#this was sitting all the way in the back of drafts
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courtside | n. mühl
summary; when nika makes a promise she fulfils it. [SMUT]
🎵 everyday hustle - future
nika had already found her footing on american soil by the time you met, the only indicators she wasn't born in the states was her last name and accent if she spoke for long enough. you'd been assigned as part of the media team to enhance your work experience in sports during your time at uconn, the fans and your lecturers loved the content you provided and always came crawling back for more, so you decided to have a one on one interview to satiate their hunger a little longer.
you'd chosen a player at random, landing on number ten after a moment of contemplation regarding which player number to pick and immediately had nika beckoning at your call. her coach informed her of what you planned on doing, waiting for her to catch her breath as she stood with a heaving chest and hands on hips, licking her lips with hooded eyes focused solely on you. she nodded her head in understanding and introduced herself, shaking your hand formally before making a mental note of your name so she could stalk your instagram later on- that plan was executed perfectly when she asked for your number after the interview and gained your username after a couple hours of texting.
fans could tell that nika was flirting with you from the moment it started, going crazy in comments and posting all over tiktok about the way she looked at you or subtly complimented something referring to you. no matter what, nika was finding a way to steer the interview towards you, wanting to find out everything possible and not being sneaky about it in the slightest. time flew by and before you knew it you'd been together four years with nika playing her last college game, getting ready to be drafted into the wnba with you by her side.
the tough opponent was iowa in the final four, nika rearing to go and jumping in her spot since the moment she woke up for multiple reasons. she wanted to prove herself, she was one step closer to the championship game and had just been informed that the wnba were going to draft her. you couldn't be happier for your girlfriend, she'd been going on and on for years about how when she goes pro all her sacrifices were going to be worth it and she'd be able to spoil everyone she loved with the new opportunities she'd have for them.
right now, you were sitting courtside with a camera in your hand to take an occasional flick of the game. iowa truly were a tough team - you'd never seen uconn struggle like this before - but the championship game was still in sight for you all.
then the fourth quarter came along.
nothing was working anymore, iowa was clicking like puzzle pieces and caitlin clark was on the move. nika bagged assist after assist and rebounded as much as she possibly could with a gorgeous three-pointer but the buzzer had to come at some point; and it ended with iowa up by two.
of course she was upset, you were the first person she came to with tears on the verge of spilling down her cheeks and her fingers clutching the uconn '10' jersey you wore, your arms tight around her in every way she needed. either way she'd made it to the final four and played immaculately, you reminded her of that before she congratulated iowa and on the way home whenever she spoke bad about herself.
"i'mma win everything for you."
the croatian mumbled as she inhaled your scent, pulling you further into her with her head on your chest. she breathed out deeply in comfort when your fingers found their way to her hair and scratched lightly, egging her to continue.
"you're not gonna see me lose ever again. gonna go pro and everything's gonna change,"
"i don't doubt that for a second moja djevojka."
nika smiled and chuckled into your chest at the sound of croatian rolling off your tongue, knowing her odd tutoring lessons were paying off with the way you perfectly pronounced one of her favourite nicknames.
"and before you know it, you're gonna be moja žena. watching every game, getting anything you want- stuck with me whether you like it or not."
"you know i wouldn't want it any other way, moja žena. go to sleep niks, i'll be here when you wake up."
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a year after uconn lost to iowa, nika had stayed true to her word. she was going pro either way, but now you were basically on the verge of engagement with the way she was hinting towards marriage recently and she'd remained consistent in her career. she'd lost a few games here and there but had made up for it by winning the league already with seattle, earning a spot in the all-wnba team and being named defensive player of the year with the odd sponsorship deal coming her way.
nika truly was living up to her words, she made you feel loved every day and reminded you of that before she left for training until the moment she fell asleep with you in her arms. she'd talk nonsense about how badly she wanted you to be her wife, the pout on her lips being kissed away when you shut her down to remind her that she was too busy for such a big commitment right now, because she knew you were right. still, she had the ring hidden in her sock drawer for safekeeping.
she'd had the odd day off and always decided to spend it with you, loving your company more than any other option she had thrown her way. right now she was laying comfortably on your chest, large figure draped over yours to supply warmth no blanket could ever match as you binged your latest shared obsession on television. you'd just finished editing some shots for seattle storm not long ago, your studies paying off and gaining you an excessive interest in job prospects when you sent your folder out- but of course you had to go for seattle, it was perfect.
"i can't wait to marry you."
a murmur vibrated your chest from none other than the woman melting into your hold, your arms tightening around her as you laughed lightly in response.
"we've still got plenty of time for that."
"i keep gettin' asked about you though, makes me think about it more."
your hands tangled into her hair and gently scratched at her scalp, feeling her fingers tighten around your waist and pull you towards her as she sighed into you.
"n' what do you say?"
nika smiled as she lifted her head up, watching your hands fall to her shoulders before she gently lifted your left ring finger to her lips and kissed it with her eyes locked on yours. you grinned at the intimate action and saw her smile lightly in return, other hand caressing her face lovingly.
"i tell them you're gonna be my wife before they know it."
"every time?"
nika nodded her head enthusiastically, both of you grinning madly as she leaned in to kiss you gently.
"every time."
she mumbles against your lips, vibrations making you smile into the kiss before you wrapped your arms around her neck to pull her closer and deepen it.
"you're gonna have to show me some of these interviews."
"i'd rather show you how well i plan on treating my wife for the rest of our lives together."
nika mumbled into your neck as she kissed down it fondly, hands crawling up your shirt and tugging on it with your nails scratching her back lightly. you threw your head back to allow her more access and felt her smile into you, pulling away to slowly peel the fabric off your body as your hands pawed at her shirt to do the same, eyes immediately scanning her body as she leaned up and took it off above you. she noticed your gaze and smirked, grabbing your hands and guiding them along her toned stomach with a cocky smile whilst letting your hands wander on their own.
you quickly sat up and trailed your lips along her abs, dipping your fingers into the curve of her spine so she arched into you with a soft gasp. nika let her hands tangle into your hair gently as she stared down in admiration, mouth open to let out heavy breaths that left her stomach heaving against your lips.
"baby,"
the croatian breathed out before licking her lips, jaw hanging low with how you were mouthing at her skin.
"tonight's gonna be about you, not me."
you heard her withhold a groan when your tongue sloppily licked its way up from her hips to the bra she wore, the point guard grasping your shoulders and weakly attempting to push you down. your mouth was doing wonders on her skin and it drove her wild, the strength she always bore withering away as she leaned back onto her heels and adjusted herself to be sitting upright against the back of the couch. your lips forcefully detached from her skin and both of you let out a matching whine, thighs going either side of her waist to let her hands guide you closer whilst she initiated a heavy kiss.
nika soon grew impatient, beginning to push and pull your hips in a rocking motion and moaning once you got the hint. your body moved against hers as she trailed her lips down your neck, hand slapping her muscular back as you felt her start to suck before she squeezed your hip apologetically and went back to simple kisses trailing down your pulse point with a soft grin. as much as you loved your girlfriend, covering up hickeys from her endeavours was a nightmare.
"why can't it be about the pro baller?"
you quietly breathed out, hands pushing her further into your collarbone by the back of her head. the brunette moaned into you at the mention of her occupation and pulled away to look up at you with swollen lips, chest heaving for air whilst she wore a cocky smirk.
"'cus it's about the pro ballers wife."
nika trailed sloppy kisses down the space between your breasts before you could respond, pulling at the strap of your bra and letting it snap against your skin to signal she wanted it off. you reached behind yourself and unclipped the bra as quickly as possible, nika trailing her fingertips under the straps to slowly peel them down your arms before tossing the material elsewhere in your shared apartment. hearing her breath out heavily as she stared shamelessly at your chest, your face grew red whilst she licked her lips hungrily and began to let her hands wander.
the croatian looked into your eyes for a moment of consent and gladly received what she was looking for, ducking her head down to connect her mouth with one of your nipples whilst her hand gently massaged your other breast. she teased her teeth against your skin and urged you to arch further into her, free hand dipping into the curve of your back as she kissed along your chest to pay the other side attention.
"niks, baby..."
the mention of her favourite nickname pulled her head from your chest, inquisitive puppy eyes staring up at you. heaving breaths left her swollen lips and she continued to let her hands trail around your back, gently massaging your hips whilst tugging at the back of your shorts in a needy manner.
"please baby,"
she murmured, head moving towards your neck once more to trail kisses down your pulse point and along your collarbone, internally grinning when you pushed her closer at the feeling of her lips sucking marks into your skin.
"molim- trebam te. želim te osjetiti, moja cura, da?"
nika began rambling in croatian whilst she nuzzled her nose into your upper chest, placing kisses between every other word and pulling you closer to show her desperation.
"da, mala- da."
your immediate response in her mother tongue made nika swell with pride at how good of a language tutor she was proving to be, quick kisses being placed down your torso before she effortlessly flipped you onto your back and positioned her body between your legs.
"nika,"
you whined as she continued to trail her hands aimlessly, her head popping up from your stomach in concern.
"shorts off and stay up here. želim te poljubiti."
your dirty talk transitioning into croatian made her groan audibly, hands pawing at your shorts and underwear after she seeked one last look of approval before tearing them off and throwing them behind her carelessly. breathing laboured as she leaned in to kiss you passionately, your hands tangled into her hair and she pushed her hips down, cursing against your mouth as she felt you throb against her.
"jebi bebu. needing me, huh?"
her croatian accent making a strong appearance when she switched back to english made your hips buck into her as you eagerly nodded your head with a whine, eyes boring into hers whilst she wore a smirk. nika grinned and leaned in to kiss you softly, digits tracing the outline of your body as she trailed them along your hipbone and towards your centre, gasping into your mouth once she felt how wet you were.
"god, it's been so long since i've had you like this."
you almost whimpered in response to her voice mumbling against your lips, all thoughts of everything and anything else being cut off when nika dipped a finger into your arousal and pulled it out to rub circles over your clit. your eyes closed in pleasure as the croatian rested her forehead against yours, watching your facial expressions intently with pride bubbling up through her at the soft moans you were beginning to let out.
"niks,"
you murmured whilst reaching up for a kiss, nika gladly reciprocating passionately as she hummed in response for you to continue. her fingers didn't let up, placing more pressure by the second before dipping into your arousal to tease.
"i need you inside me baby."
the brunette groaned with her eyes shutting in pleasure, the buck of your hips pushing her back into the moment as she pressed a finger into you. nika slowly thrusted in a steady rhythm as she prepared you for a second finger (knowing you wouldn't be able to finish no matter how deep her singular long digit was able to reach) whilst she continued to rub her thumb over your sensitive clit and kiss along your neck.
she revelled in the soft moans of her name you were letting fall from your lips, hands clutching her bare back and feeling the way her shoulder would move or flex as she thrusted as you groaned in response. you took the opportunity to feel her toned body once more, hands travelling all over the chiselled muscles she'd earned from hours in the gym and shamelessly squeezing where you felt them flex as she slowly sunk a second finger into you.
"that's it ljubav. takin' me so well- that's it, good fuckin' girl."
"nika, god..."
you trailed off into a breathless moan as your girlfriend perked her head up to level yours at the mention of her name, smiling proudly as you returned the grin and moved a hand to pull her into a sweet kiss. the croatian gradually picked up her pace and swallowed your moans with ease, watching the way your body responded to every twitch of her fingers as she slowly began rubbing them against your g-spot with every thrust.
"baby!"
you yelled out in surprise, hips bucking into hers as she continued to abuse your cunt. your nails raked down her back to feel the muscles flexing as she fucked you, eyes momentarily closing in pleasure whilst her back arched into you at the feeling of your fingertips trailing down her spine, both of you now chest to chest with your hand pulling her forehead to your own to maintain the intimacy and keep her close.
"so beautiful, sound so pretty for me. good girl."
you whined in response to her praise with your nails digging into her shoulderblades, relishing in the quiet moans she let out as her fingers continued to pleasure you skillfully.
"god you feel so good princess,"
with your heads pressed together, nika nudged your shoulder to prompt you into opening your eyes and keeping them locked on her own, knowing how much you loved eye contact. the croatian continued her deep strokes as you saw her shoulder moving rapidly in the corner of your eye, your body jolting up and down with the force she was using to drive you into an orgasm. matching smiles grew on your faces as your moans picked up in frequency and volume, nika watching in awe and bringing her other hand down to stimulate your clit.
"gonna be my wife, watching every one of my games courtside. gonna give you everything you've ever wanted, win trophies for you, take you to award ceremonies, walk fuckin' red carpets with you. all that shit- i'm doin' it with you."
"yeah niks- as long as it's with you, that's all that matters."
the point guard pulled you into a passionate kiss as she felt you tighten around her fingers, gently coaxing you through your high and continuing her thrusts to help you ride it out with soft praises whispered into your ear, lips scattering kisses all over your body. your hands dug into her muscular back and eventually relaxed, still keeping a grip as you calmed down to have one final feel of her muscles that she sadly never showed off.
"good job baby, did so well for me. such a good girl."
she whispered against your lips whilst leaving soft kisses every so often, both of you breathing heavily and calming down from the heated moment as she slowly pulled out, apologising for the discomforted whine that escaped you but immediately making up for it when she licked your arousal off her fingers.
"you're gonna be the death of me one day."
"wouldn't be a bad way to go, huh?"
"shut up and stop being so cocky."
you shoved her shoulder lightly as she mocked offense, sitting up to be hovering above you on her knees the same way she was when she took her shirt off earlier.
"can you blame me? i've got my girl feelin' me up and whenever i look in the mirror i see these guns. don't think i didn't feel those sneaky touches baby."
"shut up! you never let me touch them any other time- stop doing that!"
she started flexing her muscles in all the poses she could think of, pulling cocky faces to elicit a laugh from you as you shoved her stomach lightly to get her to stop, the croatian laughing with you. you shared a sweet kiss before she picked you up, wrapping your legs around her waist and bringing you to your shared bed before setting you down on the edge.
"what you needin'? food, water, a bath?"
she listed options of aftercare as she kneeled down in between your legs, relishing in the way your hands tangled into her hair when she peppered kisses along your naked form.
"just need you niks."
"you sure?"
"m'sure."
you pulled her up with a smile as you got comfortable on the bed, pushing into her arms when she opened them for you and ensuring your bodies were as close as possible whilst you drifted off into sleep together, no doubt going to dream about finally marrying the love of your life.
#nika muhl#nika mühl#nika mühl x reader#nika muhl x reader#nika muhl smut#nika mühl smut#uconn wbb#uconn huskies#uconn women’s basketball#seattle storm#seattle storm wbb#wnba#wbb#womens basketball
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meet me in the city where we won't sleep
javier peña x f!reader | main masterlist
summary: home: a place where we feel most comfortable, loved, and protected — where we most feel at home. except javi, who has returned from colombia and feels his home is living miles away.
wordcount: 9k (i'm so sorry)warnings: childhood best friend!javi. flirting. 18+ - although just a little smutty with fingers. brief mention of drunkenness years ago. emotions (ugh) and feelings (yuk) and idiots who just don't wanna confess things but really should. javi calls you flor and you call him a pineapple. alternating times.
an: originally started for april showers, it's taken me an age to get this done because i wanted it to be perfect. i really hope it is. the biggest thank you to @thetriumphantpanda who read all of this and gave me a gold star. it would have stayed in my drafts if not for you. thank you to @rhoorl for checking my spanish.
It would have been cliche to say he fell for you in a field of bluebonnets—your dress white, face glum, hands ripping up blooms from the soil that you clutched in your hand.
Lost, aimless, both in the blue of the petals and in your thoughts as you continued to yank stems up and bring bunches to your nose, unaware of him watching from the tree. His legs swung, and a smile slid into one cheek as the leaves rustled above in the warm breeze.
It took a while before you noticed him, practically half a field’s worth in your hands, hands wound around them as your dress swished at your ankles.
“What do you want, Piña?”
He supposed, for kids, that was an insult.
“What you doing in my field, Flor?”
Javi didn’t know your name then. Now he struggled to go a minute without thinking it.
Sitting still hadn’t seemed a possibility in the days since he’d been back.
And then, that’s all he’d done for the last eight hours before he was greeted by rain.
It’s relentless, an onslaught that blurs the world into a watery haze. The kind that soaks through every layer of clothing like a challenge; the type that drips from everything, making pools in the streets and turning them into dark mirrors, reflecting the grey and full clouds from above.
Not that Javi cares.
If anything, he likes it. Finds it cleansing, like the world is being washed clean, even if he knows how untrue that actually is as his eyes follow a bead rushes across the glass of the cab.
The driver has been mumbling about the weather for the entire journey—a thing he’s barely listened to since he’d recommended waiting for a break in the weather. It was likely they just didn’t wish to drop him where he’d described, rather hoping Javi would opt for someplace warmer, most likely smokier, so that he could call it a day too.
Javi doesn't do that now—smoking, that is.
Hasn’t done since he left that apartment that never felt like his, in a city that he’d spent years in that never felt like home. Threw them in the trashcan before his Pop had picked him up, craved and wanted all the way through dinner. He’d done it once, he’d do it again.
When the cab screeches to a halt, he pays, steps out (bag in hand) and spots the phone booth all in one fluid motion. It’s barely lit, front weathered by time and neglect. Smirk curling into his cheek as he remembers you telling him about it—that on cloudless days you can see it, likes to make stories about it as you enjoy a meal-for-one or crunches down cereal.
It hadn’t been a thing he’d thought much about.
Then, it was all he had thought about.
Standing there, making a story that could become real. A gesture, kind and deserving of someone who had put up with his shit since they were children. You’d always liked those big moments in the movies—his eyes glancing over at you, finding yours big, wide and shimmering with tears that wish to glide down your cheek.
Although, that had been well over a decade ago—the two of you had remained in touch, close, or as much as he could allow. Your visit to Colombia had still felt like the sunniest day, a bright spot in a sea of dark; a day that coloured his world in shades he hadn’t known existed, that dulled the moment he’d had to bid farewell at the airport.
It hadn’t been safe for you to do another, pleading in fact to not risk it. A thing, he suspects, is not a thing he’s been easily forgiven for.
He supposes it’s why he hasn’t told you he was coming. The flight had been booked, bag packed—fingers tapping, soul hoping you wouldn’t turn him away once he’d gotten here. To the phone box over the bridge from your place—the one obscured from view by the downpour that seemed never-ending.
Because, as soon as two weeks had racked up at him being home, he found himself itching to move, to be somewhere other than surrounded by fields and the watchful stare of his Pop. Parental worry a hard thing to hide from in a home washed in memories.
Sliding open the door, cramming himself into the booth, Javi had no concern about remembering your number. It was burned into him, etched into him with a blunt tool—almost studied, committed to memory while he ticked over godfathers and the weight of right and wrong.
He remembers when you’d changed it, when your voice informed him of the move, the chance—all excited tone, a pitch closer to a squeak than your voice: no more roommates, just me, myself and I.
He also remembers the ember inside of him pleased that Tom joined the underserving list, slid under Mia and Rich as you informed him you were single again.
Sliding quarters in, finger punching the numbers—he hopes you’re home. A niggling feeling threatens to unwind inside of him as the tone drills into his skull—attempts to drown out the rain rapping against the glass booth he’s standing in.
“Hello?”
“Flor?”
It kisses his ear, your snort. Light. Sweet. “Javier Piña, what do you want?”
You sound like you did in Colombia. Having half-expected the crackle meeting his ear to be down to the distance, rather than your shoddy home phone.
Pressing the receiver to his head, a smile there—desperate to flow out across his lips and exhausted face, he moves it back. “Tal vez te extrañé.”
“Mierda. I don’t believe you.”
Even amidst the noise of passing cars and the relentless drumming of raindrops, he catches the melody of your laughter—a symphony of joy that unravels a part of his soul. It releases it, unlocks it, beckons it to be free—metaphorically makes him release his shoulders, and take a breath. The part of him hidden away, floods back through him—no longer fearful of being taken, clawed or wormed from him as he handed other parts of himself to the job, the task, the goal.
Not you, though. Javi would never surrender you.
A pocket of sunshine he’d kept close to him like your chicken-scratch letters and your tipsy phone calls when he’d caught you coming in after a night with friends.
“Where are you, Piña?”
Wiping his mouth with his thumb, he pauses. Traces his index along the hair growing above his lip, glancing out through the rain-smeared glass, the one cracked in places. Not sure if any of the lights on the other side are hers, but lingering on each just in case.
“In a phone booth on a bridge…”
He hears you swallow, loud, almost difficult.
“…right across from your place.”
“Shut the fuck up.” Smirking, teeth nibbling at his bottom lip. “Are you lying to me?”
Smirking, he stares out again. “No.”
Because he couldn’t, not if he tried. Not just because you see through it, but because it wounds him to do so. Picks at him, and makes him bleed in ways that don’t ruin him in scarlet.
“Give me five minutes.”
The call ends before he can get in a bye.
The receiver placed back, bag straps cutting into his palms again as he exits, the heavens lashing against him as he slowly walks. Taking his time. Nervousness bubbling like a broth inside of him with each step, coming up to the top curve of the bridge, trying to look up, spot you—
Then he does.
Running, coat billowing behind—flapping in the wind as it breaks out over your face: that smile. The one that lit fires inside of him, the one first doing so at the time his bedroom at home had its last lick of paint, it now peeling, cracked.
Dropping his bag, Javi isn’t sure whether to brace or not—taking three more steps forward before you collide with him. Arms around him, chest to chest, your wet cheek sliding past his as your soaked clothes marry to his.
It would be odd to say it felt like home hugging you, but it does. It feels right, safe—a piece completing him as he digs his chin into your head.
“You smell the same,” you muffle into his chest.
Javi smiles, knowing the bottle on his dresser is the one from his younger years. Sun-ruined and likely faded, yet managing to linger on his skin enough to cause recollection.
Pushing past lilies, excusing himself through swarms of bodies adorned in black fabric, Javi found you sitting cross-legged between two tall stands of flowers.
Your eyes were puffy—red, swollen—and your dress was as black as his suit; your fingers were balled around a single lily and a scrunched-up tissue, the skirt of your dress skated over your bent knees.
“What d-do you want, Piña?”
But it didn’t land with the tone he had come to know.
Instead, he extended a hand you thankfully took, pulling you up from the ground before he opened his arms—letting you move in, slot yourself between them as they enveloped you close.
Letting his best friend fall apart at the back of the church, your sobs vibrated against his bones and his chin rested on your head as he whispered he had you, over and over again.
A thing you repaid when his mother passed a few years later.
Talking had always been a skill—unless he had to discuss feelings.
It wasn’t that it was easy to lie, or that he found the idea of feeling difficult—if anything, it was as though he felt too much. Guilt. Affection. Righteousness. Protection. Each one a little harder to carry, to wear.
More so around you. The walls had to be tighter, or they’d crumble into ruin, the dust spilling all his secrets before he’d confess whatever wasn’t already written over his face. But, you don’t needle him—instead, you make him a plate from leftovers, tell him about some gossip your mom had informed you of, until you offer him your shower, your sofa and bid him goodnight.
“You’ll be here in the morning?”
“Not going anywhere.”
Lingering in the doorway to your bedroom, fingers playing the piano on the wood. “You’ve said that before.”
He knows he has.
It rises up in him like a storm, whipping around his organs, making his chest tighten as he lies down in comfort but stares up at the unfamiliar. He can hear the rain, how it pitters and patters—how it likely streams down the windows behind your curtains.
He should find it odd that he'd rather fall asleep here, than in his bed back where he grew up. A strange solace in the unknown here, a quiet surrender to the whispers he usually has to hear when the night comes.
But, they're not here.
At some stage, he must sleep, before he wakes to the scent of coffee and soft sunshine. His ears catch the sound of you calling in sick—a cough, a put-on voice, one all removed when you throw a throw cushion at him and ask him what he wants for breakfast.
That’s how he finds his knee kissing yours under the small table as your spoon scoops cereal before letting it drop back into the bowl. Just like when you were kids. Just like when you were all excitable, too in a rush to sit for a moment, stomach likely fluttering with agitation.
“You keep staring.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Flor.”
The thing is, you’re not wrong.
Each time he has a second, he lingers—gazes. Metaphorically pinching himself as he forgoes digging a nail into his skin under the cuff of his shirt, just to make sure he isn’t dreaming. A thing he finds he’s doing now, after a night of laughing until you couldn’t keep your eyes open and a full day of exploring, you walk a little ahead before spinning on your heel to smile at him.
“I have to show you my favourite place—before you go.”
He hates that there’s an end date on this. Bought himself a few days of normal, before returning to something that feels anything but.
Scratching his jaw, brows raised and eyes wide. “You’ve replaced our spot?”
Rolling your eyes, you take his hand—fingers slotting, palm pressing against his. For a moment, a reflex, he thinks of pulling away. Thinking of what else sat as perfectly in his palm as you—a thing that took, but never gave. A thing that he held more than he had ever held a woman.
“My favourite place here.”
He expects a lot of things, maybe flowers, maybe a bar, but he finds himself inside a bookshop. One with floor-to-ceiling shelves, dark wood, the large window letting in light that barely reaches the back. He supposes it’s good they have a chandelier, one that sparkles, shines—like it’s as well maintained as the shelves.
“Books?”
“Books.”
Your finger prodding into him, facing him, body fully twisted. That smile there, the one which slides into one of your cheeks and makes his eyes flick from it to your eyes and then back.
It’s there when you turn on your heel down an aisle, it remaining when he follows—when he hovers close, so easily able to pin you, cage you in between his palms.
“Which do you recommend?”
Shooting him a look, you trail your finger over spines, over the shelf they sit on. “Didn't know you could read?”
“Funny.”
Grinning, you pull on one, handing it to him. His eyes take it in, the cover, the name, the author.
“I think you’ll like the characters,” you explain, eyes lighting up as you lean. “They're flawed but resilient.”
Chewing his cheek, he swallows. Listening, hearing you read the blurb after you lift the book in his hands so you can read it, word for word as he focuses on you. Noticing the way your eyes shine when talking about something you love, the way one of your hands begins to move as you describe the plot, and the characters. Realising, that he could listen to you talk about anything all day.
“You should read it,” you suggest, as he flips through the pages. Having never been much of a reader, time being a factor, his job has been the reason.
“Alright,” he nods, tucking the book under his arm. “I'll read it.”
Your smile brightens even more if that's possible.
“Chucho is gonna be so shocked when I tell him you bought a book.”
Frowning, he follows you, leading him down another aisle. “You talk to my pop?”
Shrugging, like it’s nothing. Like the words that are about to tumble out of your mouth don’t matter like they won’t stitch themselves to him and make him feel like pulling you to his chest.
“I check in—make sure he’s okay. Done it weekly since you left the first time.”
His face falls, descends slowly. He feels it—watches you take it in as yours slowly mirrors him. And, even if he’s been thinking it, it bubbling at the back of his throat, he finds himself unable to stuff it back down—to shove it between other regrets and unsaid words.
“I’ve really missed you.”
Each word lands, your eyes widening as your nose does a little twitch as they do, before you whisper, resting against the edge of a bookcase, “I’ve missed you too.”
Sat on the rock, the sound of a car door slamming disturbed the peace. Not needing to look, knowing that gait, that little kick of the ground as you stopped in front of him.
Hand shielding your eyes from the sun, flower tucked behind your ear.
“Hello, Flor.”
“Piña. Heard you were cursing Laredo.”
Smirking, you sat next to him, nudging him over. The two perched on a rock overlooking part of the city—as his head turned but his eyes stared at you from the corner of them.
“I give it a month and someone else will do something bad enough that people cross the street.”
Swallowing, he exhaled. “Thanks.”
“Did you love her?”
Turning his head, staring at you—eyes flicking from yours to a place on your face he shouldn’t look. “Not enough to marry her.”
“Then you did the right thing.”
A thing he only believed when your hand slid over his, hooking your little finger over his.
“It’s because you’re in love with me, isn’t it?”
Snorting, head shaking, your words washed back over him and he broke into a laugh. “Shut up, Flor.”
Nudging him, taking the flower from your hair and handing it to him. “It’s okay if you do, I know I’m a catch.”
He's embarrassed that it isn't until the second day that Javi finds the chance to really admire your place.
How it’s exactly what he imagined. So very you, all cosy, muted, with spots of colour. Plants and throw cushions, blankets and wicker baskets stuffed with things he suspects you have no recollection of.
What catches his eyes are the photographs, the memories frozen in time around your walls and on shelves. His eyes sweep over them, in a trance still from the scent of your perfume mixing with vanilla from a lit candle.
Each time he sweeps his sight over, he spots new things, remembering brief conversations, smirking to himself until his eyes land on a frame that makes his mouth part and his heart clench.
Him and you; you and him. Sunglasses far too big for your face, staring up at him as he beams at the camera. The backdrop of his ranch, his home, the one he so often left behind like it hadn’t mattered.
Done it weekly since you left the first time.
The words roll around his head now. All metal and round, bouncing against other thoughts, trying to dig his heels into the present and not wonder about what kind of calls you make—whether they’d be about him, whether you’d confess things you’d never admit to him.
Your clanging around is what pulls him to the present. The bangs of cupboards and pans clattering as he stares at it—as he notices how different his build is, how many years have passed. The occasional cursing from you is a rather nice anchor that keeps him in the present.
“Flor?” He waits until he hears you hum. “Order in again, I’ll pay.”
It’s here within the hour.
A favourite, you had told him. A quick apology that you’ll be messier than last night, that you’re dying of hunger. He reminds you he doesn’t care. Not as you slide the triangle slice out, the tip kissing your chin before it’s absorbed by your mouth, sauce lingering on your lips—dust from the crust resting on your nose.
He’s not sure what’s better, the taste of the pizza or the sight of watching you. Having the chance to watch you.
“So I have to ask.”
Grumbling, he pulls at the topping on his slice. “Here we fucking go.”
“Did you like the tie I sent you?”
Half-scowling, swallowing the mouthful of pizza—recalling the box on his desk, atop files and paperwork with a note attached: One down, three to go. Written in that same handwriting he could spot in a lineup—the one he had wished there and then would be etched into him, a mark left, a thing he could brush his thumb over when his heart ached and he felt lost.
“I was disappointed not to see you photographed in it.”
“You knew damn well I wasn’t going to wear a fucking pineapple tie to a press conference.”
Pouting, you smirk. Picking at another slice, staring up at him from the floor, all cross-legged. “Thought you might have for me.”
It’s there, ebbing—words that feel far more intimate than they should—crystallising, burning upon his tongue.
I’d do anything for you.
It’s there, unwritten, pulsating and breathing in the space between you and him, existing, never diminished. Memories where it’s been all but similar rising like lava, singeing him, threatening to burn away the walls he throws up for the sake of friendship.
Because he knows what people think. Saw it hung in his pop’s eyes at his Tia’s wedding when you came as a guest, an uninvited plus one that was welcomed like you were already part of the family. Heard it, in the wind between the grass before he’d left the first time, a farewell outdoor thing, your parents crestfallen, as though they’d assumed—like he imagined a lot of them—the two of you would have figured it out by now.
Watching you stand, hand outstretched for his plate, you take it with a smile. A shout of two options for drinks, an unsurprising one chosen by him—it bubbling in the glass when you hand it to him, settling in beside him.
“Not sure I told you, but you have a nice couch.”
“Most expensive thing in this place—probably better than my own bed,” you smirk, sipping your drink. Head rolling towards him, brows raised, eyes that bit wider. “So, are you okay?”
You’re the only one who could ask and get a reply, he supposes. Those same words were said to him a handful of times, down the phone from Murphy, over the table from Pop, even on aisles of the supermarket when he’d been staring between brands he hadn’t heard of.
“I gave you a day to tell me, and since you won’t, I’m gonna ask. Are you okay, Javier Peña?” you continue, body shifting, thigh pressing against his—heat radiating from between yours to his. “Because you’re methodical. You’re not… get on a plane and fly to a different city just because.”
“You not happy I’m here?”
Grinning, all teeth—it reaching and hanging in your eyes. “Los más felices. But, are you?”
Yes. It’s all he thinks.
Chewing his tongue, his eyes drop to his soda because he’s unsure how to say that. Not as he watches the bubbles float up and burst—the song that had been playing coming to a stop, allowing the rain to play an interval against your windows.
It doesn’t make sense, in some ways: how he’s kept you—been able to keep you close. Somehow not ruined you, twisted this thing between the two of you, made it rot, sullied it with disappointment and selfishness.
“I am now,” he replies.
Good, you breathe. Letting it sit, simmer. Paper over any cracks as your eyes sparkle and remain fixed on him, tracing him as though not completely sure he’s real.
That is, until you grab the remote, excitedly telling him about the night of television they have ahead of them. A blanket, at some stage, finds itself over him, you nestling into his side—like when they were teens before the world became a problem and narcos were all he hunted.
For a while, you catch him up, explain plots and characters. Then, you fall silent, brows crinkled in concentration. His eyes slide to the side to watch, to spot the little things you do as she settles in closer, brings your legs up, and rests almost all of yourself against him.
Between one show and another, he feels the rhythm of your breathing change, your body relaxing further against him. He glances down and finds your eyes closed, features soft and serene in sleep. Realisation dawns on him—you’ve fallen asleep. His heart does a slow tumble in his chest, a wave of warmth spreading through him. All of a sudden aware of the gentle weight of you against his side, the way your hand is loosely holding onto him. He watches, just for a moment, taking in the sight of you, so peaceful and trusting in your sleep. This moment is so intimate, so precious, he wants to freeze it in time.
What else is a guy like you gonna do…
This, he thinks. Looking at you, asleep, peaceful—curled into his side, fingers around his forearm.
Smiling, he takes the remote from your fingers, turning the volume down as he gets more comfortable—pressing a soft kiss to your hairline.
He carried a single red rose down the side of your house—nudging open the window the rest of the way, climbing in like he had done years ago.
He didn’t need eyes, didn’t fancy having to explain to his parents how he could do that to that nice girl and her family. Javi had faced enough judgement, enough stares.
The only eyes he wanted were staring at him, remaining so as he stepped close and handed you the flower with the thorns picked free. “Come with me.”
Sighing, eyes averting, you swallowed loudly in the thick quietness. “You don’t want that. Your best friend following you.”
Eyes flicking up to meet his, you took another deep breath. Fingers flexed at your side, weight shifting from one foot to the other before you exhaled—louder than before.
“I don’t want to follow you, best friend.”
Then don’t be just that, he thought, thumb swiping over the tips of his fingers as he hovered, waited. Then he took a step closer, and another. The gap closed, becoming shorter and shorter—
“What are you doing, Piña?”
“Kissing you.”
Lips pursing, trying not to smirk, you took the rose and put it on your dresser. “Don’t feel your lips on mine, Javier.”
And then he kissed you, his fingers clutching at your jaw—body pressed against yours, tasting your whine, your moan.
He felt your fingers clutch at his shirt as he told you to be quiet.
Laid you on your bed of flowers, knees digging into stitched roses and sunflowers, as you arched off the bed when his fingers slid between your thighs—like he wished he’d done a handful of times before now.
He’s not sure of the time when he wakes, but it’s dark.
A contentedness in his bones that doesn’t fade as he begins to blink, as he takes in his surroundings and remembers where he is. Feeling you, warm, pressed as close against him as humanly possible. Able to see the outline of you, before his eyes manage to paint the rest, how his knee has slotted between your legs—bodies a mess of limbs that takes him back to years ago.
Javi notices how the television is switched off as you try to move, to wiggle and escape. His shirt discarded, the cool air misting over him, pebbling his skin as he slides his arm around you, pinning you tighter to him.
Brain all addled with dreams and sleep, as his awakening state tries to remind him what he’s doing.
What door he’s trying to open all over again.
“Javi…”
Not Piña, Peña or Javier. Javi, all soft and whispery, like honey dripping into his ear as he turns his head to find your stare in the dark. Somehow finding it shimmering, fixed, more than awake.
Then you whisper his name again, and it’s heavenly, a piece of it anyway. A sound he realises he’s missed more than he cares to find words to describe as he hears you push out a breath—fingers finding his arm, stroking, sliding their warmth up and down the muscle of his arm as he swallows.
It’s slow, hand cupping your cheek as he shifts his body, and finds yours moves with him. The beginning of a partner dance, one it feels you’ve both practised in small spaces but never actually have as he slides his lips over yours. Moulds them to yours. Tasting faint mint on your tongue when you deepen it—when you pay attention, listen, taking each cue you give him from the movement of your mouth to the way your hands grasp at him to come closer.
A whimper tries to break through, to escape through messy kisses and tangled bodies, but it vibrates through him. Makes him shudder with how much he wants you, moving your knee, hooking it over his hip as he slots his waist between your thighs and you gasp at the feel of him flush against you.
Practically whine.
Nose brushing your cheek, palm flat, fingers spreading out over your hip as he feels you roll your body into him, he smiles—breathy, teeth nipping at his bottom lip. “Forgot how soft you are.”
You hum, head-turning, mouth latching itself back to his.
“Forgot how good of a kisser you are.”
Snorting, he lightly bites your lower lip. “Best remind you then.”
“Best do,” you whisper, pulling him by his hair back to your mouth.
You write a poem against his lips, signing it with your tongue against his as his fingers snake under the band of your sleep shorts, tasting your moan, your hiss and whimper when he touches you like he’s wanted to since he landed back in the States.
When two fingers slide slowly inside of you, curling, the sound of his name is like a fucking sin he wants to be draped in, wrapped in, even dressed in. Him seeking, searching, finding that spot that has your legs opening for him, nails scraping against his scalp.
“More, Javi. Please—”
“You’re so tight, Flor,” he croons, burying the words in your neck, the tip of his tongue swiping over your collarbone as you grab a handful of his hair. “Feel so good around my fingers.”
Your hips writhe, roll them against his hand, gasping. Making a mess, dripping, practically gushing over his hand, as he fights pulling his hand free and getting a taste.
“Be better—dios mio—around your cock—”
Smirking, teeth nipping at your neck, “I remember.”
Head lifting, thankful the night sky is clear, that the moon is draping you in a slither of milky light so he’s able to see your eyes flutter shut. Able to witness what his fingers do to you, the effects of their teasing and the languid movements as he finds that angle, the one which makes you grind against his palm, and has your chest heaving.
He moans your name against your tongue, drinking down a blend of pleases falling from your swollen lips as he plunges deeper, walls squeezing him.
There he thinks, lips pressing kisses to your shoulder, as you dig your nails further into his scalp, tensing, bearing down on him to the point he hopes you’ll leave a mark, leave a cut, a signature of this moment he can run his fingers over.
“Kiss me,” you gasp, all wrapped in desperation as you pull at his shoulder.
His mouth only just pressing to yours when your cry buries against his tongue, when you flutter and arch as he continues to work you through it. His name breaks through messy kisses, it escaping effortlessly like it doesn’t wish to be buried anymore.
You don’t let him pull away, hooking one leg around him. Watching, not able to take your eyes from him as he retracts his hand—as he licks your pleasure from his fingers and you stare with a twinkle in your eye.
“You best fuck me now.”
Smirking, a low laugh escaping. “Yeah? Want me that bad, Flor?”
Lifting onto your elbows, he waits for a taunt, a tease—something that’ll bring him down a peg or two. What he finds, instead, is your fingers slowly crawling up his bare chest, around his neck, your chin tilted up.
“I need you, Javi. Need you to fuck me.”
“Yeah?”
“And then I wanna get on top,” you whisper, dragging each syllable out, “and fuck you until the sun comes up.”
“Murphy is a nice guy.”
Eyes narrowing, he shot you a glare—watching as you shimmied your jacket from your shoulders. Bare arms, bare legs—except for the thin tank and shorts adorning your body—that had him thinking un-best friend things.
“You jealous, Piña?”
“Of a married guy? Fuck no.”
Grinning, you moved closer—boxing him in. Staring into his eyes, in a way that made him feel like he was being seen, read, and admired all at once. “Is that because you left a bite mark on my hip?”
Tracing his fingers along your neck, he felt himself smile. That flutter in his chest again, the one which had appeared one day when the two of you were teens and hadn’t gone away since.
“Ask me to stay,” you whispered, hands on either side of him—all boxed in. “Ask me, Javi.”
Running his tongue over the front of his teeth, he raised a hand, knuckles brushing over your cheek. Wanting nothing more. A week gone too quickly. Already feeling the pressure slip back over his muscles, seeping into his bones. But he knew. He pictured it, the things he had nightmares over—even when you were far away, never mind when you were asleep in the room next to his.
“Too dangerous.”
“That it? I can learn—”
“No.”
“No?”
He stared. Thought of the things he had done. The people he had already let down. The things he had let happen to people who deserved far better. It layering, and layering, and layering and—
Nodding, disappointment spread, before it was washed over in acceptance. “What’re we eating?”
When he wakes, he expects to find you dressed in corporate and apologising in a voice that’s accompanied by a pout at the foot of your bed. The place the two of you found yourself on at 4 am.
Instead, you fake another performance. Earn an Oscar over the phone before switching to the excitable one you present to him when you sit at the foot of the bed.
There’s something there. It hangs in your eyes. A secret, a thing shifted and dislodged now your mask has slipped from the few hours of sleep and the ruining of your sheets.
But he doesn’t ask, because if he does, he fears he’d tell you things in return. Alter the way you see him. Change it, taint it. Practically ruin the man you think he went to be and the one he's returned as.
It'll hurt him if you look at him with disgust. You’ve burnt him after all, left him winded, air knocked from his lungs each time he’s laughed. All but imprinted into his mind, a thing never filed but rather pinned up and forever there, like artwork on a fridge.
“Wanna get a coffee?”
Hands pulling on a pair of jeans, buttoning them as he sees the peaks of your nipples through your white tee. And he knows your face is bare and you're dressed in clothes you just pulled out without thought—yet, you are, as always, the prettiest damn thing he’s ever seen.
A thing he thinks when he showers.
When he smiles as he scrubs the shampoo into his hair, feels the soreness at parts from where your nails had dug in. He doesn't stop beaming when he smears his palm across the glass, takes in his appearance as you open the door, a towel hung low on his hips, eyes dropping down.
“Now who's staring, hermosa.”
“Don’t be a work of art to be admired then.”
He dresses in record time, your hand swinging beside his, so within reach, so easy to grab. But he doesn’t.
None of last night mentioned, even if he knows he’s left bruises on your inner thighs from keeping them apart; even if you've left scratch marks on his shoulders from when you sunk down on him, head thrown back, jaw elongated as he rolled your nipples between his fingers.
Javi doesn't even mention it when he hears you gasp at the taste of your coffee, a noise similar to when he'd licked a stripe up your pussy, when he tasted both you and him.
It was just like in Colombia.
A thing buried, hidden underneath other topics the two of you don’t discuss. Dead parents and a town you both ran from. A thing he almost wants to change, correct, but then you stop outside a flower shop.
The sign battered, peeling. Hidden between two nicer shops, yet the scent made his nose twitch.
“You should buy me flowers.”
“Should I?”
Smirking, teeth biting your lip. “Por lo de anoche.”
Head shaking, he finds himself following anyway. Unable to stop his eyes from falling to the back pocket you shove your phone in, hand reaching, palm pressing to the globe of your ass as he hears the muffled sound of a giggle—
“Piña.”
“Flor,” he whispers, practically breathes it against your neck.
The bubble expands, knowing at some point it’ll pop. Too happy, he thinks. Too settled for a man who has a solo flight back. It’s why he drops his hand, lets you move further in, watching as you scan over already-made bouquets for one he knows you won’t find.
Because they don’t know you. Not like him. There’s not years between you and this shop—this place.
His fingers lightly roll over a stem, staring at the flower, before he has pulled it free from the bucket, and then another, and then another. Not at all a florist—or someone artistic enough to make a bunch—but a person who at least knows you. Knows that in each of the pre-made bundles there’s a flower you dislike, one that’ll remind you of something, someone.
“Here.”
You blink, eyes widening as they move from the bunch in his hand to his face. “Javi…”
“There your—”
“Favourites,” you finish, eye narrowing, lips still parted. “You remembered all my favourites?”
Shrugging, aware of how close he is to real—to something that could shatter, break. A thing he’ll do, just give it time. Feeling it wrap its tendrils around his chest, around his heart, squeezing and squeezing until your hand slips in his. Palm to palm, fingers finding their way between his slowly, cautiously, your eyes not leaving his face as you do.
“Didn’t know my pussy was good enough for flowers, Piña,” you comment, voice low, a smirk there.
“You deserve more than flowers.”
“I’m that good?”
Shaking his head, hand still in yours, he presses a kiss to your forehead, swallowing. “Siempre has sido.”
“Hello?”
He heard the hiccup, the slur of his name as he smirked against the phone—finger and thumb massaging his forehead as he heard you hiccup again. “Flor?”
“Piña, did you know that I miss you?”
Adjusting the tie around his neck, staring down at the pineapples—the box open, atop a bunch of files, in the office he should have been thankful for. “You sound like you’ve had a good night.”
You howled, the laugh all high-pitched. “Maybe I have—maybe I haven’t. What I do know is that I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“No. I love you.”
Smirking, thumb tracing an outline of one of the pineapples. “You’re drunk.”
“Still love you.”
Swallowing, he let out a heavy exhale.
“You doing okay, mi Piña?”
He wasn’t sure how to answer, how to respond. Head tilting back in his office chair, the ice melted in his whiskey and the hour so late he wondered why you were still up as you extended his nickname out into as many syllables as you could.
“I am now—okay, I mean.”
It needs to be left alone.
He knows it. Reminds himself of it when it rears its head at every second he doesn't. Because, it doesn't need to be needled, or picked at until it bled.
But, Javi picks at it all the same when you avoid his question again.
His hand slides over his face, index finger tracing a line down his nose as he waits until your laugh fades. Your fork twists the spaghetti round and round, and when it falls, it simply lands on the table between the two of you—the air tinged with the scent of dinner and the flowers from the shop.
“When were you going to tell me you hate your job?”
Your smile shrinks, like the sunlight being muted by the night. Spine straightening, chin lifting. The walls coming down both literally and figuratively, seeing you prepare for war when he’s army-less and unafraid.
“Si significo algo para ti, no lo hagas.”
He snorts, resting on his arm, letting the sheets fall to his waist. Because of course, he cares, and of course, he wants to do this. Balling up the hand beside his hip, seeing the murkiness in your eyes, the joy snuffed out and hidden, as though the hatchets were coming down to protect against his storm.
Javi says your name, softly, honeyed—delicately drip-feeding the air each letter until it’s out there existing.
One by one, it happens. Your eyes avert, chin dipping down; your tongue drags across the front of your teeth and then your arms fold. “I hate my job. Happy? I wanted it so bad—and now I have it, I hate it. I hate going in, I hate doing it. I can’t tell anyone that because it’s all I wanted.”
“It’s okay.”
Snorting, fake smile sketching across your face as your eyes harden to the point they’re brittle. “It isn’t. I left. I turned my back and got as far out of there as I could, and now I’m stuck.”
It breaks him a little.
Seeing it then, the many shards inside of you that you’re trying to keep whole. The pieces that are so worn and tired from doing their best to fit, but struggling to do so.
It’s why he protests that you’re not. He tries to rationalise and says the same words he knows you’d say to him if he called—if he had told you the truth about everything when he was over there. He tries to add kindness to his words as you continue to stare at him like you wish your bed would swallow him whole.
“—You’re saying this like I didn’t say the same thing to you, and you went and did another five years.”
“That’s different.”
“Why?” you spit, standing now, finger pointing and nose flared. “Because your job means more?—”
“No, because I’m a fucking idiot, Flor. You’re not.”
You mutter under your breath, curse him—a blend of poisonous Spanglish that has the heel of his palm pressing against his forehead.
Because it’s like last time.
The words surge up inside of him—except you’re both older now, both carrying more pain and hurt from a world that continues to pile on when bones are already struggling. Walls threw up, keeping him out in all the same ways—except now his mess is also between your thighs, and you aren’t half as good at hiding how his words hurt you.
“Come home with me.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
Folding your arms, your head shaking. “I can stick it out—work my way up, it’ll get better—”
“You know it won’t. Know how well that went for me.”
Then you scoff. It blended with razors and sharpened to injure. “No, I don’t. Because you don’t talk about what happened.”
“You read about it.”
“But that’s not your story, Javi. That’s theirs.”
For a moment, he sees it. How hollow you look, how weak, sad and broken. So he repeats it, the request, the offer. Come home with me. But the door shuts, locks, a bolt thrown over.
And everything, all of it, splinters; it doing so before your mouth even opens and he sees what his request has done.
“I’m not coming home just because you’ve decided you want to play happy fucking families, Peña. The world doesn’t stop turning just because you’ve decided to run away, and it doesn’t begin turning again because you’ve come home and decided what you want.”
“That isn’t—”
“You left. You left me.”
“—Flor—”
“—and I asked you to let me stay—when I knew you were hurting. I asked and you said no—”
He whispers your name, broken—like it shatters the moment it greets the air.
“—I wasn’t good enough then. So why am I now?”
Shaking his head, legs flung from under your sheets, he stands—aware he’s half-naked, aware this isn’t the time as you step back.
You shake your head, tears dangling, resistant to fall. “I bet you’re not even staying.”
“I am—”
Head tilting, a crystal tear falling down your cheek, you scoff. Loud. Brutal. “Have you even unpacked? Or did you just get on a plane here?”
Swallowing, Javi rolls his jaw. Fingers flexing at his side, staring, urging himself to find words as his tongue thickens in his mouth. Because he’s staying, he’s staying, he’s staying—
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Flor—”
“Save it.”
The door of your bedroom slamming behind you is the final sound that echoes out between you both.
It was different.
Hearing you cry down the phone—than when the two of you were younger.
When your first love broke your heart and he lay beside you on sheets covered in stitched flowers. Your head turned to him, the bedroom door open, as you teased your lip between your teeth. The tears had dried, but the rest had still been there, written in markers across your face as you sighed, staring, waiting for him to answer. “What do you want, Piña?” you’d asked, and he’d swallowed that he wanted to punch them.
Now, though, there were miles between the two of you. Distance far more than there had ever been—cities, a whole country.
“I’ll be home soon—can visit you.”
He heard you laugh, it hanging, echoing. “Yeah, yeah.”
“I mean it.”
“You mean a lot of things, Javi.”
“Flor—”
“I wish you'd never kissed me.”
It's a whisper, the way he said your name. It cracked, snapping as it left his tongue.
“I should go shower, early morning and all that.”
He asked you to stay and he heard you sigh.
“What do you want, Piña?”
Swallowing, Javi tapped his fist on the desk—tiredness having crept over him, the last ditch at doing right in Colombia suspended over him. Tell me I’m doing good, that it's worth losing you, Flor. “Have a good day, Flor.”
It’s weeks.
Eight weeks and four days to be exact.
At some point, it becomes less of a want to get in touch and more of a need not to. Your number is always there on his fingers, but his digits never dialling it when his Pop nips out to go to the store, and he’s left alone with his thoughts and memories in a house stuffed full of them.
Javi doesn’t expect anything else.
Having woke that next morning to find a note attached to the book he had bought: Had to go to work. Have a safe flight. Speak soon—a thing he both hoped and prayed for, even as he nursed a drink on the short flight and chain-smoked at the airport before he did the drive home.
Home.
A thing it felt even less of when he arrived this final time. Pulling his truck into its place, dust swirled and kicked up around him. Staring at the house that hasn’t changed much, just the paint thinning, the sun-dyeing it.
Each day that ticks by, he thinks of you. Each week that’s collected, he fights with himself when he’s sat alone at the dining table about flying back out and apologising.
Because he knows what he did.
Did the same thing back then—assumed and foolishly acted as though your wants never mattered. But they do matter. A thing he rehearses in his head when he’s feeding the animals; a thing he runs over when he’s repairing a door here or a fence there.
One week adds up, then another, and another.
If his Pop thinks things, he doesn’t share them. Just shakes his head occasionally, not asking what is wrong, likely knowing. Suspecting he wears it like the rest of his shame, brightly coloured and decorated in bright lights.
A fool’s outfit, he thinks. A thing he is, a thing he knows. It carved into him at this point. Scratched into the skin and muscle, yet everyone else sees the word hero.
It’s eight weeks and four days when the door of the party opens, the sun streaming in—illuminating the back of a person in a dress adorned with flowers. It takes a second, the condensation on his beer dripping down his wrist as he stares, trying to place the shape and the style of the hair. Not wanting to imagine, not wanting to jump ahead of himself until he hears your mom say your name, all excitable—practically a shriek.
He’s not prepared.
Yet, it’s out of habit he moves.
Like the two of you are magnets, that realised they were supposed to be a pair. The music doesn’t quiet, and the room doesn’t hold its breath, but Javi does—and he suspects you do too.
Just as time comes to a slow stop—the hand in his watch takes an age to flick to the next second as his heart hammers into his ribs. Staring, fingers itching to reach out and ensure you’re not something he’s fabricated, not a mirage from wanting so badly and convincing himself he’d never have it.
“Hi.”
“Hello, Piña.”
It weighs heavy then—clots on his tongue. Almost shapes itself into bile and rests horridly against his tongue as he follows you around, hand close to reaching out to place on your lower back, but stops when he remembers where he is.
Home.
A thing it all of a sudden feels like when you turn your head, lift your chin and stare at him—eyes full of forgiveness, and understanding. “We should talk, right?”
Right, he thinks. Trying to stop the twist in his chest from tightening, trying to stop the dread from filling him and drowning from within. Conversations never go well. A thing he thinks over, and over as his hand strokes over his face, following, one foot after the other, until the warm sun kisses his skin and he finds himself leaning against the side of the building.
“I didn’t come for you.”
He says nothing, not sure if there are any to say.
“I quit. Moved back a week and a bit ago—” your hand comes up to halt him, half-pleading with a tilt and a raise of your eyes. “—and I needed to find things for me, first.”
Folding his arms, he stretches his legs, lets himself elongate, and tries to fill his lungs with air.
“Because I’d have resented you for being right.” Your chin dips, eyes following. “A thing I would do, because you, Javier Peña, know me. And sometimes I really hate that.”
Exhaling, he finds you do the same. Head tilting, lips rolling as you take him in, trace him with your eyes as though you can't quite believe he's real.
“Did you know that every person I’ve been with, it gets to a point where I think ‘Fuck, Javi wouldn’t do this to me’?” Meeting his gaze, you exhale. “And then, no matter how much I felt for them, it goes.”
“Flor…”
Swallowing, you offer the smallest smile. “It’s never gone for you, though. Not when you left. Not when you came back, and left again. Not eight weeks ago when I should have asked you to stay.”
Tongue sticking, flat against the roof his mouth, he grabs your hand—holds it. Runs his thumb over the knuckles as you avert your eyes.
“I live in Laredo now, further north. Did you know I’m so good at what I do, people seek me out?” you say, beaming, letting him pull you closer. “Think they’d have cloned me you if I’d asked for it.”
Dragging his knuckles down your cheek, he’s unable to stop the way it flares up in him—that joy, that ember of happiness—when you smile.
“Because I don’t think I find the idea of being yours that terrible—”
“That so?”
Shaking your head, fingers playing with the buttons on his shirt, he watches your smile falter—just for a moment. “Don’t do this, if you’re going to up and leave again, Javi. Because I’d have died happily not telling you what I feel for you.”
“Not doing it again to you.”
“Okay. Then,” you sigh, sliding your arms around his neck, his hands finding a home on your waist. “Well, I guess I should tell you that I really like your moustache.”
“Just really like?” he teases, swaying you as you purse your lips together.
“Fine. I love it.”
Smiling, walking you back until your back meets the wooden railings. “I love that you love it.”
Rolling your eyes, forehead meeting his chest, he feels the laugh roll through you. Rumbling.
“You owe me flowers.”
Snorting, he rests his chin on your head. “I’ll buy you a field, Flor.”
“That’s a good start.”
Thought so, he thinks. Wrapping his arms around you, keeping your head against him, rocking you, like he's wished to do so many times before now.
Home now feeling right.
#javier pena x reader#javi peña x reader#javier pena fanfiction#javier pena x you#javier peña x f!reader#javier peña x reader#javier peña fanfiction#javier peña smut#javier pena smut#javi peña smut#narcos x reader#narcos fanfiction#pedro pascal characters
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humanities TA here — can you say more about creating a culture of trust and organically catching AI use in the classroom??
yeah! so I really fucking hate programs like turnitin or whatever other plagiarism or AI detectors are out there because 1) they would imply that I don’t trust my students, 2) they’re not at all accurate at actually detecting plagiarism/AI [turnitin literally says on the website that it’s not a plagiarism detector, it just finds similarities] and 3) if people are going to plagiarize and I’m checking for that with turnitin or something it’s easy to plagiarize in a way that flies under that radar.
instead of using something like that, I design my assignments to have frequent low-stakes progress markers (in-class drafting, frequent peer review, revision plans, extra credit for visiting the writing center, conferences with me, etc). this prevents the kind of plagiarism/AI usage that comes from just sitting down and copying published work/plugging something into chatgpt right before it’s due, because the writing process is built into the course in a way where you cannot just write (or plagiarize) the whole thing the night before or whatever and still get a good grade in the class.
I also offer no-questions-asked extensions and opportunities for revision, so students won’t feel like they have plagiarism as their only option to submit something on time. in addition, the frequent feedback opportunities from both me and from their classmates or writing center tutors helps students feel more confident in their writing and helps to work out the issues students run into as they’re writing, so there’s less incentive to plagiarize out of worry that they’re not good writers, because they know they have a bunch of avenues where they can ask for help on areas they’re having trouble with. the in-class work, drafts, conferences, and revision plans also help me get a solid sense of my students’ writing styles, so it’s pretty easy to tell when something’s not in their own words — when I’m seeing at least a paragraph or two from every student every week, I can get a good sense for who they are as writers. also, my first assignment is a personal narrative, to foreground that I want to actually know who my students are as people and how they think about their writing rather than seeing them as just as bodies in a classroom. through all of this they (hopefully!) get a sense that I/their peers want to hear what they have to say about their topics
I also have a policy where if I don’t see changes from rough draft to final draft or if I spot plagiarism or something AI-generated, my first step is to send it back to students for revision before giving them a grade, so if I do have an instance of plagiarism or AI usage, I give students a second chance before taking it up to the office of academic integrity (fwiw I have literally not ever had to take something to academic integrity, because 9 times out of 10 any plagiarism I’ve noted is accidental from incorrect citation, and the other 10% would much rather go back and redo the assignment than get a zero and potentially get a mark on their transcript for plagiarism)
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Two Sides of the Same Coin | Prologue
Pairing: Regina George x fem!reader
Summary: After a nobody destroys the Jocks and insults the Queen Bee without a care or an apology, you get catapulted to the top of the social food chain next to aforementioned Queen Bee, Regina George, who now has to learn to share the spotlight with North Shore’s new bad girl. | Or alternatively, your ‘don’t give a fuck’ attitude sucks you and Regina into each other’s worlds sending you down a path you never expected.
Contents: mentions of violence
Note: This fic has been sitting in my drafts since like the end of February and it’s undergone several changes since then and I’ve got several ideas for this fic. This is just an intro chapter so it’s pretty light right now but please keep an eye on the contents because there are plans for this story to include potentially triggering topics as we go on.
— — — —
A reputation is the beliefs that are generally held about a person.
In high school, reputations are the most important thing about a person. The better your reputation, the better your high school years will be; the better your reputation, the more popularity you’ll have.
The best reputations means the most popularity, and the most popularity means the best reputations.
The best reputations, however, do not always belong to the best people.
Take Regina George, for example.
She’s the Queen of North Shore High — everyone knows who she is, everyone loves her, everyone wants to be associated with her in some way, everyone wants her to like them — but she is far from a good person.
She’s a mean girl, and she’s proud of it too.
She’s at the very top of the social food chain. She’s the peak of the social hierarchy and everyone else, even her fellow Plastics, fall below her lest they want their secrets revealed and their social life ruined.
It’s about power for her and there’s nothing Regina likes more than having power over people.
Unfortunately for Regina, you exist.
The girl with no secrets.
You don’t hide anything about yourself. You’re loud and proud about who you are and it pisses Regina off because that means she has no power over you; nothing to hold over your head and make you bow to her with. Sure she could make something up about you, but she prefers there to be a hint of truth in the rumors she spreads to ensure her dominance, and she can’t do that with you if you’re an open book.
But what pisses Regina off most is that you have no friends, no acquaintances, you don’t talk to anyone unless you have to; you’re basically a loner and yet, despite Regina not wanting to acknowledge it, you’re at the top of the food chain with her.
And she hates it.
You should be at the bottom, you should be below the art freaks, you should be an easy target of bullying by the jocks or her or anyone really, because that’s just how high school works - the lesser get bullied by the higher, but you don’t take shit from anybody; not from the jocks, evident by the way you leave several star players battered and bruised after they put their hands on you, and definitely not from her — evident by the way she insults you one day ( the same day you beat up the jocks ) and you insult her right back without looking at her, without any hesitation, and all while still walking to your class which leaves the whole school stunned.
Regina is pissed about it and lashes out at people for the rest of the day, but there’s also a piece of her that’s intrigued by you which pisses her off even more, and when Regina is pissed it becomes everyone else’s problem.
Except yours because you don’t care and anyone who tries to make it your problem, anyone who tries to make you apologize and “fall in line”, ends up like the jocks.
This is what cements everything in place.
This is the day The North Shore Menace is born.
#regina george x reader#regina george#mean girls 2024#regina george x fem!reader#regina x fem!reader#regina george 2024#regina george x female reader
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⠀ ︶︶ ˚ ᡴꪫ Is it Casual Now?
⊹ Details. 18+ minors dni, gn!afab!reader, unhealthy relationship with your ex, slightly toxic and ooc kazuha, ex sex, jealousy, miscommunication, reader and kazuha are bad for each other, dubious consent due to alcohol consumption, fingering, oral sex, unprotected sex, all hurt no comfort, ill time loved confessions.
⊹ Run time. 6.6k
⊹ Note. This has been rotting in my drafts since january so enjoy! <3
The frigid evening air prickles your skin as you push through the throngs of sweat dabbled bodies toward the backdoor. Beneath your boot clad feet, the worn wood of the porch groans in agony as you shuffle onto it. You vaguely register the frantic call of your name before the door slips shut behind you. It must have been one of your friends, the ones who dragged you away from your laptop and insisted that you spend some time outside your bedroom.
A gust of cold air ripples through your blouse, leaving a trail of raised flesh in its wake but you don’t have it in you to shiver in response.
The weight which presses down upon your chest dulls any other sensations, numbing you to the chill and wet drizzle that seeps through the stagnant air. A sigh passes your lips as you plop down to sit on the stairs that lead out to the backyard. The slick layer of days past rain soaks into your jeans from the porch wood.
Slipping your phone out from your back pocket, you slide your thumb upward until the blank screen lights up. Two smiling faces look back at you in mockery, reminding you that while you sat alone, submerged in the dark of night, he was inside with his arm wrapped around someone else. Scoffing at your phone, the thought to toss it into the abyss that was a stranger's backyard crosses your mind. Tucking it between your thighs, you squash the urge before your ill conceived judgement gets the better and you condemn yourself to an evening of searching fruitlessly in the dark.
Jealousy bubbles in your stomach, uncomfortably stirring inside you the longer you sit in silence.
Your phone vibrates and with a wet sniff, you have half a mind to check it.
It’s him.
You don’t have to look to know that it’s him, texting you in earnest after your disappearing act. Guilt makes its home alongside the jealousy. You’re lucky you don’t keel over and die with the weight of discomfort that crushes your windpipe. It was supposed to be easy, casual even. There was nothing casual about the tinge of red that coated your vision as your gaze swept across the living room and landed onto your very comfortably perched ex boyfriend. You supposed this was your punishment for believing that the two of you could remain friends after your very amicable breakup.
Though, you never considered that one day, Kazuha Kaedehara would no longer be yours. It was a rather startling realisation that being broken up meant the tether which bound the two of you together would eventually fray. It was inevitable. The visits with your family would end, he’d stop coming over late at night to join you as you walked your dog, Tofu, and the amount of hour-long phone calls would dwindle to a text once a year on your birthday. It’d be weird otherwise to be tethered to another yet so entangled with a past lover. Most of your friends already considered it strange, how close you and he remained, it would just be bizarre if he moved on whilst you remained stranded at an impasse of whether or not you still loved him. Of course, you did. You loved him the way you loved your very best friends. That would never change, it couldn’t. Kazuha was far too endearing a man to ever be incapable of loving, but, did you love him the same way you did before?
You think you might.
You might have still been in love with him.
But, that was unfair.
The breakup was as amicable as breakups can be. You were in different places in life– Kazuha was too much of a free spirit, and you were too firmly rooted in the garden you planted your dreams in. Things shouldn’t have worked for as long as they did, you were both grateful that they did but you both knew you were better off as friends. So why, did you feel as though your guts were to spill across the back porch the longer you thought of him and her.
Casual, your friendship was supposed to be casual.
That was the promise you and he made to one another. It was rather laughable to think either you or he could do casual. Even without the mountain of history between you, there was nothing you despised more than casual. You wanted all or nothing. And Kazuha liked devotion. He was hopelessly devoted to you and only you. Casual was not a word in either of your vocabularies. But he told you that he couldn’t imagine his life without you in it, so you promised. No attachments, no emotions, no romance, none of the things that made a relationship complicated.
And those rare nights where you and he caved into your carnal desires? Well, by morning you’d wipe the memories of skin rubbing against skin in the blanket of night where it belonged. Sex with your ex wasn’t casual. Kissing your ex like your very existence depended on the passage of air between you and he, surely wasn’t either.
Tossing your head back, you release a curse towards the sky. The moon in its omnipotent glory mockingly gleams back at you in silence. Reminding you that this web which twisted around your heart was of your own design.
“Stupid,” you murmur, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes, “I am so stupid.”
“And just what makes you say that?”
Stifling the urge to turn around, your shoulders slump at the voice you know all too well.
“I thought we agreed you weren’t allowed to talk down to yourself,” Kazuha says, slipping into the space next to you. His knees knock against yours as he settles on the staircase,“So what’s going on? Why’d you disappear, did something happen?”
The concern that laces his voice makes you nauseous. You didn’t feel like you deserved it.
Your finger nails dig into the splintering wood of the porch, “I just needed some air, it was getting stuffy in there,” you shrug your shoulders in nonchalance as if it would banish the rigidity that forced your body stiff, “I’m fine, seriously, you should go back inside. Wouldn’t want anyone to miss you.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
Kazuha laughs a bit to disguise his confusion.
“You hate the cold,” he states, turning to look at you, “You hate it even more than you hate the dark, so why should I believe that you’d willingly come sit out here alone in the cold, dark, night.”
Between his nimble fingers sits a clear plastic cup. It’s filled to the brim with ice and something pink coloured. If you had to guess it was strawberry lemonade, your favourite. Kazuha nudges your elbow with his, offering the cup to you. Wordlessly you take it, swirling it around before taking a small sip and offering him a smile of thanks.
The juice is tangy on your tongue, a bit too bitter than you typically preferred but it's easier to gulp down the lemonade than to explain your irrationality. The frosty condensation numbs your fingers but if you put the cup down you’d forget it later. Staring into the remaining drops of lemonade and melting ice cubes you will your demeanour to be as cool as your beverage. It’s quite the lame attempt. You’ve always worn your heart on your sleeve, even if Kazuha didn’t know you at all, he’d still be able to read each delicate emotion that crossed your face.
Shrugging your shoulders, you steel your gaze on the sway branches of the tree across the yard, “Yoimiya, Hu Tao, and Xinyan forced me to come out tonight,” you say, allowing yourself a frown, “I’m tired and don’t want to be here, okay?”
You look over your shoulder, peering at Kazuha through your lashes. He remains unconvinced though he knows all too well of the moods you occasionally slipped into. Somehow able to deduce the root of your evasiveness by the way your lip quivers in shame, Kazuha releases a sigh. You don’t have to see his expression to know he’s disappointed. Sometimes you wish he didn’t care as much, that he could be the awful, evil, ex-boyfriend who treated you like garbage so that you could move on or maybe even hate him. Then, maybe lying to him didn’t have to feel like twisting a knife between your rib cage.
“Grab your coat, I’ll drive you home,” he says, his voice soft and barely above a whisper, “I’ll tell your friends that I convinced you to leave so we could talk.”
His hand slips from his lap to rest on your knee, his fingers slipping into the small hole in your jeans to touch your bare skin with his. Giving your flesh a squeeze, Kazuha offers you a small smile.
“No thanks.”
Your fingers twitch against the porch, itching to move away his hand. You enjoy the warmth of his touch far more than you should. If you didn’t peel away from him soon, you’d lean in and accept his out, ignoring the stinging bile that lined your throat.
“You’ll be missed,” You stutter out, turning your body away from him, “ And I wouldn’t want to get in the way of you and your date.”
Kazuha cocks his head to the side, “Date? What are you talking about?” He questions, his face marred by confusion, “I came here with- Are you talking about Beidou?”
“If that's the name of the girl you were cosying up with on the sofa, then yes that’s who I’m talking about.”
Your elbow digs into the tender flesh of your thigh as you rest your chin in the palm of your hand, pouting like a petulant child. Kazuha laughs a bit, smacking his hand over his mouth with a guilty expression when your head whips around to stare at him. You blink in shock as he giggles behind his palm.
“Oh, so you think it’s funny?” You probe with a roll of your eyes, “Haha, I’m jealous!”
Pushing his hand away from your leg, you release a watery huff, “No, no …” he murmurs, shifting closer so he could cup your cheeks, “Don’t cry, I’m not laughing at you, it’s just …”
The sincerity in his vermillion eyes makes you feel worse. You feel the tears that quickly pooled in your eyes drip down your waterline and wet your cheeks. Kazuha’s calloused thumb is quick to brush them away. His hands warm the frigid skin of your face that’s nearly gone numb.
“Just what?” You whine, exasperated.
Kazuha chews on his bottom lip, appearing hesitant, “It’s just that … Not only is Beidou just a friend but … she’s a lesbian,” he winces, waiting for the groan of embarrassment that tears through your chest, “She gets extra affectionate when drunk and her girlfriend was in the bathroom so we cuddled a bit, platonically of course!”
Burrowing your face into your arms, you let out a garbled noise of distress.
“Gods, I’m so stupid!”
You feel his hand press against the small of your back, rubbing a smoothing circle into your skin, “You’re not stupid,” he says, shifting close enough for you to feel his breath blow across your lips, “Honestly, I think it was kinda cute how worked up you got.”
“Kazuha,” you say his name in warning.
He doesn’t retreat to offer you space or remove his hand. Wispy strands that have fallen from his ponytail tickle your face as he rests his chin atop your head. Being held in his embrace worsen the self loathing that churns in your gut but, what’s worse is the contentment that stirs within you the longer you allow Kazuha to comfort you.
“I didn’t mean anything by it!” he says in reassurance but there’s something laced between his words that tell you he isn’t being entirely truthful.
“It’s fine,” you huff, leaning into him, “Who wouldn’t relish knowing their ex was jealous while they moved on.”
Kazuha’s fingers snake under the fabric of your shirt, gently stroking your bare skin. You rest your hand on his thigh, your nails press into the seams as you use him to ground yourself. Casual, things with Kazuha were supposed to be casual. His lips brush the crown of your head in a quick kiss. Was this casual? Was seeking comfort and reassurance that you were still his one and only as inconsequential as you told yourself it was?
“I don’t enjoy seeing you hurt, you know this.”
The way he tenderly says your name makes your heart pang painfully. You’re awash with shame as you bury your face into the crook of his neck. Goosebumps erupt across his skin when you press your frost bitten nose to the underside of his jaw.
“Let me take you home,” he pleads, his nails digging into your spine as if to support the urgency in his voice.
You don’t trust yourself to speak, “Okay,” you whisper, clamping your lips shut to keep anything more from spilling out between them.
Kazuha keeps his hand firmly planted on the small of your back as the two of you stand. The plastic solo cup falls from your lap into the dark abyss of the unlit backyard. He reaches down to grab your phone from the step you abandoned it on, sliding it into your back pocket– where you always keep it. Brushing your bangs away from your eyes, you suck in a shaky breath and allow yourself to be led around the house. The sickly fluorescent yellow streetlights cast ghoulish shadows that mock you with each staggered step you take.
His 2007 cherry red Honda Civic sits across the street, the metal gleaming beneath the light. You haven’t been in his car since he drove you home after you broke up with him. It was the one strange boundary you’d managed to uphold. You and he spent far too much time in that rust bucket. From late night trips to the beach, to hour long drives into the country for an afternoon picnic, his car held as much memory as your hair did. That’s why you chopped it off in an effort to feel better after you spiralled into a tizzy of regret– after a year it was just starting to grow back.
The longer you stare, frozen in place with your feet glued to the sidewalk, you could almost see the image of you and him in the back seat. The glass foggy with a few hand prints here and there to further allude to what tangled the image of two bodies together. Turning your head to the side, you caught a glimpse into the house. The curtains were thrown open, the windows were cracked open to allow a sliver of crisp evening air inside. Beidou was still on the sofa, this time with a pretty blonde girl on her lap. Humiliation lapped at your heels, forcing you to turn back to the car.
“Ah, here we go!” Kazuha exclaimed, triumphantly holding up his car keys for you to see. It still sported the Pompurin keychain you gifted after your first month of dating. His car came to life with two clicks.
Forcing a tight smile to your lips, the two of you hurried across the street.
Kazuha’s touch slipped from you as he rounded to the passenger to open the door for you. Tears sting the corner of your eyes and discomfort curls around you like a second skin. He held every door open for you and pulled out every seat, he said it was the gentlemanly thing to do. His grandfather always held the door for his grandmother, his father did the same for his mother. In his eyes, it was the little things that kept love alive. Though, a grand gesture here and there didn’t hurt. That’s why he was always writing poetry with you at the centre of it.
Sliding into the seat, you quickly buckle yourself in. Your phone vibrates but you can’t bring yourself to check. It’d be far too mortifying to admit to your friends that you were going home with Kazuha, but you hated lying to them. They always wormed the truth out of you anyway. The car jostles as Kazuha shuts the door on his side, wasting no time in starting it up and fiddling with the controls. He opens your window less than a centimetre and turns the heat up high, just the way you like it.
“Thanks,” you murmur, resting your head against the glass of the window.
Kazuha rests his right hand on your thigh, it’s second nature at this point despite how long it’s been since you’ve last shared this space. You say nothing, instead you wait quietly for him to grip the gear stick. It’s a relief when his attention is placed upon pulling out from the curb. He’s wedged between two cars and has to grip the back of your seat to get a good look at the car behind him. Your eyes trail up the length of his forearm without your permission. They drink in the swirling verdant ink that disappears beneath his rolled up sleeve and pensively peer at the flexing tendons beneath his skin.
Forcing your gaze to your lap, you pick at the loose threads that gather at the rips in your jeans. Idle hands and idle minds never lead to anything good. They were what led to you on his living room floor, your clothing scattered, and your skin flushed with the remnants of the empty bottle of pink whitney that lay discarded on the coffee table. Your face grows hot and even the gust of cool air can’t stop you from squeezing your thighs together to alleviate the growing need that festered in your belly.
“How’s Tofu doing?” Kazuha asks, his eyes flickering to you as he pulls up to a stop sign, “He’s not missing his daddy too much is he?”
You hate the smile that tugs at your lips, “I’ve explained that you’re busy with work and you’re art, so I don’t think he’s missing you too much,” you remark, catching the slight roll of his eyes, “Samoyed’s are a smart breed, I’m certain he understood what I said!”
“And yet he still tries to chew on my shoes every time I come over.”
Kazuha laughs dryly with a shake of his head.
“I think he does that because you call yourself his daddy,” it feels easy to joke with him, too easy, to slip into a banter and forget the bundle of nerves that ate away at you. This was Kazuha, your Kazuha, even after all this time, he’d never hurt you, “You and I both know that Tofu’s favourite person is me!”
“Yeah, Yeah. I know.”
The car rolls to a stop in front of yet another sign. It lingers too long. You will yourself to take another peek at Kazuha. His head is lolled against the headrest. You think there’s a sense of longing in his eyes, a certain fondness reserved only for you.
“You’re my favourite person too, I guess Tofu and I have that in common.”
You swallow thickly, forcing your gaze away from him. It’s too much to bear. The tender lilt of his that weaves between his words makes your heart flutter like the betrayer it is.
“Don’t,” you whisper, “Just, stop it. Stop looking at me like that.”
His arm brushes against yours, he leans further over the centre consul. A few strands of his hair tickle your shoulder, when he sits this close you can smell the lingering scent of laundry detergent that clings to his clothes. It’s the one you bought for him. He even wears the cologne you like, the one he gave to you to keep for whenever you missed him.
The quick flash of high beams reflecting in the mirrors singeing your irises snaps you out of it. A car honks, urging Kazuha to keep driving. He offers an apologetic gesture to the other driver before lifting his foot from the brakes and slowly brambles away. The final stretch to your house is only a few minutes, soon your neighbour blurs into focus and you force yourself to figure out where your keys were. Patting your jeans, you search your shallow pockets. Your fingers curl around the My Melody keychain you attached to it. It matched Kazuha’s Pompurin, it was from the same blind bag series.
Your body careens forward as the car pulls to a stop in front of your house.
“Sorry!” Kazuha whispers, his skin pulled taunt over his tightened knuckles.
Flashing him a quick smile, you dismiss him with a wave of your hand, too intent on unbuckling yourself. Your feet haven’t quite caught up to your brain. Though you envision yourself quickly scurrying inside to drown your sorrows, your legs are as stiff and heavy as cement bricks. Kazuha taps his fingers along the steering wheel, his cheeks puffed out in discomfort.
“Do you wanna come inside for a drink?” You blurt, your eyes focused ahead on the cluster of trees gathered near the end of the street, “It’s the least I can do to thank you for getting me home safely.”
“No thanks needed.”
Your name dribbles off his tongue like mulled wine; warm and rich with all the emotion he keeps loosely concealed.
“Still, you should come in.”
You’re unsure why you offer again, or why you even offered the first time.
“Okay,” he agrees, quickly patting your knee.
The two of you slowly shuffle out of his car, it beeps twice when he locks it. You front door looms menacingly in the distance, “I left Tofu with my parents,” you note, your keys jingle loudly as they dangle between your trembling finger tips, “I was thinking of staying at Yoimiya’s, didn’t want him to be home alone for that long.”
Kazuha presses his hand to the small of your back as he falls into step with you, ushering you closer to your porch.
“I’ll have to stop by another time to see him then.”
You nod in agreement.
Causal.
This was casual.
And good manners. It was only polite to invite someone over to offer your thanks after they’ve done you a favour, that’s what your parents taught you.
A shiver trails down your spine at how utterly routine this display of domestic normalcy is. You toe off your shoes near the door, so does he. When you hang your keys on the hooks near your coat rack, he does the same as if he was coming home rather than visiting. It used to be his home too but it was easy to forget that you once shared space with him.
“I have a new bottle of sake,” you suggest as your sock covered feet carry you over to your kitchen.
The sage green cabinets you fling open was your first ever DIY project that you and Kazuha spent a month perfecting. The gold sun and moon knobs were beginning to tarnish. The image felt oddly apt as you pluck the set of sake cups Kazuha gifted you. They were a matching, hand painted set. He preferred the prussian blue while you favoured the ochre yellow.
Kazuha pilfers through the fridge the moment you pluck out cups and present them to him with a flourish. You leave him to his own devices in favour of settling down in your living room. Flicking on your faux fireplace, you anxiously sink into the carpeted floor. The warm burst of air that comes from the heater settles your nerves.
“Daiginjo?” Kazuha questions, you can see his head falling to the side in a tilt as he examines the bottle, “Haven’t had this in a while.”
You can’t remember why you bought it. The past few weeks have blurred together, you’re not sure when you had visited the liquor store. You must have been subconsciously missing Kazuha. Searching him out wherever you could, even if it meant buying his favourite kind of wine knowing you had no reason to drink it.
“You can take the rest home with you,” Kazuha’s knees brush against yours as he settles onto the floor next to you, “Consider it my thanks.”
Though he doesn’t chide you, Kazuha sends you a pointed look as he cracks open the bottle. Digging your nails into your carpet, you unabashedly stare as he takes his first sip. It’s slow– to savour the taste. His throat bobs when he swallows. You swallow too. Kazuha has always been good at savouring the taste and taking his time. His tongue darts out to lap up any wine that dibbled past the flat lip of the cup. A guttural groan sticks to the back of your throat, covering it with a cough, you down your cup of sake as if it were a shot of cheap tequila hastily poured into a plastic shot glass at a house party. You don’t wince as it burns. The sharp edge wakes you right up before the comforting warmth pulls you deeper into fantasy.
Kazuha pinches his brows together, “Have you already forgotten? Sake is supposed to be sipped.”
He speaks slowly and with the same stern lilt that he uses with his kindergarteners. Taking his cup, he presses it against your bottom lip. Slowly, he tilts the cup until a small dribble of wine hits your tongue. You wordlessly swallow it, blinking a bit as you search for something to say. Nothing in your rolodex of conversation starters seems suitable. Not with how your heart races like a gazelles after a close encounter with a much larger beast. Smoothing his thumb over the corner of your mouth, Kazuha cleans up whatever you didn’t swallow. You feel some of your lipstick smudging as he does so. You can see it on his thumb before he wraps his lips around the appendage.
“Kazuha …”
Tangling your fingers into your carpet, you try to focus on the pain of your nails awkwardly bending out of shape.
“Yes?”
“I-”
“I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately,” Kazuha smoothly cuts you off as if senses your lose for words, “Even penned a couple new poems about you.”
You don’t have to look at him to know he’s sliding his phone from his pocket to open up his notes app. Forcing your gaze over to your fireplace, you sigh, “This was a bad idea.”
Kazuha blinks in a pretty display of confusion. His long, thick lashes brush the tops of his cheeks as he peers at you from beneath his messy fringe. He tilts his phone screen towards you in a display of faux discretion, there's about a dozen poems with your name attached to him on his screen.
“Having another drink?” He asks though he knows exactly what you meant, “I’m inclined to agree with you but, I’ll sober up soon enough. So will you.”
“That’s not … That’s not what I meant,” you whisper, “You know what I meant, Kazuha.”
“I don’t get what you mean?”
Resting his cup on the coffee table, Kazuha watches you with an intensity that makes you squirm.
“We broke up for a reason, Kazuha,” you mutter, fixing your gaze on the mantle. There's a photo of you and Kazuha, your stomach rolls in discomfort, “We really should stop meeting like this.”
Resting his elbow on the coffee table behind him, Kazuha purses his lips, “So, do you want us to stop being friends?” He questions, his voice giving away how absurd he seemed to think you were being, “Or, do you want us to stop having sex?”
Both.
It was both.
Even if you stopped having sex, you’d still feel tethered to him. You still felt like his heart belonged between the palms of your hands, gently cradled and possessed– away from itching, nimble fingers that would shred it to bits. But, he wasn’t yours. Not your lover, not your play thing, and certainly not some possession for you to hoard like the greedy dragon you were. He was free to do whatever he pleased. The sooner you both realised it, the better it would be.
“I don’t know.”
You turn to him, your nerves set ablaze beneath your skin, popping like livewire as you sink your fingers into the flesh of his thighs. Your teeth dig into your bottom lip, gnawing away at the skin as you peer at Kazuha. He regards you with little apprehension. Rather, preening under your attention. His ruby colour eyes burn holes into your skin as he stares at you unabashedly, the flesh of his cheeks warmed by the sake. The urge to look away tugs at the sides of your skull as you remain firmly pinned beneath his gaze. A moan of discomfort flies past your lips. Your guilt’s begun to claw at your oesophagus and wishes to spill forth onto your carpet.
“We should get back together then,” he says, with a sly smile, “If you can’t decide what it is that you want.”
You find yourself nodding. The tension that lives in your jaw falls slack and your shoulders slump. It’s not the comforting warmth of sake or even the maroon light spilling onto your skin from your fireplace that answers for you. It was that selfish, pesky little string that kept you and him bound to one another.
“Okay,” you say, leaning closer until your breath begins to linger with his.
This is how it always went.
Your cold feet scared you. The thought of losing him in totality was frightening, far more than the bubble of jealousy that threatened to pop every now and then.
Slipping your hand around the slope of his neck, you brushed your lips against his. Kazuha chuckles beneath his breath, the tip of his nose bumping against yours as he captures your mouth in a kiss. Sake and whatever devilish concoction he’d been sipping on throughout the night lingers on his tongue. It’s sharp and biting. It opposes the inviting embrace you find yourself stumbling into. Kazuha’s hands are laid flat against your sternum, his fingers delicately pressing into your neck.
“So, you’ll be mine?” he asks, between open mouthed pecks to your lips, “Can you tell me you’re mine? I missed hearing you say it.”
Wanting rolls through your stomach, “I’m yours,” you croak, “All yours, only yours.”
“I’ve missed you, baby.”
He nips your bottom lip, tugging on the chapped flesh before planting a quick peck.
“I’m all yours too, you’re the only one for me.”
Kazuha places a lingering kiss on the apples of your cheek, slowly moving from right to left. His hair tickles your face from where it hangs in his eyes. His nose bumps against yours before Kazuha decides to nuzzle it against you. The affection makes your stomach flutter. It wants more, your skin craves more. It practically screams for Kazuha to give you more, to kiss you everywhere. His breath heaves as he giggles, he all but pinches your cheeks.
“You really are so cute,” Kazuha pronounces, his mouth brushing against yours, greedily invading your space, “You know that?”
Slipping your hands beneath the hem of his shirt with a whine, you bury your face in his neck, “Shut up,” you moan, pressing your frigid fingers into his balmy skin, “Just, stop talking and kiss me.”
He kisses the crown of your head and then your forehead before drifting down to your ear. His teeth graze against the flesh as he nips at the lobe. You shiver against his sturdy frame, burrowing further into his arms in need.
“Here?”
Kazuha whispers against the shell of your ear.
A small noise of discomfort sticks to your lips. He dips his head down, his mouth hot against your neck.
“Here?”
You shake your head. Taking his hand in yours, you slide it down your body and settle it between your legs. You can hardly feel him through the thick material of your jeans. Kazuha presses his thumb along the seam until it’s pulled taut against your cunt. Rocking your hips into his touch, you fumble around with your jeans until the top button flicks open.
“You’re closer,” you pant, guiding his hand to your waist band, “Touch me here.”
Kazuha grins, his nose nudging against the underside of your jaw. You tremble in anticipation, biting your lip to hold back the harried noise of want that gurgles up your throat and threatens to spill your guts all over your carpet. Skin sliding against skin makes your head spin pathetically. It enraptures your pitiful heart that silently cries for more. His fingertips slip beneath the band of your underwear and carefully graze the unruly thatch of curls that lead down to your cunt.
“Like this?” He asks, though he knows the answer.
He knows your body as well as he knows his. He knows what makes you tick and what makes you keen for more. He doesn’t have to ask if it feels good or how you want it but he does it anyway. You’d never call him smug but you think it lives inside him, burrowed deep down behind his sweet, docile, vermillion eyes, a smugness that enjoys watching you struggle to answer him.
Dipping down to collect some of your arousal, Kazuha uses it to help guide his fingers around your throbbing clit. His fingers are pushed firmly against the bud, drawing tight circles that have you whimpering into his neck. Pleasure thrums through you as he strums your strings with ease.
“Yes,” you moan, clutching the back of his neck. Most of his hair has escaped his ponytail and is entangled in your grasp. You nails bite into the back of his neck and tug on the root of his ashy blond hair as you grit out a quick, curse.
The throaty groans Kazuha lets reverberates against your ear lobe, “You’re so pretty,” he croons, adoration bleeding into his drawn out syllables, “So pretty, just for me.”
“Only for you.”
It’s been a month since you last hooked up with him. A month since the last time you came. Toys were a bleak substitute for the warm brush of desire between two people and the sweet sounds Kazuha made. You were left high and dry between the months you caved in to him and the months you kept yourself burrowed away. It builds quickly, embarrassingly so. But, he’s struck all the right chords to make you sing for him. Softly, as you cling to his shoulders and neck, your nails biting into his soft flesh.
You come undone with a startling quickness that fills you with a shy flush. Your chest heaving as a shudder wracks through your feeble body, “Kazuha,” you whine, your jaw nearly locking from how tightly it’s clenched.
Kazuha makes a show of peeling his hand out from your soiled underwear and slipping his fingers into his mouth with a moan.
“Always tastes so good,” he hums, his pink tongue lolling around his digits, “I want more, can I eat you out, honey?”
His forehead knocks against yours as he leans into you, “Yes,” you breathe with a shudder.
You lay flat against the carpeted floor without his asking. The fluid motion of your bodies moving in time with one another is yet another reminder of how much history occupies the space between you. Kazuha’s ravenous grasp swiftly peels your jeans and underwear from your body before you’ve blinked. His touch is searing hot along the length of your thighs and hips, his finger prints imprinted all over your skin as he works your legs open and slots between them. You bunch the fabric of your shirt up between your hands, your tendons nervously flexing beneath your skin. You rest between wanting to touch him, to feel the thrum of his heartbeat that swam along his veins, and keeping yourself curled inward like a pillbug.
“Pretty baby,” Kazuha hums, smoothing his lips along the length of your inner thigh.
Your belly stirs with an unnameable emotion. It’s something close to dread but it’s shrouded with the cloyingly sweet aroma of pleasure; easy to forget and even easier to drown oneself in.
“Please,” you whine, lifting your hips upward, “Touch me, Kazuha.”
His name is like lead on your tongue, your moans are light as a feather.
He blots an open mouthed kiss to your wet slit, his tongue lolling out to lap up your arousal. He too moans, finding some form of bliss in the way you squirm beneath him. Your nails prickle the sensitive skin of your stomach as you grasp at your shirt. Hissing out a curse, you press your eyes closed.
“Please,” you plead again.
Though, you’re unsure what it is you’re asking for.
Kazuha’s fingers pinch the fat of your hips between his hands, pinning you in place as he lavishes you with his tongue and mouth. His hot, heady pants of breath and salvia make a myriad of obscene sounds in his garish display. You wonder briefly if this is his way of conveying how much he misses you, misses this. Pouring all he can into your well and sucking it dry. How apt.
Still sensitive from earlier, your orgasm builds quickly from how he suckles on your puffy clit. Your spend is swallowed whole by Kazuha with a happily, content hum who rocks his crotch against the carpet for some semblance of stimulation.
He pulls off you with a wet pop. His lips and chin glistens in your essence. Kazuha looks too much like a smug kitten as he plops a sloppy kiss to your cheek, his hair tickling your neck.
“Will you fuck me?” You ask, snaking a hand down his torso.
“You want to?”
You nod, fumbling around with his belt until it comes undone with a soft clink. Kazuha is all over you. His cologne fills your senses as he nuzzles into you, you struggle not to choke on it. His skin tastes like all the stupid decisions you’ve ever made. But, you drag your tongue along his sternum, where his shirt falls open to expose his chest, and work your hand along the length of his stiff cock. His weepy head dribbles precum onto your hand and throbs as you firmly tug him.
“Do you want me to get a-”
You cut him off with a quick shake of your head, “It’s fine,” you whisper, pressing his cock closer to your cunt.
“You’re the only one I’ll ever love,” he confesses as he sinks into you, his mouth agape with pleasure as he stretches out your walls.
Tears prickle at the corner of your eyes but hopefully, Kazuha mistakes it for something else and not the weight that cracks open your chest. Pressing your face into his shoulder, you roughly dig your fingers into his torso.
His hips languidly rock into yours, he takes his pleasure in drawing out hiccupy whines from you.
Though, you don’t say it, you think you might feel the same. Kazuha might be the only one you ever love even if you didn’t admit to yourself or him.
It didn’t matter if you did, by morning, Kazuha Kaedehara would be as free as the breeze itself. The next time your loneliness and self loathing peeked, you’d be his once more. The cycle would continue on and on until one or both of you found someone else to fill the void.
Until then, it wasn’t so bad to be split open and meld into Kazuha, playing pretend at a relationship that no longer exists.
© all content belongs to dearbraus. do not modify, repost, or redistribute.
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#kazuha x reader#kazuha smut#genshin smut#kazuha kaedehara x reader#genshin x reader#genshin impact smut#kazuha x you#gi smut#gi x reader
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Amanda Rolins x reader (brief mentions of Amanda x Nick)
Warnings: language, alcohol consumption, it's hurt/comfort but mainly fluff, if that makes sense? LOL.
This has been sitting in the drafts for a very long time and I think was a tipsy idea while watching old svu ideas that got jotted down and then added to bit by bit. I'm not sure if I'm totally happy with it, but I was determined to finish it and this is what we're left with. Basically Amanda deserves all the proper love and affection. The end.
You’d had a thing for Amanda for a while, it started out as a physical attraction that morphed into friendship, someone you enjoyed spending time with, someone you didn’t mind getting trapped in a car on stakeouts with. You shared interests, had similar coffee tastes, were both dog people, preferred take out to cooking and could spend hours watching trashy reality television. All it took was one night at a bar with a few too many beers and a few of your favourite songs on the dance floor to lead to a hot and heavy make out session that ended tangled in the sheets of Amanda’s bed.
When it happened a second time she felt a little bad, letting you know that while she was being safe, you weren’t the only person she was sleeping with. In return you let out a small laugh, telling her that it was clear as day her and Nick had something going on and you had no concern if she was hooking up with him too. With that conversation out of the way you were free to continue on with your random casual nights together. Some nights you’d end up with Amanda, others you’d go home alone and sometimes you’d find your own fun elsewhere, there were no hard feelings or sense of jealousy between either of you.
You slowly watched as Amanada started to slip under Amaro’s charm spell, ever the girl who wanted to be the fixer, the problem solver, do it on her own big sister. As his parenting relationship with Maria got worse her desire to be the one to help him through it grew, wanting to be there when he needed someone, no matter what the context was. Some nights he wanted to drink, to vent, talk things through with someone who could stay somewhat neutral and not argue with everything he said. Some nights he wanted to just forget and those were the ones he always went to Amanda for. The deeper he sank, the more entangled she became and he pulled her right down with him.
When it came to your relationship with Amanda, you truly never cared, even if she was leaving your living room because he called. The night he showed up at Amanda’s when you were there you were the first one to pour him a drink and toss him a smoke, reminding him how much relationships can suck. You continued to be Amanda’s friend, trying to support her through the entire ordeal while she was giving Nick her all and letting herself derail in the process.
“Thanks for meeting me.” She huffed, sliding into the bar stool beside you and you could tell she was pissed.
“Don’t worry about it. What’s up?” You asked, sliding her a shot that she threw back faster than you’d expected.
“Fucking Nick.” She grumbled, signalling the bartender for another round, “I get that he’s going through it but isn’t he supposed to be arguing with Maria?”
“’Manda…” you cautiously warned, “is he taking this shit out on you now?”
“He’s not doing it on purpose.” She defended, “he’s just so fucking irritable now. Everything’s an argument, he either wants to drink in silence or fuck.”
“I think it might be time for you to step back, let him cope on his own.”
“No, it’s fine. He needs someone to talk to and I know I can get through to him, I just need a little bit longer, really get under his skin.”
“Then maybe try to do it without pushing all his buttons?” You offered and she rolled her eyes, only half offended.
“It’s the easiest way to get him actually talking, I thought maybe a different emotion would come through this time.”
“Just be careful okay. I don’t want you getting too deeply wrapped up in all this and then end up being the one licking her own wounds afterwards.”
“I’m a tough kid,” she shot you a grin, “I can handle it.” Her phone buzzed on the bar top and she let out a sigh, throwing back another shot of whiskey before scooping up the device, “duty calls.”
You watched her pick up the phone as she disappeared out of the bar and let out your own sigh, wondering if you were going to be down a friend by the time all of this sorted itself out.
Two months later and you didn’t have much left to wonder about as Nick was gone, leaving the squad to relocate across the country in LA with his new family. You’d watched Amanda when he made the announcement to the team but she didn’t even flinch, a soft smile on her face knowing that he would be happier out West. His last few weeks it was as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, the stress evaporating as he finally found where he truly belonged.
Amanda felt lighter too, that sense of having to consistently check in and make sure someone was okay floating away with the summer breeze. She was able to relax, get up early enough to spend her mornings running through the park with Frannie and finally catch up on all the reality tv she’d missed. And this time the evenings on your couch were free from any and all interruptions. She wasn’t sad, she knew that everything happened for a reason and that her situationship with Nick had an end date all along, but there was a part of her that missed her friend, her work partner and that was what you could feel floating off of her.
She hadn’t been mopey about it at all, but there was still a sense of melancholy in the air as the commercial break played. Your arm was strewn across the back of the couch, Amanda tucked into your side, letting out a little sigh as she relaxed deeper into the embrace. You instinctively pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head,
“You wanna talk?”
“No.” She mumbled back, “I’m fine, swear. Just been kinda moody recently, dunno why.”
“You’re allowed.” You replied, your arm squeezing her softly before your finger curled under her chin, tilting her face up to yours, “you want me to help you forget?”
“Yeah?” Her brow raised in your direction, a gleam in her eyes as her lips curved up into a grin, “what’ve you got in mind?”
“Well…” you leant down, pressing your lips to hers, your teeth nipping at her lower lip, smirking at the way her breath caught in her throat, “I was thinking for starters that I could fuck you so good you wouldn’t even remember he existed.”
Amanda laughed softly, catching your lips in another kiss, “I certainly like the sound of that.” It only took a moment before your tongue slipped into her mouth as you caged her into the couch, a hand already creeping under her shirt and the television (among other things) were long forgotten.
And just like that your sexual affair with Amanda was sparked right back up again, your relationship skyrocketing from barely seeing each other to spending practically every night tangled in each others bedsheets. Though there was something different this time, nothing was holding either of you back, there were no other outside players, you spent nearly all of your time together now. Partnered up at work meant your days were spent together, the pure carnal desire for sex meant nights were shared, and what was left was evenings to devour takeout on the couch while the tv played and coffee in the park with Frannie on weekend mornings. Amanda would often catch herself with a dopey smile on her cheeks while she watched just how comfortable you were in her home. How you treated it like your own, you never had to ask questions, you just new exactly where everything was. A warmth would bloom in her chest every time your hand found hers, glancing up to catch the soft smile on your cheeks before you’d make a kissy face in her direction.
Not only was she finally starting to feel whole again, she knew that the reason was you, that you were the one who had been making her whole all along. She wasn’t quite sure what real love felt like, but she was certain it had to feel something like this, you were always there for her, you supported her in whatever dreams she wanted to explore, you helped ground her when she needed to be brought back to earth. You made her inescapably happy and she was noticeably more relaxed and joyful whenever you were around. She couldn’t be totally sure without asking you, but she was pretty confident that you shared similar feelings by the way you’d let out a small laugh and you cheeks would tinge whenever she caught you staring at her.
Amanda wanted you, that was for certain, and she wanted a future with you, to face life together as a team, grow old with you and spend the rest of her life happier than she ever had expected. But she suddenly had a piece of baggage that was a very big deal breaker and that’s why her heart was pounding out of her chest when she finally summoned the courage to knock on your apartment door.
“Hey.” You greeted as you pulled the door open, “didn’t expect to see you tonight, it’s late.” You stepped back to let her into the apartment and Amanda felt frozen on her feet, completely unable to move as she let out a shuddering breath and you noticed the tears in her eyes. “Whoa, what’s going on? Are you okay?”
Amanda shrugged, flailing her hands as she did her best to keep her emotions inside, her lip quivering as it attempted to all spill out.
“C’mere.” Your voice was impeccably soft as you wrapped an arm around her shoulders, guiding her into the apartment and over to the couch. “You wanna drink? I’ve got an open bottle of pinot.”
She shook her head and you dropped down onto the couch beside her, your hand finding hers, linking your fingers as your thumb stroked across her knuckles. She took a minute, taking deep breaths to try and calm herself down and once she was sure she wasn’t about to burst into tears she finally looked up at you.
“I fucked up.” She admitted, a tear escaping to glide over her cheek. You were quick to reach out, wiping it away as you cupped her cheek, your thumb stroking soothingly. The tenderness made her heart swell even more and she let out a shaky sigh, “I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you and instead of having the balls to say it I screw it all up like I screw everything up.”
“Amanda…” you started softly, a warmth beaming from your eyes toward her as you squeezed at her hands, “you didn’t have to say it, and I doubt you’ve screwed anything up, just talk to me.”
“I want to be with you, this is so much more than just sex to me and that alone is scary enough.”
“It doesn’t have to be, because it’s always been more than just sex, we were both too nervous to admit it.”
Amanda sniffled, wiping away another tear, “fuck.”
“What’s going on Amanda? I adore you; I want to be with you too, I see a future with you, a future of us, I even referred to you as my girlfriend earlier this week so I don’t see what the problem is. We practically live together already and—”
“I’m pregnant.”
She had to get it out before you listed another ten reasons that you were perfect for her, that you would be perfect together, she couldn’t bear to hear all of that only to have you walk away in the end. She risked a glance up, her teary eyes meeting yours as your head tilted slightly.
“Oh. Okay,” your voice somehow got even softer, “have you thought about what you want to do?” You asked, your thumb continuing to soothingly brush over her knuckles.
Amanda took a breath, ducking her gaze, “I can’t just get rid of it, no matter how hard I try to think about it, that’s just not me and once it’s born I don’t think I’d be able to give a baby away.”
“Have you been to the doctor yet? My sister’s OB was fantastic, we could set up an appointment next week.” It was Amanda’s turn to look up at you with a quizzical expression on her face, watching as you glanced around your apartment, lower lip tugged into your mouth, “your place is bigger, extra bedroom and all, I’ll talk to my landlord about getting out of my lease.”
“Wait, what?” She asked and you looked back towards her.
“A newborn’s a lot of work, I’d want to be around as much as possible and like I said we practically live together already, why bother renting two places?”
“I’m confused…” she admitted with a small laugh, “I thought you were going to break up with me, not suggest moving in together.”
“Why would I break up with you?”
“You said you didn’t want kids…” She shrugged and it was your turn to let out a little laugh.
“So did you.” You squeezed at her hand, “but surprises happen and this can be a little happy one for us. I wasn’t adamant on not having kids, they just weren’t a big priority for me.”
Amanda chewed on her lip, her hands fidgeting in her lap as she tried to make sense of everything flying through her head at the moment, “but why change your mind for me?”
“I didn’t change my mind per say, life just presented me with an opportunity and I’m choosing to take it, because I want to, and I want to be with you, because I’m in love with you.”
“Really?” Her eyes were wide when she looked up at you and you giggled, the warm smile remaining on your cheeks.
“Of course I do, you doof. C’mere,” you tugged on her hand, effectively pulling her into your lap and she let out a little surprised squeal as her knees settled on either side of your legs. One of your arms wrapped around her, the other cupping her cheek, “you’ve always been my best friend, and I’ve always loved you like that. I’ll admit I was a little scared of falling in love with you another way and losing what we had, but it looks like that was the perfect thing to let myself do because I love what we have now, what we will have in the future.”
“I love you too.” She finally uttered the words and felt a weight lifted off her chest, a small smile breaking onto her cheeks and you leant up, kissing her softly. Amanda melted into you, her hands looping around your shoulders as your lips moved with grace together. You barely pulled away from the kiss, her forehead resting on yours as you kissed the tip of her nose and she let out a happy hum. “You make me so fucking happy, happier than I ever thought I could be, and I never thought I was gonna find something like that.” This time the tears blurring her eyes were ones of joy and they matched the ones forming in your eyes.
“And now you’ve got even more than that,” you smiled, “because we’re having a baby.”
“We’re having a baby.” She replied in a whisper, a smile etched permanently across her feature and she laughed softly as you stole another kiss. “Are you still gonna love me when I look like a beached whale?”
“Of course, I’ll even rub your feet and hand feed you grapes.”
“Promise?” She asked with a grin and you laughed, kissing her once more.
“Cross my heart.”
The warmth Amanda felt blooming through her was like nothing she’d ever felt before and she knew that in that moment she was exactly who she was meant to be, and exactly where she was meant to be. She knew she was safe, cared for, she had someone who had her back and always would, someone who loved her and truly meant it when they said it. She felt at peace, and most importantly, at home.
Because being anywhere with you meant she was home. You were her home, and that was all she needed.
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@mickey-gomez @hbkpop @bisexualcrowley @red1culous @imlike-so-gaydude @altsvu @lesbianspacecowboy @wannabe-fic-reader @gaylorrds @beccabarba @mysticfalls01 @alexbllake @infernumlilith @australiancarisi @wandas-wife @emskisworld @samwithnoplan @multifandomlesbianic @sia2raw @dxtery @anlin2058 @itisdoctortoyousir @alexxavicry @daddy-heather-dunbar @evilregal2002 @7thavenger @m00nkn1ghts @sapphicprentiss @geekyandgay98 @onmykneesformarvel @desperate-gay @kmc1989 @irishavengersassemble @noahrex @temp0rary-bliss @wittygutsy
#amanda rollins#amanda rollins x reader#law and order svu#svu#law and order#law and order special victims unit#home
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I may be a day or two early for wip wednesday but I absolutely need to know what happens next in ur time loop fic of Andrew
WIP Wednesday
part two my "aaron dies and now andrew is stuck in a time loop" fic (part one)
on ao3 I would tag this as "Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings" so if you need to know more because you think there might be something that could trigger you, let me know and I'll let you know
This would be chapter 2 out of four of my Andrew time loop fic
Again, this is a wip, a first draft. So keep that in mind.
Formatting is a bit weird because I copy pastes from docs
He feels frantic as he drives on now familiar roads, his thoughts swirling in his brain and bouncing inside his skulls, unable to tell where one begins and the other ends, unable to make sense of the nightmare that he has found himself trapped in. Cars race past him as his thoughts race in his brain, images of Aaron's cold and pale body flashing behind his eyelids every time he blinks, the coldness of his brother's hand and the stillness of his chest something that will never stop haunting him for as long as he lives.
“What? Is something wrong?” Aaron asks as soon as he picks up the phone, worry clear in his tired voice.
Andrew's breaths get lost in his lungs, unable to find their way out.
Aaron is alive.
Aaron is alive again.
“Andrew?”
“I'm going to stay with you for a while,” is everything that he manages to say, his voice quieter than he intends it to be, his hands squeezing the steering wheel until they turn white.
“What? Why? Did something happen?” Aaron asks and Andrew wants to scream at him.
“No,” he says. “I'm already on my way.”
“Andrew,” Aaron sighs. “For how long? Don't you have games and practice?”
“I hurt my wrist so I can't play for two weeks.”
“You can't stay with me. I have plans.”
“What plans?” he asks, wondering how many times Aaron has lied to them before, how many other times has he pretended to be busy while his only plan was that of getting high.
“With my friends.”
“You don't have friends. I'll be there in a few hours. Bye.”
He doesn't give Aaron any time to reply, any time to protest, before hanging up, Aaron's voice making his head spin, his blood boil.
He wants to hug his brother, he wants to feel his chest move, his heart beat, his blood flowing through his veins. He wants to touch Aaron's skin and feel nothing but warmth. He wants to look him in the eyes and see them shine.
He wants his brother to never be dead again.
♤♤
He sits outside of Aaron's locked door, the clock inside of his head ticking and ticking, each second that passes feeling like a lifetime spent in hell, wondering if the call is going to come anyways, wondering if Aaron is already dead. More than once he wants to drive back to the hospital where Aaron died, where Aaron will die. More than once he takes his phone out of his pocket and dials Aaron's number without ever calling him.
It's ten minutes past three in the afternoon when Andrew's phone rings where it's sitting on the floor by his side. Andrew's breath gets caught in his throat, his whole body tensing at the sound until his every muscle aches and screams, begging to be released, his heart pounding against his ribcage.
But when his eyes finally find the courage to look down at the bright screen by his side, it is Aaron's name that meets his eyes and not the hospital's number (a number that had now been printed inside of Andrew's brain and that he would never be able to forget.)
“What,” he says flatly as soon as he picks up the phone, his muscles still tense, his heart still racing.
“Are you really waiting for me?” Aaron asks in a tentative tone that Andrew can't decipher. Finally Andrew starts to relax, Aaron's quiet voice like sweet honey washing over him.
He hums in reply.
“I'm- I'm almost there. Wait for me,” Aaron says as the words rush out of his mouth and stumble all over each other.
“I've been waiting for almost two hours so you better be quick,” Andrew replies, unable to deny to himself just how much he longs to finally see his brother alive.
Andrew had long since learnt to keep his emotions trapped inside of his ribcage. Some would oftentimes run away from him, slip through the cracks, escape from their perfectly built prison: in the morning with Neil's peaceful face resting by his side, the brighg sun shining on him, his hair messy, his face puffy, a soft smile on his lips; in the night with Neil's flushed body under his, his warm hands gently placed on his shoulders, his soft moans filling the quiet room.
But it had been a long time since his emotions had come crashing against his chest, threatening to split his ribcage open, uncovering his most safely guarded secrets. He had forgotten how much it hurt, how raw and vulnerable it made him feel.
“Hey,” Aaron says breathlessly, breaking the silence and coming to stand in front of a motionless Andrew.
Andrew just stares at him blankly, taking notice of every single thing that is Aaron, of every aspect of him, every detail. Aaron looks tired, Andrew notices, his skin is pale, ink spilled under his bloodshot eyes but his pupils are normal, he looks rail-thin, his collar bones heavily pronounced.
Andrew says nothing as his brain reminds him of the list of “Common Physical Signs of Drug Usage” that he had read once on the library's computer when he was fifteen.
“You ambush me like this and you are not even going to say hi?” Aaron asks as he opens the door, but there is no strength in his voice, no malice in his words.
“Hi,” he says as he walks inside the now familiar house, his eyes falling back on the family picture displayed in the living room.
“Give me a second,” Aaron says before running inside his room and closing the door behind himself, probably trying to tidy up the mess that Andrew had already seen.
He sits on the couch, unable to come up with a plan of action, with a strategy. He had already asked Aaron before if he had relapsed and Aaron had denied it. Would he ever tell Andrew the truth if he asked?
“So,” Aaron says as he walks out of his room with a black trash bag. Andrew just looks at him. “Are you going to tell me why you decided to crash at my house for who knows how long?”
“Am I not allowed to want to spend some time with my dearest brother?” he asks with a sweet and ostensibly fake smile on his lips, trying not to think just how much truth was actually hidden in those words.
Aaron scoffs at him, “Sure, because you totally just wanted to spend some time with me,” he says and something in his voice makes Andrew pause. He just stares at him, his brows furrowed, trying to figure out something that he knows is standing right in front of him and yet he cannot seem to be able grasp.
There's a tense silence for a few seconds as Andrew just stares at his brother, at the way air fills his lungs, as the way his chest moves.
“Fine,” Aaron breaks first. He shakes his head and rolls his eyes, as if he's dealing with a troublesome kid. “Fine. You don't have to tell me now. Just- Are you okay? It's nothing bad, right?”
Andrew is taken aback by the concern in his voice before anger fills his vision. No nothing too bad, he wants to say. My own fucking brother died. No biggie.
“No, nothing too bad,” he says between clenched teeth.
♤♤
They spend the rest of the afternoon playing on Aaron's old PS2, the same one that he has owned longer than Andrew has known him. It was quiet and comfortable and Andrew could tell there was something else going on inside of his brother's mind, something that was clouding his brain, making his moves sloppy, his attention fragmented.
“Do you feel like you are going to relapse?” Andrew asks. “Don't lie to me.”
“Where does that even coming from? Fuck-” Aarons scoffs as he misses a jumps and falls down a cliff.
“Do you?”
“No? Not more than usual,” he says distractedly, his whole attention on the game in front of him.
You used today and you died, Andrew almost says. Stop fucking lying.
“If you feel like using again, just tell me,” is all that comes out of his mouth, his eyes landing on Aaron's focused face. “Promise.”
“Sure,” Aaron says, his eyes never leaving the TV screen.
“Promise,” he repeats loudly.
“I- I promise,” Aaron says, his eyes finally meeting Andrew's.
Andrew knows it won't be enough. Aaron had lied before and he would have no qualms in lying again, in breaking a promise. But he found it difficult to worry when Aaron was sitting right by his side, their shoulders brushing against each other, Aaron's warmth washing over him.
It's 7 pm when Andrew silently gets up from the couch and heads towards the kitchen with the intention of preparing them dinner.
“What the fuck Aaron.”
“What?” Aaron says from the living room, the sound of the game almost drowning his quiet voice.
“Why the fuck is you fridge completely empty?”
“Oh,” Aaron says, turning off the game.
Andrew waits for a second, then two, expecting to receive an actual reply from his brother but getting only silence in return.
“We can go grocery shopping tomorrow,” Andrew says, sitting back down on the couch, his hand grazing Aaron's shoulder. “Let's just order take out for today.”
Aaron nods as Andrew takes his phone out of his pocket to order take-out but notices a couple of unread messages from Neil.
To: 0 Neil:
I'm going to stay with Aaron for a while
From: 0 Neil:
is everything okay?
To: 0 Neil:
I'm here to figure it out
Dinner is quiet, just like the rest of the afternoon had been quiet. Aaron's gaze never leaves his food, his eyes unfocused, his mind full of thoughts that Andrew isn't able to read.
If only he could jump inside of Aaron's head and search through his brain, Andrew thinks, maybe then he would find the answers he's looking for, maybe then he would find the right questions.
He used to think of Aaron as someone easy to read, his goals and ambitions prosaic. He always thought he knew what Aaron wanted, what he longed for. Every action Aaron took and every comment he made used to be something Andrew could decipher and understand. And yet, now that he's standing in front of him, he wonders if he ever really knew Aaron at all, if this whole time he had been reading Aaron's signals all wrong.
“Why don't you have any friends?” he asks, his eyes scanning Aaron's face for a reaction, for a sign.
Aaron's pauses for a second, his eyes focused on his food, “Of course I have friends,” he says, his eyes meeting Andrew's. “Why would you think that I don't have any friends?”
Aaron's face doesn't betray him, his eyes seem truthful and his voice doesn't shake. If Andrew hadn't known better, he would've believed him, he would've fallen for his lie. How many times, he wonders, has Aaron lied straight to his face? How many times has he tricked Andrew before?
I can tell when you're lying to me, he used to tell Aaron. Now he wonders if he ever really could.
“Don't lie to me,” Andrew says, his voice cold, his gaze unforgiving.
“I'm not-”
“Don't lie to me,” he says again, his gaze just a little softer.
“How would you even know,” Aaron muebles as he puts more food in his mouth with his brows furrowed and an uncharacteristic pout on his lips.
In the past, Andrew would've pushed. In the past, Aaron would've been colder.
“What's going on with you,” the words leave Andrew's mouth without his permission.
“I just-” Aaron says before shaking his head, something that Andrew can't read flashing in his eyes. “I'm tired. I'm going to bed now.”
Andrew can't do anything but watch as Aaron retreats back to his room and closes the door behind himself with a soft click. He sighs as he drops his head on the couch and stares at the white ceiling feeling lost and confused. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do.
He doesn't know how to save Aaron from himself.
♧♧
The first week passes quickly, Aaron spending most of his days at the hospital and his evenings locked in his room studying while Andrew is left alone with his own thoughts and fears, images of his dead brother spinning like a carousel inside of his brain.
Every night he wakes up from nightmares, his body numb and damp with sweat, Aaron's cold body flashing behind his eyes.
Every night, he sofly opens Aaron's bedroom door and stares at his brother as he sleeps, at the way his chest rises and falls, at his pink skin and slightly flushed cheeks.
He's alive, he tells himself, over and over again. And yet he can still remember when Aaron hadn't been alive.
♧♧
“We should do things together,” Andrew tells Aaron one morning while he's still lying on the couch after having spent a whole night googling “How to make sure your brother doesn't relapse again”.
“What?”
“Make a list of things that you want to do and we'll do them.”
“Why?” Aaron asks, walking out of the kitchen.
“You don't want to?” Andrew replies, tilting his head.
“You always have a reason for things.”
“If you don't want to-”
“I do,” Aaron interrupts him, his eyes wide.
“Then make the list and give it to me when you get home this evening.”
“I just don’t- Fine,” Aaron says with a sigh as he heads for the door. He stops there for a second, his hand on the handle and his bag over his shoulder.
“What,” Andrew says as he takes his phone from the coffee table.
Aaron just furrows his brows and shakes his head, “Bye,” is all that comes out of his mouth before leaving the apartment.
Androw looks at the closed door, his heart racing like it does every time Aaron leaves his sight. He can feel little ants crawling under his skin and he knows that's where they'll stay until he'll see Aaron, alive and breathing, again.
♤♤
That evening Aaron comes back later than usual. Fourteen minutes later, to be exact.
Andrew is pacing the length of the living room when he hears the jingle of Aaron's keys as he pushes them in the lock. A few seconds later, Aaron walks inside the house and throws his coat on the hanger as if nothing is wrong.
“You're late,” Andrew says between gritted teeth as he stalks towards Aaron.
“What?” Aaron asks in confusion and bends down to untie his shoes.
“If you come home late you have to text and let me know.”
“I'm not even that late, just a few minutes and-”
“Fourteen.”
“What?”
“Not a few minutes. Fourteen minutes.”
Aaron sighs as he stands back up, confusion written all over his face.
Fourteen minutes of Andrew picturing Aaron's cold body in a back alley, on a white hospital bed, in a closet, in the middle of an empty street.
Fourteen minutes of Andrew picturing Aaron's vacant eyes staring at the sky, his pale skin tinted blue with death, his chest unmoving, his heart still.
Fourteen minutes of Andrew recalling Aaron's cold fingers in his hand, his icy forehead under his lips.
Fourteen minutes of waiting for his phone to ring, for the Doctor’s voice to inform him that his brother had died.
“I'm sorry,” Aaron says but it comes out as a question.
“Whatever,” Andrew replies before leaving a confused Aaron at the door and locking himself in the bathroom.
“Tell me something,” he says on the phone, his arms tightly wrapped around his legs as he sits in the corner between the sink and the wall.
He doesn't listen as Neil talks about his day, about practice, about anything and everything that comes to his mind. He lets Neil's calm and soothing voice wash over him, until it seeps into his brain, into his bones. Until breathing doesn't hurt anymore and the ants have left his body.
“Why won't you tell me what's wrong?” Neil asks on the other line, his voice full of worry.
“Aaron,” he says, his brother's name burning his lips as it leaves his mouth.
“Is he sick?”
“I just need to make sure he doesn't do something stupid and accidentally kills himself in the process.”
“You think he's going to?”
“I know he is.”
“Alright,” Neil says with a sigh. “But you have to promise me something.”
Andrew humms.
“Don't hurt yourself while trying to help him.”
Andrew stays silent for a second. There is nothing that he wouldn't be willing to do if it means saving Aaron from his fate, “I can't promise that.”
“Andrew-”
“He's my brother, Neil.”
“Does he even want to be? He just left you and Nicky and never looked back. Why would you put your mental well being at risk after all of your hard work for someone who wouldn't do the same for you?”
“That's not how it works.”
“What?” Neil asks.
“This is not a deal or a transaction. I'm helping him because I don't want him to be dead, not because I want him to do the same for me, not because I want him to give me something back,” he takes a deep breath and shakes his head even if Neil can't see him. “I just don't want him to be dead.”
“Fine just- just be careful and call me when you need to.”
“I will.”
A knock on the door interrupts Neil in the middle of a sentence, “I made dinner,” Aaron's soft voice comes from the other side when Ansrew doesn't reply.
“I have to go,” he says.
“Call me,” Neil replies before hanging up.
They eat dinner quietly on the couch, the sound of Aaron chewing something crunchy loud in the silent room.
"If you still want I have the list” Aaron says with downcast eyes.
“Then get it,” he replies after another long silence.
Andrew watches as Aaron rushes towards his bedroom, his bowl hastily placed on the coffee table.
Why are you so different, he wants to ask but doesn't.
“Here,” Aaron says a few seconds later as he hands him a wrinkled piece of lined paper, Aaron's elegant handwriting filling the page.
Andrew just nods at the paper and places it on the sofa by his side.
“You're not going to look at it?”
“I'm eating,” Andrew replies.
Aaron nods, his lower lip trapped between his teeth, a dot of blood staining his skin.
“Stop that and eat,” Andrew says, tapping Aaron's chin with his finger.
For a second it looks like Aaron is going to say something but before anything can come spilling out of his mouth, Aaron shakes his head and goes back to his dinner.
♧♧
“We're going for a picnic,” he tells Aaron on Wednesday, a week and a day after Aaron's death.
“What?” Aaron asks as he looks away from the open book on his lap.
“It's in your list, isn't it?”
“I mean, yeah but-”
“You have an hour to get ready. Chop chop.”
The sun is high in the sky by the time they reach the park. It's still a little cold outside, the air a little chilly, the sun a little weak.
“This is so nice,” Aaron says as he fiddles with the hem of the table cloth that Andrew had placed on the ground. There is a smile that Aaron is trying to hide on lips and it makes the ants under Andrew's skin disappear for a second.
“I always saw families having picnics when I was in primary school,” he tells Andrew as he bites the tuna, mayo and lettuce sandwich they had bought at the café near that park. “It would be better if Nicky were here too.”
Andrew just hums in reply.
“What's your favourite sandwich?” Aaron asks, trying to fill the silence.
“Probably-”
“Wait,” Aaron interrupts him. “I'll try to guess.”
Andrew looks at him a little puzzled as Aaron furrows his brows, a look of deep concentration painted on his face.
“I've got it,” he says after a few seconds, a crumb of white bread falling from the corner of his mouth. “Pulled pork with BBQ sauce.”
Andrew just nods.
“Now you,” Aaron says as he takes another bite from his sandwich.
“Me what?”
“Guess my favourite,” Aaron says, sounding a little too excited, his smile too bright.
“It's not that hard to guess. It's the same as mine. It's what we always got from highschool to college.”
“Mine is meatballs,” Aaron says quietly as he takes another bite of his sandwich.
“Since when?” Andrew asks. It had been years since the two of them had last eaten a sandwich together. Andrew can't help but to wonder what more he missed in Aaron's life.
“Since I was seven and a guy from school gave me a piece of his because I didn't have anything to eat,” Aaron says calmly without looking at Andrew. “I hate BBQ sauce.”
“But we always for pulled pork and BBQ,” Andrew says. It was their favourite, they would always eat it together for dinner after school.
Aaron just shrugs, “It was your favourite,” he says.
“But you-” Andrew begins but is interrupted by a ball landing on his leg.
“I'm so sorry,” a kid shouts as he runs towards them with his brother behind him. “We are so sorry. It was an accident.”
“It's fine, no one got hurt,” Aaron says, picking up the red ball and giving it back to the kid. “Just be more careful next time.”
“Oh my god it's clones,” the smaller child says while hiding behind his brother. “Like in star wars.”
“It's twins you idiot,” the older brother reprimands him as they run away.
♧♧
When Aaron gets back home on Thursday's evening at 9:45, he looks tired and upset. His shoulders are hunched, his movements slow, his eyes never once lift from the floor.
“What's wrong?” Andrew asks from where he's sitting on the couch.
“Just a bad day at work,” Aaron replies, his voice so low Andrew has to strain to hear him.
“Come,” he says, patting the couch.
“I just want to-”
“Come,” Andrew says again.
Aaron trudges towards the couch and Andrew can see a little tremor in his hands. He looks for signs of drug use but comes up empty.
“Speak,” he says as soon as Aaron is sitting on the couch by his side, his chin resting on his knees as he hugs his legs to his chest, his dirty shoes on the couch.
Aaron opens his mouth but no words leave his lips, just a shaky breath.
“It's okay,” he says as he watches the tremble in Aaron's lips. “Take a deep breath.”
Aaron shakes his head, his eyes wet, “I told his brother it was going to be fine but I-” a dry sob breaks Aaron’s sentence right in the middle. “It was just a little kid and it wasn't even- it really wasn't-”
“It's okay, Aaron,” he says even if he knows it's not.
“And his brother was just there alone and I told him- Andrew I told him that it would- that it would be fine,” there are tears running down his reddened cheeks.
“Can I touch you?” Andrew asks and waits for Aaron to nod his permission before taking Aaron's hand into his own. “You did what you could.”
Aaron closes his eyes for a second, “Can you-” he shakes his head.
“Can I what?”
“Nothing. It was silly.”
“Tell me,” Andrew says. “I'll decide if it's silly.”
A pause and then, “Can you sleep in my bed tonight?”
There is a longer pause, silence fills the room as Andrew thinks it over.
“I told you it was silly,” Aaron says, his eyes now open. “Forget about it.”
Andrew stays quiet for another second, “We can,” he says.
He waits for Aaron's breathing to go back to normal, for the tears to stop flowing down his cheeks, for the tremor in his hands to subside, and then he helps his brother back on his feet and towards his room. Aaron's legs are still shaky, his hold on Andrew's hand tight.
“I'll go wash up,” Aaron says, taking his pyjamas from where he had thrown it that morning and heading for the bathroom.
Andrew sits on the side of Aaron's bed as he waits, scanning the room. He finds it to be more tidy than it had been when Aaron had died, but still disorganised and messy.
“Why is it so messy?” he asks when Aaron walks back into the room. “You always used to keep everything tidy and in perfect order.”
“I just-” Aaron shakes his head and lets the sentence die. Andrew looks at him.
“Come on then,” he pulls down the covers and lies under them. He had missed sleeping in a real bed.
“You don't have to,” Aaron says standing in front of the bed.
“I know,” Ansrew replies. “It's my choice. Just don't touch me.”
“I won't,” his brother reassures him before climbing on the bed.
They lie in silence for a while, Andrew on his back, Aaron on his side, his eyes trained on Andrew.
“You're staring at me,” he says as he looks at Aaron from the corner of his eye.
“When I was a kid,” Aaron whispers as if he were sharing a secret. “I always wanted a brother to share everything with.”
Andrew hums in reply.
“I wanted to build a fort with covers and cushions that only me and my brother could enter. Our secret place where we would always be safe and never lonely.”
Andrew turns on his side and looks at his brother in the quiet dark.
“Goodnight Aaron,” he says, placing his hand on top of Aaron's.
“Goodnight Andrew.”
♧♧
“We are going to the market,” he tells Aaron Friday morning as soon as Aaron leaves his room
“I need to be at the hospital at 1 pm,” Aaron replies.
Andrew nods, “We're leaving in an hour.”
Andrew had never been to a farmers market before nor had he ever wanted to go to a farmers market.
“This is so fun,” Aaron is saying as Andrew tries to dodge the crowd of people that is flowing around him. “Look.”
Andrew isn't sure what Aaron is pointing at, nor does he care that much. The crowd is overwhelming, people constantly bumping into him and touching his body.
They walk around for a while, Aaron pointing to flowers and plants, fruits and vegetables as if he were in a museum instead of a street market.
“Did you know that to make just one pound of honey it takes 2 million flowers?” Aaron asks as they walk past a stand of honey. “Do you like honey?”
“What?” Andrew asks, distracted by a woman who bumped into him.
“You like sweets, so I was wondering if you like honey.”
“I don't know. Never tried.”
“Oh then I should totally buy you some. Come on,” Aaron says walking towards the honey vendor.
“Do you like honey?” Andrew asks as they wait for their turn.
“It's not really something you can eat spoonfuls of or you'll get sick, but I like it.”
They sit on a bench away from the crowd as soon as they buy the honey.
“Here, taste,” Aaron says, scooping some honey on the wooden spoon the vendor had given them.
Honey is sticky and sweet and it makes Andrew's throat burn a little because of the overwhelming sweetness.
“You don't like it?” Aaron asks with a little frown on his face.
Andrew shakes his head.
“Sorry,” Aaron mutters while closing the honey lid.
“What are you apologising for?”
“I thought you would have liked it,” Aaron shrugs.
Andrew just stares at him confused, his face blank.
“It's whatever,” Aaron says as he gets back up on his feet. “We should go home.”
Andrew watches as Aaron throws the jar of honey in the first street bin they find while they head towards Andrew's car.
♧♧
“Neil's playing today,” Aaron says on Sunday as Andrew is cooking dinner.
“Yeah,” Andrew replies because he noticed Aaron hates not receiving a reply.
“Do you want to watch the game?” he asks but then immediately turns on the TV without waiting for Andrew's reply.
When he goes into the living room with their dinner (Aaron's favourite italian pasta), the game has already started and Aaron is comfortably sitting on the couch with his legs crossed, a fluffy blue blanket around his shoulders.
“Thank you,” Aaron says with a smile, taking one of the plates from Andrew's outstretched hand and placing it on his legs. “It just started so you didn't miss much.”
It surprises Andrew how much Aaron talks during the game, how much he notices about the players and their plays, how much he knows about Andrew's team.
“Yeah, he's been doing that the whole season. He really needs to work on that.”
“You've been keeping up with the championship?” Andrew asks.
“Not really, I just watch the games where you, Kevin or Matt play.”
Andrew purses his lips as a mix of emotions explode in his chest. He wants to dig deeper, to ask why. Aaron never showed up for the foxes reunions at Wymack’s place, he cut all contact with everyone, he never once showed any interest in anyone, any will to be their friend.
Andrew wonders when had Aaron stopped making sense. He wonders if Aaron had ever made sense in the first place at all or if Andrew had made up a version of his brother in his head that had never once been real.
They spend the rest of the evening watching the game, a little smile on Aaron's lips as his hands flail around when he tries to explain sometimes to Andrew.
Could it have always been this easy? He wonders. Did Aaron have to die twice for them to finally spend time together like normal people?
Maybe, Andrew thinks, maybe everything can be fixed.
♧♧
“We are going to the zoo,” he tells Aaron on Monday morning while Aaron is still lying in his bed.
“What?” he asks, his voice low and full of sleep.
“Get ready, we're leaving in an hour.”
Andrew hates the zoo. It's boring and uninteresting. He doesn't care about where any of the animals came from nor from what they had been saved. It's cold and cloudy and the tips of his fingers are frozen. But the zoo was on Aaron's list and it seems to be working perfectly as a distraction: Aaron keeps speed-walking from one enclosure to the next, reading out facts that he seems to find interesting and cool.
“And this one was saved after hunters shot him down and he lost his ability to fly,” Aaron says after three long and excruciating hours of walking around the zoo surrounded by screaming children and annoying adults. “Isn't that so heartwarming?”
“Heartwarming?” he asks, focusing on the sad little bird sitting in the middle of a huge green field.
“Someone found him when he was just about to die and decided that he was worthy of being saved. They took care of him and gave him a new home.”
“He's a bird who can't fly. Alone in a huge field. It would've been more merciful to just let him die. What kind of life is this?”
He can feel Aaron's gaze on him as he looks at the bird but when he turns towards him, Aaron's eyes are back on the bird. He doesn't look excited anymore, his gaze soft and sad, something that Andrew can't decipher in his expression.
“It's almost lunch time,” Aaron says, looking away from the bird. “We should go home.”
♧♧
“Next time you are the one who has to visit,” Andrew says on Tuesday morning as he packs his bag. “We should also invite Nicky,” he adds.
“Sure,” Aaron says but there is something strange behind his eyes.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes, just- I'm just very very tired,” Aaron says, a ghost of a smile on his lips.
“You are not feeling like you're going to relapse, right?” Andrew asks, staring right into Aaron's eyes.
“What? No. No I don't,” Aaron replies, his eyebrows knitted together.
“Promise.”
“I promise,” Aaron says lightly.
“This is very serious Aaron. Promise me you won't touch any type of drug for any reason.”
“Andrew. I promise I won't touch any type of drug. Unless I'm administering it to a patient. Good?”
“Good.”
“Can I- Nothing,” Aaron says with a shake of his head.
“Tell me.”
“It's silly. Forget about it.”
“I'll decide if it's silly,” Andrew says.
“Can I hug you goodbye?”
Andrew is silent for a second. He can't remember ever hugging Aaron in his life. Not once.
“Yes,” he says.
Aaron moves slowly towards him, as if walking towards an easily spooked animal, afraid that I'll run away. When he's finally standing in front of Andrew, he carefully lifts his arms and places them around Andrew's neck, his cheek resting on his brother's shoulder. Andrew can feel Aaron’s warm breaths on his neck, his brother's heartbeat pounding on his body where their chests are touching.
Aaron is alive. His brother is still alive.
He tightens his hold around Aaron's waist. He had never hugged his brother before, he thinks again. In two other lives Aaron had died without ever getting to hug his brother.��
Andrew could've gone his whole life without ever getting to share something as trivial and mundane as a hug between brothers.
♧♧
It's Tuesday, the twenty-second of May at six in the afternoon when Andrew's phone rings, the soft voice of a doctor on the other side, the words coming out of her mouth venomous and wrong, lies that Andrew can't comprehend, can't accept.
“That's impossible,” he says getting up from his couch. “Aaron promised he wouldn't touch any drugs. He promised me.”
Aaron promised. He had promised.
“Drugs?” the Doctor asks. “I'm really sorry for the misunderstanding Mr. Minyard but Doctor Minyard's cause of death isn't drug related.”
“What? He didn't overdose?”
“No, Sir. Your brother he- he I'm so sorry. He jumped off a bridge. I'm so sorry.”
Aaron had always claimed that he didn't feel like he was going to relapse. Why hadn't Andrew believed him.
He had been asking the wrong question the whole time. He had tried to solve the wrong problem.
Can I hug you goodbye? Aaron had asked a few hours ago.
Yes, Andrew had replied.
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After catching your boyfriend Danny pleasuring himself you only have one question. Do you invite the friend he was fantasizing about?
A Danny Wagner Stand Alone
Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI, Male masturbation, implied threesome.
This has lived in my drafts for forever with no place to go, I decided to re work it this morning 💚
The house is quiet as you come back with your little haul from target, holding two iced coffees in your hand. One for you and one for your boyfriend Danny. You assume he went out with a friend as his car was still in the driveway, but then you hear it. A moan. Muffled sound coming from the other side of your apartment. You quietly set your things down and make your way to the bedroom, the door is cracked open. Looking in your jaw drops and instantly you feel wetness pool between your thighs. Your boyfriend Danny is sitting on the bed, naked in front of the large mirror. His muscular thighs shaking as he bounces up and down, riding your fat silicone cock. His one hand propping himself up, the other gripping his lubed cock, rhythmically jerking himself in the mirror. He throws his head black curls cascading down his muscular back, tongue slipping out from behind his teeth as he whines and bounces harder.
"God- Fuck- Josh"
His hips stutter as his hand flies faster over his cock, white ribbons of cum shoot across his abdomen as he whines. His hand still jerking himself as he fights the overstimulation. Squeezing the slick purple head of his cock, he continues to touch himself. His hips haphazardly rocking on the toy, he looks frantic his face contorts as he coaxes a second load out, dribbling over his fingers.
Your body feels like it's on fire as your and your boyfriend's panting breaths synchronize. His from exertion and yours from pure arousal.
You hear him whimper as a soft audible 'pop' comes from your bedroom and you shiver, knowing exactly what that sound was. Listening again you can hear him groan and start to shuffle around the bedroom, presumably cleaning up his mess. Quickly you scurry towards the front door as you hear his footsteps approaching and you call out," Danny! Baby I'm home, I got us coffees!"
He pops his head around the corner, his face still flushed and torso shirtless," Hey love. I'll be out in a sec." You see him blur past the entry way making it to the bathroom quickly, his tanned naked body with your purple toy in his fist. You hear the water run longer than usual, but you know he's cleaning himself and the toy. Your cheeks redden as you think about what you saw, about what he said. You have to admit you always found his friend Josh to be attractive, a beautiful body and a beautiful personality. You we're open and willing to see what avenue your beloved Danny wanted to take.
A few minutes later Danny emerges, sitting down at the kitchen table with you in nothing but some short sweat shorts.
"Show me your haul baby, what all did you find today?"
You laugh at your boyfriends enthusiasm and show him your goodies as you both sip your iced coffees. His phone buzzed on the table in between you showing a text from Josh. Danny reads it and relays the message," He wants to know if we want to get lunch and go to this art festival, he says there's going to be alcohol."
Butterflies erupt in your stomach but you agree to go. Meeting Danny in your bedroom as he finishes getting ready for the outing you decide to tell him what you walked in on. Sitting down on the bed you gently call his name," Danny? Um. When I came home earlier. I-uh- I saw and heard you."
His jaw clenches and his hands shake,"Oh."
"Do you? Do you want that? It could be fun to ask him to join us."
"You're not weirded out by it?" He asks, sitting down on the bed.
A smile graces your lips," No baby, it isnt weird. Not at all love. It's hot, I think it could be a lot of fun asking Josh to join us, he's hot!"
A blush forms on Danny's cheeks," He is, isn't he."
Enthusiastically you nod your head agreeing with your sweetheart of a boyfriend.
He swipes his palms down his thighs," I'm undecided if I want to ask him for real. Maybe we can just see how this afternoon goes."
"Of course Danny, it's your decision."
🌿🌿
By now you three have been wandering around the festival for at least two hours, you're sufficiently buzzed and you can't stop staring at Josh.
"Doing okay honey? Didn't drink too much right? Ya still with us?" Josh giggles, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and you swore you felt tingles down your spine.
You feel the absurdly large smile on your face," Yup! I'm doin fine Joshy, just a little buzzed."
You lean your head into the crook of his shoulder and he laughs replying," Me too love, me too."
You couldn't help looking between the two men and imagining Josh's face looming over yours as his twisted in pleasure. You couldn't help but imagine Danny in the throws of ecstasy at the hands of one of his best friends.
You shivered as Josh's hand skirted down your back as he wandered off to look at the plants in the handmade pots for sale. Danny came up, wrapping his arms around you, resting his chin on the top of head.
He whispered making sure Josh couldn't hear," You're crushing on him hard baby. I can tell you're looking at him like a lost puppy."
He moves his mouth right next to your ear," I think you want to ask him as much as I do."
Your eyes widen and you crane your neck back to look him in the eyes," You're going to ask him?!"
"Shhhh. Yeah baby, I am. Gonna ask him today."
After a little bit Josh met back up with you two, he had a small box of succulents under one arm and one in his outstretched hand," Here! I picked this one out for you sweetie."
You beamed accepting his gift, clutching the small plant in your hand.
You smiled at Danny, and you noticed him looking nervous, biting his lip. He was going to ask Josh, right now.
Danny leans in, placing his large palm on Josh's shoulder, sliding it down to his lower back," I have a question Josh. Um. You can say no, but I'd - We'd really like it if you said yes."
Josh cocked his head looking into Danny's eyes as he spoke to him.
"Would you wanna sleep with us? Like have a threesome?"
A smile spreads on Josh's face as his eyes dart between the two of you.
"It's about time you asked me! Of course I'd wanna sleep with you, you two are such a hot couple."
You smiled at the boys, pleased with Josh's answer and excited for what's to come.
Josh points in the direction of the car," So? Shall we?"
Danny stutters," Now?!"
Josh shrugs before turning on his heel in the direction of his truck," Yeah why not?"
#gvf#danny gvf#gvf smut#gvf fanfiction#danny wagner#josh kiszka#josh gvf#greta van smut#gvf one shot
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Angie and Jonah talk
This is just funny fluff and some Leo/Jon sexy times. For 🍄!
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Jonah groaned as he waited for the call to connect, the little dots blinking on the screen. Across the room, reading, Leo let out a little amused chuckle.
Finally the call picked up and Angelina’s face appeared on the screen. She was sitting in her bedroom, wearing a butterfly patterned top and pouting, “Hi Jon…”
“Hi,” Jonah looked up quickly, embarrassed Leo was listening, but his fiance wasn’t paying him any mind, turning the page of his book, “you got home alright? How was the plane trip back?”
“It was fine,” she said quietly, glancing down, “I’m sorry for leaving like that-”
“No, it’s okay. You weren’t comfortable here-”
“No,” Angie interrupted, raising her voice. She sounded an awful lot like him, Jonah thought, snapping his mouth shut as his sister glared at him, “I shouldn’t have acted like that. I got pissed you called me childish and then I went and was super childish…”
“You’re seventeen,” Jon pointed out, feeling like he was saying the wrong thing. She let out a huff, looking more angry than before.
“And now you think I’m childish all the time.”
“I didn’t say that,” he sighed, “you’re seventeen, you’re allowed to be a little-”
“I’m practically eighteen,” Angelina defended herself and Jonah bit his tongue not to tell her that being two or three months older wasn’t the milestone of maturity she thought it was.
Instead he only nodded, trying to sound understanding as he said, “I know, Angie…”
There was another huff, then silence. Jonah watched as Angelina picked on her nails, doing everything to avoid looking at the camera. A long minute of awkward silence, then she sighed and looked up.
“Did you… Did you think about the trip?” She asked in the smallest voice, “did you talk about it with Leo…?”
“I did,” Jonah nodded. On the couch, Leo perked up upon hearing his name, sitting up to overhear, “Ange, I’m really sorry, but I can’t leave my whole life for three months. I’m in the middle of my residency here, my supervisor would never allow me to leave for three months and then come back-”
“It’s okay,” Angie sighed, curling up on her bed and hugging her knees, “it’s fine, I get it-”
“I can do three weeks,” Jon said without thinking and behind his laptop he saw Leo raise his eyebrows, looking puzzled. Jonah shrugged, while Angelina immediately perked up.
“What- You can!?”
“Three weeks only,” Jonah said strongly, but he couldn’t tamper the sudden flip in her humor. She let out a squeal, opening a blinding smile and even if Jonah wasn’t so sure about this decision, he couldn’t go back on it now.
Leo got up from the couch, stretching, and then walked to the kitchen.
“It’s okay, we can do a lot in three weeks,” Angie was saying, all of her forlorn attitude out of the window and Jonah squinted at the screen, feeling like he had been slightly manipulated. He’d have to watch out for that, but another time, for now he basked in his sister’s happiness as she squealed about how much fun it’d be.
“Mama helped me draft a list of all the places I have to visit, hold on!” Angie squealed, leaving the camera on, but rolling off the bed in order to retrieve her notes. Jonah sighed, then jerked as he felt Leo sneak up on him and plant a kiss to his cheek.
“You’re such a softie,” the blonde whispered in his ear, before walking back to the couch, now with a bowl of food and his laptop.
They talked for another half an hour. Angelina’s list included an impressive list of countries, but to make the most out of Jonah’s presence she decided to keep his three weeks only in Europe.
“We should start in Switzerland,” Jonah suggested, “it’s where Jackie lives, she’s been asking me to visit with Leo, then you and I part ways and Leo comes home.”
His fiance looked up from the couch, “Switzerland? When? I can’t just go-”
“My classes start in September,” Angie’s voice was all helpful, “so anytime before September, I can plan my trip around you guys…”
Leo scrunched up his nose, but said nothing and Jonah nodded in agreement, “we’ll talk and I’ll talk with Jackie as well- Have you met my mother? In person?”
“I met her in Milan’s Fashion Week last year. She’s really nice,” Angie nodded, “she was busy though.”
“And you’d be okay with me inviting you over to Jackie’s while we’re there?”
“If you’re there with me…” Suddenly Angie looked a lot more guarded, “I mean, your mom is nice and all, but she’s your mother…”
“I’ll be there,” Jonah reassured her, mentally starting to do the math, “I’ll call you back, okay darling?”
“Okay,” Angie waved at him, “tell Leo I sent kisses and that I’m really sorry for running out…”
“Oh he knows,” Jonah agreed, since Leo raised a hand from the couch, waving off Angie’s concern.
They said their goodbyes and Jonah finally hung up. He closed his laptop, then covered his face with his hands and groaned, as he heard Leo say “Switzerland, Jonah?”
“You need to meet Matteo anyway,” Jonah rubbed his temples, hiding his embarrassed blush, “might as well kill two birds with one stone.”
“You really need to learn how to say no to the women in your life,” Leo chided him quietly, but there was no heat in his voice, “c’mere, let’s talk about the wedding. I’m doing research.”
Jonah perked up and immediately got up from his spot at the dining table, joining Leo on the couch. The blonde sat up correctly instead of sprawling on it, so Jon could slide next to him, then clicked around a tab, “I found a blog that says how long it takes to plan a wedding,” Leo explained and Jonah spread out, planting his socked feet on the coffee table and throwing an arm around his fiance’s shoulders, pulling him closer.
“And it says it takes a full year,” Leo continued, snuggling against him, “maybe more, if we want it to be a destination wedding…”
“Do you want it to be a destination wedding?” Jonah frowned, confused. It didn’t seem like Leo’s style and true to what he expected his fiance shook his head.
“No, but you might…?”
“I don’t,” Jon lazily ran his hand up and down Leo’s arm, “and it doesn’t take a full year, that’s for regular people.”
Leo pulled back, unimpressed, “and we’re what exactly?” he scoffed, causing Jonah to blush.
“I meant that’s for people who don’t have a dedicated wedding planner and need to wait for best prices-”
“You mean this is for anyone who’s not filthy rich,” Leo glared at him, “which we are not.”
“No, I mean…” Jon frowned, “you’re a lawyer. I’m a doctor. Surely we can afford a wedding planner?”
His logic made sense, but it didn’t stop Leo from shaking his head, “I don’t want that, I want us to plan it. I want it to feel like it’s my wedding, not some gay from NYC’s.”
Jonah raised his eyebrows at Leo’s derogative tone. He was aware that he was the more progressive one of the two, but Jon often forgot about it. This was a startling reminder.
He pulled back just a smidge and Leo’s whole face turned red. The blonde winced, “I’m sorry, that was mean-”
“Yeah,” Jonah nodded, then kissed him, “I wouldn’t marry some NYC gay, are you crazy?”
Leo let out a whine, but wrapped an arm around his neck and pulled Jonah closer, pushing the laptop off his lap on the coffee table and falling against the cushions.
Jon grinned, he knew part of this was just Leo being embarrassed about the whole conversation and wanting a distraction, but he was more than happy to oblige. He grabbed Leo’s chin, turning it slightly to the side and planting a kiss on his neck, letting his hand drag down the other man’s body.
Leo squirmed under him, moving so Jonah could slot himself between his legs and then stripping Jonah of his shirt, grabbing him by the back of his neck and pulling him into another kiss.
The couch was too small for two men to be making out on top of it and twice they nearly fell, but they were too enthralled with each other to actually get up. Jonah removed Leo’s shirt, then slid down, rummaging a trail of kisses down his boyfriend’s chest, leaving little pink marks until his lips met the golden patch of hairs under Leo’s navel and leading inside his pants.
He nuzzled his nose over it, chin rubbing the volume on Leo’s pants and causing the blonde to let out a small moan, his cheeks turning red, throwing his head back as Jonah undid the cords of his sweatpants and pushed them down.
“Jon-”
“Yeah?” He answered cheekily, avoiding Leo’s erection pressing against his loose boxers and tugging his pants down, planting a collection of kisses on his thighs. The muscle of Leo’s left thigh twitched, suppressing the urge to headlock Jonah down.
“Jon…” almost a whimper, as Leo tilted his hips up, begging for any friction whatsoever. He darted out a hand, cupping Jonah’s face and pulling him for a kiss again, “baby, c’mon-”
“What do you want? Uhm?” Jon pressed over him, rubbing their erections together and moaning in his boyfriend’s ear, “tell me what you want me to do-”
His dirty talking was interrupted by the front door opening and Leo let out a shriek, hugging Jonah to him as if the other man was a blanket he could hide under.
Jonah’s heart was racing as well, although he didn’t scream, and his face several shades too dark, as blood rushed up in angry blush.
Wendy answered Leo’s shriek with a squeal, “It’s just me! It’s…me?” Lowering the tall metal can she had been holding, Wendy cocked her eyebrow and tilted her head, “what are you-” then her whole face went red and she gasped, turning around to face the door, “SORRY!”
“GET OUT OF HERE, WENDY!” Leo barked, shoving Jonah off of him, too angry to care, “who gave you a key! Why didn’t you knock!?”
“I DID KNOCK!” Wendy cried out, still facing the front door. All the commotion had spooked JD and the cat had emerged from the bedroom, where she had been napping, and jumped on the coffee table, staring judgingly at Leo and Jon, “No one answered so I figured-”
“OUT!” Leo got up, reaching for his shirt and putting it angrily, facing the wrong way. His face was red and his hair a mess and when Jonah glanced down-
“Baby, uh-” he reached to grab Leo’s hand, but the blonde was too pissed off.
“I’m just here to drop Ma’s gift-”
“Get out of my place, Wendy! And give me your key, now!”
“Leo-”
“No, I’m not, Jonah gave me the key! It’s for emergencies!”
“This wasn’t an eme-”
“Oh my god, so I walked in on you, what’s the-” Wendy turned around to glare at him, only to let out a shriek and drop all the cans she was holding, as she rushed to cover her eyes, “LEO, WHAT THE FUCK!”
Confused on why she was screaming, Leo looked over his shoulder to Jonah, who glared at him, gesturing down. The blonde was still just in his boxers and excitement hadn’t exactly faded yet…
“SHIT, shitshitshitshit- DOn’t open your eyes!”
“Oh don’t worry, I don’t plan to!” Wendy spat, her face aflame under her hands, while Leo looked around without knowing what to do. Jonah rolled his eyes, throwing him a couch cushion and the blonde promptly planted it over his crotch, his face cherry red by how embarrassed he was.
“Well, now I get why Jonah puts up with you,” Wendy mumbled sourly and Leo whined in the back of his throat, humiliated.
“Please just get out of my house.”
“Ma made you chocolate biscuits, as congratulations for getting engaged,” Wendy walked backwards towards the door, not bothering with the cans she had dropped, eyes still closed, “let’s not see each other for a week. Minimum.”
“Or ever again,” Leo suggested, his voice muffled by the hand he was covering his face with. Jonah snorted.
“You two are so dramatic.”
Wendy opened her eyes right as she reached the door, then glared at him, “you’re in your boxers too, buddy,” she pointed out sharply, while Leo talked over her by saying “you’re just lucky you’re a grower, not a shower-”
Jonah’s mouth snapped shut and he glared at Leo, as Wendy let out a cackle and ran out of their apartment.
“Any more bright comments, Wagner?”
#i highly reccommed you guys read this one#simply bc its funny#mywriting#jonah banks#leo wagner#🍄 anon
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The way Azirphale is underestimated and practically infantalized by heaven is so closely tied to his femininity and I think we should talk about it more because I just want to shout about how relatable the way he's treated in his workplace is as a woman working in a traditionally male field
It's in all the little niggling comments from your boss about personal things that hold no bearing on your work
and the assumption that what you're doing must be simple if it was assigned to you
your work is trivialized
and you get these the placating smiles when you're told plans and proposals are rejected and passed over
or when your complaints are dismissed
and you get more of the same from upper management
it all feels so frustrating and draining but you're at work so all you can do is take a breathe put on that mask and move on with your day
It is all so deteimental to your emotional well being and textually, so much of this is tied to Aziraphale's softness, his gayness - his femininity
The thing about working in an environment and gives you this feeling - of being simultaneously destrought watching your belief in yourself get chipped away but also just so irate becuase you know you don't deserve it - is how it builds. It sinks under your skin and feeds into this indignant dejection until you can have a moment of release - but Azirphale doesn't get to bitch about it over drinks with friends, he doesn't get a lunch break where he can go for a walk and listen to an angry scandi death metal playlist, he doesn't even get the chance to cry about it in the bathroom for 5 minutes before confronting it again
(And I talked a little bit about it in the tags of this beautiful photoset but this all comes into play whenever Crowley dismisses his plans or calls him an idiot. These are purely emotional reactions; I really don't think Crowley means much by it - he respects Aziraphale's opinion and genuinely thinks he's brilliant - but Crowley is so quick to use this terminology when Aziraphale is making a decision Crowley thinks is wrong and he doesn't know how much this hurts Aziraphale. Just like Aziraphale doesn't understand the true impact the Fall had on Crowley, Crowley doesn't understand the ways heaven has been tearing away at Aziraphale's self worth)
Aziraphale has been facing this constant drip of denigration since before the beginning of time and has never released the pressure valve. At this point, he's a bomb waiting to go off
#(I want to note that I am coming at this from my personal experience as a woman#but I know femme neurodivergent and disabled folks of all genders face these same issues)#along similar lines I have tons of feelings about how often Aziraphale hides his hands when talking to other angels#to hide his stimming#and look I try not to tie everything back to explaning why Aziraphale ended s2 the way he did but apparently I can't#its just the juiciest character moment to me#also thinking about how angry Crowley was at Gabriel when he was treated like this once#granted shut up and die already IS the worst thing Gabriel has said to Aziraphale but if Crowley knew how much of this was going on...#aziraphale#good omens#go2 spoilers#good omens meta#Thanks to folks who responded to my tags on that post because you really motivated me to find these screen caps#and finish this post which has been sitting in my drafts for ages#also sorry so many of gabriels faces are funny I cant help that jon hamm is comedy gold - i refuse to let it undermine my point
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Okay so realistically speaking, giving birth is an excruciating, painful nightmare, and from the few Crocodad fics I've seen most people seem to prefer to write realistic pregnancy and make Luffy's birth a (physically) painful thing. Because it makes sense, it might be more relatable for some writers that way etc, and that's perfectly fine (like genuinely, it's not an issue at all, this is not a critique or a complaint)
God I don't know how to make this segue- Have any of you watched Ore Monogatari!! (My Love Story)? It's a great early 2010s romantic comedy series, funny as hell, super cute and sweet, would reccomend, but that aside. During the series the protagonist Takeo's mother gets pregnant and she ends up giving birth to Takeo's baby sister. And it's that scene, where Takeo's baby sister is born, that I keep on thinking back to whenever I wonder how Luffy's birth might've gone.
Takeo and his mother alike are Sturdy Motherfuckers. Like absolute gigachads, borderline superhuman, it's great and it's funny as hell. And because of that near superhuman nature...
Takeo's mother goes to give birth at 4:15 pm. And she has finished giving birth at 4:16 pm. One fucking minute is what it took for this woman to bring a child into this world. An absolute legend
The screencaps do not do justice to how fucking funny this is in the actual episode
And so like
Like we know Crocodile's been through absolute hell, being an amputee and all. And as Domino told us at the entrance of Impel Down, we also know the man did not even flinch when forced into Impel Down's traditional 200 Celsius cleansing bath (or 392F)
So Crocodile has better pain tolerance than the average person. Like, you might have to put in a bit of effort to cause him actually hurt. So if giving birth to Luffy was an absolute cakewalk for Crocodile, not only would it make perfect sense in-universe and be completely in-character for him, but also
It would be objectively funny as hell
#Moon posting#OP Meta#Crocodad#I just. I just wanted to throw this out there. For your considderation.#We all love good drama and angst and the feels but also. Considder The Funny Alternatives. Considder The Comedic Potential#Croc's water breaks and Iva-chan rushes out to get like towels or something#They're out for like 30 seconds and when they're back the baby's already born. No screaming no shouting no nothing#Croc just complains why Iva took so long and tells them to help him clean up the mess#And Iva-chan's just like [Enel Face]#Like yeah that's the good fucking shit lmao#ALSO: Again we don't know if Baby Luffy was an itty bitty tiny baby or a Jumbo Sized Baby so like#If Luffy was like average size (or small) while Crocodile's a fucking giant then???#Like?? I would like to imagine and pretend giving birth to an itty bitty baby would be easier than if the baby was proportional to Croc#So the baby essentially just falling out of Croc without any effort could make sense. In a ''this is a shounen comedy manga'' kinda way#I have edited this post like 10 times after posting it oh my god why is this post such a trainwreck of piss poor phrasing and typos#Should've let it sit in my drafts for another 2 weeks clearly
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As a big sibling with a lil sib with epilepsy, when they read TBC they Honestly thought if they got struck with lightning reciting the lord's prayer they'd be cured like Shadowsight is from their epilepsy. I had a discussion with them on how that's not how it works, but ge was so upset they took it away from Shadowsight that he hasn't picked the books back up and has stated that 'he hopes Ashfur wins and starts a new religion.,'
I do not even know how to respond to this besides saying that your little sibling is 100% right to be pissed and I now also hope Ashfur wins and starts a new religion.
#Legit I did not know that Shadow's epilepsy being taken away was so deeply upsetting to SO MANY people#I put it back because putting it back was just the right thing to do (even asked the small following I had at the time what type to portray#(they picked the full tonic-clonics. I would have just done localized or absence if they'd asked me to)#And I did all that research for one single anon who asked for an epilepsy herb guide#So holy cow I didn't know that SO MANY people were snubbed and upset by canon's choice to do that. I'm so sorry#Your little sib isn't missing anything btw they do just go on to confirm that Shadow no longer has seizures.#In book 4 of TBC they say that it was all Ash all along and that's what they've stuck with into ASC#I'm sitting on an essay about... That plot thread. The Ashfur Grooming one#But it's in my drafts because I was a bit afraid of controversy#because i think it was written poorly. Even on top of Book 4's pivot to retcon away Shadow's seizures#I know a lot of people like and are invested in the grooming subplot of TBC. But. I think it was executed AWFULLY#and its really telling that THIS is the plot they tout as grooming *by name* in-canon.--#--and that Shadow has to 'pay' for what he 'did' in some way as if there was ever a choice in the books they wrote--#--But seemingly didn't even seem to clock that what was happening in Spotted's H was grooming until there was intense backlash#and a big part of my contention is the way that Book 4 suddenly tries to retcon that Shadow was groomed from the time he was a child#when it was actually part of book 1 that Shadow was able to personally tell the difference between a real vision and Ash's suggestions--#--BECAUSE he didn't have an accompanying seizure#So like... just know it's also NOT just 'you' if you connected to the character that was epileptic. It WAS there. It was a BIG part of him#Book 4 retconned it so that his epilepsy was part of a long scheme when before that point it was part of him#''ohh ur destiny is to see into the shadows'' BULL SHIT!!#bone babble
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boy in silly sitting positions compilation
#cats#I especially like the last one where he just has one single paw poking out of that box for some reason lol#I still have costumes to post and like a billion other things.... grr... constantly failing at staying active on social media aughh#I think because currently my Main Focus is on trying to get my game done and stuff.. which basically just means sitting and writing all day#so there's not much to post about. Though I know the Good At Social Media thing to do would be to post about the#writing and share progress and talk about the game and characters or whatever to try to build interest or something but that is SOOO weird#to me.. I could maybe get it if it was like a tiny tiny discord groupchat of playtesters with like 5 people in#it.. But something about talking openly about things before they happen is weird to me?? Like presumptuous feeling or something#''oooo guess whats gonna happen LATER!!!'' like.. how do you know.. what if it doesnt. what if you dont finish it. what if its not the way#you think it's going to be. what if something changes. etc. Like I literally avoid movie trailers and game trailers for the same reason ghj#Even if it's not ME doing it it just feels... weird.. Maybe it has to do with my OCD and how I just don't like talking about ''future''#things in Certain Terms. Like if I was going to say ''Oh yeah sure. come over to my house in a few months''. I would have to follow it up#with like ''HOPEFULLY you can come over to my house in a few months'' or 'They'll come over in a few months MOST LIKELY''. Because just#stating that something will happen matter of factly takes for granted like.. what if somehting horrible happens and I DONT have a house#in a few months? or what if something bad happens to me. or to the person coming over? I can't ever DEFINITELY say with 100% certainty#that one could ACTUALLY come to my house in a few months. anything could change. So I have to allot for that in my phrasing. hbjjkn#There are a lot of situations where you're expected to just Assume Things but for some reason that bothers me. My brain literally does not#even Assume the most basic things.. like how do *I* know that just because it's someones birthday that they want to be wished a happy#birthday? what if they dont? everyone is different and has different preferences. I should check with them first. or wait until they public#ly announce that theyre accepting birthday wishes. I have to allot for all 5034859069 rare possibilities at any given time and never take#anything for certain. etc. ghjbjhbh.... ANYWAY.. I have been feeling a bit sick lately as usual.. but still slowly making progress on some#things. Moslty I need to edit costume photos. make sculptures. and work on the game. Going back reading some of the old writing from like#2018 and suprisingly I don't have to change that much of it? In fact I like it mostly. so that's good. I would be very interested if I were#playing the game myself. Though that doesnt mean much since my tastes are so niche lol..#Still really want to clear some of my million tumblr drafts as well... alas and aughh and ooughh and so on and so forth. Between all of my#evil appointments other such things...why cant I have one billion dollar to retire into relaxed hermit artist life of no stressors.. bleas
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#delete later#another journal entry 📝 for the void#i have not been sleeping well for the past 2 wks 😵💫 i always wake up like clockwork after 5-6 hrs which feels like not nearly enough#i feel like i've done everything there is to do (consistent exercise + consistent sleep times + earplugs + weighted blanket + no caffeine)#last night i took melatonin too but no... same problem staying asleep 😭#ahh whatever. i'm just frustrated that it has to be this way :(#anyways in an act of spite i reread like the 4 wips that have been sitting in my drafts from the past few weeks#i think something that will never cease to surprise me about writing is that more effort/time doesn't necessarily translate to better#results; i suppose that's the case with all kinds of art but#it does feel somewhat unintuitive. one of my fav professors in uni said to not dismiss those 'lightning in a bottle' moments (in art) as#blind luck... but to instead analyze the circumstances and iterate on recreating them. and i think one of my artist friends who i deeply#respect said something similar (wrt artistic rituals/setup). i have too many thoughts on writing and on my own creative processes and#weaknesses to fit into any number of tags here. :') that said...#*shakes ch2 draft* after everything i did and all the hours i spent WHY are you still so bad?!!! D: i am baffled and frustrated.#and why do i prefer this other [redacted] draft which i hammered out with utterly no regard towards the quality??#anyways. back to the drawing board i guess T.T
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The most dramatic action that Minkowski takes towards Eiffel in the finale (sending him back in the Sol) is going against Eiffel's choices in an attempt to prevent him coming to harm. In contrast, the most dramatic action that Hera takes towards Eiffel in the finale (the memory-wipe) is causing him to come to harm in order to enact a choice that he's made.
In a sense, these actions are conceptual opposites. But they are both taken with love and respect for Eiffel. They are both extremely selfless actions which Minkowski and Hera find painful to take.
They are also both actions which could be considered to be harming Eiffel. Both of these actions involve doing something to Eiffel that Minkowski/Hera would hate to have done to them. And both of those actions are taken with the awareness that they are fairly likely to result in losing Eiffel in a sense (either because he's headed back to Earth while Minkowski is on the Hephaestus, or because he's losing part of what makes him him). That's part of what makes those acts painful and complicated and significant.
Minkowski and Hera both care about Eiffel so deeply, and their care often expresses itself in contrasting ways because they are very different people. The finale emphasises these different manifestations of their care. Love can be 'I will do whatever I can to keep you safe, even when that's not what you want'. Love can also be 'I will support the choices that you make to bring about our common goal, even when that causes you harm'. The way Minkowski's care for Eiffel manifests is tied up in her sense of responsibility for her crew's safety. The way Hera's care for Eiffel manifests is linked to how she's had to fight for her own autonomy.
Neither of their actions in the finale are perfect or typical expressions of love, but in their very different ways, they both act with love, and that's important to me.
#wolf 359#There's more to say about this cos it's v complicated but I don't want this to keep sitting in my drafts#Although I have immense sympathy for Minkowski's choice#and I love the motivations that underlie it#I do think she wrongs Eiffel in a sense by trying to send him back against his will#whereas I don't think Hera wrongs Eiffel by causing him to lose his memories#which would be a strange thought without the context#but that's just it I guess#All the relationships in this show are so specific to those particular people and the dynamics between them#That's what I'm really trying to say here#Of course Minkowski's love for Eiffel looks different to Hera's love for Eiffel#There's no perfect simple way for their affection to manifest in the situations they are in#Minkowski loves him and so she goes behind his back to protect him knowing she might never see him again#Hera loves him and so she supports his plan (once she's checked if he's sure) and so she causes him to forget her 😭#Love as accepting loss in order to protect the loved one#Vs Love as accepting loss in order to respect the decision of the loved one#w359#renee minkowski#hera w359#the empty man posteth#w359 spoilers#wolf 359 spoilers#renée minkowski
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ok not to be like he’s just like me fr…. but chayanne is just like me fr…..
i’m also the oldest child with one younger sibling who needed a lot more care when we were kids and therefore was deprived of certain needs in favor of my brother. i also had a parent that was missing a lot and depended almost solely on my dad. obviously tallulah needs more help than chay, with her asthma and lesser fighting skills, not to mention she had only been playing minecraft for like a month? or two before wilbur found her. and chay knows that! he knows that she needs more help than he does he knows he’ll do anything for her he knows he has to be the strongest to protect her. my brother and i are only a year apart but i was forced to grow up very very quickly bc i was on my own a lot as a kid while my brother was sick. phil doesn’t worry abt chay when he runs off bc he doesn’t need to, chay can take care of himself. hell, he took care of all the eggs when they first left. but at the same time, it’s comforting to know ur parent is looking out for u even when u don’t need it. phil’s not a smothering parent, he’s attentive, but not smothering. but let’s be real he can also be emotionally constipated LMAO but that leads to situations like the argument and frustration between chay and tallulah when dapper was kidnapped. in his defense, he’s never been a parent before and had 2 children thrust upon him to raise on his own. he didn’t have a lot of time to adjust to parenthood like ppl in real life do, he suddenly had 2 children who had their own thoughts and opinions and emotional needs, he didn’t get the time it takes to LEARN abt how to provide that specific care and while some ppl have that innate knowledge there is a lot of learning and navigating when it comes to emotional vulnerability and regulation esp when it comes to children who are figuring it out as well. i feel for chay when he thinks he needs to be the strongest. i feel for chay when he had to make the decision to gather the eggs and leave. i feel for chay when he had to take blame for bad things happening. and i feel for chay when he realized tallulah doesn’t need him as much anymore. my brother and i are both adults now and we had a …… tumultuous relationship as teenagers for reasons that were both our own and caused by problems outside our control. but i still remember exactly how devastating it was the moment i realized that he was fine on his own. that he didn’t need me anymore. and it caused a rift between us; on my end bc i was frustrated and felt tossed aside and on his end bc he NEEDED to be independent to keep growing. i see so much of myself in chay and i desperately wish he and tallulah had a better mediator for their argument, or at least someone who could truly understand why they were so upset. i don’t think phil clocked that tallulah was so upset and adamant abt looking for dapper bc it was just her dapper and ramon surviving on their own. just bc phil didn’t witness it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen and it doesn’t mean that they don’t have a much tighter relationship than they had before purgatory. and when chayanne said everyone was blaming him for the decisions he made phil was quick to tell him that no one was blaming him but also phil doesn’t know that! he doesn’t know if any blame was put on chayanne when it was just the eggs together. chayanne made the decision for the eggs to run and they trusted him bc he’s the oldest and he’s strong and he can be a leader but by running he also put the eggs thru a lot of pain and fear that they may not have gone thru if they stayed with their parents. and even if the eggs didn’t explicitly say that they blamed chayanne im sure he blamed himself for every little thing that went wrong. we’ve already seen him open up a tiny bit abt how he was questioning his decision to leave. but phil told him that chay made the best decision he could have given the information he had at the time which is true! but when ur the oldest and everyone is looking to u, all of the responsibility lies on ur shoulders. chayanne has been carrying SO much weight on his shoulders for so long it breaks my heart.
#lex.txt#qsmp chayanne#qsmp tallulah#qsmp#i have so much more i could say abt chayanne tallulah and their relationship but unfortunately ! i am not allowed to write more than this#please excuse my rambling run on sentences and lack of proper punctuation#i type the way i speak in my head and usually that means no pauses no breaks everything flows like word vomit i apologize if things#don’t make sense#i think if this was happening when i was younger i wouldn’t have all these feelings but like#my brother has a toddler that i’ve been helping raise since he was born#that is MY baby i spend the most time with him he’s the closest to me out of anyone#and i think that if i didn’t have any parenting experience i would also handle things a lot like how phil does#i think the several years of therapy have also helped with my parenting LOL#anyways i wrote this a while back and it’s been sitting in my drafts#chay is so sacrificial and i think a lot of it comes from phil putting pressure on him to be strong#he literally said he should’ve been the one to die instead of empanada!!!!! he thinks the eye attacks are his fault#i just wish he could be a kid and do the things he wants to do without worrying that he or his siblings will die#poor sweet boy :( he shouldn’t be carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders but he doesn’t think he has the option not to
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