#Broken Woodworks

[teddy-bear-naps-and-random-snaps]

[nautarot]

Have You Eaten Yet? (2016)

Mixed media sculpture - Plywood, maple veneer, laminated glass, spraypaint, cherry wood (hammer), leather

[deanpinterester]

once again watching room makeover videos and wishing i could do SOMETHING to my room

[aislop]

Not only is the one door off its hinges, and the window panes in each door mismatched, but they wouldn't even reach across the entire doorframe when closed.

We should also be able to see at least part of that open door reflecting in the mirror on the opposite wall.

And of course… what AI-generated interior design "photo" would be complete without a fucked up, (partially) floating light fixture casting incongruent shadows?

[theculturedmarxist]

In 2020, Robert Kuciemba, a woodworker in San Francisco was infected with covid by a co-worker after his Nevada-based Victory Woodworks transferred a number of sick workers to the San Francisco site for a few months. 

Through the proceedings of the case it turns out that the employer knew some employees might be sick but they transferred them anyway and ignored a San Francisco ordinance in place at the time to quarantine suspected covid cases.

Kuciemba was subsequently infected and he then infected his wife, who ended up in ICU on a ventilator.

The California Supreme Court just ruled against Kuciemba on the basis that a victory, while, in the court's words, "morally" the right thing to do, would create "dire financial consequences for employers" and cause a "dramatic expansion of liability" to stop the spread of covid.

There’s a few stunning details to note in this case. First, the court agreed that there is no doubt the company had ignored the San Francisco health ordinance. In other words, they accepted the company had broken the law. And then concluded “yeah, but, capitalism.”

Secondly, the case was so obviously important to the struggle between capitalism and mass infection that the US Chamber of Commerce, the largest business lobbying organisation got involved and helped the company with its defence. Remember, this is a tiny company in a niche industry. The involvement of the biggest business lobbyists in the country tells us a lot about the importance of the principle they knew was at stake.

Thirdly, the defence of the company is very telling. They said “There is simply no limit to how wide the net will be cast: the wife who claims her husband caught COVID-19 from the supermarket checker, the husband who claims his wife caught it while visiting an elder care home." 

Well, exactly. Capitalism couldn’t survive if employers were liable for covid infections contracted in the workplace, and the ripple effect of those infections. And they know it. 

This case is something of a covid smoking gun, revealing what we always suspected but had never seen confirmed in so many words: the public health imperative of controlling a pandemic virus by making employers liable for some of that control is, and always must be, secondary to capitalist profit. 

This ruling is also saying out loud what has been obvious to anyone paying attention for the last two years: employers don’t have a responsibility to keep your family safe from covid. You have that responsibility. And if you give a family member covid that you caught at work and they get sick or die – even if it was a result of law-breaking by your employer – that’s on you buddy.

It is the same old capitalist story: the shunting of responsibility for ills that should be shared across society, including employers in that society, onto individuals.

This ruling essentially helps codify workplace mass infection and justifies it as necessary for the smooth functioning of capitalism.

This is not new. This is where the ‘just a cold’ and the ‘mild' narrative came from. It came from doctors and healthcare experts whose first loyalty was to capitalism. Not to public health. To money, not to lives. Abetted by media who uncritically platformed them.

While this ruling tells us little that we couldn’t already see from the public policy approach of the last two years, it is revealing (and to some extent validating) to see it confirmed by the highest law of the land in the United States. 

[makisdiyworkshop]

Giving a second life to a piece of wood by making it a nice decoration.

I made this broken heart using a piece of wood from a pallet and some rope.

Check out how I made it and how you can make it. ⚒🪚

#MakisDIYWorkshop

[geocyclist]

New project! Long bed jointer with a myriad of missing and broken parts.

[literallyimthenerdemoji]

pottery

Since Odysseus is into carpentry, Penelope is into weaving, what do you think Telemachus' art thing will be?

[phantomrose96]

The timeline for Pikmin 2 is so funny because like, Olimar's been missing-presumed-dead for an entire month (rightfully so, considering how very dead Olimar should have been with the events in Pikmin 1) and he escapes by the skin of his teeth and beelines it back home with the desperate desire to see his wife and children who've probably been starring on Dateline: Hocotate every day for the last month to be grilled about their tragically missing father.

And instead. Instead. The absolute literal second Olimar's ship docks down, his fucking boss of all people comes running out of the woodwork and shakes him by the shoulders going "Terrible news Olimar your new coworker fucked up and now we're $10 million in debt! Go immediately back to that planet you escaped from and hunt its wildlife to extinction in order to collect enough valuable treasure to pay this off."

Like we're not even gonna let Olimar brush his teeth huh? Not gonna shove some antibiotics in him for the undiscovered foreign pathogens clinging to his suit? This man survived 30 days on 10 days of emergency rations and probably a few bulborbs once he got hungry enough to no longer care about the parasites. Not a hello? Not a 'you're alive'? Not a coffee?

What the hell does this even look like from the President's perspective? Your shipwrecked presumed dead employee whose life insurance policy paperwork is sitting on your desk shows back up out of the literal sky, down 20% of his bodyweight covered in superficial injuries smelling like gangrene and carrying himself with the haunted and (no, dare I say, passionate?) look in his eyes of someone who has learned to indiscriminately kill for the sake of survival.

And your first thought is "oh thank god my single competent employee isn't actually dead. I need to exploit him as soon as possible."

President's so fucking lucky Olimar is both a broken salaryman and also deranged enough to find wonder in the hostile world that so very wants to rip him to pieces. If I were Olimar I'd have killed President and Louie on the spot.

[ichsany]

Logo Design: Broken Road - Woodworking

https://ichsanypro.blogspot.com/2019/08/broken-road-woodworking.html

[teddy-bear-naps-and-random-snaps]

[callme-holly]

Could you maybe write dally with a reader who's in the middle of a depressive episode? Like can't leave their bed, stopped brushing hair and teeth etc...?

𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐥𝐥 [𝐝𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫]

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 - in which dallas does his best to show he cares 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 - im back from my break but content wont be as frequent bc im going into my final year of high school and stress is high 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 1k 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - mentions of depressive episodes, not eating, etc

Dallas knew something was wrong the moment you didn’t pick up the phone. He knew something wasn’t right the second it went straight to voicemail, that dull, grating tone sounding through the line instead of your usual soft voice. Something was wrong, and the fact that this was the fifth time he’d called you with still no answer didn’t bode well with his growing concern. 

Maybe that’s why he found himself balancing on the ledge outside your window, desperately trying to figure out a way to get in without getting caught by your parents—or showing that he cares too much. He’s got a reputation to uphold afterall, and while it’s not entirely untrue that you’re important to him, he’d rather look tough than risk appearing vulnerable by throwing himself into your room and demanding an explanation. 

With a carful and much practised ease, Dallas manages to make his way onto your windowsill, flicking out his blade and jamming it into the gap just under where your lock would sit, twisting and turning until the lock releases from its place in the frame with a quiet click. You were going to kill him one of these days for how many times he’d left little marks against the woodwork or broken off pieces entirely, but there was a time and a place for everything and he knew better than to mention the new scars on the paintwork to you right now.

The inside of your room is uncharacteristically dark when Dallas slips in through the window, lit only by the small lamp on the your desk, the dim glow casting tall, looming shadows across the walls. It’s as if the entire room were swallowed up, consumed by the darkness which has cast itself over every inch of your space, hiding you away, making you seem smaller, weaker, somehow. 

Your bed is a mess of blanket and pillows strewn about haphazardly, and tangled in the midst of all the chaos is you, curled in on yourself like you have been all day, face hidden from the light of the world, eyes shut tight. You breathe deeply, in and out, in and out… 

Dallas has never seen you so still before, and even though he doesn’t want to disturb you, he knows that you're way too caught up in your own head, too wrapped up in your own self pity, to notice him standing in the middle of your room. He can see the rise and fall of your shoulders and chest, can see the way you shift every now and then, the tension and sadness clear in every movement, as if you’re fighting off some invisible demon.

The sight frustrates him, the thought of you sitting here alone, unable to do anything against your spiralling mind causes those gears to grind within him. He knows what it’s like, how it feels to be trapped in your own head, and he hates to see you suffer from it.  

“Hey,” he murmurs softly after a moment of prolonged silence, attempting to break you from the trace you’re submersed in without startling you. He takes a tentative step forward before carefully moving to sit on the edge of your bed, not really knowing what to do from there. “You good?”

You don’t respond immediately, your response getting stuck halfway up your throat, struggling to get past the thick wall of emotions blocking any kind of sound from leaving your lips. You swallow heavily, the action painful and raw, and your words come out in a tiny, hushed whisper, barely louder than the wind whipping through the trees outside.

“Don’t know.” The word comes out as more of a sigh than an actual word, and though your mouth opens to continue the conversation you’ve cut it short, unable to force another syllable past your throat. It seems as if your brain had completely gone blank, the thought of continuing speaking seeming impossible. There’s a pause between you two. A moment in which you’re both waiting for the other to speak, to say something, but neither can find the words to fill it. It stretches on, almost unbearable in its intensity, the silence so thick and heavy with unsaid thoughts and feelings you could cut it with a knife if you wanted to. 

Finally, it becomes too much and Dallas is the first to break, shifting awkwardly to sit beside you. He's not good with this sort of thing, emotions aren't exactly his area of expertise, but he isn't completely heartless and he sure as hell isn't gonna leave you like this. 

“Have you eaten anything today?” There's a strange note to his voice, and even though you don't turn to glance at him, you feel his eyes on you. You shake your head in confirmation and he huffs. “Then eat,” he says simply, reaching forward to brush some of your knotted hair from your face. 

The gesture is gentle, comforting almost, but his touch is still firm despite his attempts at being a calming presence. That much about him doesn’t change.

You want to tell him that it’s not that easy, that you haven’t actually left your bed since yesterday morning—except to go to the bathroom—and even then, the effort it took drained what little energy you had left. You want to say that the thought of forcing food down your throat feels impossible because your stomach hasn’t stopped feeling like lead weights. But instead, you bite your tongue. It’s too difficult to explain something like that to Dally, and honestly, you’re not sure you could handle his bluntness right now.

Instead you reach out blindly for him, gripping onto his wrist tightly and pulling him close, ignoring any protests he may make. He sits stiffly, unsure how to react to the sudden contact, but after a moment of hesitation he allows himself to relax, one arm coming to wind around your middle.

He doesn't smother you, doesn't tease you for wanting him so close like he normally would. Instead, he remains quiet, offering nothing but silent support. And you appreciate that; you appreciate how he doesn’t push you away, how he doesn’t leave you alone to deal with things yourself. You appreciate that, despite it not being his scene at all,  he stays beside you, lets you cling to him and rest in his arms without complaining. And then you realise, maybe Dallas Winston isn't as heartless as everyone makes him out to be. 

Maybe, just maybe, you mean more to him then he lets on.

[exercise-of-trust]

everyone clap and cheer for my beautiful daughter who has every disease 🥰 her name is þerindë because her wheel is made out of an embroidery hoop; she is entirely handmade and boy howdy does it show

a whole bunch of things have stopped working since i took that video last night and i'm not sure how much more wherewithal i have to keep messing with her, but i did manage to spin about two feet of something before then! so i'm showing her off a bit now, and if i can figure out what-all i fucked up maybe you'll see more of her in the future. some process and progress photos under the cut (not a tutorial. do not do this. i cannot sufficiently stress how bad of an idea this was and is*)

(*if you are going to do this and have questions not answered here i am always happy to answer them, inbox and dms are open etc, but like. i would strongly advise against it)

here's the hoop! it's about a foot across, with a groove carved out with a speedball. this ended up being way too shallow (who'd'a'thunk) so the final version is a lot deeper than what you're seeing here. the paint stirrers are held in with straight pins because i was worried regular nails would just crack the hoop lmao. my girl is so deeply and profoundly scuffed <3

the flyer is made from three cedar shingles glued together because i didn't have a solid piece of wood large enough. astonishingly nothing broke while i was sawing out the rough shape and it whittled down pretty nicely! the hooks are scrap 2mm copper wire, the orfice is a couple inches of plastic drinking straw, and the pulley wheel is also hand-carved, which is why it looks like a fucked-up oreo and has the weird hitch at the top of the spin that you probably saw in the video 🙃 frankly i am astonished it works as well as it does

the wheel frame is. man. the axle supports haven't broken yet but frankly it's a miracle they're still in place with how much strain they're under every time. the original base was that weird little bit of paint stirrer, which (shocker) did not work out in the long run; it's been replaced by an offcut from the frame and is significantly more sturdy now. it's surprisingly level, though, and turns pretty smoothly all things considered!

the frame was a nightmare start to finish; i've never done any serious woodworking before in my life and the whole thing was just kind of slapped together without a plan or any sort of concrete measurement. it wobbles so fucking bad and every few hours i have to push a couple of the parts back together where the nails are sort of drifting out of the wood. you may observe a weird post sticking out the left side of the mother-of-all; that is supposed to be for scotch tensioning. does it actually do that? sort of! the belt is a length of cotton crochet thread that is, after much fiddling, just the right size to not slip out more than once every three minutes.

treadling was another pain to figure out and i think i probably made it way more complicated than it needed to be. it still doesn't work very well and i can't tell if that's something i can fix hardware-wise or if i just have to suck it up and practice a lot more. turns out feet are not as coordinated as hands! i would say "now i know for next time!" but frankly i am never doing this again. you couldn't pay me. speaking of which, i did the math and at my current pre-tax hourly salary i could've bought two brand-new ashford travelers with the number of hours i spent building my awful rickety daughter. at the end of the day, do i love her? immensely. is she "good"? by no stretch of the imagination.

anyway. this was a terrible use of my time <3 but i do finally feel confident enough in all the parts of a spinning wheel and what they're for that i can brave the dangers of facebook marketplace's "spinning wheel" category without getting too badly scammed! which is pretty valuable in its own right, i guess.

[roseodelle]

Arcane Pt2 - Eris Vanserra x Unnamed OC

Eris’s best kept secret is infiltrated.

No use of y/n

WC: 1326

Warnings: Angst, Violence

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4

The forest is charred. Their wards are broken, and the glamours have fallen. The cottage is in shambles. Once a beautiful home for them both, smoke now drifts upward from the rubble. Trampled are the flowers and vegetable garden she’d tended to dearly for so many years. The smell makes him sick to his stomach, and he falls to his knees. There’s nothing left.

His chest heaves, his hands gripping and pulling at his short red hair. Tears begin to fall from his face as reality sets in and the sobs begin. It’d happened so quickly. In his quarters of the Forest House one moment, standing above his beheaded brothers the next. Beron will be after him; he knows. He’ll send the hounds and guards before he himself comes to smite him down. He has minutes, if that. He’d killed his brothers. He’d have killed his father, too, if he didn’t know better. But while Eris was strong, Beron was stronger.

Her body... her body lay ahead of him in the destruction of their home. What will Beron do to her, even in death, he wonders? He won’t find out. He will not let Beron desecrate her further. She deserves dignity in her death, and he will give it to her. His love. His grace. His empathy and compassion. His brilliance. His mate. He failed her. How didn’t he know? Why didn’t he feel the intrusion on the ward? Why didn’t he feel her through the bond? Why didn’t she call for him? Why leave her side of the bond closed to him, even near death? Why shield him from his failure, from her pain and fear?

Rising from the scorched earth, he takes an unsteady step forward. His right foot lands on a shard of stained glass that once belonged to the beautiful front door. She’d been so proud to have found it. A great discovery: a decrepit old wooden door with a stained glass window. His chest tightens again. He wasn’t here. He wasn’t here. With uneven steps, he walks through the rubble. The sitting room was once such a beautiful space. They’d spent so many hours and so many years together in that room. Once lively shades of green and orange are now a burnt charcoal gray. The kitchen was the same. Only the innermost walls of the home still stand as he makes his way down the hall.

He needs to find her. He dreads finding her. He tries again to tug on that string, that bright orange thread, tying them together. Nothing. He feels nothing. Minutes, he reminds himself. He has minutes until the sentries come. Before Beron comes with vengeance. 

Their bedroom lay just a few steps ahead. The door was broken, leaning sideways on it’s hinges. The smell is stronger here. Putrid death mixes with the remaining scent of his life. Only faint hints of jasmine and sage rise above the remnants of an angry, relentless flame. The scent of his brother was a bitter aftertaste. He marches on.

Their bed was left unmade. The lxurious golden sham is now a horrid black. Down pillows burned to a crisp. Intricate woodwork smolders, and her scent is stronger here, but he still can’t see her. He passes their bed and her vanity. Flower pots and dirt litter the floor, and the burgundy rug he found on a trip to Adriatta is torn into shreds. She’d put up a fight. Good girl. His chest heaves, vomit rises in his throat, and he shakes his head, steadying himself again. He needs to get her out and take her somewhere Beron cannot find her. Where he cannot do her more harm. Where she can rest.

He finds her in the closet. She’s curled inward on herself, her beautiful dress bloody and torn. Her back is still, and the familiar rise and fall of her breath are nonexistent. She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone. He’s shaking again, tears burning his cheeks. Unsteady hands reach toward her burned body. The skin of her back was blistered and damaged beyond repair. There’s so much blood. From her face to her chest, her arms, and her legs. She’s covered in cuts and burns. His sobs become stronger and louder as he reaches for her. She’s not breathing.

“My love.” He brokenly whispers, begs, and pleads with her as he pulls her destroyed body into his arms. He turns her face toward him. Unmarred by the fire of his brother. Her eyes remain closed, the stillness of her chest breaking his soul into pieces. He rests his cheek on hers, his tears making their home on her skin. 

“My love, please. Please wake up.” He chokes back a sob, running his hand along her arm and along her spine in an effort to wake her, but he knows. He knows she’s gone.

“Please. Come back to me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He’ll die here, he decides. How could he take his place as High Lord without her by his side? Let Beron strike him down. Let his father's fire end his life as he holds his mate in his arms. He’d die with her. He leans down, pressing a chaste kiss to her cold lips, and he closes his eyes. Let him die here.

Two hundred years. Two hundred years of safety. Serenity. Peace. Over. All over. His heavy sobs shake his shoulders and shake the still body in his arms, and as he holds her tighter, he still runs his hands over her arm and back. His hand finally rests on her wrist, checking for a pulse he knows he won’t find. 

“I’m so sorry, my love. I’m so sorry.” He repeats until the words run together in an incomprehensible mumble, his fingers digging too tightly into her wrist, hoping to feel something he knows he will not. He wasn’t here. He didn’t protect her. For two hundred years, he’d kept her safe. It wasn’t enough. He had failed her. 

His breath stalls in his throat, eyes widening in shock. Denial floods through him as he tugs again at the bond that remains silent, but he felt it. It was so faint, so faint, but it was there. Her pulse.

“My love, my love, please.” He straightens, pulling her tighter to his chest and forcing her face toward his once again. Her beautiful eyes remain closed, but he feels it again. It's so faint, but it’s there. She lives.

His demeanor shifts, his mask falling into place as he assesses the situation anew. She’s mortally wounded. She will not live, not unless she receives help he cannot give her. Cannot provide for her. Not with Beron’s sentries so close behind him. Minutes, he reminds himself. He has but a few minutes with her before they come for him. Before Beron comes from her. Seconds, he amends, another faint pulse coming through much later than the last.

He’s on the border of three courts. He has two options. He can beg for sanctuary in the Summer court. Tarquin is known to be just and kind. But Beron will follow. Beron will follow him across Prythian. Tarquin would not be able to provide the safety or care she requires. Nor Kalias in the Winter Court, who would likely attempt to freeze Eris on sight. 

There is only one true option, he realizes. The Night Court sees Eris as the ruthless, conniving killer he made sure he was known as, but his mate was not like him. Not like the mask he wore. The mask he perfected over two hundred years to protect her. Tensions between Eris and the court were harsh on both sides, but it may be the only place Beron will not follow.

It’s the only option, he knows. And as another weak pulse graces his fingertips and the rustle of leaves alerts him to the first sentry sent for him, he knows what he must do.

[bonniebird]

Aegon x Fem!Reader

Requested by Anon

Masterpost

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Request: Anonymous asked: "I ran too fast and now I can’t breathe. It’s the first time I’ve exercised in four years." Ageon Targaryen and Fem!Reader please.

Shuffling your feet you sighed and wished for something interesting to happen. You were appreciative that you were one of the queen's favourites and that, for today, delivering a carriage full of supplies would be the hardest job you had that day, perhaps for the week. It didn’t make the waiting around any less boring though. You turned curiously as the door to the sept opened. 

It was the smaller door built into the giant doors at the front of the sept. It was disguised with ornate woodwork so that unless you inspected it closely you wouldn’t be able to tell that it was there.

“(Y/N).” Aemond said as he came into view. He was followed by the twins Erryk and Arryk. Aemond said your name as if he had hoped to find someone else.

“Aemond.” You smiled cheerfully and you could see the irritation at your cheerful disposition clear on his face. It did bring a spark of dreadful joy to rile him up. Though he never said anything, only giving you a distasteful look as if your bubbling character exhausted him beyond reason. You always got the sense that after spending any length of time with you the prince took a long lay down afterwards to recover.

“The royal carriage outside. That would be yours?” He asked in the same tone. He came across as rather bored and as if he would rather be anywhere else but he was also stern and impatient, his foot tapping as he waited for your reply.

“It is. Your queen mother has asked me to take this to the Septas to be given out to the needy.” You held up your large woven basket that hung from one arm and several more that were lined up on the worn wooden benches near the front of the sept. It was lined with green cloth and filled with food left over from a feast that had been thrown by King Viserys in Princess Rhaenyra’s honour two days prior.

“And you are alone?” He pressed. His foot tapping out an echoed song on the cold stone floor, his fingers matched the sound as they tapped silently on the hilt of the sword on his waist. 

“Yes. That is why I was sent with the royal carriage your mother prefers.” You said as if that answer was obvious. You turned your attention away from the three men and towards the two septas that hurried towards you. The youngest gave you an appropriate greeting for your rank while the elder lady bowed her head quickly, thanked you and assured you the queen's gift would be greatly appreciated. There was a loud rustling and scuffling which drew all your attention towards a stone table with candles set heavily into the floor towards the back corner of the room. The younger septa, newly joined from a sept outside the city and not as used to the chaos of the royal house as the elder, jumped as Aegon leapt up from the shadows under the table. He darted off with a determination, not unlike the rat cats from the Red Keep, when the cook would chase them from the kitchen when she received dairy goods. While the twins chased him Aemond followed calmly. He stopped to bow to the three of you before following. There was peace again as the door closed, promptly broken by Aemond’s barked cry of “BROTHER!”

Once you had completed your task for the queen, you took the time to light a candle and knelt to pray. You lit another candle for the queen as well. It seemed the right thing to do when she hadn’t been able to make the trip to the sept as she wished. Once you were done you dusted yourself off and headed to the carriage. 

The silver carriage you had been allowed to take today was the queen’s personal carriage, not the usual one that you and her ladies or the ladies that waited on Princess Helena would ride in. It was pleasantly upholstered and the wheels rolled smoothly even over the roads that had become uneven during the weather over the last few months. 

“Are you ready to return home, my lady?” One of the queen's guards who travelled with the carriage asked. You nodded as he opened the door and helped you up the wooden steps into the carriage.

“Yes. That is all the queen wished for us to do today.” You said and smiled at him. 

All of a sudden something large struck your side and you yelped as you plummeted painfully into the carriage and something large, heavy and smelling of stale alcohol landed on you. 

“Unhand me!” Aegon snapped at the guard who was quick to follow your fall into the carriage and jump to your aid realising that the attacker was in fact Aegon and finding himself unsure if he should let him loose or not. “I said unhand me!”

“Aegon!” You snapped once the poor guard, pail-faced and clearly panicked, had helped you to one of the seats, seeming to decide it was best to let the flailing dragon go rather than try to heave him out of the carriage. Ageon had already taken up one of the bench seats and did not look willing to move again, so you sat on the other. “You’ve ruined my dress!” You complained as you saw the mud and dirt he’d gotten all over your clothes. Ageon did not respond, instead, he gasped a few times and waved a hand at the guard, who was still lingering in the doorway of the carriage, indicating that he would like to be taken home. You glared at him, fixing him with as hard a look as you could manage.

 "I ran too fast and now I can’t breathe. It’s the first time I’ve exercised in four years." He gasped out after a long pause. You tried not to giggle but the sound broke out on its own and made him smile as you put a hand up to your mouth as if to try and catch the sound.

“Why are you running from Aemond?” You asked to distract from your amusement and he sighed.

“Because he’s a frightful bore and I wanted to have some fun.” Aegon sprawled out across the seat he was occupying and closed his eyes.

“You shouldn’t hide in the sept. It's rude. Not to mention you always hide there so you're easier to find.” You said quickly. He opened one eye and groaned a little.

“Are you going to scold me all the way back to the keep?” He asked lazily. You sighed and leaned into the comfortable seat a little more.

“I would much rather not have to talk to you at all.” You said quickly. He chuckled and shrugged.

“Very well.” He spoke with sharp amusement that made you frown.

“I mean that.” You said stubbornly. He smiled again and basked in the sun that burst through the carriage windows as the long stretch of road opened up and the carriage turned down the road that exited the main heart of the city and headed to the front courtyard of the keep. 

“And I agreed.” He was starting to smile, amusement playing at the corner of his mouth as you fidgeted in your seat, running your tongue over your front teeth and smacking your lips quietly with frustration. “But you do insist on it ever so much.” He said after a pause.

“Because you do not speak as if you believe me.” You answered matter of factly. He nodded and made a noise as if he agreed.

“It is true I do speak in such a manner. Mostly because I don’t believe you. You like me more than my brother at least.” He said softly and grinned as he looked over at you, his feet kicked up against the wall of the carriage at the end of the seat, crossed over each other at the ankle as his hands rested on his chest.

“Not true at all. I find Daeron much more enjoyable to spend time with than you.” Your answer made him laugh.

“Everyone likes him. But you like me more than Aemond.” He sat up and leaned towards you as the carriage came to a stop. The small space seemed to become smaller still under his gaze, watching you as if he wanted you to confess that he was right but the door was yanked open and Aemond appeared as he stepped into the light that burst through the opening, yanking Aegon out of his seat and through the carriage door out of sight. Sir Cole stepped into view shortly after and gently helped you from the carriage. 

“Thank you for finding him.” A stiff voice came from behind you. Turning you found Otto Hightower over seeing Aegon being swept out of sight into the depths of the keep.

“Well, really he found me.” You confessed and smiled. Your smile fell awkwardly when Otto’s face remained stern. 

“The queen will see you in her chambers for an update on your trip to the Sept.” Otto said and nodded to Cole. Though he was gentle as he guided you inside, Sir Cole’s grip on your arm was unyielding and you had the good sense to suspect that Aegon had gotten you into some kind of trouble.

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[amuromi]

★ ₊ ⊹ ⋆˙ ┈ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑 X ᶠ!ᴿᴱᴬᴰᴱᴿ

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ┈ 7.7k

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐀!𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ┈ I would just like to thank the girlies for showing me the light of the Dominican-French Connie headcanon. Truly a beautiful thing that you’ve all created.

✮ 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 & 𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓!! ✮

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 ┈ NSFW! modern!au, hurt/comfort, previously established relationship (childhood sweethearts to exes), pet names (baby, mami, mamita), oral (f!receiving), mentions of birth control, untranslated Spanish, ooc!Connie (canon is only a suggestion)

It’s late, just on the cusp of twilight. The sun is setting behind the skyline in flecks of amber light, flickering over the culdesac like a dwindling candle. Soon the streetlights will come on, buzzing in bright halos over the cracked pavement of the basketball court. It’s so strange to see the changes that had gone unnoticed in years prior suddenly become glaringly obvious. The old pavement of the basketball court has always been cracked and faded, dandelions pushing up between the rivers of dirt that worked their way through the broken concrete. The green paint has long since been washed away along with the white lines and red free throw lane. Somebody–probably the same person that tagged the mailboxes up the street–has made an attempt at renewing the paint job, wobbling lines of spray paint marking out half court and the foil line. The rest of the park is just as neglected, having never been updated since its first installation. The swings are old and rickety, creaking under the slightest weight, and all the plastic pieces of the playground have been bleached pale under the sunlight. But it’s still standing. 

All the pocketknife etchings in the picnic tables and sharpie scribbles on the underside of the tallest slide. This park has always been well-loved. There are memories tucked into the cracked asphalt and carved into trees. Some aren’t even tangible, just the wisp of a thought tucked to the back of your mind that comes loose when you hear just the right song at just the right time. A car driving by with the windows down, in the stifling heat of midsummer. Mostly just bass rattling through the frame of someone’s hoopty as they ease down the block just as it starts to get dark, hollering at someone loitering by the stop sign at the end of the road. Hear just the right baseline at just the right time throws you back to somewhere easier. When the biggest worries in life were getting home before the streetlight turned on. 

Age came through and shattered that simplicity. First crack was sacrificing half the summer to a job at some pop-up carnival that closed as soon as school started, then school started getting serious the closer it got to graduation, and that ceremony sent everybody off in their different directions. Like pulling out threads of a sweater until it starts to unravel. Mikasa went one way and Armin another. Eren stayed local. Coming back together has been like finding a dusty puzzle at the back of a closet and hoping it still had all its pieces. Mikasa graduated the same time as you, but Armin and his big brain still have two more years to go for his bachelor’s. Sasha is fresh out of culinary school and looking to set up something local, a little restaurant somewhere in town. 

What started as a throwaway story post that you expected nobody to see or care about–a simple “back where it all began” when you decided to walk to the park at 1AM–had turned into a rallying cry that brought everybody out of the woodwork. Now, after all the new neighborhood kids have gone home, the park is still full of people. A bunch of twenty-somethings too big to be messing with all this playground equipment. The streetlights buzz to life as the sky goes black, bugs crowding around the yellowish light, but no one moves to go home. You’re all grown. The only thing that can tell you to go home now is a half exasperated text from your Momma wondering how long you plan to be out of the house for. It’s still early enough in the night–hardly past nine–that you don’t need to worry about getting called home because you’ve been out of the house for too long or some other nonsensical reason. And even that won’t bother your Momma who’s out living her own life now that you’re older. Something about a weekend trip with her friend Mr. Vick, which you know from childhood, is something she calls all her dates, like it’s an inside joke that she still goes out and has fun. “Acting grown,” as you’ve always called it. 

And besides your Momma, you don’t really need to worry about much of anything right now. With a degree under your belt, this little return to living at home is only temporary. A brief stop while you’re waiting for everything with your new employment and the leasing office of your apartment to clear. Soon you’ll be working your own little corporate job with an office and everything, and you’ll have your own place away from your Momma’s house, too. Life is sweet and seeing all your old friends is making it sweeter, but there’s still that barest hint of bitterness lingering on the back of your tongue. No one has mentioned it, too busy focusing on who’s here rather than who’s not, but there is one glaring piece missing from the little jigsaw of your old group of friends. One soldier that didn’t answer the call of duty. 

Mikasa and Historia are over on the swings, Eren and Jean are playing one on one on the beat up court, and Sasha and Armin are sprawled out on one of the jungle gym platforms. You’re comparatively alone, sitting at the picnic table all by yourself. It’s like something frozen in time. The same chipped paint and rusted bolts. In so many years, it seems like none of the kids have added anything else to the splintered collage you all left behind. There’s still the little lopsided heart that Historia etched out after being convinced that no one would care if she defaced this particular piece of public property. She was always a stickler with things like that. But the park belongs to you guys more than it does anyone else anyway. It’s always been the property of the kids and it’s almost sad that they haven’t added their own touches in the time since you all graduated. Maybe they’ve hidden their tags in different places. On the underside of the jungle gym written in sharpie, or the frame of the swing set etched into the creaking metal. 

After a while, the sound of sneakers scuffing on concrete pauses just long enough for a shadow to cut across your line of sight, eyes half closed as you rest your head on the table.  

“Don’t tell me you’re tired,” Eren teases. He somehow looks the same as you last saw him yet so much different. He’s bulkier and his hair is longer. He’s sweating, looking sticky as honey under the golden haze of the streetlights as he smiles down at you. 

“M’not tired.” It only sounds the slightest bit fatigued as you mumble the words into your folded arms, but you’re not. You slept in today and even when you woke up you only got out of bed sometime in the afternoon. You’re as well rested as can be, but longing is making you a bit lethargic. Something about a watched pot never boiling. Each minute has stretched to a small eternity as you stare up the ridge of the slight hill that flanks the park. The road is mostly invisible from where you’re sitting but you keep hoping you’ll see someone coming down the dirt path worn through the grass. Eren follows your eyes then kisses his teeth, pushing your shoulder as if to break you out of a daze. 

“If he shows, he shows. Don’t sit here waiting for him.” Eren at least has the sense not to sound pitying. It’s not like he’s had the smoothest relationship in the past four years either. He’s been on and off with half a dozen girls since graduation, never seeming to settle down with any one of them. Eren is lucky he’s easy to like because he’s never been hounded by any disgruntled ex and it gives you hope for your own past, but that candle you’ve been holding is burning lower and lower everyday. Soon it’ll hiss out in a puff of smoke and that’ll be that. Another door closed, another chapter ended. 

“C’mon, you’re not ’bout to spend the night over here looking sad. Come by my cheerleader while I break Kirstein’s ankles.” Eren has always been something like a brother. Older by a couple months, always pretending he was more mature and had all the answers. Usually he’s no more insightful than you, but he means well and tonight it’s a welcomed distraction. You sit at the edge of the court on one of those rickety benches that rocks and sags under your weight, hooting each time one of them scores just so Eren can huff about you “only cheering for him.” By the time they’ve played themselves out everyone has gathered at the edge of the court. 

Armin has settled between your legs, shoulders knocking into your knees as you card your fingers through his hair. It used to be longer. Back in middle school he had a thick mop of hair that matched Mikasa’s. They’ve both shorn off their hair to something more cropped and manageable now, still matching somehow. Historia is leaned up against your shoulder, half-asleep but perking up now that Sasha has started talking about food. Something about everyone coming over to theirs tomorrow for brunch. It’s getting late enough that getting up early is starting to sound like a chore but the promise of a home cooked meal courtesy of your favorite chef has you setting an alarm in your phone. Jean sinks one more shot from half court before wiping his face on his soiled shirt and agreeing to call it a night. 

Home is only a couple minutes away, the path lit by merging rings of light pouring down from the streetlamps. The pavement strewn with grass clippings is far less intimidating than walking around campus at night. Here you know house 13 is Ms. Emma’s and the blue car parked on the corner belongs to Mr. Leroy. There’s nothing haunting the streets but a stray cat that meows at you as you split off from Historia at the end of the block. She lives in the next neighborhood over–where the sidewalks aren’t as cracked and the houses not so weathered–and you watch her drive off until her tail lights disappear around a corner. Your phone pings as the group chat erupts with the obligatory “I’m home” texts. You send your own before turning in for the night, trying not to mull over the missing name in the text chain. 

Morning comes in shades of pink and electric buzzing as your phone vibrates through your alarm. It’s early or at least earlier than you’ve gotten up in a while, but Sasha is already up and texting, reminding everyone that food will be ready by noon. There’s a pang of nostalgia as you get ready in the bathroom that saw you through so many formative years. It smells like your Momma now that you’ve spent so long living in dorms instead of at home. Her perfume and hair products, the sweet smell of vanilla and cocoa butter that clings to nearly every room of the house. Even your own perfume mimics the comforting scent as you spritz yourself in a generous cloud before stepping out for the day. 

A pair of sunglasses sits low on the bridge of your nose as you make the drive to Sasha’s new apartment. She moved out soon after she finished culinary school. A modest apartment that isn’t too far from the restaurant she works at. It’s humble but it’s hers, and you’re proud to see how well life has been treating her. A notification from Sasha pops up as you check your lipgloss at a stop light, asking you to run to the store for her. Something about running out of eggs. Historia chimes in a moment later asking if any of the liquor stores are open so she can make mimosas. You turn right at the next light and bemoan the lack of cars in the parking lot of the grocery store. It’s not so early that no one’s on the road but you hate to be that person rolling up into the store before everyone’s settled into the work day. 

Just make it quick, you tell yourself as you pass through the doors. There’s an immediate gust of frigid air conditioning that raises goosebumps over your skin as you grab a basket. The store is nearly empty as you meander towards the dairy section. There’s a lady pondering over avocados as you pass through the produce. About as old as your Momma, though her hair is finely peppered with streaks of gray. There’s a vague familiarity to her that comes with growing up in the same place. She might’ve been your old daycare lady or a secretary at your elementary school. You push your sunglasses a bit higher on your face, trying to hide behind the wide lens. It’s too early to navigate through a half recalled stroll down memory lane. She barely glances up as you pass, but you still take a sudden interest in the speckled pattern of the tiled floor, skirting past a display of tomatoes until you can dip around a corner. Halfway down the line of aisles you see an old classmate working the seafood counter. There’s a moment of hesitation before he nods at you and you return the gesture hoping that will be the last of the familiar faces you see until you get to Sasha’s place. 

By the time you make it to the self checkout you’ve only seen three more people in the relatively large store. No one that you knew, luckily. The scanner happily chirps to not forget your receipt as you tuck the eggs into your reusable bag, the motion interrupted as you hear a familiar song ghosting past your ears. It’s quiet, muffled, sounding like you’re only hearing it from a distance. It draws your eyes despite the machine reminding you to remove all items from the bagging area. There’s no one behind you to stir up a fuss about you lingering too long at the register, half lost in a memory. In fact the only other person in the self checkout area is a man that looks devastatingly familiar. Even with his back towards you, you could pick Connie out of the biggest crowd. His hair is a bit longer now, grown out of his militaristic buzz cut, and his shoulders have gotten broader since you last saw him, but it’s him. 

The music is coming from him, of course. A relic from a bygone era of your life, a song older than either of you that his mother used to play. A comforting sound from those awkward years of middle school. It’s faint but you can hear the soulful belting of the love song even from a distance. It sends you back to the time when you first met Connie. He’d been on the fringes of your life throughout childhood. That friend of a friend that you’d never formally met until your sixth grade English class when he was sitting next to you and cheating off your answers. It took a few months before you realized he was an ESL student and suddenly cheating wasn’t the worst thing in the world. 

The register chirps at you to pick up your groceries and grab your receipt and you nearly drop your bag and break your eggs in your rush to leave. Connie glances up from his own scanning at the sound of the commotion. It’s only a cursory glance from the corner of his eye but you see the recognition spark immediately. His whole body goes rigid, suddenly lined with tension at the mere sight of you. It’s too early for this kind of confrontation. Four years suddenly seeming too soon to see him again. You’re halfway to your car before you consider that he might not have recognized you. You try to rationalize that he could’ve just been bothered by some random woman staring him down while he’s trying to get groceries. It makes the lack of any notifications on your phone make more sense. The Connie you knew would’ve been texting you, then calling if you didn’t answer quick enough for his liking. He wouldn’t have let you walk away from him so easily. But, after so long, the Connie you knew only exists in memories. Like the song you only remember as a melody, no true words, just sounds and a feeling. 

It’s so strange how a day can sour so quickly. The bubbling happiness of getting to see your old friends has dissipated to a rueful melancholy. You get to see every friend but one. 

Masking your upset is easy when you can blame your lack of enthusiasm on the early hour despite having gotten more than enough sleep. Sasha puts you to work anyway, nudging you towards one end of the counter with a bowl and instructions to scramble the eggs. There’s a debate between Jean and Armin over adding milk to the mix, then Historia starts another over how much cheese qualifies as too much. Sasha bats all their hands away with a spatula, tossing in more cheese with a petty grin as you lament that you’re just following the chef’s instructions. You find yourself humming the song Connie had been playing as you cook, struggling to remember the words in Spanish. 

If anyone notices your overindulgence in the mimosas, they don’t question it. Historia seems happy to play mixologist as she measures out generous amounts of champagne colored with a splash of orange juice. By the fourth glass you’re feeling fuzzy and warm, like floating in a sun-dappled cloud. Mikasa’s shoulder is a nice place to rest as you drift in and out of the movie Armin put on. Some long, pondering art house film that you’re sure wouldn’t have been any easier to understand if you hadn’t only been half conscious through the whole runtime. The morning tastes like maple syrup and melted cheese. Sweet and savory as you try to ignore the soured note of your shopping trip. You try to imagine what might’ve happened if you hadn’t tucked tail and ran, then decide it was better that you had left in such a hurry. Connie had seen you but he decided to go back to what he’d been doing, ignoring you as if you were a stranger.

By the tail end of the second movie you’re sobering up and thinking of an excuse to duck out early. Sasha is back to banging around in the kitchen, cooking a late lunch, or maybe an early dinner, but you don’t have the energy to pretend to be upbeat for much longer. It isn’t quite sadness. That already came and went years ago. But it’s a strange aching like an old injury flaring up with the rain. Some time to yourself will help clear your head as you obsess over every second of the momentary interaction. Had that been a frown at the corner of his mouth or was it simply a trick of the light? Had he even considered following after you or was he glad to watch you go? The alcohol had dampened the anxiety but with each sobered moment it came roaring back to the forefront with a vicious ferocity. 

You make up some excuse about cleaning the house before your Momma gets home from her weekend getaway, ducking out of Sasha’s apartment to a chorus of disapproving whines. There’ll be other days together. You’re staying at home for at least another week and you weren’t moving so far that visits would be out of the question. Fifteen minutes was barely a drive at all, just a quick shot up the road from the high rise you’d closed on. They’ll be able to suffer one evening without you while you get yourself in order. 

Connie is all you can think about as you drive home. Him and the way he’d looked at you in the store. Like you were a ghost, a memory meant to be forgotten. And really, you have no right to be mad because isn’t that what you’d done to him? You’re strangers now. Hadn’t talked in years. What would you even say if you did? You consider the park as you drive past, but the sky has turned a steely gray and you’re not feeling like getting rained on in the name of nostalgia. It smells like lawn clippings and petrichor when you get out of the car. It’s still warm despite the storm clouds, a sticky sort of heat that ruins hair and melts makeup. The first crash of thunder comes rolling through as you lock your car, and you nearly unlock it just as fast when you notice someone sitting on your front step. 

The porch is outfitted with a cute set of chairs your Momma got from a yard sale a while back but Connie has decided to sit on the steps. He looks up at the sound of your approach and you try not to notice the way the hazel color of his eyes have shifted with the weather. They’re pulling more brown than green in the muted light of the storm as he watches you stomp past him. You hear him scrambling to follow after you even over the jangling of your keys as you rush to unlock the front door. But the porch is small and he’s already there by the time the deadbolt clicks out of the way. The weight of the screen door lifts from your back and the cold glass is replaced with the warmth of his breath skirting over the nape of your neck. It’s the closest you’ve been in years, too close to slam the door on him as he follows close behind you. He shuts the door like he lives here, locking it behind him with a sort of finality. There’s still the back door for you to escape out of and you’ve hopped enough fences to circumvent the enclosure of the backyard, but you aren’t about to let this man run you out of your own home. 

There’d been a draining sort of grief settled over you before but now it’s turned to boiling anger. He’s always been a bit desperate for your attention, though he looks a bit confused to be standing in front of you now. His eyes glance around the front room, taking in every detail as if he wanted to commit it to memory. It had been so long since he’d last been in your Momma’s house and you imagine it felt like wiping clean a window to allow the light through, the haze of dirt and lost memories removed as he breathed deep a smell that must’ve lingered in the back of his mind the same way the scent of his cologne lingered in yours. There’s an awkwardness to him that sits far too foreign on his large frame. His hands are shoved into his pockets, deep enough that they’re pulled just low enough for a peek of elastic to poke out over the waistband. You try not to focus on the strip of skin showing above the band of his underwear. If you look too long you’ll get lost in your head and you can’t let nostalgia cloud your judgment when he’s standing in the middle of your Momma’s living room uninvited, looking so fondly at the pictures of you she has framed on the wall. 

Connie seems to know you’re about to speak before the words even leave your mouth because his hand catches your chin. He tilts your head up to look at him as his thumb brushes over your lips, smearing your lip gloss just as soon as your lips part. 

“Not yet, baby,” he says and you can tell he talked to his mom recently. He’s got that little twang to his voice that he gets after speaking Spanish for an extended amount of time, the accent he outgrew somewhere in middle school slowly creeping back into his voice. You hate that you recognize it. That you wonder what he said to his mom, if he mentioned you. She used to keep a picture of the two of you in her wallet. The same picture your Momma still has framed somewhere. She took it down years ago when you’d come home in the middle of the semester with tears in your eyes, babbling about breaking up with Connie. But she never got rid of it, she said you’d regret it someday. Now, you were slowly starting to understand her insistence on preserving the sweet memory. 

The two of you were laid up on a couch, squished together even though you were small enough that there was more than enough space to spread out a bit more. One of your arms is tucked under your head while the other is laid over Connie’s back as he drools on your chest, leaving a wet spot on your shirt. You can still remember the sights and smells of that day. It was the first time you’d been invited to one of his family gatherings. 

His cousins had loved you, prattling on in a quick rush of Spanglish that you tried your best to follow as his mom kept handing you plates of food. Connie stuck close to your side the whole day, translating the slang that you missed and stealing your food when he got hungry. 

So many of your memories with him were so precious. It seems almost impossible that it had all come crumbling down so quickly. All it took was one phone call for your world to come crashing down because he couldn’t even give you the respect of doing it face to face. Maybe because he knew he wouldn’t go through with it if he could see your teary eyes. He always hated seeing you cry. Even just a pout would have him jumping to fix the problem. Any problem but your broken heart. You almost want to push him away as he leans his head against yours but it feels so good to be in his arms again. Almost like nothing has changed. But it has, and you aren’t about to let him pretend like it hasn’t. 

“Not yet.” He says again and this time he kisses you, stealing the words out of your mouth. It isn’t the kind of kiss you’d been expecting, though you truly hadn’t been expecting one at all. It’s deep and searching as if he’s trying to pour every kiss he’d missed giving you in the last few years into one. It feels like drowning and breathing all at once. As if you hadn’t realized you were starving until he gave you food and told you to eat. He tastes sweet, like cake. 

“You can be angry,” he promises between breathless kisses. “Later, you can be angry. But right now, let me pretend I never let you go.” But he had, and it hurt, and you are angry. Yet your hands are pulling him closer. 

“Not here.” He says between kisses, urging you towards the hallway. He remembers which door is yours–second on the left–even after so many years away. It’s damning how well Connie knows his way around your childhood home. He’s spent countless hours within these walls the same as you. It was like a second home for him. Now it’s like he never left as he guides you towards your bed. It isn’t the luxurious queen size you ordered for your new apartment, just a modest double that was just big enough for the two of you. Usually with room to spare because Connie never did like to sleep on his side of the bed. He doesn’t make an attempt at taking up any space after he sits you on the edge of the mattress, retreating towards the door as if he’s suddenly scared to be this close to you. 

It’s a mutual feeling, the excitement and hesitance. It’s like being lethargic and hyper all at once, locked in some shuddering equilibrium that will go off kilter the moment one of you makes a wrong move. So Connie stays pressed up against your door, hands back in his pockets like that’ll be enough to keep his hands off you after he’s already got the taste of you on his lips. He never was one to be satisfied with just a kiss. 

There’s nothing hiding his eagerness as you catch the shape of his dick pressing through the gray fabric of his sweatpants clear as day. The sight is enough to lead you down a well-worn path. It’s easy to go along with his wish, to pretend he never left, when you’re surrounded by the familiarity of the past. It’s like you’re eighteen again, watching Connie fight back tears as you tell him you’re leaving for college. It was the beginning of the end yet you can’t find it in yourself to regret it. College had been the right choice and you’re not sure what your Momma would’ve done if you told her you weren’t going to your first choice school just to stay close to a boy. Even if that boy was Connie. But that doesn’t matter right now. Later, he said, you can be mad at him later. Right now you want to forget all the lost years and unspoken emotions standing between you. 

There’s a bashful hesitance as you shrug off your shirt, trying not to think of how long it’s been since he last saw you like this. You look different, surely, but Connie doesn’t seem perturbed. His mouth falls open as if he hadn’t expected it to be that easy to get you undressed. Of course you should be a little less forgiving, more steadfast in your anger, but that can all come later. For now, you’re nearly tripping over your feet to get your pants off. Connie stays pressed up against your door, hands solidly in his pockets, but his eyes are greedy as they rove over your undressed form. Light eyes drag down your body, taking in the way your bra strap slips off the curve of your shoulder and your panties are slung low around your hips. It’s mismatched, nothing special, but Connie licks his lips and bites back a smile. 

“Show me.” He sounds breathless. “Show me what I’ve been missing, baby.” There’s a soft thud as he head falls back against the door. His eyes are half lidded, lashes fluttering as his eyes take in your state of undress. The slight gravel to his voice has your knees knocking and cheeks warming, and suddenly you don’t feel as confident as you did a minute ago. Connie smirks, a soft laugh falling from his lips. “Don’t be shy now, baby. Lemme see.” 

There’s an awkward tremor to your hands as you slide your panties off, thighs closing as soon as you kick them off your ankle. Connie clocks you immediately, sucking his teeth at your coy behavior. 

“Uh uh, mama. Spread your legs. Lemme see.” There’s something so familiar in his voice, that slow drawl as he looks down at you, that has your body reacting before you can think. Your legs slide open and Connie groans. “There she is. So pretty, baby.” 

He finally pushes off the door to come closer and the sight of him rushes over you like deja vu. It eases your nerves, the familiarity of it all. It’s been a while but not so long that your bodies have forgotten each other. Connie fits between your legs the same as he always did. Falling to his knees the instant he’s close enough to touch. His hands slide up the inside of your thighs, pushing your legs farther open, before dipping over the curve of your hips to pull you to the edge of the bed. 

“Missed this,” Connie says as he buries his face between your legs. “Missed you.” The words are spelled out with his tongue as he laps at the wet heat hidden between your thighs. His short hair still prickles against the palm of your hand as you look for something to ground you as he takes his time to reacquaint himself with your body. He’s mumbling a litany of English and Spanish that hums against your clit as he sucks the sensitive bud between his lips, tracing the shape of his name like he never left. The way he’s gripping your thighs, tight enough that his fingers are leaving dimples in the soft flesh, it feels like he wishes he hadn’t left. 

There’s regret and possession radiating from him as he eats you like a man starved. He catches you watching him as your nails scratch at his scalp, hazel eyes sparkling up at you as you squirm on his tongue. He’s looking at you like you’ve hung all the stars in the sky as you cum. He groans loud and long, eyes rolling as your legs try to snap shut. He lets you, loosening his grip on your thighs just enough to feel your legs lock around his head. Connie has the nerve to look perfectly happy to suffer the suffocation as he keeps sucking at your clit. It’s not until you’re pushing him away, whining about “too much,” that he comes up for air. He’s got a dopey smile on his face, your slick shining on his cheeks and chin. He licks his lips and kisses the inside of your thigh, leaving a shiny, heart-shaped mark. He does it again and again, a trail tracing up your stomach before he buries his face against your chest, tongue tracing hot shapes across the pebbled peaks of your nipples. He’s mumbling something, low and barely coherent as he sucks marks into the plush skin of your breasts. 

“–me.” It’s a slurred mess on his clumsy lips, his attention divided between spouting his little mantra and tracing the shape of his name against your collarbone with the tip of his tongue. “Only me.” He says it over and over. Only me, only me, only me…

“Tell me, baby,” he says, suddenly crowding over you. He’s pushed you up the bed so your head is resting on your mountain of silk-covered pillow. “Tell me it’s only gonna be me.” His voice, usually deep and dulcet, has risen to an almost whimpering tone as he blocks everything but himself from your vision. The bulk of his arms crowds your periphery, keeps your head from moving as he sits nearly nose to nose with you. He’s close enough that you can reacquaint yourself with the pattern of his hazel eyes, easily parsing which flecks are green and which are brown. “Tell me.” 

There’s still a shy hesitance as you thread your arms around his neck, but it’s less about the sudden proximity and more about the sudden outpour of emotion shaking itself awake, like frost melting in the sunlight. Connie has always been familiar even after so long apart, but the emotions he dredges up have been buried beneath years of hurt and the intensity of it all bursting through the wall you’ve carefully built around your heart is almost enough to drown you. Tears come unbidden, burning at your lash line and threatening to make your mascara run. 

“It’s always been you,” you promise him. “It’s only ever gonna be you.” It wipes the slate clean. Anyone you’d been with, anyone he’d been with, in the years of distance are wiped away with only a few words. They didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered but the two of you. Connie nearly drowns you in his next kiss, tongue dancing over yours as he groans into your mouth. You can taste yourself as he sucks at your tongue like he’s trying to reacquaint himself with every facet of your body. It’s a shared sentiment as your lips find that beauty mark at the edge of his jaw that you always pressed fluttering kisses to. He laughs, low and breathless, returning the favor as he finds all those favorite places he liked to put his lips. It’s soft and loving, staving off the inevitable as his dick ruts between your legs. Each thrust has his leaking tip pressing wet kisses against your clit, adding to the mess he’s already made between your legs. His hand is clumsy when he finally reaches between your bodies to guide himself home. 

“Fuck.” The word comes out as a languid drawl as he fills you to the hilt, reaching to hitch one of your thighs around his waist. Your body remembers the shape of his, bending and bowing with the practiced motions, but you can still feel the changes. Connie has bulked up since you last saw him and he was already a pillar of corded muscles the last time you’d touched him. You can feel the softer parts of your body pressing against the hard contours of his muscles as he wraps himself around you. His arms curl under your back, pulling you closer until your hearts are beating in tandem, chest to chest as he stretches you to your absolute limit on his dick. 

“Bésame,” Connie groans, nosing under your chin to lift your mouth to where he needs it. He hovers a hair’s breadth away from your lips, each panting breath mingled with yours. “Bésame, mami.” He says again and you realize he’s waiting for you to kiss him. You’re happy to close the gap he’s left, letting him swallow all the little noises you’re making. It’s reminiscent of the days before when you had to be quiet so your Momma could at least pretend she didn’t know what the two of you were doing behind closed doors. But she isn’t home now, so you’re free to make as much noise as he can draw out of you as he rocks his hips against yours. He isn’t going for speed. Instead Connie fills you with slow, deep strokes that stir up your insides and make you feel him in your stomach. It punches the air from your lungs, leaving you to breathlessly slur his name as your nails leave marks across the broad expanse of his shoulders. 

“That’s right, mami.” His teeth scrape against the shell of your ear. Each gruff sound slipping past his lips echoes in your head as he presses his nose against your temple. “Mark me up. Quiero ser tuyo.” 

“Tú eres mío.” You say, leaving sticky marks along his neck, lipgloss and spit shining between the beads of sweat. Connie groans as you nip at his pulse, hips stuttering as he pulls you impossibly closer. 

“Eres mía, mamita. Dilo, mami, dime.” He’s slurring his words, each one bleeding into the next as Connie fucks you into the mattress. You’re on the cusp of mindlessness as he reaches between your bodies to find your aching bud, nearly too far gone to understand what he’s saying. It’s only because it’s him, only because you’ve heard it a thousand times in what feels like another life, that you know what he wants to hear. 

“Soy tuyo,” you whine as he spells his name on your clit. “Soy tuyo, lo sabes!” 

“Yo sé, mamita.” His voice is damning. You can hear the smile in his tone as he grinds his hips in deep circles, drawing out the inevitable as you teeter on the cusp of a blinding orgasm. It burns low in your stomach, thrumming at the base of your spine as he kisses your fluttering eyelids. 

“Mírame.” He says, tone just short of begging. “Mírame cuando tu vienes.” When you open your eyes, all you can see is Connie. His half lidded eyes and parted lips as you cum with a choked cry of his name. He spits out a gruff “mierda” as your legs lock tight around his waist, keeping him locked in place as your body writhes underneath him. You can feel your muscles tensing, toes curling and back arching as pleasure sings through every inch of your body. You vaguely feel Connie’s fingers fumbling clumsily across your arm, pressing and squeezing like he’s looking for something. When he doesn’t find it, he sits up, lifting your body with him as he sits back on his knees. It draws forward the vague memory of when he used to poke at the little plastic bar in your arm; your birth control. It’s gone now, having run its course in the years since you’d last seen him. 

Still, you keep your legs locked tight around him. 

“Tu turno,” you pant, circling your hips until Connie reaches to hold you still. 

“No puedo, mami. Tienes que dejarme salir.” He says, patting your thighs where they’re still wrapped tight around his waist. It only makes you squeeze tighter and Connie groans, falling on top of you as you tighten around him. 

“Está bien, papi,” you whisper, rubbing soothingly at the marks you’ve left on his back as Connie nearly vibrates with how hard he’s trying to focus on not cumming inside you. Neither of you had been worried about protection before and you’re not worried about it now as you flex your legs, catching Connie by surprise as you roll the two of you over until you’re on top. 

“¿Lo quieres?” You ask, but his hands are already loosening, no longer holding you still. He paws at your thighs, nodding sheepishly like he isn’t sure if he’s truly allowed to want anything from you. He shouldn’t, not after what he did, but that’s a problem for later. All the anger and confusion can come after he does. 

“Dime,” you say just to tease him. It looks like he’s on the cusp of insanity, lips poured and eyes glassy as he stares up at you like you’re the only thing that matters to him.

“Te quiero!” He barely gets the first syllable out before you’re moving. Red lines appear on his flushed chest where your nails scrape for purchase against his muscles, pressing him into the bed as you bounce on his dick. Fatigue is creeping in, singing each stroke with the sting of overstimulation as the pleasure begins to burn away. But Connie’s close. You can tell by the way his vocabulary has shrunk to only a few desperate words, mainly your name, as his fingers dig into the bruises he already left on your thighs. 

“Hazme acabar,” Connie all but whines. “Estoy cerca.” He sits up suddenly, almost knocking you over as his arms wrap around your waist. He’s holding so tight that he nearly squeezes the air from your lungs as he cums with a hoarse shout of your name. It’s thick and graveled, resonating in your chest as he holds you against him. He’s gripping like you’re going to disappear the moment he lets go, looking at you like this’ll be the last time. Later, he kept saying. Later is now as you feel him spill inside you. 

“Lo siento,” he whispers against your lips as he steals a final kiss. It sounds more like a goodbye than an apology and the finality of it digs out the hollow that has been sitting in your chest all these years. When Connie pulls away it suddenly feels like no time has passed at all, like it’s the beginning of the end all over again. Later is now but the anger you felt before won’t come. Instead all you feel is desperation as you cling to him, sticky with sweat, as he lays you across the sheets and kisses your forehead. You can feel him trying to leave again. He carefully detangles himself even as you try to hold onto him, pressing deceptively sweet kisses to your lips as you whine for him to “please, stay.” It’s like he doesn’t hear you as he slips from the bed and pulls on his sweatpants. But when he leaves the room you don’t hear the telltale sound of the front door slamming. Instead, you trace the sound of his steps towards the bathroom, hear the faucet turn on. A few moments later, he’s back. 

“Don’t cry, baby,” he coos as he wipes away the mess he’s made of your body. “If you wanna be mad at me; be mad, but you know I can’t stand seeing my girl cry. No llores, mami.” He insists, wiping away the tears along with the sweat and cum slipping from between your legs. That had been an impulsive decision. One that will have to be dealt with eventually. Later, you think distantly. You can deal with that later. Right now you’re more worried about Connie. He sits sheepishly at the edge of your bed, offering his shirt for you to wear. It feels like a peace offering as you pull it over your head. It smells like him, it smells like home. You watch Connie fumble in his pockets until he pulls out a ring, one you recognize in an instant. 

It wasn’t one of those cheap Pandora princess rings that every girl in your grade got as a promise ring. It was something far more precious. You’d seen his mom wearing it for years before it suddenly appeared in the palm of his hand all those years ago when he asked you to be his forever. He hadn’t wanted to take it back when you broke up. Even as he broke his promise, he wanted you to keep the ring. It’s cold when he slides it back on to your finger, but it fits like it’s always been there, like these last few years had only been a few moments instead of a small eternity. It felt strange to let go of everything so easily. All the pain, all the anger. It shouldn’t be that easy but everything slides back into place as if it is. Everything is different now, yet still the same. You’re different, he’s different. But it reminds you of something your Momma said about distance making the heart grow fonder. She could never muster any trig anger towards Connie because she said this is what you needed. A brief interlude to become your own person after years of entwining yourself with Connie. Now you understand what she meant by all that. It’s too soon to tell if it’s worth it but you suppose you can worry about that later.