#*banging pots and pans* where is CINDY

[softgrungeprophet]

how is dylan fucking OC Do Not Steal brock the best dressed out of the spidey cast lmao

[kanrakixystix]

Santa Monica Dream -- Coctura/Cindy

@ffxvfemslashweek

Day 1: Hilarious Domestic Disasters

Okay so, this is a little less hilarious and a little more angst, but this just happened to speak to me this way, so I rolled with it. Enjoy!

Word Count: 1695

She had always pictured her life differently. Some details varied, but the overall vision remained constant. She owned a large, picturesque house in the country – there was nothing left for her in the city, even if Dino always insisted otherwise – and the sun was always shining. There were fresh herbs in the window, and vegetables in the garden that was on the right side of the shed where someone might work on one of their fine art pieces, or work on cars because that’s why their heart truly lied. The rooms were small, but it was just big enough for her and someone she loved with the occasional visit from friends. It was quaint, quiet, and more importantly, it was a pipe dream.

Sighing, Coctura folded her arms over her chest. In the back of the garage, Cindy worked, humming to herself, and while Coctura felt herself smiling at the absentminded behavior, she was tired. How long would she have to wait for her happy ending? Always working, married to the next car or machine that rolled through her doors, and never to the woman she actually spoke her vows to.

There was a house, yes, and she could hardly call this the country, though it certainly wasn’t the city, either. For years she waited, and she had hoped that after Cid had passed on, may the gods rest his soul, that Cindy, too, would move on. Twelve years had come and gone, and they were still here, she Coctura was still waiting for Cindy to just come home to her, to the life that was waiting for them outside of the tin walls that raised her.

 It was a long while before she Cindy finally acknowledged her standing there, lingering between the outside world and the world that kept her trapped on the inside. When she did, her cheeks were smeared with grease, and she waved before wiping her hands on the towel she held in her back pocket. Coctura waved back, sunglasses firmly on her face, and manicured nails chipped from washing carrots and rolling pastry dough. Cindy approached her, but stopped just short of wrapping her arms around her; she knew better than to dirty the chef with her motor oil and sweat. ‘It doesn’t do well to serve fresh fish that taste like tires,’ she’d said on numerous occasions.

 “About ready?” she asked, hopeful. She never wanted to interrupt Cindy, even if it meant sacrificing time with her, but she held onto the dream that one day she didn’t have to interrupt, and that Cindy would come home without being told for once. For once, she wanted to come first. She didn’t think that was too much to ask.

 “Ah, not really,” Cindy frowned, and pointed her thumb over her shoulder to the metallic black beast she had been tinkering with. “The king dinged this one up pretty good. She’s gonna need more than just a little elbow grease and a spit shine.” Coctura looked around her at the car, and sure enough, she did recognize it, now that she mentioned it. She could have asked more questions, like if the king was all right, or what he did to it, anything to keep the conversation going and to keep Cindy engaged with her for as long as possible.

 But Coctura had gone from tired to exhausted.

 Nodding, crestfallen, and surely with a pout on her lips, she unfolded her arms and placed a gentle hand on Cindy’s cheek. So what if the fish tasted like tires. It’s not like she was cooking for anyone but herself anymore, and occasionally Dino. Cindy blinked, and tried to lean into the touch, but Coctura was too quick for her, and the hand was gone.

 And, before Cindy could ask her why she was crying, she was, too.

 Tears trickled down her cheeks as she drove the length to their home alone. The road seemed more lonely than usual, but she thought that it was maybe it had always been this lonely. Maybe it never really recovered from the decade of darkness. Hell, maybe she hadn’t, either.

 Eventually, she pulled into the stone driveway off the path in the Kettier Highland. Her short-heeled feet were heavy as she walked through the threshold and into the dark, cold house. She didn’t bother with the dim lights Cindy had installed some years ago at her request – for the ambiance, she had told the mechanic – and threw her car keys somewhere to the left in the living room. She kicked off the heels on her feet and left them in the hallway, and she didn’t bother picking up her skirt, either, as it pooled at her feet and she stepped out of it. The blouse she was wearing was unbuttoned and slung over a small chair by the bedroom window, and her bra was left to fall beside.

 Her tears were slower now, and she pulled a sweater over her head before flopping onto the bed that she used to share with someone for more than a couple nights a month. It wasn’t until she had buried herself in the pillows and tugged the comforter over her that she realized the sweater was one of Cindy’s old ones, with holes and grease stains on the sleeves, and the yellow was so faded that it was more of an ivory at this point. Coctura had always hated it, but Cindy would never part with it. ‘It’s still comfortable,’ she insisted. Lying in the dark, surrounded by the scent of gasoline and pink roses that was uniquely Cindy Aurum, she was inclined to agree.

Morning came, and somewhere in the night, Coctura had found sleep, or whatever the equivalent to heartbroken unconsciousness could be called. Like a dream, dust floated through the sunlight filtering through the crack in the curtains, but this wasn’t a dream. In fact, the pain was still raw, and very, very real. She had secretly hoped that she would wake up to the sound of Cindy’s truck pulling in – she always did; the sound of the engine roaring could wake the dead – but there was nothing.

 The sound of pots and pans banging together, though, drew her upright in a panic. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she remained frozen in place until she heard it again. Quickly, she opened the nightstand drawer and grabbed the butcher knife from under the lotions and toys, ‘Because you never know,’ she told Cindy the night she put it in there, and Cindy had laughed so hard that she had almost peed herself. Literally.

 She tiptoed down the hall, and took note that her skirt and heels were picked up and moved, no longer cluttering the narrow hallway. The scent of something burning caught her nose before she ever reached the kitchen. It smelled like a meat – bacon, or ham, perhaps? The thought crossed her mind that Dino had let himself in, but even he had a little more couth than just letting himself in. He would have at least called first.

 It donned on her, then, that she hadn’t even thought to check her phone at all. Maybe he had called, and she had simply missed it? Yes, that had to be it, at least, that’s what she told herself. There definitely wasn’t a burglar in her home trying to burn it down with her still inside. Nope.

 “Oh, dang it all!”

 Coctura paused, then kept creeping down the hallway until she reached the kitchen. As she peered around the corner, sure enough, Cindy was in nothing but her bra and shorts, with the addition of Coctura’s apron, wrapped around her slim waist. The kitchen was nothing short of a disaster. The frying pan with what Cactura thought might have been an edible meat product was turned up way too high and smoking. Flour and eggs were just about on every surface of the counter, and there were at least four pans in the sink with failed attempts at pancakes stuck to them.

 Cindy turned then, not quite facing her, but just enough so Coctura could make out that beneath the grease and flour were dried tears. Her eyes were red, likely from the combination of emotions and a lack of sleep, but above anything, Coctura could see resolve. She continued watching Cindy struggle. She put too much water in the pancake mix, and her eggs were runny, and she wasn’t even going to mention the potatoes.

 Finally, after Cindy turned everything off and stood in front of the stove, defeated, Coctura let out a tiny giggle, drawing her attention. The blond whipped around, eyes brimming with fresh tears, and it clutched Coctura’s heartstrings to see her so upset, even if she kind of did deserve it. She walked into the kitchen and set the butcher’s knife on the small round table before she reached out and touched Cindy’s face, allowing Cindy to actually lean into her this time.

 “I’m so sorry,” she whimpered, and Coctura nodded. They were a sore sight in old clothes and half dressed. Really, they were a right mess, but she couldn’t help but find the whole thing to be out of some kind of old daydream.

 “I missed you,” Coctura admitted, and she pressed herself closer, until their noses touched. The pads of her thumbs brushed under Cindy’s eyes, catching the tears before they could fall, and Cindy took a deep, shuttering breath before she hugged her close, motor oil and dried eggs be damned. For a long moment, they were silent, relishing in the feel of one other’s bodies against each other.

 “It’s so good to be home,” Cindy finally whispered into her ear. Warmth washed over Coctura despite the shiver that traveled down her spine, and she beamed, pressing a kiss to her cheek, then her sugar coated lips.

 Yeah, the kitchen was a mess, and they were in their underwear, but they cooked breakfast together for the first time in years, and it was the first time in a long time that Coctura felt like she wasn’t alone in this dream she had built for two.