once why you always bundled up to be outside, and you told him you were just sensitive to the cold.

Since then, you’ve often caught him checking on you, surreptitiously. Simple once-overs that you think are searching for evidence of discomfort.

What would he do, you wonder, if he found any? Would he send you inside, as he had the first morning?

Part of you thinks that would be better. It would give you an out, open up a path diverting away from whatever this thing is that hangs in the air between you and John Price, this thing that you pass back and forth between the pages of borrowed books.

It’s a thing that breathes with the both of you into the early morning, and you don’t know how to look at it. You don’t understand its shape. It’s a thing you wish you wanted to walk away from.

“Who doesn’t?” you reply, sipping at the cold dregs in your cup.

“How ‘bout tonight, then?” John says, and you swallow a little too quickly.

“W-what about tonight?”

He smiles at you, as if he’s thrown you off on purpose. “Dinner, on me.”

You blink several times. “You—I—I mean—really?”

He shrugs, easy and casual as you wish you could be. “Could show you what’s best on the menu. And I wouldn’t mind having dinner with someone besides m’self.”

You hesitate, because your gut reaction is to say yes, John, I’d like nothing more, and that is not a reaction you want to satisfy. These past several mornings have been nice—nicer than you could have expected. You’ve stopped interrogating yourself as to why you keep bothering, because each time his smile greets you as you step outside is answer enough. The routine has been easy to settle into, even comforting.

You need to protect that comfort, you know, even from the allure of something more.

John does not press for an answer, seeming content to savor the last few inhales of his cigar. You wonder if he’s guessed at your inner conflict, wonder if the quiet he’s giving you is an intentional moment to sort yourself out.

He never presses for anything, ever.

“I suppose I could meet you after work,” you finally say.

The smile that breaks across his face nearly knocks you off your feet. You’re relieved when he says, “Sounds good to me,” because if he’d said it’s a date you think you might have dissolved on the spot.

John texts you the pub’s address, and it’s close enough to walk to. You arrive that evening, in your usual two coats plus a knitted hat, to find that the place exceeds a set of expectations you didn’t know you had. The patio seating is closed in with a white picket fence and hung with strings of fairy lights, and it flanks a red brick building with a large, friendly lantern hanging over the door.

You might have expected something a little grubbier, if you’d given the place any more thought beyond this is John’s pub and he’s having me for dinner here.

Warm air envelops you as you step inside, and your gaze is drawn as if by a magnet to a table further in—John has already seen you, and beckons you over with a wave.

He’s still in the knit sweater, and his fleece jacket is hanging on the back of the seat across from him. He stands as you approach, rounds the table, and pulls that chair out for you when you join him.

You don’t know why the chivalry makes you falter, makes you want to turn and sprint all the way back home. All you know, as you sit down, is that you can practically feel the aura of his presence behind you as he helps push your chair in, can feel it move as he leaves your side to return to his seat. You feel yourself gravitate into it, leaning a little over the table as if trying to keep it close.

“This place is tidy,” you say earnestly, trying for that morning normalcy, as you begin to shuck your layers.

“It’s alright,” he agrees. He’s smiling gently, the cool blue of his eyes vivid in the contrast of warm lamplight.

“Do you—” and then you can’t help but giggle, because it’s such a cliche question “—do you come here often?”

He grins, huffs that little laugh. “Too often,” he says as he sits back in his chair, putting a hand on his stomach. “It’ll start showing soon, probably.”

You look at the flat of his stomach, the broad paw of his hand. Remember the trim waist of that very first morning. “You know, somehow I doubt that.”

He meets you eyes, laughs again, and it warms you to the bone.

Seeing him like this, at night, is an unknown quantity. The John you know how to interact with exists on his front doorstep, painted in the cool palette of sunrise, cold air, cigar smoke. This tableau, composed upon the table between you, might as well turn him into another man entirely. Who is this John, awash in warm light, nearly twelve hours older than the man you spoke to this morning? Who are you, now, seeing him after work and before the end of the night?

You feel a little untethered. Your feet still itch for the door, for the measured, predictable floorboards of your own home.

Maybe John notices, because he takes a menu from the stack of two at the end of the table and offers it to you with a reassuring lift of his brows. “Hungry?”

That question, at least, has an easy answer. You smile a little. “Starving.”

His advice turns out to be necessary—everything looks good, and you both end up ordering too much food. Over a spread of fresh, hot chips, halloumi kebabs, and katsu chicken served liberally with curry sauce, John also has a bottle of scotch brought to the table.

“No, that’s too much!” you protest as the waitress sets the decanter down with two clean glasses. “John, really.”

He sets to pouring, his expression pleased, though you’re not sure what about. “Humor me, love. I don’t get to share very often.”

He hands you a glass, and lifts his own above the food. You acquiesce, and clink the rims.

“Do I take a shot or a sip?” you ask, bringing the glass up to your mouth.

“A sip,” says John, and his expression is genuinely distressed. “Please, don’t ever suggest shooting scotch again. That hurt to hear.”

You smirk, and take a slow drink. It hits your tongue with the prologue to a burn, rolling across your taste buds as the twinge fades and you close your eyes. The flavor opens like smoke exhaled into still air; you purse your lips a little and swirl it in your mouth; nutmeg, vanilla, and even a little apple expand across your palate. When it hits the back of your tongue, a short floral burst surprises you, and you swallow it down eagerly.

You find John watching you when you open your eyes.

“Where did you learn to drink like that?” he asks, and there is a new tone in his voice that you’ve never heard before.

It’s low. Resonant. Almost—purring. The look in his eyes, too, is different, the pale blue sharper somehow. Focused keenly, and with some unknown, honed intent, on you.

It pins you where you sit. John is looking at you. John is seeing you.

“Doesn’t everyone learn to drink at uni?” you reply, trying for airy and light. It doesn’t work. Your voice trembles, just a bit.

He’s still watching you, and you think he sees that. Recognizes, perhaps, a change in your expression, some telltale sign that he has shaken you. He looks away from you, takes a drink of his own scotch, and when his gaze returns the keen edge of it has softened. You breathe, and realize you hadn’t been.

You seek something comfortable, something you can measure and control. “How is Actium treating you, then?”

He smiles, and it’s a little rueful. “Octavian’s being a cunt.”

As talk of the most recent book he’s borrowed carries you into more comfortable territory, the two of you make your way through dinner, which is every bit as delicious as John had promised. The food is hearty, greasy in a way that isn’t too heavy, and pairs perfectly with John’s scotch, which you indulge in liberally.

When the alcohol has outpaced the food that is meant to offset it, you think back to what he’d said earlier, about not often getting to share.

“So am I the first person you’ve brought here?” you ask. “Or do you take every neighbor out to dinner?”

John lifts one dark brow, leans in with a tilt of his head. “Only the pretty ones.”

You give an unladylike snort and swirl a cut of chicken around in curry sauce. “You’re incorrigible, John, really.”

The smile he gives crinkles the laugh lines around his eyes, and you feel yourself want to melt at the sight. It is unfair how handsome he is, in that warm sweater, in that golden light, haloed softly in the haze of your verging intoxication.

“When will you believe me when I compliment you, hmm?” he asks, low and resonant in the depths of his chest.

You shoot the rest of your scotch in answer, stuff the chicken into your mouth, and proffer the empty glass.

John squints at your heresy, but obediently pours.

“I suppose your line of work isn’t really great for your social life, then,” you comment. “Always coming and going.”

“My calendar’s certainly empty,” John agrees. “Honestly, it’s been a while since I’ve sat down with someone like this. I suppose I’m out of practice.”

“You’re eating with a fork and knife and not your hands.” You grin. “I’d say that’s pretty good already.”

He smiles back. “Would that chase you off?”

You sip your scotch. “Not if you keep pouring.”

“And she complained when the bottle came out. What about you, then?”

“What ‘bout me?”

“How many blokes have you been to dinner with, lately?”

You scoff at that and wash your food down with a sip. “None. As if they’re throwin’ ‘emselves at me.”

John’s expression changes, and it’s slow grin that spreads across his face, a smile you have never seen on him before. It isn’t the sad smile he’s given you at times, melancholy and resigned; nor is it the one he gives when he sees you in the morning, warm and soft and friendly.

No, this one is—energized. Invigorated. As if someone has given him good news he hadn’t been expecting.

“They’ve got to be,” he says, and his tone is humorous. “You must have your pick of the lot. And none of them have struck your fancy?”

You press your hands to your too-warm face. “John, don’t tease me.”

“Seems I’ve got to count myself lucky tonight, then,” he continues, leaning his elbows on the table. “If you’re as choosy as all that.”

You give him a droll look, and swirl your drink around in your glass. “If you must know, I got out of a relationship not long ago.”

John’s brows lift, and you want to smack yourself for letting that little detail escape you. “Is that so?”

You drink. “That is so.”

“What kind of idiot would let you get away?”

“My head is already spinning, and you’re abusing that,” you protest.

“Sorry, love,” he says, clearly not sorry. “But now you’ve got me curious.”

You sit back in your chair, staring at your plate to avoid his gaze. “I’m afraid it’s not all that dramatic. It just…didn’t feel right. I guess he liked me more than I liked him. We would go out, and I would think, ‘I want to leave him and go home.’”

And you still felt guilty about it. You hadn’t liked him that much in the first place, when he’d asked you out—you’d just said yes, because it seemed like the right moment in your life for something like that to happen. When you’d ended it, your extended social network had scratched its collective head, because there truly hadn’t been any good reason.

You just weren’t happy.

“Suppose I didn’t give it enough of a chance,” you say, downing the last of your glass.

“Hey,” John says, soft and gentle. You look up to meet his eyes—the expression on his face is a mixture of sympathy and resolution. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Sure, John.”

“Love.” His brow creases, insistent. “You deserve something you want.”

You press your lips together tightly, and suddenly you’re struck again with that sensation from earlier, that feeling that John’s presence is a tangible aura, something that rolls and settles across your awareness like a physical touch. You realize you’ve been leaning into it again, drawn toward him like a comet into the snag of a planet’s gravity.

“I’m definitely drunk now,” you say, because the only other words that want to come out are an emphatic I want you.

John smiles. He doesn’t press the issue. “Will I be carrying you home, then?”

“Oh, John, really!” You give a scoff, surprised at the sudden humor. “You couldn’t carry me all that way.”

One dark brow lifts.

“No,” you say. “You’ll have to put me down. I’m not light.”

The smile remains.

You hold his gaze, suspicious, and finish the last of your glass. It does not take long to polish off the last of dinner, and when the two of you agree that the last chips have finally gotten too cold to eat, John pushes his seat back and stands.

“Done, then? I’ll settle the tab. Love, put that away.”

You sheepishly lower your half-lifted wallet back into your purse.

Accounts settled, you make it outside the pub, and then you have to lean against a wall as John watches you, amused. The world is swaying, its pendulum arcing near-horizontal at the amplitude of each swing.

“I just need a minute,” you whisper.

John does the worst thing he could possibly do—he gives you his back and kneels down, arms a little open. “Come on.”

“Come on? Come off it, John, really, you’ll drop me!” you exclaim.

He looks over his shoulder at you. “I won’t.”

You don’t know what convinces you to do it. Tomorrow, you’ll blame the many glasses of expensive scotch, but in the moment you know it’s the way the hanging lights limn his silhouette in gold. You know it’s the soft expression on his face that you are already too fond of. You know it’s the quiet confidence in his reassurance, and above all those things it’s the familiar comfort of his kind blue eyes.

“All right, John,” you say.

As you wrap your arms around his shoulders, John scoops your knees up into the bend of his arms, and you can add now the feeling of his strength to your mental registry of his body. He is broad against you, the width of him obliging your thighs to part farther than they have in a long, long time.

It brings a heat to your face that dwarfs the low simmer of your inebriation. When he lifts you, straightens up and hoists you a little on his back, like you weigh almost nothing, you are unable now to shove back and contain what he has inspired since that first morning.

“This feels nice,” you murmur, tucking your chin on his shoulder. The scotch has the reins of your tongue now. There is no stopping the words that come out. “I wondered if it would. This morning.”

John’s reply is low, humming in his throat as he begins the trek home. “This morning?”

You breathe. “You always look warm and soft. You’re so handsome every morning. Even the first. I wanted to touch you back then. I wanted you to hold me.”

He doesn’t say anything. Maybe he’s trying to focus on the walk back and not dropping you in the middle of it. He hoists you a little, cupping his hands beneath your knees, squeezing.

His silence prompts more of your honesty. “I don’t want to go to dinner with anyone else, John. Even if someone did ask. You’re the only one.”

“You’re drunk, love,” John says. You don’t recognize the tone of his voice, why it sounds…pleading.

Your face is very close to his, your chin pillowed in the fleece lining of his collar. You resolve fully to blame what you do next on the scotch, and touch the tips of your fingers to the coarse umber on his cheek.

His thumbs press into the divots beneath your kneecaps. John says your name, low and breathy. It must be the strain of carrying you that shows in his voice.

You lean in. You press your cheek against the bristles of his beard, inhale, take in the ever-present Maduro that saturates his skin. The friction is a million little pinpricks of sensation, and you think in that moment that if his beard doesn’t leave hot, welted scratches on your face, you might fall asleep crying.

“Oh,” you murmur, not recognizing the languorous, almost wanton sound of your own voice. “Feels good, John.”

“That’s,” he huffs, and audibly swallows. “That’s good. We’re—ah—we’re almost there.”

“Okay,” you say, sighing against him, settling fully into the expanse of his back.

You doze, unburdened now by what you’ve admitted. He does not waver once on the walk, makes no complaint of your weight as street lights pass and the night moves slowly by. He is as steady, when he makes it to your front door, as he was when he first picked you up.

“Where’s your key, love?” he asks.

“Oh,” you murmur blearily, “um. Let me down.”

Even after your feet are back on the ground, his steadying hand does not leave you, ballasting your elbow as you dig around in your purse. It seems like an embarrassingly long time before you find your keychain, and when you try to unlock your door you miss the slot twice.

John’s big hand wraps around yours then, engulfing it with long fingers and broad palm, and guides the key steadily into the lock. The slide of the deadbolt is loud in the quiet night. You have to lean against the door, suddenly devoid of the strength to turn the knob as you look up at John’s concerned face.

“Let me help you in, love,” he says, brow creased. “Please. I’m worried you’ll fall and hit your head.”

Your entire body feels like it’s sinking into a glass of champagne, his words caressing you like rising bubbles, little pearls of air tickling your face as they touch you. You openly stare at him, watch his throat work as he swallows again, rest your eyes along the broad tendon that flexes as he tilts his head.

“Sure,” you whisper, too out of breath to speak aloud. “If that’s what you want.”

So John turns the knob, loops your arm around his shoulders, and walks you inside.

It is very hard to focus now, as John sits you down on your couch. There isn’t much you can hold in your mind besides the moment his hands leave you, and you inexplicably want to cry at their loss. You don’t see where he goes, vision going dark and blurry around the edges—you think he might have left until he comes back with one of your glasses, filled with clear, cool water.

He kneels in front of you and proffers it, doesn’t let go of the glass until both your hands are wrapped around it. He watches you as you take a sip.

“Drink all of that, alright?” he says. “You had a lot.”

You hold the glass back out to him. “You did too.”

His brows lift, lips parting. Have you surprised him? He pulls the glass closer with a little tug, puts his lips to the rim and tilts it from the bottom as you hold it. His eyes do not leave yours as he drinks, as he takes only a little, and then he pulls away and gently pushes the glass back toward you. Your gaze falls from his eyes, down to the little droplets of water clinging to his mustache, down again to the steady line of his mouth.

You bring the glass back up and take a deep gulp.

“Good girl,” he says, low and rumbling, and heat floods your body.

You realize then that his other hand is on your knee, the weight of his palm heavy and broad, his thumb rubbing a comforting circle into the edge of the cap. You are washed in the blend of his warm comfort and the sudden, almost violent sear of your own desire.

When the glass is empty, he eases it from your hands and sets it aside on your coffee table. When he turns back to you, your hand comes up, unbidden, to curve itself along the angle of his jaw. Umber bristles are coarse beneath the sweep of your thumb.

“Not soft, is it?” John murmurs, and there is something stormy and intense in his gaze.

You take a deep breath. “Maybe I’m okay with that.”

His hand grips your knee suddenly, vicelike, and you know this is pushing too far. He does not lean in to you, makes no move toward you, but his entire body is a bank of energy that he is holding, holding, holding back. His chest rises and falls rapidly. His eyes pin you to the couch as he works the muscles in his jaw.

“You’re drunk, love,” he says. It is not the pleading assertion he’d given earlier. It is a conclusion—fond, but resigned.

The room has begun to gently spin, with John at its axis. “I’m drunk,” you agree, whispering and fragile.

It breaks whatever has been building since you’d left the pub. John draws back. Nods. Gives you a smile—that smile. The one that had taken hold of you the first time you saw it. Trying, with every scrap of willpower it had, to be happy, to be alright with what little it had. Failing to do so.

Unable to hide how much it wanted.

“You got a spare key?” he asks. “I can lock you in.”

“Key hook,” you say.

His hand drags down from your knee to stroke along your shin, and then he’s rocking back on his heels, standing to his full height. He looks at you for a moment longer.

“Get some sleep,” he says.

When you blink, he’s gone, and the deadbolt is sliding home.

Bonus A/N: Some housekeeping. First, if you see your username on this list and it's struck through, it means you did not come up when I tried to @ you. I will try one more time, but if it doesn't work I'm taking your name off the list. Get right with the tumblr gods if you can. Second, a few people have told me that they did not get the tag notification on the last update, so let me know if that's the case for you and I will see about trying a different format. And third, I've been editing the format for neighbors across all chapters, so sorry in advance if you get notified twice. Tumblr knows even less about coding a website than I do.

Taglist: @yeyinde @guyfieriiii @aduckingpain @jaimiespn @aconstructofamind @trashy-panda777 @lich1 @smoggyfogbottom @cielobgers @antigonusyuki @bubble-dream-inc @monsterhighsblog @so-scarlet–it-was-maroon @itsthetiredstudent @misshoneypaper @wasteland-babe @jxvipike @deadbranch @mildlyhopelesss @yes-music-is-my-religion @shuttlelauncher81 @xback1021 @zero-ice @hailstrum18 @ramadiiiisme @glassgulls @simonea27 @kitty-satan1 @tianotfound @solarslushee @mmmothballz @wiserebelpartypie @randomchick546 @stripeycatt @shurikan17 @staymetalmacie @capt-soaps-bbg @cold-blooded-girls @rdeville

The taglist is closed. Thank you everyone for your interest.

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bookyeom · 8 months

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Seventeen Fic Recs (September 2023)

Hello everyone! I wanted to make an official post to share some of my favourite Seventeen x Reader fics that I’ve read lately, or ones that have continued to stay on my mind. I guarantee I’m going to miss a bunch of them because there are so many talented people on this website, but I plan to make another one of these soon!

(Also, a side plug for my own fics here. I’ve finally gotten around to posting some of my writing, and hope to continue, so if you want to have a browse and reblog/message me your thoughts, please feel free!)

@wqnwoos first up, I wanted to shoutout Hana for all of her writing. I’m going to include some of my favourite recent drabbles, but I literally love all of them, so please go read everything over on her blog. A couple of my faves here, here, here, here and here.

Secondly, I need to shoutout @savventeen: Savv!!! You know how I feel about your writing, and I need to include my favourite Dino fic of all time immediately or I WILL burst: Got My Heart in My Feet (Cause They Lead Me to You) aka one of my favourite fics in any fandom ever. I cannot express how many times I have read this.

The rest below the cut:

Promise Ring by @lovelyhan - Dino x Reader, F2L royalty/fantasy au aka two of my all time favourite things put together, smut at the end

The Physics of Love by @cheolism - As a DK bias, I have such a hard time finding DK fics, but this one… This is it. This is the one. DK x Reader, F2L (god, I really have a type)

Coming home by @fairyhaos - DK x Reader, Established Relationship

Under the Collar by @miraclewoozi - Go read this fic immediately, but don’t talk to me about it unless you want me to cry. DK x Reader, F2??

What? Like It’s Hard? By @starsstuddedsky - THEE Hoshy fic. Hoshi x Reader, F2L/idiots-to-lovers, Star I love ur mind

These Endless Summer Nights by @blossom-hwa - One of my favourite Hoshi x Reader fics. Absolutely stunning. S2L, smut if i recall correctly, summer romance

2.22AM by @secndlife - Hoshi x Reader, F2??

Burn, Palace, Burn by @fairyhaos - So this was written as part of the 2k celebration (!!!) and I loved it so much, but everything Yena writes is iconic tbh so go read them all. This one in particular is a Jeonghan x Reader historical/fantasy au and… hehehe. See for yourself

“I Know, But Don’t Say It” by @taetaespeaches - Jeonghan x Reader, angst, ouchie, so good.

Heart is Full of Fairy Lights by @savventeen - Another one by the inimitable Savv. Joshua x Reader, Friends/Roomates-to-Lovers

Golden Hour by @dkfile - Joshua x Reader, F2L

you are my kingdom by @fairyhaos - Jun x Reader, royalty au

Other People’s Weddings by @neoneun-au - Seungcheol x Reader. Fake dating. Help

You say the stupidest (sweetest) things by @savventeen - Seungkwan x Reader, F2L. Look, I know this wasn’t solely written for me, but it was requested by me, therefore I claim this as mine and Seungkwan’s life story. xoxo

On Idiocy, Bugs and the Prospect Of Forever by @wqnwoos - Vernon x Reader, F2L, one of my favourite lil Vernon fics ever tbh

Every Page is Empty by @neoneun-au - Another one of my favourite fics, ever. Vernon x Reader, F2L

Sure by @beahae - Why am I just now realizing that all of my favourite fics are Vernon fics? No comment… Anyway! THIS FIC!!!!!!!!! Wow. WOW. Vernon x Reader, F2L, smut, absolutely stunning

Tidal by @eoieopda - Vernon x Reader, established relationship, smut (it’s just smut but it’s SO CUTE HELP)

Don’t Sweat It by @miraclewoozi - Aka the best Lee Jihoon fic ever written. Woozi x Reader, S2L, smut, I’m obsessed with them

The Spring to Your Smile by @wooahaes - This is a link to all the members’ parts of this series. Loved every single one of them! Genre changes based on member :)

All of @nonranghaes little drabbles hit deep (go read them all) but here and here are two faves!!

A/N: awful, horrible, terrible Hao, Wonwoo and Mingyu slander here. I am so disorganized and couldn’t find any of the fics I wanted to post, so they will be back in earnest in the next one, I swear it.

#Seventeen masterlist #Seventeen fic #seventeen fic recs #seventeen angst #seventeen fluff #seventeen x reader #seventeen x you #fic rec masterlist

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batbabydamian · 3 months

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🦇🐥 Batman and Robin (2023) #5 rambling and a conspiracy theory lol

tbh this is the most exciting issue for me since…the first one 💀 i’m going to talk about the story and art separately because Nikola Cizmesija’s one of my favorite action focused comic artists so this issue’s a treat 😭

Alfred used to mediate during a lot of Bruce and Damian’s early relationship, so it’s refreshing to see Bruce take more initiative involving himself in Damian’s life even if it’s for a case lol

a couple instances of Alfred’s fatherly support on behalf of Bruce and Damian from Batman and Robin (2011) #2, 4, 39 and Teen Titans (2016) #1

Damian seems to take Bruce's involvement more as a sign he’s not reliable rather than Bruce finally just. being around to help him. which is fair 😭

this is complementary to Cizmesija’s art, but i love this half of the page so bad 😭 the negative space and the shaded foreground with Damian mid-run gives this feeling of time kinda stopping for us to really feel the impact of Damian’s entrance AND the effect it has on Bruce, like!! that wide eyed expression in the below panel!! 😭

Bruce’s quiet “you can do it, son” to A FULL BODY CHEER OF “GO, DAMIAN!” Bruce witnessing Damian be great outside of Robin, and on top of that it’s just another mundane moment that Bruce has wanted with Damian 😭

this is such a goofy bully line sdfgh though the whole “broken” bit might be a callback to Batman and Robin (2011) #1, in that Bruce is really trying to do his job as a father here or i'm likely reading way too into it

SO the “shocking ending” of Zach being Zsasz’s kid was definitely a surprise but then got me wondering what is up with Williamson doing reveals of new kids for villains lol otherwise, the hints in the issue were neat!

the tally marks!! at least tallying blocks is pretty innocent compared to kills 😭

and Damian would recognize how Zsasz moves, since he’s personally fought him before in Streets of Gotham (2009)!! very much not in a sport, but uh maybe it was to Zsasz

the art!! first a shoutout to the colorist Rex Lokus for giving Damian his green eyes and maybe melanin (it didn’t look consistent throughout so i say maybe)!! 😭 also a Talia by Cizmesija!! even though this panel calls her a “not great” teacher…💀

SUCH A FUN PAGE 😭 i’ve been into montage scenes lately lol and i love how quickly Cizmesija establishes Damian’s routine - Tues, Wed, and Fri are the funniest for me!! Damian grumpily getting lectured by his teacher in the foreground while his classmate’s still visibly steaming from the hit he took LOL, DAMIAN’S BUG EYED STARE WITH HIS SUNGLASSES UP, and then Damian looming. stealthily. in a tree. while some kid is blatantly pointing him out HAHA 😭

Cizmesija’s use of motion lines and effects when conveying movement is so cool!! the shonen manga vibes jumps out!! the smoke/dust trails following the movements; the limbs and soccer ball having a sort of blur effect with the motion lines. V COOL.

which leads to my favorite part of Cizmesija’s work - HIS IMPACT SHOTS!!

more motion lines and effects!! the splatter effects!! the arcs!! the jolting impacts!! GRRAAHH!! the setup to that impact shot of Zach's block is so great, and then following with Damian's reaction!! i almost wish that "???" wasn't there, just because that expression of stunned silence already feels so loud!!

last thoughts about Cizmesija's art is that i'm really hoping for a showdown between Damian and Zach next issue because i need to see a Damian fight scene in Nikola Cizmesija-fashion 😭 we get a taste of it with Orca and soccer but i NEED MORE LOL for now, dropping the moment when Damian overpowers Zsasz, in Batman: Streets of Gotham #11 since it was such an epic moment

okay SLAPPING MY CONSPIRACY BOARD!! so on another note Principal Stone being Shush is starting to feel like a red herring and Ms. Heather Hall could actually be Shush. Shush’s main point about Damian as his instructor was emphasizing how much potential he has, but the “wrong” influence could affect that

Stone and Hall have made the same observation about Damian’s potential, but the difference is how they address that - one wants Bruce to be more involved while the other wants Bruce to back off

Stone acknowledged Damian can take care of himself but still wants Bruce to step up in Damian’s life; Hall says it’s okay to be a helicopter parent BUT implies giving Damian space (which we already know Bruce has given so much of after Alfred’s death to the point of neglect 😭)

Hall even suggests moving Damian on to college, which would estrange Damian further. also idk how Damian kicking his teammates/bullies asses at soccer is really “making friends” lol

and of all the subjects she’s teaching, it’s AP Biology - according to the current case Batman and Robin are working on, which is centered around DNA-sequencing, it makes Hall the perfect accomplice to Langstrom

this is where my brain started reaching because i laughed at first at how specific that comparison is, but then it just made me think of how Shush’s first introduction was sniping Bruce LOL anyway, Bruce’s reaction is me 😭

one more Cizmesija appreciation panel - the lil running effects behind Damian :)

#rambling #CONTINUING CONSPIRACY THOUGHTS adding an anomaly like Zach to the soccer team would justify Damian joining them #otherwise he’d join and then he would find nothing but soccer if Stone really isn’t Shush #if im wrong then WHOOPS LOL i do find Ms. Hall's support for Damian sweet so i wouldnt mind tho Damian being wrong would suck asdfg #now that i think about it Damian going to college would be a neat development. let him study to be a veterinarian or artist or smth lol #the other action focused artist i would LOVE to see give Damian a fight scene is Daniele Di Nicuolo 😭#I EAT HIS ART UPPP #where Cizmesija is heavily shonen manga influenced Nicuolo is heavily shonen anime influenced esp like Trigger studio artists YUM

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thenewrises · 2 months

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a welcome home prattle from my mind

so I've been on the Welcome Home train since last year but I never delved into theories about the website. mostly I've just searched from the side, talked to friends who also enjoyed it, and watched videos on it such as Night Mind. but! with the recent updates, I have to say I have sooooo many thoughts and ideas about it. with horror being my favorite genre and loving when I have the ability to research a website full of secrets, it was only a matter of time before I dived in.

so! if you're interested, here are some thoughts I have about the update and maybe some interesting theories.

also! some of these ideas are thanks to the many theories I've read here on tumblr as well as watched when Night Mind released his vod. also including findings as well!

Welcome Home belongs to the lovely @partycoffin! if you are new to this site, please read the credits page where you can find warnings!

stick around and get comfy, this is a long one.

so there is no perfect order this will all go in, so I will label what I will discuss in bold and then go from there.

Voice Warps

something that we are not strangers to is many audio recordings and their voice warps. from the last update, anytime someone tried talking to or about Wally, their voice would contort and the tape would end. this time, we received more vocal content (shoutout to the VAs they are incredible) and there was one in particular that me and many others caught on. Wally is known not to know much about emotions or how to express them. from my knowledge after many hours perusing Clown's blog, Wally is somewhat of a blank slate. learning as the show moves.

in the audio recording "Homewarming Storybook Record", during the end of this tape in the last two or so minutes, Wally says that he's sad and doesn't know why.

starting at 18:16, after Barnaby explains why he may be sad, Wally gets... frustrated. upset. he says in a clearly perturbed voice "...how can that be?" the audio warps during this time, almost as if his entire environment around him changed just by his own emotions.

why is this? we know Wally is somewhat the center of this puppet universe, and the moment he expresses a negative emotion, it's almost like the worlds stability was tilted.

as long as he is his normal and happy self, the world seems fine and at peace. yet, the moment he expresses his despair, it's like a switch flipped. it's only when Barnaby explains what the meaning of Housewarming is, which reassures Wally, that he returns to his happy and now relieved self.

Frank and Julie (TW: Homophobia)

this will be a much more sensitive topic to discuss, and as someone who is LGBT+ myself, it is not always a fun thing to research. but, I think this plays a super important role in the overall story of Welcome Home and my theories for the future.

another new edit I discovered, as well as something I've learned reading on the site and listening to audios, is the push for Frank to play a straight role. of course, this is the 70s we're talking about. the Stonewall Riots had only just happened in 1969, and homosexuality was still noted as a mental disorder. when the DSM-I was released, homosexuality was labelled as a sociopathic disorder until 1974. the idea of an LGBT+ relationship in a children's show would be unheard of.

with us knowing Eddie and Frank are romantically involved, that makes this all the more heartbreaking to know. Frank playing off his feelings by calling Eddie "Mr. Dear." Frank playing all the straight male roles alongside Julie. Sally calling Julie and Frank's costumes "a couples costume."

I find this such an interesting thing to include because not only is it eerily accurate to the timeframe, it also makes me think.

these are puppets. fictional and unthinking puppets. costumes you could even say. a person who creates the so-called fictional world of Welcome Home can control the narrative however they please because these aren't real people! of course they can be whatever you want! so... why did they create this relationship for Eddie and Frank? could it be someone within the Playfellow studio wanted to bring more positive awareness to the topic? were the actors who voiced (in this fictional world) the characters romantically involved?

or... are these puppets alive? they have their own emotions, thoughts, opinions. we know Wally is a sentient being, I mean, he literally would talk to us through the website. he reaches out to us through links, videos, audios, and even phone calls. so, does that mean EVERYONE is sentient?

in the audio "Eddie's Big Lift Storybook Record", we even hear Frank say to Eddie, "you always did work so hard." so, did they know each other in a past life? is this representative of the real life in story (fictional) voice actors?

we'll discuss this more later.

Sally Knows Something Is Out There

this is not new, as this was from the Halloween update but I wanted to include it because I feel like it's a look into the horrors of the world.

in the audio "Happy Haunting to Boo and Yours! Storybook Record", the transcript down not catch this, but Sally goes on to explain that out in the night, something lurks and waits for prey. it crawls around at night, up walls, scratching and screeching. Sally made sure to mention to ask, "why don't we go out at night?"

with her being a star from the sky, I sometimes wonders if before coming to the neighborhood she had seen it. and if not that, she mentioned if you stay quiet and stick close to the windows you can hear it. it cannot enter homes, it eats bugs if it's starving. it seems to have eaten other "neighbors." what could "it" be? some kind of creature in the night? why is it hunting them down?

Away From Prying Eyes

from all the symbols scattered on the website and with the help of the decoder in the Merchandise tab, we end up unscrambling an address.

we discover the website https://www.awayfrompryingeyes.net/ . in this site, we get to peruse "W" and their findings. now I think I can speak for a lot of people that my initial reaction was this was Wally. of course, this was dismissed rather swiftly after realizing that 1. this person was contacted by Wally and 2. they work for the project.

one thing that caught my eye quickly was the fact that the curator of the initial website became "unwell" and no one knew why. they claimed they did not know what caused them to be so unwell, or why they "created that page."

my guess is they mean the new (or in general) Welcome Home website. the curator created the new one because of Wally's interaction with it. they are trying to keep him silent, push away any suspicion. just who might this curator be?

W explains how they became Paranoid (with a capital P) once they discovered the collection of crude drawings, texts, and videos. seems to show that they are understanding that this has gone from a simple project to a unnatural phenomena.

the phone call from Wally is him talking to You (the collective You he knows) and he seems to express loneliness. "everyone is so busy during Homewarming", and he explains how quiet it is. I think he finds You to be a way to not feel so alone, as he seems to be the only sentient puppet of the crew.

well... he used to be the only one.

Commercials For Cigarettes and Pills

in the commercials, we get an array of holiday-themed music and advertisements. of course, we'll talk about the Eddie snippets, but I found a lot of disturbance with some of these. Welcome Home is a children's show, and many of the advertisements reflect that! products like cereal, music, Wally Ball and Cup, and Mama Beagle's Barnyard Eggnog. and then it gets... odd.

adults of course can enjoy this show, but it targets a young demographic. we get a commercial for Hooplah, a cigarette brand. then a commercial for Remderem, a sleeping pill.

now, this is the 70s, so maybe this could be a poor judgement marketing goal. I would not be surprised if it was a ploy for more money, but I still just find it so interesting that a children's show would advertise these. even in the merchandise tab of the project website, there's a fake pipe that blows bubbles. it all feels highly inappropriate for a child to intake this kind of material.

well, who said Playfellow was a moral brand?

Eddie Becomes Fully Sentient

we watch in real time the moment that Eddie realizes who he is.

during the commercials video, we find Eddie Dear preparing for the holidays. he starts off with a conversation with Poppy, which moved into her saying he works too much. throughout the video, we have snippets of real-life felt puppet Eddie decorating a tree, wrapping gifts, and at one point he plays multiple solo rounds of Tik-Tac-Toe.

he is wondering why no one has come to him about delivering gifts. why has no one visited him? he gets so distressed that he even slams his felt hands on the table. why has no one come to see him?

Sally resolves this by saying they did it to give him a break (which is interesting to me seeing as she tends to not give him the time of day), and she brings him to the Homewarming party. so he's surrounded by the neighbors, and in a big chair (Wally's chair, in fact) with a single pea on a plate.

and then things get weird.

Eddie starts sweating, derealization sets in. he's shown alone, single pea on a plate in hand. Home is staring back at him, and a heartbeat can be heard along with Eddie's staggered breathing. is that Eddie's heart or... Home's?

everyone's voices are disappearing in the background, Eddie is in a panic. and then things get even weirder.

Eddie looks at his arms, and they're made of felt. he taps his fingers on the arm of chair, then grips it in fear.

then the frame switches, Sally brought Frank over (was she worried about him?) to let him know that yes, she watched Eddie in the Post Office all day. Eddie is looking at his hands and legs, which are no longer felt but illustrated again. Frank calls out for him, even by his first name, and Eddie didn't even know where he was. but finally just wanted to go home.

this was the moment, that I believe Eddie discovered that he was a puppet. and he was being watched.

I find the single pea on a plate so interesting as this is the description:

"take care not to place them too close together"

why is Eddie being singled out? he was left out of many advertisements during this update, thought everyone forgot about him, and was even left out of the Homewarming story with Wally and Barnaby. they had stated they met every neighbor, but why not Eddie?

Will Eddie Be Removed?

unfortunate news seeing as he is my favorite character in the entire story (Wally and Sally a close second). I adore him, and I want nothing more than for him to remain. but I have a bad feeling he may be our first victim. he's being isolated, becoming paranoid, showing emotions that may not be seen as "neighborly."

I don't think it's any coincidence that this was an early drawing we received:

I believe Playfellow is removing Eddie, or attempting to. but for what reason? because of him and Frank? because he's not needed? that's what I'm hoping to learn more about in the next updates. because let's be frank (ha, get it?), it's not looking good for our favorite country mailman.

Ghost Thoughts and Theories

now it's time for me to ramble and yap your ear off because WOW this update was my favorite by far. I think this will happen every update honestly, but I thought it would be hard to beat the last update. this was incredible, from the animation, to the voice acting, to the crafts it was all wonderfully well done. I want every characters special item from the Homewarming wishlist!.

but now, what do I think could be happening? I have two very shaky ideas. I say shaky because these could be proven wrong easily, but if one or both is not then I can continue to build on it.

1. These friendly fellas reflect reality

so one thing I thought of is that maybe they are somehow reflecting reality. I mentioned before that maybe Eddie and Frank are their fictional voice actors (not the actual ones here in our reality!) who may be in a secret relationship. could those actors reflect their characters? are they getting rid of Eddie to represent them being torn apart?

but, this is a very meh theory. reason being that we have seen these puppets are capable of sentience. they may have their own souls, thoughts, and feeling that don't reflect a real life alive person from the 70s. but, wouldn't that be interesting?

2. Eddie's sentience was real, and his soul is about to be ripped away

there's an ongoing theory I've always juggled with in my head, the idea that these puppets have souls and a conscience. I'm genuinely led to believe this because of Wally himself. he has connected with us directly from his world. some kind of alternate reality away from hours. haunting that show.

would that mean the puppets were all real and alive people at one point? or are they completely new people all together? whatever the case, they are alive but not all of them may be aware they are in a show.

well, now Eddie is and he's in trouble.

although we aren't sure if Home truly is the villain in the story, we know that Home knows Eddie has "woken up." and he does not seem happy about it. if these puppets are alive, I fear that Eddie may be erased if he can't keep quiet. taken from the narrative for not playing his part. all he had to do was be the happy and clumsy mailman, but he had to go fall for Frank. he went and started to get frustrated and negative. he's never supposed to be the angry type, he's off script.

disfunctional.

so what's next for him?

if you made it to the end, I'm glad I could keep you around! I think this update really gets the brain gears going, lots of questions we'll get answered in the future. this story is getting better by the day, and I'm thrilled to see everything that happens in the future. and I'll get to write more posts like this!

I found everything so endearing as I do every episode, and this will be a groovy ride.

#2.5k words is crazy for a text post about a silly puppet show...#my little wally plush on my shelf smiling like Everything Is Fine #i also love that julie has lil toe beans #anyways eddie protectors stand up we gotta get him outta there #how dare the 70s be not gay friendly i will be outside your house in approximately two minutes playfellow #welcome home #welcome home arg #welcome home theory #wally darling #eddie dear #frank frankly #julie joyful #barnaby b beagle #poppy partridge #sally starlet #howdy pillar #partycoffin

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local-lesbrarian · 11 months

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Yesterday, the board of trustees for the library I work at voted unanimously against banning This Book Is Gay by Juno Dawson! This was a huge relief for me (and my fellow staff), and I just wanted to share a few takeaways from this experience.

For context, a library patron had submitted a formal request to have the book removed after seeing it displayed alongside other recent additions to our YA section. He took issue with, of course, the chapter on sex ed and provided pages of out-of-context quotes and straight-up lies to make the book appear "dangerous." Lots of the homophobia and puritanism you'd expect. Per our policies, we formed a committee to address his request, and the committee decided the book was fine where it was. Again per policy, he had the option to appeal to the board of trustees, which he took.

We found out he was doing this 5 days before the next board meeting. And even with that short warning, we had over 150 people show up to a small-town library board meeting that often has few or no public attendees! We couldn't fit everyone in our biggest room! Look at us all!!

Public comments are limited to 3 minutes or less, and that still lasted for more than an hour. People spoke who were parents, teachers, nurses, therapists, voting activists, workers at other libraries, and of course, many queer people. They talked about censorship, freedom of expression, freedom to read, the positive impacts of this book and books like it on youth, their own experiences as queer kids and teens or parents or such, and more--too many perspectives to list here. Every single speaker opposed the book ban. Every. One.

The patron who initiated this challenge was present, but left before public comment was over, without speaking.

So, those takeaways:

This is further evidence that campaigns of censorship and queer erasure are perpetuated by individuals and small groups, and don't represent the common view. You can check out stats on ala.org to back this up, but most people, including most parents, oppose book bans.

This turnout was gathered mainly through texts, email, chats (like Discord), phone calls, and word of mouth. Every town and city has people willing to fight and support those fighting the tides of fascism--keep in touch with your community and your allies, your local friends and trusted acquaintances, and when the time comes for action, they will show up.

Pushback, especially public, visible pushback, demoralizes bad actors. These are often people with little to do except organize and promote their hatred, often people with few material problems demanding their attention. (In this case, a retired eye doctor.) Give them a fight, and they often back down. If they don't back down, see #2 and beat them with numbers and passion.

Even after a victory, stay alert. We're prepping for litigation (not that we think he has a case, but he does have a reputation). We're also keeping a close eye on the smaller libraries in nearby towns and townships. Even if someone like this backs down once, they might try their luck somewhere easier. Keep those contact networks from #2 ready to go.

None of this is comprehensive, and your particular situation may well require different tactics. I'm not an expert, just a chronically online trans woman and librarian who's gotten unexpectedly attached to her current town. It was incredibly heartwarming to see so many people stand up for queer teens where I live, when it usually feels like nobody cares about what's happening to queers in the States. This post has already gone on longer than I expected, I'm just still quite emotional and wanted to talk about it. (Also still mentally drained from the past few days of stress...)

Huge shoutout to everyone who helped make this community action happen. Many of them were more eloquent or piercing in their comments, but here's my 3-minute spiel. It was delivered with none of the eye contact or dramatic reading I'd rehearsed because, holy shit, there were a lot of people there!

#public libraries #censorship #community action #my words #this book is gay

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randomfoggytiger · 6 months

Text

A Compilation of Fic!Mulder Being Described as a Puppy

Although I am not a "Mulder is a puppy" subscriber, I made this compilation to honor the days, weeks, and months of fanfic reading where-- out of curiosity-- I started copy-pasting every mention or comparison I ran across.

This is nowhere NEAR all of them... but it was almost 17 pages long, so it had to be shared.

All intended in good fun and non-judgment. ;)))

(Shoutout to all the various fics and authors I pulled these from~):

Mulder standing there with the most pitiful-looking puppy eyes

The sad puppy eyes he gives always makes her cave.

Mulder, like a lost puppy, offers his swollen wrist.

Mulder looks like a puppy, except Skinner feels like kicking him.

He leaves every night only to return again the next day. Like a stray puppy.

Mulder is the most agreeable puppy known to mankind.

His puppy-dog eyes don’t even look like his puppy-dog eyes anymore.

Mulder’s head shoots up and he looks around, confused and lost like a puppy.

His sad puppy eyes get me every time.

He puts on his puppy-dog eyes

Those puppy eyes were pleading with her-

Mulder made a sound like an overjoyed puppy.

His forlorn puppy dog expression somehow made him even more adorable.

…pretending not to notice the slightly wounded, kicked puppy look on his face.

Awkward like a half-grown puppy.

The door opens to reveal Mulder staring at the floor in puppy-who-peed-on-the-rug shame

she approaches the ashamed puppy gently

“But Scully,” he whines with those puppy eyes of his

Here’s another night without the little one with the puppy-dog eyes,

…begs her with his best pout and what he hopes are his best puppy eyes.

“He’s very eager,” Melissa snickered when Mulder excused himself to go to the bathroom. “Like a puppy.”

Mulder, like a kicked puppy, wants approval.

He’s like a puppy she needs to keep an eye on.

“How?” He asks, interrupting her like a puppy.

She shudders and Mulder stares at her like a lost kicked-at puppy.

Mulder follows her, excited like a puppy

She couldn’t do it when Mulder stared at her like a puppy

Waiting for her to return, like a dog.

She adds another thing to her ever-expanding list of Mulderisms: he is like a dog with a bone

He’s searching her face, worried puppy dog eyes and all.

He looks like a dog with a bone and she stops herself from saying more.

Mulder, like a dutiful puppy, follows

He’s wearing that puppy dog face she hates to see.

He hasn’t been around people for so long that he’s like a puppy, just dancing and jumping around everyone who gives him attention, wanting to make new friends.

He reminds her of a puppy who hasn’t been entertained enough.

Mulder manages to relax; just like a puppy trying to do right by its owner. Scully fears that, just like with a puppy, it won’t last.

“She wants Mommy.” Mulder’s giving her the puppy-dog eyes

When Mulder emerges he has the look of a drown puppy

She can see his puppy face

My Mulder is amazing, and sensitive, and sometimes it’s a bit like owning a happy-go-lucky dog

practically bounding over to her with the essence of a golden retriever.

The hurt on his face was clear, his eyes like a kicked puppy.

She feels like she’s been kicking a puppy in the same tender spots for months and months.

He looked at her with his best puppy dog eyes.

There wasn't a woman alive who could resist the Mulder Puppy Dog Pout.

He looks down and gives her his best puppy expression

with his tail tucked between his legs

Mulder says to his wife while turning on his puppy-dog eyes to full blast

“Are you saying you don’t want to have dinner with me?” He looks at her with puppy-dog eyes

He then looks at her with his pleading, puppy-dog eyes

his puppy-dog eyes to full blast

Mulder gave her an expression that mimicked a confused puppy

Mulder gave me his silent puppy-dog expression

I follow her like an obedient puppy dog

asking if something is okay while also having the look of a guilty puppy

Mulder had been looking at Scully with those sad, hazel eyes like a little boy about to ask for a puppy (THIS COUNTS, OKAY???)

petting and combing through his hair like a beloved dog

He feels like a Labrador retriever

Mulder is shivering like a whipped puppy

The saddest puppy eyes she’s ever seen can’t make contact with her own.

The sad puppy eyes he gives always makes her cave.

She uses her best eyebrow arch to combat his puppy-dog eyes.

Mulder arrives at her desk with the tentative gait of a puppy that has done a bad thing

the familiar puppy dog expression etched in his features

Mulder’s puppy dog eyes

his puppy dog eyes were getting to her

His puppy dog stare working at its best.

he’s looking at her like that puppy again

Mulder follows her like a puppy, telling her this and that

Mulder jumped up like an excited puppy

when Mulder stared at her like a puppy,

“He’s very eager,” Melissa snickered when Mulder excused himself to go to the bathroom. “Like a puppy.”

Mulder follows her, excited like a puppy

he’s just stared at like a dog

His puppy eyes pin her down.

Mulder, with his puppy dog eyes, quashed beliefs,

He nods while turning up the puppy-dog eyes.

kicked-puppy look

eyes unguarded with that puppy dog smile on his lips

He pouts at her, puppy eyes and all

He shrugged, giving her his best puppy dog eyes.

"Aw, come on, Scully" Mulder has his best puppy dog face on

Mulder’s own puppy eyes were the hardest to ignore

Mulder shakes his head to clear it, like a dog

A kicked dog who always came back for more

Like a dog with a bone, she thought.

his lower lip pouting out with the puppy dog eyes

he teased with his puppy dog eyes

And now he was looking at her with that stupid puppyish expression

He offered her his most mulderish puppy expression.

his wet clothes on and his kicked-puppy eyes.

He even had the same pouty puppy look

“Can I have another one?” He asks with his puppy-dog eyes.

Was he all limbs and awkward like a Labrador puppy that doesn’t know how to control his paws?

your sad puppy-like hazel eyes

“I’m not a dog, Scully,” he says

He gives a contented sigh, not unlike a puppy

“maybe you’re like a puppy. You need a good swat every now and then “

Mulder stood

behind with his best puppy dog face

threw her the puppy dog eyes at the end of the workday

Mulder's like a dog with a bone when he wants something.

let me see confused-drowned-rat-puppy Mulder (not fanfic but it counts)

a German Shepherd puppy

She laughs at him and his wounded puppy-look

Mulder had followed her out of the basement office like a big lost puppy.

He was giving her the puppy dog eyes

She can see his puppy face.

Scully definitely thought his resemblance to a puppy was practically uncanny.

now as sunny as a golden retriever

Sending him into puppy dog mode

to Scully he resembles a puppy waiting for a treat

giving her puppy dog eyes and a smug grin.

“Drop the puppy face Mulder and pass me the bread.”

“Who are you calling a puppy?”

the puppy dog eyes

he gave her that wounded, puppy look.

He gives her the puppy-dog eyes

shame to go with the puppydog eyes

he looked like a puppy

Mulder suddenly pulled his puppy-dog look

that stupid puppyish expression of sheepishness

his kicked-puppy eyes.

He was eyeing her with his puppy expression

His puppy-dog eyes don’t even look like his puppy-dog eyes anymore.

shot her a pathetic puppy dog face

e was the puppy that didn’t learn not to chew her shoes.

He fixes her with those --- puppy eyes

sometimes hazel, sometimes green, puppy dog eyes

Mulder stares at him with those regretful labrador eyes.

Mulder crunched on another sunflower seed, then shot her a pathetic puppy dog face.

she can never say no to his puppy eyes

his big puppy dog eyes are enough to get her to concede

then he shakes like a dog

“I can feel your stupid puppy dog eyes from over here, Mulder.”

He’s next to her, shaking out his soaked hair like the world’s largest puppy.

“You’re doing that thing with your face…that kicked puppy thing.”

“Kicked puppy thing? Scully you’re delusional.”

A kicked dog who always came back for more, expecting a different outcome.

So far, he employs the puppy-dog eyes and the pouty lips, but not the boyish smile.

He was now tailing her like a lost puppy

tapping against the small of her back like a puppy wanting attention.

Scully felt liked she’d kicked a puppy

maintain an air of indifference in the face of Mulder’s puppy-like enthusiasm.

he opened his other eye and gave her his best puppy-dog expression.

“The puppy eyes aren’t doing it for me….”

Mulder gave her his signature puppy dog look of despair,

she wasn't even getting the usual puppydog whine of "do I have to?"

"Is that what the hang dog expression is supposed to convey?"

was to make the kicked puppy-dog face

Scully shook her hear at his puppy dog pout

he gave her the wounded puppy dog look

He gave her the most exaggerated puppy dog

The puppy dog look wasn't going to work this time.

looking at her with identical puppy-dog eyes.

she couldn't resist his puppy-dog look.

He looked at her with his sad, hound-dog eyes,

Considering I looked like a drowned puppy,

Mulder appeared lately like a dog chasing its own tail

Mulder returned, looking like a whipped dog.

He tilted his head like a dog trying to make sense of its owner's language.

Mulder cocked his head like a dog listening for squirrels.

Scully tried to imagine young Mulder, with long limbs and big paws like a puppy,

puppy dog eyes, Mulder.

He could be like a yappy terrier dog with a favorite toy sometimes.

Mulder *loved* playing "sick puppy" around Scully

Hangdog expression in full effect and everything.

Mulder stood, his suit rumpled and limp, wearing a hangdog expression

his patented puppy-dog face.

He looks wounded, a puppy kicked and left on the side of the road.

Like a sad little lost puppy, he nods

He followed her like a puppy

bashful puppy expression crossing his face.

like a excited puppy getting his footing all mixed up on the slippery kitchen floor

she throws popcorn at him and he tries to catch it like a dog.

By looking at his sad puppy eyes

he seemed like a sad dog in the rain

rubbing his head against her, like a dog.

But his puppy dog eyes were getting to her

he pouted with his best kicked-puppy look

You're a sick puppy, Mulde

With Mulder nipping at my heels like a less tan well-behaved puppy

Howling at the moon like a discontented wolf up.

his puppy dog eyes turned up to eleven

You were watching me, with those hazel puppy-eyes of yours.

The hung dog look on his face

looking at her like a puppy looks at it's owner,

his eyes, as they put on their best `puppy dog' look

made her feel like she was kicking a puppy

Mulder gave me the puppy dog look

He wore his hangdog expression, his eyes glancing away

like some stray dog.

lost puppy like quality about him

He was like a lost puppy following her.

he got this lost puppy dog look

I tried the puppy dog look.

he looked like a whipped puppy.

eyes crumpled in their standard puppy-dog-pleading expression

Looks like a starved puppy

'I sound like a lap dog' he thought

his irresistible puppy dog eyes

She surveys his drowned puppy appearance.

Like a sad little lost puppy, he nods

he unleashed the puppy-dog eyes on her.

that mock-up of his usual whipped puppy look.

puppy-dog eyes of his

And no puppy dog looks, either

The puppy dog look.

with those big puppy eyes she could hardly resist.

his puppy eyes directed at her

Like a dog with a bone,

that strange, puppy dog expression

He pulls out a puppy dog look

puppy-dog eyes and acting like

rabid wolves and injured puppies

He had those big puppy eyes

meek puppy expression

waiting like an obedient puppy to be allowed back inside the house.

resisting those puppy-dog eyes.

like a lovesick puppy

like she’s trying to calm a wounded dog.

all puppy dog eyes and extra wrinkles

It makes me think of a puppy

I had patted his inner puppy

morph Mulder into my neighbor's beagle puppy

as an inquisitive puppy.

Mulder trailing behind her like a lost puppy.

for his puppy dog face

lip pouting out with the puppy dog eyes

he teased with his puppy dog eyes

his saddest puppy dog eyes

Mulder *loved* playing "sick puppy" around Scully

downcast in apologetic puppy dog fashion

in boyish puppy love

my big green puppy-dog eyes

puppy eyes always

with those puppy eyes

puppy eyes and

the puppy not wanting to be left behind

Mulder's head tilts like the puzzled puppy

Mulder made a sad puppy dog face at me.

Mulder gave me puppy dog eyes

I can work the injured puppy dog angle

giving her the puppy dog eyes

making puppy eyes at the local law

an image of them, his puppy eyes

The puppy eyes.

telling her very errant dog to "heel,"

His lost puppy gaze tore at Scully’s heart.

Mulder has his best puppy dog face on

Mulder who follows her like a lost puppy

somewhat like a lost puppy

He was like a puppy sometimes, her partner.

his wounded puppy expression

building like a stray dog

gave her my puppy face

Mulder following after Phoebe like a lost puppy

Mulder gave her puppy dog eyes

he looks at her with those puppy eyes

he flashed his puppy dog eyes in return

His forlorn puppy dog expression

giving her that puppy look

the slightly wounded, kicked puppy look on his face

puppy-who-peed-on-the-rug shame,

she approaches the ashamed puppy gently

you act like a kicked puppy dog

gifts her his best puppy dog look.

A patented puppy-dog look that melts

puppy-dog face so well with grays at his temple.

out of the car like a puppy with a new toy.

when coupled with the puppy dog look.

He turned his best puppy dog look

Big droopy puppy dog eyes.

scruffy hair and puppy dog eyes

he followed her like a lost puppy

His puppy-dog eyes and disheveled appearance

she wouldn’t be persuaded by his pouty lip or puppy-dog eyes.

Deep down, he would always be the helpless puppy begging for love and…

The man replies giving his best puppy dog face.

When he gives her his puppy dog eyes

Giving her his best puppy dog stare

he gave her his puppy eye look in return

Mulder deadpans and tries to give his best puppy dog look.

with a disgustingly cute puppy dog look

tangling himself like a puppy not quite grown into his paws

your adorable puppy—partner—lowers his gaze

Not unlike a large dog, he continues to shuffle

"And no Mulder, your innocent puppy look will not get you

Mulder asked with his puppy look directed at her.

"You'd give me that puppy-dog face and pretend

I'm-a-lost-puppy-won't-you-give-me-a-home voice.

his wide, puppy dog eyes and was horrified to see

his best puppy dog eyes, a signal of peace

puppy eyes and all, tragically licking

With Mulder nipping at my heels like a less than well-behaved puppy

With those big puppy eyes, that pouty mouth and mussed hair

Just like a beaten spaniel.

displaying the hurt puppy-dog look he did so well.

gave her his best wounded puppy look.

face took on that puppy-dog look

Mulder suddenly remembered his greatest weapon, and he unleashed it, favoring Scully with his Puppy-dog face.

ever the actor, immediately slipped into his puppy-dog look

Mulder turned out the bathroom light and smiled at her again, looking lost and puppy like.

She'd seen that puppy dog look a thousand times

He looks like a sad puppy.

…he looks like a sad puppy she just kicked.

"Oh, don't give me the wounded puppy routine.

Mulder felt like he'd just pistol-whipped a puppy. "I thought I was."

today he had been so puppy-like

Mulder’s eyes and his puppy dog’s face

Snagged, just like a pup snatched up by the dog catcher

Cornered. Like a dog,

I ask with my best puppy dog look.

my best sad-doggy expression

He gives her his own puppy expression

his best puppy dogs eyes

his standard puppy dog eyes.

sad puppy eyes and pouty lips.

Engaging the puppy-eyes, Mulder resorts

That lost-puppy look you always use

sitting in a corner, shivering like a little puppy?

mournful, whipped puppy look on his face.

His best puppy face was ruined

like a bad, bad puppy caught tearing up the flower bed

the pouty lips and puppy dog eyes

Puppy-dog look.

puppy-dog expression on her

"puppy dog eyes" on his partner

an obedient puppy dog

frowned, puppydog eyes staring

petulant puppy face firmly in place

equivalent of puppy dog eyes.

looked at her with puppy eyes.

that lopsided puppy dog grin

Again, his face wore the puppy dog expression.

Mulder nods solemnly, giving her his best puppy eyes.

when he was smiling with his puppy eyes.

his best puppy dog eyes

giving her the most puppy dog eyes

Like a disciplined puppy

her partner's puppyish exuberance.

rings with a touch of kicked puppy.

She wants to resist his puppy-dog eyes

he moaned, pulling his hurt puppy dog expression.

He gave her his best wounded puppy dog look.

Not gazing as Holman said, because he knew he did not do that like some lovesick puppy

He turned his head like a lost puppy and observed her.

Thank you for reading~

Enjoy!

#txf #xf fanfic #xf fic #fic #Mulder #A Compilation of Fic!Mulder Being Described as a Puppy #xfiles #x-files #the x files

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wheresarizona · 2 years

Text

Learning to Live Part 6

summary: You have a few more hours left before Javi needs to go home, your wonderful date coming to an end. How will you spend the time?

pairing: Javier Peña/f!reader

rating: E (18+!! Javi POV smut, unprotected P in V (wrap it up), creampie, vaginal fingering, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, praise, Javi coming really hard and needing a little more time than usual to recover, feelings, soft moments, domestic fluff.)

word count: 6k+

A/N: Hi! This is a continuation of the last chapter. Thank you so much for all of the support and love for this story, it makes me so happy! I almost have the next chapter done and I have the rest of the fic outlined, so definitely more to come. If you’d liked to be tagged, my taglist form is in my page bio or feel free to comment. As always, this is dedicated to @juletheghoul, my inspiration and rock. Shoutout to my beta @invisibleismyname who is literally amazing and the literal best.

Comments and reblogs always appreciated! I love hearing what you thought. 🥰🥰🥰

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Javier wasn’t surprised when her breathing evened out, and her body went utterly lax against him, succumbing to sleep. He knew it was probably going to happen at some point in the night—he’d read once it had something to do with the hormones released in the body when a person comes; they can make you drowsy.

He’d also had this happen before.

Many times.

Except the women never fell asleep on him like this, so this was new and welcome.

The television screen was blue from the VHS player, not receiving a signal from the tape that had run out a while ago. It illuminated the room in a soft glow, the only other light coming from the doorway to the kitchen.

There were sounds of the occasional car outside, and the neighbors walking around upstairs.

The windows were dark, and he knew it had to be late, eyes glancing at the clock on the wall and seeing it was a little after ten. He mentally calculated how late he could stay, before his mind said fuck it, and he’d just be tired when he went to work tomorrow—getting to spend some more time with Cielito was worth a couple of extra cups of coffee.

He also didn’t know if she’d want to spend time with him the next day. They’d planned to go to the farmer’s market on Saturday, but that was the day after next, and he wanted to see her before then.

He sighed.

He’d just spend as much time here tonight as she allowed.

He kissed the top of her head.

If she was resting, he should probably get some shut-eye too. He hugged her against him and closed his eyes, letting sleep take him away.

He woke when Cielito moved, getting off of him while whispering sorry, and he opened his eyes to see her walking through her bedroom door, probably heading to the bathroom.

He scrubbed his hand over his face and sat up on the couch, his feet flat on the floor. His eyes glanced at the clock, seeing an hour had passed, and the TV was still on. He leaned forward to get the remote, pressing the power button to shut it off, setting it back down, and grabbing his water, finishing the half-full glass in a few satisfying gulps.

He eyed their dinner mess and frowned. He didn’t want Cielito to worry about it, so without a second thought, he got up, pulled on his jeans, and gathered the dirty dishes, moving to the kitchen and putting them in the sink, and doing the same with the pans and other kitchenware they’d used to make the food.

He was contemplating doing the dishes when he heard her voice.

“Javi?” She called from the living room.

It was the way she said his name that made him think something was wrong, and he briskly moved to the kitchen doorway, finding her standing just outside her bedroom, looking upset.

Her expression shifted to relief when their eyes met, both moving towards each other.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, lightly grasping her arms when she was within reach.

She looked away, and his brows furrowed.

“I thought you’d left without saying goodbye,” she said softly.

His heart stuttered. He felt terrible for worrying her, but knowing it would upset her if he left—that she didn’t want him to leave—had warmth flooding his veins and made him happy.

Maybe she would want to see him tomorrow.

He tried not to smile.

“In just my jeans?” He asked. “Without my shirt? Or jacket?” He pointed at the leather on the floor in the entryway.

She looked at him.

“There wasn’t a lot of thought before I jumped to conclusions,” she said, crossing her arms.

“Mrs. Hernandez is probably already scandalized by the noises we’ve made. I don’t know if she could handle seeing a half-naked man, too,” he said with a smirk.

Her eyes widened.

“Oh, god! The noises. Javi, you made me scream your name!”

His chest puffed up a little, nodding.

“Yeah. Repeatedly.”

“Don’t be smug about it! We’ve probably traumatized an old woman.”

“Isn’t that what the, uh, apology pie is for?” He asked.

“A thousand apology pies would not be enough for the raunchy porn sounds.”

“They weren’t raunchy,” he said a little defensively, frowning.

He loved the noises he could pull from her; they drove him wild.

Her eyes narrowed.

“You dislike ‘raunchy’ but admit they were porn sounds?”

He thought about it for a second.

“I could get off from listening to us fuck,” he said truthfully. “So, by definition….”

“You’re ridiculous,” she said, exasperated.

“You have two choices,” he said.

“What are you talking about?”

“You have two choices for where we fuck.”

“I have two choices?” She asked, looking dubious.

“Yes. Here in your apartment where there’s the possibility your elderly neighbor overhears us or,” he let out a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “My place. In the room I grew up in at my dad’s house.”

Her eyes widened.

“You wouldn’t,” she gasped.

The horror on her face made him smile, his hands moving to cup her cheeks.

“I would. I would fuck you anywhere.” He moved in to kiss her. “You underestimate the power your pussy has over me,” he said. “The power you have over me.”

“God,” she breathed, eyes closing for a moment. She looked back at him. “You really would. The last part was sweet,” she said, leaning up to peck him on the lips before letting out a long sigh. “My place it is. I will have to do a lot of grocery shopping for the amount of apology baked goods I’m going to be making.”

“I can help?” He offered.

She laughed, nodding.

“You can help.”

He smiled, leaning in to kiss her again.

She was standing in front of him in nothing but his shirt, and he couldn’t help himself when his hand moved down her back and under it, grabbing a handful of her naked ass and making her gasp against his mouth. He took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, and she welcomed it, her arms wrapping around his neck as he pulled her closer.

Their breaths were ragged when they came up for air, his lips moving to her chin.

“I’m sorry I worried you,” he said between kisses.

“I’m glad you stayed,” she gasped when he sucked just below her jaw. Her hands were in his hair, and she tugged, sending a tingle down his spine, making him groan against her skin, as she pulled his face back up to hers to kiss him. “When do you need to leave?” She murmured against his lips.

He kissed her hard, her moan vibrating into his mouth. “A couple of hours,” he finally answered.

“It’s not enough,” she whined against his mouth. His lips moved against hers, his hands touching her body, moving further underneath her shirt to touch more of her skin, trying to get her mind off of the fact that at some point, he had to go.

He knew she was still thinking about it, just like he was, the ticking clock counting down when they would have to say goodbye and be parted until their next planned date. It makes them both desperate and needy, wanting to savor the couple of hours they had left before they were without each other for more than a day, which seemed like an eternity to them.

He was half-hard in his jeans, the moans and gasps she was making shooting straight to his dick, and when she tugged his bottom lip between her teeth, he felt the groan rumble out of his chest as the need stirred rapidly in his belly.

He could feel her, smell her, taste her, and he wants her—no, needs her so fucking bad.

She must have felt the same way as her lips came off of his to speak.

“Please, Javi,” she begged.

He looked at her, seeing his same need in the pools of her eyes, and it took everything in his power not to fuck her on the floor.

“Tell me what you want,” his voice was like gravel coming out of his throat, low and rough. Needing her to put into words what she wanted—to tell him what she needed—and he’d do it, anything.

“I want you inside me.”

He’s fully hard in an instant, and he’s crashing his mouth against hers, desperately kissing her, with his hands on her body helping guide her, as he walked them towards the couch.

He had to separate from her for a moment to push his jeans off his body, his foot getting stuck in a leg.

“Fuck,” he growled as he bent down to pull it the rest of the way off.

He stood up straight, his cock hard and heavy between his legs, aching with need as it jutted from his hips.

His eyes moved over her body, taking in the way his shirt fit on her, the gaps where he could see skin, his fingers itching to touch, and he knew she was bare underneath it, making his cock twitch.

When his eyes landed on hers, she was staring straight at his dick, and he thought she might be drooling, which made pride swell in him, and his cock get harder.

Her look had him fucking eager to be inside her—to feel her wet heat engulf him, and he quickly moved to sit on the couch, tugging her into his lap, making her gasp in surprise. His hands maneuvered her body with ease to have her straddling his thighs in seconds, feeling the heat between her legs against the hard line of his cock.

His eyes were on her face as he pressed a palm to her cheek, beckoning her closer, wanting to feel her mouth on his, and she didn’t make him wait for a second longer—she was closing the distance, slanting her mouth against his and tangling her fingers in his hair. He groaned when she deepened the kiss, relishing in her taste—peppermint, cherry chapstick, her.

He was having difficulty thinking with her tongue down his throat and her body so close, but he knew she was sore, and he didn’t want to make it worse or cause her any more discomfort.

He detached his lips from hers, making her whine as she looked at him.

“Cielito, baby, are you sure you want my dick?”

She nodded quickly.

“Yes.”

“I’ll have to loosen you up with my fingers. Can I do that? Can I make you come with my hand?”

“Please.”

“Okay. I got you.”

He pulled her back against his mouth, kissing her as his hand snaked between their bodies and under the shirt. His fingers were met with her warm wetness, finding her dripping, the insides of her thighs coated in her slick. His cock throbbed.

“Fuck, baby,” Javi groaned against her mouth as he rubbed two fingers through her slit. “Is this for me?” He asked.

She moaned yes, and he couldn’t believe she was so wet already. His fingers teased her entrance, making her moan again, before moving up to circle her clit, her jaw going slack.

He pulled his face back to look at her in his lap, marveling at how responsive she was, and how fucking beautiful she looked with her lips parted and eyes closed as she welcomed the pleasure.

He knew he could drag it out, tease her, bring her to the edge over and over again, but he was fucking desperate to be inside her, and he knew she was just as desperate for him.

He moved his fingers through her folds again, stroking the edges, watching her gasp each time he got close to her opening and clit, and whine when he moved away.

The moment her eyebrows furrowed enough that there was that cute little crease between them, that was when he knew she was ready. He gently pushed in one finger, her walls almost sucking him in as she moaned loudly. Then it was another, and finally, his thumb on her clit.

She was moaning and gasping when he started pumping his fingers and circling his thumb, getting a good rhythm and listening to her sounds. He could see her nipples were hard through the shirt, her fingers pulling at his hair, arousal seeping around his digits, and he was so fucking hard it hurt.

He crooked his fingers against the spot he knew would make her toes curl, and smiled to himself when her walls clenched around him, and she moaned out his name.

Fuck, if that wasn’t his favorite sound. He loved it anytime she said his name, but when it was in that breathy moan? When he was making her feel so good, all she could say was his name? It made him feel so fucking good.

He knew she was almost there—her moans were louder, breathing heavier, and he could hear the wet suck of his fingers as her pussy fluttered—he leaned forward and sucked her nipple through the shirt material, and that was it, her body stiffened as she cried out his name, soaking his fingers. He groaned around her nub as his cock twitched, feeling like a jolt of adrenaline hit his system.

He released her nipple.

“That’s my good girl,” he rasped.

His fingers kept working her through her high, waiting for the spasming to stop, and he used his free hand to pull her head into him so he could kiss her, needing her mouth on his. She languidly kissed him back, and he was amazed by how soft her lips were, loving how they felt against his own.

He finally removed his fingers, hand moving to grip her ass, and the kissing heated up, Cielito giving as good as she got, sliding her tongue against his and making him groan.

She started grinding her pussy against him, and he thought he might explode.

“Do you want it?” He asked, and his voice came out strained.

“Yes,” she answered and immediately lifted her hips, grasped his dick, and pressed her wet cunt against him, the tip of him nudging against her entrance.

His hand tightened on her ass as he gasped, hips bucking.

And then she was sinking down, and a guttural groan clawed its way from his throat, every thought leaving his head, his brain only focusing on the woman on top of him. Three words chanting in his mind: wet, warm, tight.

He was fucking lost.

She was so wet, sliding down him easily. And the warmth? He felt like it was moving through his body and surrounding him—consuming him, and he thought his dick was made for her, the way it fit so snug.

He had to take a steadying breath when she bottomed out.

He was at her mercy, and he thought he might be in heaven when he watched her lift her hips almost all the way off, using his shoulders for purchase before she was moving down, taking him to the hilt.

His hands were on her ass, gripping tightly as she moved at her own pace.

Feelings were washing over him, everything that occurred that night coming back to him, and he was overcome with what he felt for her.

“Take what you want,” he groaned. “Use me. Do what feels good, baby. Fuck.” He knew he was babbling, unable to stop the stream of words, but she was moving up and down on him, and he wanted her to feel as good as she was making him feel—losing himself in her, feeling drunk by what she was doing to him. “You feel so fucking good,” he continued. “Me encanta cómo te sientes, mi amor (I love how you feel, my love). So fucking good. Estás apretada y mojada (You’re tight and wet). So warm. Fuck, I can’t get enough. Make yourself come, mi Cielito.”

She was moaning, head thrown back, as she sped up, going until her legs got tired, and then moved to a grind. His lap was wet from her slick dripping out around him, and he was gasping out words from his mouth his brain was barely registering, feeling her walls flutter. She went faster, and he was holding on by a thread.

She went from fast to a grind over and over, and he could tell she was almost there, and he wasn’t going to be able to last much longer.

Her chest was heaving, tits bouncing in his face, nipples pebbled against the shirt, and Javi’s hands were moving of their own volition and ripped the shirt open, buttons flying. He heard her gasp in surprise, but it turned into a moan as he sucked a nipple into his mouth, his hand massaging her other breast as she arched her back, pushing her chest into his face.

He couldn’t help himself, his mouth licking and sucking at her nipples, moving from one to the other. He could hear her moaning his name, hear the wet sounds of her moving on him, and feel her walls tightening around him.

And then she pushed all the way down, crying out his name, practically screaming it, as her pussy clenched hard, gushing over him, Javier feeling her come around him, and it was over for him.

She’d worked him up to the point his body felt like a burning star—glowing intensely—overwhelming every molecule in his body to the point of explosion.

“Cielito, fuc—“ His moaned words against her breast cut out, voice failing, as a deep drawn-out groan replaced them, coming so hard he might have blacked out.

The world went silent. His eyes stayed shut, his brain so thick that thoughts were having difficulty forming, and his body was so deeply relaxed he was seconds away from passing out.

There was only one thought that registered before he succumbed to the darkness.

She fucked me unconscious.

You were startled by the snoring.

Javi’s head was against your boobs, your hands rubbing through his hair, while you rode out the post-orgasm haze, and you’d assumed it was the usual: Him collapsing after coming and being out of it for some minutes.

Then he snored.

You jolted from the sudden sound, looking down at your brown-haired boyfriend resting against your bosom.

“Oh, you sweet man,” you whispered, hands threading in his hair.

He couldn’t be comfortable slumped against your chest, and you worried about his back—which reminded you that you owed him a massage. You hoped he wouldn’t wake as you put your hands on his shoulders and pushed him off you and onto the fluffy cushion behind him.

He fell back as gently as an unconscious man could—not very gentle—and you held your breath as he sunk into the couch.

He let out a snore, and you sighed out a breath.

Next, you were out of his lap and still not satisfied with the position his back was in—slouchy this time—you used sheer strength and determination to grab his legs and haul them onto the sofa, turning his body so he was lying flat on his back.

You were breathing heavily after your less morbid reenactment of Weekend at Bernie’s, and still, Javi snored.

“You’re either a very heavy sleeper, or my vagina is a weapon, and honestly, I hope it’s my vagina,” you mused.

He answered with a snore, and you smiled.

You grabbed a small pillow from the other end of the sofa, carefully put it under his head, pulled the knit blanket off its back, and spread it over him.

You kissed his forehead.

“Sweet dreams, Javi baby,” you whispered, heading towards the bathroom.

He came to, hearing music playing and water running; the sounds were muffled to indicate they were in another room. He opened his eyes, the room dark save for some light spilling in from somewhere in a corner behind him.

He was disoriented for a second, and then everything came back to him—Cielito, the date, sex.

He sat up quickly, a blanket falling down his chest as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He squinted at the clock, trying to make out the numbers, and he thought it read one-thirty in the morning.

Fuck

He’d fallen asleep.

He discarded the blanket as he jumped up, worried Cielito had gone to bed, but the light was on in the kitchen, and he heard noises. He frowned and hoped she wasn’t mad at him. He’d need to leave, it was too late, and he had to work at an ungodly hour in the morning.

First, he had to piss, then he could go talk to her. He practically jogged his way to the bathroom.

Minutes later, he found himself standing at the kitchen doorway, back in his jeans.

Cielito was at the sink, wearing an oversized t-shirt that didn’t cover her entire panty-covered ass, which had him immediately thinking about bringing over one of his shirts, the ones he only wore at home, for her to wear, and it made him feel some kind of feeling imagining it.

She was cleaning dishes while her hips were shaking to the Spanish station they’d listened to earlier, and it made him smile.

He wanted to walk up behind her and wrap his arms around her body, but he didn’t want to scare her. It was bad enough he’d fallen asleep and wasted what little hours they had left.

He cleared his throat instead, and she jumped; he grimaced as she spun around with a pan in her hand.

“Javi! Fuck, I thought you died!”

“Almost did,” he chuckled. “Pretty sure my soul left my body.”

“Been there. Now we’re even,” she said with a wink.

“I guess we are.”

Her expression changed, a frown curving her mouth.

“It’s late,” she said.

He matched her look.

“It is.”

They both started talking at the same time.

“When do—“

“I’m hung—“

They laughed.

“You’re hungry?” She asked.

He nodded. He was, and it’d give him a reason to stay just a little longer, an excuse.

“Yeah.”

“Want some third date pie?” She asked with a smile.

“I had so much third date pie it knocked me out cold,” he replied smoothly.

Her eyes widened.

“Javi,” she gasped. “You’re ridiculous.” She turned back to the sink, set down the pan, and washed her hands before turning off the water. “I mean actual, edible apple pie,” she said, looking over her shoulder as she wiped her hands on a towel.

“I enjoy eating your pie,” he smirked.

She walked over to him, looping her arms around his neck, as his hands found their home on her hips.

“You’re in a mood,” she said, leaning up to kiss him.

He hummed against her mouth.

“I’m always in a mood for you,” he replied against her mouth, kissing her a little harder, and feeling a tingle go down his spine when she moaned into it.

“You, Mr. Peña are a menace,” she said when they parted, leaning up to kiss the tip of his nose. She looked at him. “Let me get you some warm, soft, sweet, delicious,” she said in a sultry tone, and his brain definitely wasn’t thinking about actual pie. “Homemade, apple pie,” she continued and gave him a quick peck, before turning on her heel and moving about the kitchen. He saw her turn on the stove, she grabbed a pie from under a glass dome, and when the oven had clicked to say it had preheated, the apple pie was put in, and a timer was set.

“We have fifteen minutes. What do you want to do?”

He chewed on his lip. There was something he wanted to do if they had the time.

“Can we take a quick shower?”

Her eyebrow rose.

“You want to take a shower?”

“With you,” he said pointedly.

She looked at him.

“Not enough time for funny business,” she said.

“No funny business,” he nodded. “Just a shower.”

“Okay,” she said, a little bit of suspicion in her voice, and it made Javi smile. “We can take a very quick shower.” She poked his chest. “Don’t make fun of my shower cap.”

He put his hands up in a placating gesture.

“I would never, Cielito,” he promised. His hands cupped her cheeks as he kissed her softly. “I know you’ll look beautiful.”

“You’re a flatterer,” she replied.

His hand slipped down, smacking her ass. “Let’s go,” he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her towards the bathroom, her giggling as they walked.

The shower was quick, washing each other’s bodies and stolen kisses. She did look beautiful in her flower-patterned shower cap. They’d dried off, put on clothes—Javi in just his jeans—and the pie was ready when they were done.

He watched her pull it from the oven, and set it on the counter, grabbing a couple of forks, and Javi made her squeak when he picked her up, and set her on the counter beside it, settling his body between her legs and kissing the air from her lungs until she was panting.

Javi moaned around the first bite, his mouth awash in flavors of sweetness, fresh apples, and a hint of cinnamon. He was pretty sure it was the best fucking apple pie he’d ever had in his life. The only thing better, was kissing her after she’d taken a bite, tasting it on her lips and tongue.

They ate directly from the tin, feeding each other, and themselves, talking and laughing, kissing when the need became too high. He was relaxed in her company, and calmness flowed through him—a contentedness so deep, that it was seeping into his bones.

The pie was gone, and the ticking clock had counted down to zero.

He had to leave, it was already too late, and they both had to work early.

He kissed her softly, tenderly, tried to pass on the feelings she made him feel through his lips, and when they parted, he saw the sad look on her face.

“It wasn’t enough time,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry, Cielito,” he replied, knowing his face was a mirror of her own.

“Don’t be,” she said. “You’ve got work, and I’ve got work. At some point, the night had to end.”

She said those words, but what he really heard from the look on her face and tone, was I don’t want it to end. I don’t want you to leave.

He felt his heart soften, felt like it melted in his chest, and spread through his limbs and center, enveloping him in warmth and happiness—joy—that she felt the same as him.

He spoke without a second thought.

“Can I see you tomorrow or, I guess, later today?”

The smile that lit up her face could brighten the room as she nodded enthusiastically.

“Yes! I hoped but didn’t want to assume, and I know we made plans for Saturday. It’s just so far away.”

He kissed her, the smile too alluring, and her hands held his head.

“Saturday is technically tomorrow,” he said against her lips, smiling.

“Too far,” she said, and she slanted her mouth against his and took his breath away.

He’d be back at her place right after work—she was off an hour before him, and they’d figure out plans later.

It was half-past two in the morning; Javier was dressed in the remnants of his shirt, hanging wide open, holding his leather jacket. They’d been saying goodbye for the last five minutes—one more kiss, turning into another, and another. He was lingering, couldn’t will his legs to move out the door and leave her presence.

He kept telling himself he’d see her later that day—less than seventeen hours—but there was still that feeling in his chest that he didn't want to go.

Finally, finally, he found the strength.

“Will you call me when you get home? I just need to know you made it,” she said, and he saw the look in her eyes, the one that said she still didn’t want him to go.

He felt his features soften.

“Of course,” he answered.

She didn’t ask for one more kiss, because they both knew if they started, they wouldn’t stop again. Instead, he hugged her tightly and kept looking back at her figure standing at her door, watching him go.

You didn’t know how many minutes had passed since he’d left.

You’d done your nighttime routine after he left, wearing your oversized T-shirt and underwear. You were on your bed, the sheets clean after changing them while Javi slept, sitting in the same spot he had while he’d smoked the cigarette. The smell still lingered; the smells still lingered—his scent coming off the pillow under your head—a reminder that he really had been there, and that the whole night wasn’t some fantasy your brain had concocted. Because, it had been almost too perfect, too unreal, and now your chest felt empty that he’d left—like you were missing a piece of yourself.

How did you fall for someone so quickly?

How did someone worm their way so intricately into your heart?

How did someone imprint themselves into your life and future so soon?

The obvious answer was because that someone was Javi.

The soulful brown eyes that had seen things you couldn’t imagine, and the body of a man who had been through so much and carried the weight of it all on his beautiful broad shoulders. You understood why his back ached—he had some heavy burdens.

And yet, even with all of those things trying to hold him down, the man was sweet, caring, so soft, and by some cosmic miracle, yours.

The phone on your bedside table rang, and you were scrambling to pick it up as quickly as possible, almost dropping the receiver.

“Javi?” You answered.

No one else would be calling at this hour; it could only be him.

“Cielito, baby, yeah, it’s me.” The sound of his voice had you feeling a tiny bit better, but your heart ached with his distance.

“I miss you,” you whispered.

“I shouldn’t have left.” He sighed. “I know it’s late. I know we have to go to work in a few hours… Can I come back over?” He asked. “Please?” He added softly.

Your heart was hammering in your chest, head nodding even though you knew he couldn’t see you.

“Yes!” You said. “Please come back.”

“Thank you, Cielito.” He sounded relieved. “I’ll hurry.”

“No. Drive safe, please.”

“I will. I’ll be there soon.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

You said your goodbyes and hung up.

You’d waited by the front door, wanted to be ready the moment the knock came. You’d turned on the living room lamp, eyes moving to the clock on the wall every so often. You’d feel like minutes had passed, check the clock hands and see it barely moved, making you frown.

You had butterflies in your stomach fluttering around, and your heart was racing in your chest.

It felt like hours had passed when the quick two knocks came, but glancing at the clock, it had only been twenty-five minutes. You quickly unlocked the deadbolt, had the door barely open, and Javi was pushing in, his lips finding yours in a searing kiss, a surprised sound escaping your throat as a big hand cradled your face, the breadth of it warming your cheek. You melted into it, hands in his hair, as he pulled you closer to him, while he also walked you further into the apartment, kicking your door shut with his foot.

You felt it in the way his mouth moved against yours—the desperation, the apology, the yearning—each kiss saying I missed you, I’m sorry, I won’t ever leave again.

And you answered with your own lips, I missed you too, you’re here now, I don’t ever want you to go.

The kissing stopped, and your foreheads were resting against one another, sharing breath, happy smiles on your faces.

“Hi,” he said, coming out raspy and breathy.

“Hello,” you replied just as breathless.

He kissed you softly.

“Let’s go to bed, Cielito.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

The front door was locked, and you finally took in Javi’s appearance, realizing he had changed into a plain white t-shirt that looked sinful in the way it hugged his shoulders and chest. He also brought an overnight bag—a small black duffle he was carrying in his hand. You smiled and pulled him along to the bedroom, Javi tossing the bag carelessly to the floor once inside.

You watched as he kicked off his shoes, and pulled his shirt up and off, revealing his beautiful tan skin, and your mouth went dry at the sight. His pants were next to go, and finally his socks, until he was completely naked, and walking to his bag. You assumed he would get whatever he slept in out of it, and after he rummaged around for a second, he turned towards you, holding a dark blue toothbrush.

“Can I use your toothpaste?” He asked.

Your eyebrows were furrowed, a little confused by the naked man, who apparently also had good dental hygiene. Maybe he’d change after he brushed his teeth?

“Yeah… Of course. It’s in the holder—”

“With your toothbrush, yeah,” he smiled. “I’ll be right back.”

He closed the distance, kissing you quickly before heading towards the bathroom.

You were stuck in place, standing at the foot of your bed. The bathroom door was open, and you could hear the sink running and him brushing his teeth, and you were having a moment, because it was just so domestic. His clothes littered your floor; he brought a bag and his toothbrush. He’d driven back over, unable to be away from you for a night. It made you happy, absurdly so. You felt like you were floating, just so elated that he was at your place, and you’d get to wake up with him in the morning.

He walked back into the bedroom a few minutes later sans toothbrush, the bathroom light turned off.

“Which side is yours?” He asked.

“That one,” you pointed to the side closest to the window.

He nodded and moved to the one near him, pulling back the sheets and crawling in.

“Aren’t you going to put on your sleep clothes?” You asked.

He just looked at you, an eyebrow raised.

“Of course,” you said. “You sleep naked. What’s in the bag?” You pointed at it.

“Work clothes. Get in here,” he said, patting your pillow.

You smiled as you walked your way over to your side.

“Impatient,” you mumbled as you got in.

As soon as you were under the blankets, arms were wrapped around your torso, and you were pulled towards him. His hands went to the hem of your shirt, tugging it off.

“Javi, we need to go to sleep,” you laughed.

“We are going to sleep,” he replied, tossing the garment onto the floor. He pulled off your underwear next.

“This doesn’t seem like we’re going to sleep.”

“We are.”

You thought maybe he wanted to feel skin against skin, which didn’t bother you.

He turned over, leaning to switch off the lamp, bathing the room in darkness before getting back in your space, pulling your front against his, cuddling you as close to his body as possible, and he let out the most content-sounding sigh, then kissed your forehead.

“I like this,” he whispered.

“What?” You asked.

“I like holding you,” he said, squeezing you a little tighter for a moment.

“I like kissing you,” he rasped, moving his head to capture your lips in a tender kiss, ending it with a nip to your bottom lip.

“I like touching you,” he continued, running his hands down your back to grab your ass, making you gasp, and he took the opportunity to kiss you hard, swallowing your moans as he kissed the breath from your lungs. You were panting when he pulled back, and you knew his eyes were on yours in the dark.

“I like you, mi Cielito.”

And from the way he said it—from everything that had happened that night—you knew he was telling the truth.

“I like you, too, Javi. A lot.”

He kissed you again, and you felt him smiling against your lips.

You fell asleep in his arms, and you’d never slept better.

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littlemisspascal · 2 years

Text

The Infinity Cube Part 20

Main Pairing: Marcus Pike x Female Reader

Word Count: 3400+

Series Summary: When you play with a strange cube, you’re transported out of your current reality with your boyfriend Marcus into brand new ones starring alternate versions of your boyfriend who look and act entirely different every time. With each encounter, you start to wonder if you’ll ever make it back to your real universe?

Warnings for the chapter: language, Devil!Dio deserves a warning for being Devil!Dio, making out, inspiration from Star Wars Rebels + JLU, references to previous chapters, fluff + angst,

Author Note: One year later and here we are, the final chapter. I’ve had this ending in mind from the very beginning and I can’t believe it’s finally over 😭💜 I want to thank every single reader of this series, seriously y’all’s support has meant the absolute world to me and gave me the motivation to keep writing this crazy roller coaster. Fingers crossed y’all enjoy it and also be sure to keep an eye out for an epilogue coming soon 👀

Special shoutout to @beecastle for talking me out of losing my sanity several times and helping me cross the finish line 💗

PART 1 / PART 19

Gif by: @nicolethered

You find yourself looking up at a large, solid white house draped in ivy vines with circular windows and, if you squint enough against the blinding afternoon sunlight, a rooster weathervane on top of the roof. It’s a nice place, charming in its own unique way, but whose it belongs to and why you’re standing in front of it are two questions you lack the answers to.

Despite being in an unknown location, you’re not afraid. There’s no hint of tension in your muscles or anxious thoughts spinning circles in your head. Instead there’s only a numbing sort of calmness, a sense of certainty telling you you’re in the right spot.

You’re thinking about walking up the front porch steps and knocking on the door, but then, as if reading your mind, it swings open and an impatient Dio appears in the doorway, looking down his nose at you.

“Finally,” he says, enunciating every syllable with a punch of passive-aggressiveness. “Took you long enough. I’m starting to get gray hairs, Specs.”

Eyebrows lifting, you do a double-take of your surroundings, then look back at Dio, expression still bitchy.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, more confused than fearful. “Where are we?”

“Oh, right, duh, where are my manners?” Dio makes a show of smacking himself in the forehead. “Welcome to my own little corner of hell. Yes, yes, I know it’s beautiful so stop staring and get your ass inside.”

After huffing out an incredulous laugh, you obey, finding the inside of the house to be just as pretty and solid white as the outside. White walls, white floor with a white rug, white furniture and accessories all elegantly arranged. You stand in the living room, thinking it looks as if Dio copied a page out of Better Homes & Gardens, and the thought is so absurd it has you rubbing at your nose to conceal a smile.

“I asked if he robbed Pottery Barn,” a voice chimes in from behind.

You whirl around, finding a woman sitting in a chair nestled in the corner. One look at her face has your heart freezing solid in your chest. It’s quite possible your brain has stopped functioning too, because there’s no way it can be her, that she can be here with you in the same space.

“Stranger things have happened.”

Your eyes widen. “Can you…?”

“No, I can’t read your thoughts,” she says, mouth curling up with a smile. “Our face, however, is an open book. We’d be absolutely shit at poker.”

It’s so easy, so casual, the way she confirms who she is. And you would have laughed at her remark if your brain wasn’t too busy exploding.

You’d seen a photo of the thief and his dear, saw she wore the same face as your own. Still, being here together, looking at her as a real, living and breathing person, a carbon copy of yourself, is so fucking bizarre.

Dearheart, in contrast, seems calm and composed, expression almost serene. It occurs to you then with a bright flash of clarity, she’s finally free. After countless cycles of temptation and heartache and endless waiting, she’s no longer a prisoner of the cube.

Your eyes well up with tears before you can stop them, chest constricting with emotion, and a sob escapes your throat. It catches up to you all at once—you solved the Infinity Cube, the long journey has finally finished, you can go home. It’s all finally over.

Dearheart stands up and throws her arms around you, uncaring of how you immediately bury your face in her shoulder, sobs wracking your body with every gasp of breath. Your hands grab fistfuls of her shirt, finding comfort in her physicality, in her quiet shushings and murmurings.

“You did it,” she tells you over and over again, squeezing you tighter, and there are tears in her voice now too. “You saved us.”

You don’t know how long the two of you stand there, hugging and crying, but Dio’s patience only lasts so long before he’s pointedly clearing his throat.

“As much as I love witnessing touching moments,” Dio starts, completely unaffected by the twin glares directed his way, “we three have much to discuss.”

Although you hate to admit it, you know Dio’s right. You scrub at your burning eyes and wipe away the residual tears clinging to your cheeks. It’s actually more than a little embarrassing, being the one being comforted instead of offering it to Dearheart. Swallowing harshly against the thick lump in your throat, you manage to croak out, “Start talking, Dio. Why are we here exactly?”

Dio drops down onto the couch, arms casually stretched wide over the fluffy white pillows. “The cube brought you both here, back to where it all began.” He smiles then, a wide thing with too many teeth. “I never said congratulations to you Specs, did I? Welcome to the finish line, you clever girl.”

“I didn’t do it alone,” you reply, thinking of Javi’s help and of Dearheart’s hints along the way. You turn to look at her, finding her already staring back. “That was you, right? Marie Shaid and the book?”

“Not entirely. With my magic, I can’t create matter out of thin air, only alter how people perceive it. The book was real, in that universe, at least. All I did was make you see it a little differently,” Dearheart says. Her gaze falls to her hands then, turning them over palms up and wiggling her fingers. You swear you glimpse little sparkles of light leaping between the digits, almost like firecrackers. “That trick nearly drained me of my magic, but I had to get your attention somehow.”

You stay quiet, staring at her hands still faintly glowing. It makes sense she has magic—after all, the thief had also possessed it and Dearheart is from the same universe. Still, actually witnessing it up close is enough to send your head spinning. Just when you thought there wasn’t much more the multiverse could surprise you with, it throws you Dio, his picturesque white house, and your variant with magical powers all at once.

“Be careful, would you? I’m still trying to get rid of the magic stains from your partner’s failed attempt to steal from me,” Dio gripes, but there’s mischief glittering in his dark eyes, indicating he knows exactly which buttons he’s pushing. “We don’t want a repeat of past mistakes now, do we?”

Dearheart’s eyes narrow, hands curling into fists, and your own tongue burns as if it can feel the scathing retort she’s about to unleash. You quickly intervene before any furniture or limbs end up broken. “Dio, we made a deal, remember? I solve the cube and you make sure everything goes back to the way it was.”

Dio smirks, and it’s the same little mean curl of his mouth you’d previously thought made him look like a cat who caught a canary. It bothers you now to see it just as much as it did then. “Of course I remember.”

A beat of silence follows. The kind of quiet before a bomb drops, before everything irreparably changes and what was familiar is gone. Lost forever.

Your alternate self must feel it too, this almost tangible fizzle in the air, because she steps closer, arms brushing. A touch that says: you’re not alone. Not anymore.

The Devil sits up, bracing his forearms on his knees while pinning you with his stare. “I have a question for you, Specs. And it might just be the hardest one you’ll ever have to answer in your whole life, but once you do, I’ll send you home. Both of you,” he corrects before you can argue.

“I don’t like this,” Dearheart mutters, and you tilt your head in wordless agreement. Unfortunately, as guests in Dio’s home, you don’t have much of a choice.

Exhaling a quiet breath, you ask Dio, “What’s the question?”

He studies you for a long moment, like he can see straight through to your fractured heart and tender soul, expression uncharacteristically blank. The seconds of quietness stretch on, each one adding to the weight pressing down on your lungs.

And then, “Do you wish to forget?”

Your heartbeat stutters. “Wh-what?”

“Not many can say they successfully fulfilled a deal with the Devil. You’ve…impressed me, Specs,” Dio says, and a beam of sunlight bounces off his silver star earring, as blinding as it is surprisingly beautiful. “So, I’m giving you a choice. Carry the memories of all your precious Brown Eyes back home with you, or leave them behind.”

You’re uncomfortably aware of the two pairs of eyes watching you, waiting for your response. You turn the question over in your head for a second, thinking about how you feel, about your conversation with Javi. He’s already forgotten about you. Everyone you’ve ever met across the multiverse has had their lives reset, none the wiser you ever crossed paths at all.

Is it really so bad to want that same blissful ignorance they have?

You make the mistake of glancing at Dearheart. One look at your face, and she already knows what you’re going to choose. One look at hers, and you know she’s okay with it.

Somehow, that makes the small pang of guilt hurt all the worse.

“I’m sorry, I just, it’s…” You make a face at your tongue’s clumsiness, fumbling for a way to explain everything, how it feels like the memories will continue to fester inside of you until there’s nothing left of who you are. There’s just too many of them. You’ve lived too many lives.

She smiles, and it’s soft and devoid of judgment. You blink harshly against the burn of returning tears. “You don’t need to apologize or explain. I already know.”

“But—”

“You’ve done more than enough for me, Specs,” she cuts you off, gentle yet firm, placing a hand on your shoulder. “You deserve a peaceful life with the one you love. The life the multiverse intended for you.”

“You deserve that too,” you blurt out, impulsive yet sincere.

Dearheart blinks with surprise, visibly taken aback for a second, before letting out a quiet laugh. “It’s hard to imagine it. A pair of thieves settling down together, living a quiet life. Then again,” she gives you a pointed look, one eyebrow arching up, “strangers things have happened, yeah?”

It startles a laugh out of you. “Yeah,” you nod, smiling wide. “Yeah, they really have.”

“And I’ll hold onto them. Every single one,” she says, lifting her hand from your shoulder to tap her temple. “Maybe write a book or something.”

“Well, well, well, wouldja look at that,” Dio remarks, pitching his voice higher to reclaim the spotlight once more. He stands up, moving closer to stand in front of you both. “Everybody gets what they want and goes home happy. I thought endings like that only happened in fairy tales.”

“What are you going to do with the cube, exactly?” you ask, carefully watching his face.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little mind about it,” he answers flippantly, but the cracking of his knuckles does little to mollify you. “It won’t be a problem for you or your Brown Eyes anymore. That’s what you’re really asking, right?”

“And I’m just supposed to take your word for it?”

“You do you, clever girl.” He shrugs, looking like he could honestly care less about your poor opinion of him. “Now, let’s get this all wrapped up already. I’m a busy guy. I’ve got other souls to play with. Punishments to inflict. Deals to arrange.”

The tempo of your heartbeat accelerates, the realization that this is it buzzing through your nerves. “What–” your voice cracks under the weight of emotions suddenly springing to life inside of you. “What do I do?”

Dio chuckles, a genuine-sounding one, like you’ve just said something funny. Then, without sparing a second to explain himself, he licks a long, wet strip up the center of his palm, a strange symbol lighting up in the center of it, before he begins chanting in a language you’ve never heard of before, words tumbling out of his mouth rapid-fire in a low, steady stream.

Your whole body goes stiff, limbs held in place by invisible strings. You open your mouth to yell or curse at him, only to find you’ve lost your voice, just a weak gasp of air escaping your lips.

“Don’t fight it,” Dearheart tells you, voice breaking through the thunderous sound of blood pounding in your eardrums. “Just breathe.”

It feels like you’re being torn apart from the inside out, all of your atoms burning one by one. A scream presses against the backs of your teeth, the taste of blood sharp on your tongue. You might be crying; you can’t really tell anymore.

Dio continues his chant without any sign of stopping.

“Breathe,” Dearheart says again, sounding so close it’s as though she’s inside your head, wrapped around you, holding your hand. “It will all be over soon.”

Her words are a balm against the worst of the pain, and something inside of you relaxes upon hearing them. You close your eyes, forcing yourself to follow her command and breathe. In and out, in and out, even as numbness starts to creep up your legs. Along your spine and abdomen. Inch by deadening inch.

Your senses are next to go. Dio’s voice fades away seconds before the floor disappears. And you’re left with the sensation that you’re floating in a sea of nothingness. A second passes, then another, and another, and then—

Then you’re falling.

The room is full of open doors.

That’s the first thing you realize upon opening your eyes and regaining your bearings. Every direction you turn your head there’s dozens of doorways leading to unknown locations. The air is still, neither hot nor cold, and the entire space is as silent as a tomb. It’s…unsettling, to say the least.

A tugging sensation prompts you to start walking, even though you have no idea what or where your final destination is. There’s no sky here, no light source, but somehow you’re able to see the path in front of you clearly, each step sure-footed.

Every doorway you look through when you pass them reveals glimpses of the same woman and man in different settings. There’s a sense of vague familiarity, a name sitting on your tongue you can’t quite recall. Sometimes they look happy, obviously in love, other times they’re fighting, spitting curses and crying tears. Their physical characteristics change, too, hairstyles and ages and the appearances of scars. For all the variations though, there is one single constant.

They��re always together.

In one doorway, they’re sitting on a beach, the woman leaning back against the man’s chest while she holds up seashells from a small collection pile for him to see. Whatever the man says about one of them makes her laugh, tossing her head back against his shoulder, and he hides his crooked smile by burying his face in her hair.

The next shows them with a little baby girl crawling across a carpet floor. She’s got a head full of curls and a pair of beautiful, sparkling eyes matching her parents’. The man is videotaping her, the widest of smiles on his face, while the woman watches from the sofa with an expression you can only think of describing as pure contentment.

Another reveals them in an office arguing over a gemstone clutched in the man’s hands. The woman makes several attempts at grabbing it only for him to keep evading her reach, holding the item close to his chest as though it were his most precious treasure. You don’t know what’s going on, why the gem is the source of their strife, but you have the sinking suspicion their situation is about to go from bad to worse.

There’s a split-second you actually think about pausing—to do what, you’re not exactly sure. Yell at them? Reach through the door and take the stone for yourself? But then that internal tugging starts up again, more insistent this time, urging you to keep walking.

So you do.

The doors keep emerging from the blackness on either side of you, far more than you can count, and vanish just as soon as you pass them. This is without question the most elaborate dream you’ve ever had, but curiosity overrules your desire to wake up. If there is an ending to this, you want to see it through.

Eventually, after what seems like miles even though your feet don’t ache at all, you reach a fork in the road, discovering two doors which look different from the rest. On the left, light pours out of the open doorway, so much you can’t even tell what the scene is inside. On the right, a door which has been shut, offering no clues as to what’s on the other side of it.

Wary of the closed door, you approach the left one first, squinting against the brightness until you can make out the shapes of furniture and people. A green leather sofa. A massive fireplace. The man and woman are wrapped in a passionate embrace, kissing each other as if they’re starving for it, hands roaming over each other’s bodies.

You must make a sound, a gasp or something, because the woman’s eyes lock onto yours as she exposes her neck for the man to continue lavishing with his lips.

And then, as if it isn’t awkward enough already, she wiggles her fingers at you. At first you think she’s waving, or perhaps shooing you away, but then the door abruptly slams shut like it’s got a mind of its own, causing you to leap backwards with a yelp.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” you murmur, blinking at the now-closed door.

The only option left, whether you like it or not, is the other door. Nervousness twists a knot in your stomach, growing a little bit bigger with every approaching step. There’s nothing outright scary about the door—it’s literally just a door. Rectangular piece of wood with a brass knob. But the unknowing of what awaits you on the other side has your hand hesitating. After all you saw on your walk here, the possibilities are endless.

Okay, okay, okay. Stop overthinking things. You can do this. It’s no big deal. Just turn the knob. Just. Turn. The—

You tilt your head, a faint sound tickling at your eardrums. Your brow furrows, recognizing it to be music playing, and then your eyebrows climb up your forehead in disbelief when the lyrics click within your brain. That’s a One Direction song. And it’s coming from behind the door.

As if reacting to the beats of the song, the tugging in your chest starts to synchronize with it. Come on inside, it seems to say. Don’t be afraid.

You take a deep breath, pushing down your fears.

And you open the door.

You may not look it—bobbing your head along to the One Direction song blaring from your computer, shamelessly mouthing the lyrics—but you take your job quite seriously. You’ve been an archivist for the FBI’s art crime division for a little over a year now, responsible for cataloging, organizing, and examining recovered museum artifacts with gloved hands and a pair of specially designed spectacles hanging from a chain around your neck.

It’s tedious work, no doubt about it, but if not for this job you never would have met your boyfriend, Marcus, aka the man of your dreams. And for that mere fact alone, you wouldn’t trade this life for any other.

“Hey, Specs, you ready to head home?”

You look up from your computer, locking eyes with Marcus standing in the doorway. He’s dressed in his usual dark blue suit, but after a long day’s work his dark hair has been ruffled by restless fingers, striped tie hanging undone around his neck, and overall looking eager to cuddle on the couch in your apartment and watch a Netflix documentary.

There’s something about him that looks especially beautiful today, you can’t quite put your finger on it. You’d seen him earlier at lunch, but the strange ache in your chest, heart overwhelmed by a sudden burst of adoration, makes it seem like it’s been years or something. God, he’s turning you into such a hopeless romantic it’s ridiculous.

Turning off your computer, you go to him, greeting him with a kiss on the lips, soft and tender, a little teasing nip at the end promising more to come later. You nuzzle your nose against his before pulling away to grab hold of his hand, loving the way his fingers immediately intertwine with yours. He really is perfect.

And he’s all yours.

“Yeah, Brown Eyes,” you say, smiling and pulling him along. “Let’s go home.”

#the infinity cube #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x you #marcus pike fanfiction #my fic #my writing #pedrostories

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