#excessive caps cw

[distortsverity]

Hikari if she had a normal life, went to high school / university, and at one point got mad after a networking event between students and the League :

If you just opened this like I told you to, tie yourself down to whatever chair you're sitting in, because this email is going to be a rough fucking ride.

For those of you that have your heads stuck under rocks, which apparently is the majority of the student body, we have been FUCKING UP in terms of evening networking events and general social interactions with the League. I've been getting message after message about people being so goddamn AWKWARD and so goddamn BORING. If you're saying to yourself, "But oh em gee Hikari, I've been having so much fun with my friends this week!", then punch yourself in the face right now so that I don't have to find you on campus to do it myself.

I do not give a flying fuck, and the League does not give a flying fuck, about how much you love to talk to your friends. You have 358 days out of the year to talk to friends, and this week is NOT, I repeat NOT one of them. This week is about fostering relationships between us youth and the region’s professional hotshots plus their support, and that's not possible if you're going to stand around talking to each other instead of them. Newsflash you stupid pieces of shit: OFFICIALS DON'T LIKE KIDS WASTING THEIR TIME. OH WAIT, DOUBLE NEWSFLASH: THE LEAGUE IS NOT GOING TO WANT TO SHOW US THE ROPES IF WE FUCKING SUCK, which by the way, in case you're an idiot and need it spelled out for you, WE FUCKING SUCK SO FAR.

"But Hikari!" you say in a whiny little bitch voice to your computer screen as you read this email, "I've been cheering on our League at all the conference matches, doesn't that count for something?" NO YOU ASS HATS, IT DOES NOT. DO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHY? IT DOESN'T COUNT BECAUSE YOU'VE BEEN FUCKING UP AT THE MATCHES TOO. I've not only gotten texts about people being WEIRD (for example, acting braindead and saying stuff like "durr what's a Z-Move?" is not funny), but I've also heard about people cheering for the opposing team. The opposing. Fucking. Team. I don't care about “sportsmanship,” YOU CHEER FOR OUR GODDAMN LEAGUE AND NOT THE OTHER ONES. Have you never watched a single tournament before? Are you blind? Or are you just so disgustingly dense about what it means to make people like you that you think being a good little supporter of EVERYONE ELSE is going to make our League happy? Well it's time someone told you: NO ONE LIKES THAT, ESPECIALLY OUR LEAGUE. I will cunt punt the next person I hear doing something like that, and I don't give a crap if you report me, I WILL ASSAULT YOU.

"Ohhh Hikari, I'm now crying because your email has made me oh so so sad.�� Well good. If this email applies to you in any way, meaning if you’re a little asswipe that stands in the corners during nighttime discussions or if you're a weird shit that does weird shit during the conference, this following message is for you:

DO NOT GO TO TONIGHT'S EVENT.

I'm not kidding. Don't go. If you have done ANYTHING I've mentioned in this email and have some rare disease where you're unable to NOT do these things, then you are HORRIBLE, I repeat, HORRIBLE PR FOR OUR SCHOOL. I would rather have four students that are fun and interesting chatting with our League officials than eighty clueless imbeciles. If you are one of the people that have told me "Oh nooo boo hoo I can't talk to them I'm too scared", then I pity you because I don't know how you got this far in life. With that in mind, don't show up unless you're going to stop being an embarrassment for our school. I swear to Arceus if I see anyone being a jackass at tonight's event, I will tell you to leave even if you're a straight-A battling prodigy. I'm not even kidding. Try me.

And for those of you who are offended by this email, I would apologize but I really don't give a fuck. Go fuck yourself.

- Your Class President

[almost-nostalgic]

Art delayed due to me losing my glasses in a freak go karting accident. I'm not kidding, I am so blind without my glasses, and I only have my prescription sunglasses now.

Here's what I was working on, and very much intend to finish once I have new glasses.

This is referencing the classic baphomet pose, btw. I guess you can also see my current process with this? I've been working with lighter to darker colours, making the shapes cleaner as I go. It also means the colours look nice.

I am furious that I can't currently do the cross hatching I like, without my glasses. I have to be literally 10cm from the pages to draw accurately. Literally FINALLY got to a point in which I'm happy with an art piece, and now I CANT DRAW IT.

[habitual-creatures]

(Sorry that I've been gone most of the day a lot of stuff has happened. It's pretty bad, but I'll be ok soon. I'll get back on and in character tomorrow. Tonight I just can't focus.

Love y'all family/p )

-Mystery ghost

You don't have to apologize!!!!

I'm sorry you're in a rough patch!!!! If you wanna chat about it to me or something, you can! Or if you just wanna take the time to rest that's fine too! Whatever works best! Just know we're here for you and love you! /p!!!

Take all the time you need, okay?

[nerd-geek-etc]

AHHHHH

THE MODEL!!!

dkfjhdkjhfg

It looks so GOOD !!!!!

[high-theyre-frendough]

BRO IM SO FUCKING PISSED I MADE A LONG ASS FUCKING POST AND THEN MY FUCKING INTERNET SAID NOPE AND THEN TUMBLR ATE IT AND ITS GONE FUCK YOU FUCKING TUMBLR SHITHEAD FUCK OFF

[thoughtssvt]

a needy morning with gojo

cw : sleepy sex, thigh fucking, use of lube, nipple play/licking, creampie, cockwarming, gender neutral reader (no specification of genitalia, physical attributes or pronouns)

the sun had barely risen, the light shining through was just enough to illuminate your surroundings. you grumbled softly at the arm wrapped tightly around you and satoru's morning wood poking your back.

"satoru..." you nudged him softly, "you're hard--" turn around, you wanted to say until the flat of his hand made its way under the hem of your shirt. he nuzzled into the nape of your neck.

"good morning," he rasped, voice still heavy with sleep and a sprinkle of need.

"you're hard," you say again, voice timid in the back of your throat as he shifted closer to you, grinding his clothed erection against your ass.

" 'm aware," he replied leisurely, lips planting slow, open mouthed kisses against the sensitive skin of your neck. the minute muscles in your legs sparked with a twitch as his hand ventured further under your shirt. "okay or no?" he whispered when his hand laid atop your diaphragm.

you craned your neck towards him, throwing your arm back to pull his head closer to yours, lips rushing into a kiss. it was then that his fingertips creeped up your chest, your breath hitching as a soft pad ghosted over your nipple. you arched your back up into the pleasure, mirroring the moans you felt buzzing against your lips as you released satoru's hair from your hold. your hand ran down soft cotton, body shivering at the sensation of his bare skin, exposed as it rode up from his movements.

"fuck," he drew out a huff when you finally cupped his cock. "baby, please," he croaked weakly as you traced the head of his cock with your thumb. "need you," he begged, voice cracking with want.

you nodded your head like a spring-loose bobblehead, working the waistband of his bottoms down until enough of his length was exposed, satoru working just as hard to tug your pajama bottoms down. the struggle definitely stemming from your shared refusal to break the kiss, though by now it'd turn to heavy pants against each other's lips.

"wait-wait-- satoru, lube!" you whined as you felt his tip nudge between your thighs. you pulled away from him then, begrudgingly. reaching for the comically large bottle of lube that was tucked away in the drawer of your nightstand. a mixture of needy moans and irritated groans left your lips with each jump of your body, satoru gripping your waist hard, cock buried between your legs, momentarily satisfied by the stimulation your thighs gave his length.

after a few hard moments you'd chucked the bottle at his head and with him being gojo satoru, of course he caught it. he popped the cap open while you rolled to face him, throwing your leg over his hips, pulling him close as he squirted a messy amount of lube onto his fingers.

"hurry," you whispered against his lips as you caught him in another desperate kiss, his fingers making quick work of opening you up for him. he may have mumbled something, you weren't sure. it didn't seem important compared to the hiss that escaped him when you snaked your hand down between the two of you, your hand wrapping around his cock, stroking at the same pace he fucked your fingers inside you.

"you're gonna be the death of me," he gritted, slathering the excess lube onto his length, already feeling close to the edge, a mix of early morning sensitivity and your frantic handy.

the two of you let out a twin moan when he sunk in, the head of his cock stretching you as it breached your entrance. he rolled the both of you over so he was on top, nestling a hand against your lower back. he pulled you close, hips sticking together as he rutted into you with need. he trailed messy kissy down your neck, sucking hickeys into your chest before laving softly at your sensitive bud.

his groan sent electricity running under your skin, you clenched around him so nicely. "y' feel so good, baby, fuck. just like that. gonna make me cum." he praised, his hips snapping at a merciless tempo.

"where?" he panted, your nipple barely out of his mouth as he craned his neck just enough to look up at you. his eyes were half lidded, shining with desperation. you didn't miss the way they rolled to the back of his head just before flutter closed when you'd given him permission to cum inside.

"fuck," he hiccupped softly, body shuddering before stilling as soon as you felt the first hot spirt of his cum flooding into you. his hips jerked sharply with every following spirt, his body needing to be as close to you as humanly possible.

halfway into catching his breath he began to pull out, only for your legs to wrap tightly around his waist. he looked up at you with confusion, your face seemingly growing redder despite the end of your activity.

"stay inside?" you whispered, gasping softly as you felt his flagging cock twitch inside of you, already chubbing up again.

"you really are gonna be the death of me," he whispered in defeat, pulling you by the arms until you sat in his lap, his cock slowly burying back into you as you slid down.

you draped your body around his, humming comfortably at the feeling, "just until you're hungry," you chirp, satisfied.

"i've been hungry," he chuckled softly.

"okay, okay," you giggled, "when i get hungry," you negotiated.

"easy, i'll just start talking about food and we'll be out of here in two minutes." he hummed, voice completely recovered by now, tone snarky and confident.

"is that a challenge?" you pulled away to look at him, brow raised with a shit eating grin.

"you're on. loser cooks," he accepted.

you continued to banter softly, the seconds ticking away without your notice. before you knew it the sun had risen high in the sky, the two of you in the kitchen, you leaning up against the counter while satoru threw an apron over his head. "bagels or toast?"

A/N : i really didn't mean for this to be so long. i really thought that this would be a quick little thing, but... happy valentine's day! if you don't have a valentine i will be your valentine (if you're 18+ and if you're not... you shouldn't even be here...) and if you would rather not have me then here's satoru being your valentine.

j ‹𝟹

jjk men x reader masterlist

mdni divider by hitobaby

blue line divider by hitobaby

[moonstruckme]

Helllloooooo!!!! So, I know you wrote a slytherin!cap × James once, but I was wondering if you could maybe write like, poly!marauders with a slytherin reader, who is like annoyingly academic and puts a lot of pressure on herself for her school work bc her parents put a lot of pressure on her growing up???? If not it's totally okay, I hope you have a lovely day and take care of yourself :]

Hi honey, thanks for requesting! I hope you enjoy it and had a lovely day as well :)

Modern AU I guess? Since I couldn't think of what a Slytherin party would look like in the 70s but had a very clear vision of what it'd look like now haha

on that note, cw: Mo Bamba, and also mention of drinking

poly!marauders x Slytherin!reader ♡ 981 words

Remus looks up from where he’s splayed out on his bed, James doodling on his hand with a pen, when you stalk into their room.

Sirius lowers the small mirror he’s been using to do his eye makeup. “Hi, gorgeous. What brings you over from the snake pit?”

“Too fucking loud,” you grumble, sitting on James’ unoccupied bed. You’ve got a thick textbook with you, your fingers keeping your page. “Why does there have to be a rager every other night? It’s excessive.” You open your book, cutting a glare towards Sirius. “Your brother keeps saying he’s going to hex the next person who tries to play Mo Bamba, by the way. Could hear him all the way from my dorm.”

Sirius grins. “Sounds justified.” 

“Sweetheart, it’s a Friday night,” James says, resuming his patterns on Remus’ hand. Remus hasn’t looked, but they’re beginning to feel oddly word-shaped. “We’re about to have a party here, too.” 

You scowl. “Think you guys could at least keep it down?”

He makes a noncommittal sound. “You should join.” 

“I have to study.” 

“What do you have to study for on a Friday?” Remus asks, at the same time as Sirius mutters “Killjoy.” 

You huff, your eyes moving over the page though you can’t be reading. “Doing research for Slughorn’s essay.”

James makes a sound that’s half amusement, half bafflement, capping his pen and freeing Remus’ hand. “Angel, that’s not due until next Tuesday.” 

“I know,” you say, starting to sound prickly. “I just want to be prepared. I need a good grade on this.” 

Sirius rolls his eyes at you. “You’re doing fine in Potions already, sweetheart, just like in every other class. You don’t need to spend your Friday studying to pass.” 

“I don’t just want to pass,” you sneer, looking up at him sharply. “And I want to do better than fine.” 

Sirius raises his hands in a don’t-shoot gesture, and James and Remus exchange a look. You’ve implied, now and then, that your parents weren’t easy on you growing up. They know that every time your family writes to you, they ask for details about your grades and how your classes are going. You’re proud of the fact that your father was head boy and your mother graduated at the top of her class. And it’s a good thing to be proud of your family, but it’s also a lot to live up to, at least in Remus’ opinion. He’s seen how you tear yourself apart when your performance on an assignment doesn’t live up to your standards, and how you worry your lip when reading letters from home. 

Remus understands the desire to do well, and of course you’re ambitious—it’s the core trait of your house—but he worries you take it too far. Although your boyfriends drag you away from your books whenever they can, oftentimes (like now), you seem hellbent on slaving away to build your future rather than enjoying your youth. 

James watches you worriedly, and Remus gives his hand an encouraging squeeze as he stands, moving to sit behind you on James’ bed. Your eyes still skim the page mechanically, shoulders stiff with your habitual rigidity. Remus sets a hang between the blades tentatively, waiting to see if you’ll flinch away before beginning to massage with gentle fingers. You relax as though reluctant, at first slowly and then not. The resistance under his hand falls away, and the look you give him over your shoulder shows your hostility has gone with it. 

“We all know you’re already doing better than fine,” he says softly. “You’ve got the highest grades in our class, love, and you’re going to do well on this essay whether you spend the entire weekend on it or not.” 

You soften further at the praise, but there’s still something wary in your eyes. “I don’t get my grades by just not trying,” you say, the words blunt though there’s no malice in them. 

“No one’s saying you shouldn’t try,” Remus reasons, fingers still splayed between your shoulder blades with a light pressure. “All Sirius is saying is that you can afford a night off. Maybe even a few every now and then, yeah?”

“Right,” Sirius says, eager to rectify himself with you. “You’re fucking killing it, dollface. You’re obviously going to smash this essay, even if you get shitfaced with us tonight.” 

James grins at that. “Yeah!”

“Well,” Remus says mildly, “maybe not shitfaced—”

“Oh no, it’s happening,” Sirius insists, his eyelid glittering as he winks at you. You crack a smile, and something in Remus’ chest eases. When he reaches around you to close your book, you let him, but then grab his hand, snickering. He whips it away, reading for himself. 

“Prongs, why did you write ‘The Casanova of Gryffindor’ on my hand?”

Sirius laughs. “Because it’s true. Can we add ‘Property of the Marauders’ though?”

“Wasn’t room,” James says regretfully. “But I did put a bunch of hearts, did you see?”

“I see,” Remus replies wryly. “Don’t suppose this’ll come off anytime soon.” 

James aims for sheepish and misses, his telltale dimple appearing. It’s completely unfair that Remus is supposed to be upset with him, and yet he still wants to kiss it. “Did it with a charmed pen, so unlikely.” 

“Superb.” 

“Is that the standard decoration for a Gryffindor party?” you ask, seeming back to your snide self. Why does Remus fall so hard for assholes? “Seems rather tame.” 

“I can’t believe we’re finally getting you to one of our parties.” James bounces on the edge of Remus’ bed. “You’re gonna love it, sweetheart, they’re so much fun.” 

You look at him dubiously, though your eyes are playful. “Pretty sure Slytherin throws the best parties in the school. Are you so sure you can measure up?”

Sirius scoffs. “Gorgeous, they’re playing Mo Bamba in there. I think we’ll be alright.”

[slutforitoshi]

sae and rin itoshi - aphrodisiac *:･ﾟ✧

ft. sae itoshi x f!reader x rin itoshi, 18+ minors dni

cw: threesome, rin and sae literally fight over your body, f!masturbation, oral m!receiving and f!receiving, fingering, unprotected sex, cumming on face

synopsis: your hangover leads you to make the best mistake

wc: 3k

A/N: so fucking feral for this duo <3 also as for requests, i’m open to prompts but it’s not a guarantee i’ll write it T-T (please send in ideas though i’m always looking for inspo!)

you woke up with your head pounding incessantly, mimicking the music from the clubs you hopped the night before. you don’t even remember how you got home. fuck, why did you think it was a good idea to drink like you were still a freshman?

you fumble for your phone at the edge of your bed, hoping you remembered to charge it before you passed out. near the top of your notification stack was a text from your roommate.

roomie: headed back home for the weekend! i was gonna say bye but you were still knocked out lol. introduce me to your new friends again sometime, they were cute ;) 

what was she talking about? as far as you remembered you came home alone after a night out with some old high school friends that your roommate already knew. well, as far as you remembered was around 6 shots in, barely past the 1st club. 

you laid a bit longer in bed, trying to recall the events that ensued after your old friend challenged you to match her. how were you supposed to know she could outdrink any frat guy multiple times over? the night started coming back to you in flashes, like you were watching a compilation of embarrassing clips that got increasingly worse.

dancing on a table, throwing up in a bush, getting close to kissing the bartender for free drinks…was there anything you didn’t do??

the pounding in your head grew in intensity, pushing you out of bed and straight to the medicine cabinet. tylenol, tylenol, tylenol…aha there. you grab the white bottle and pop the cap open, downing two at once, dry (that’s how desperate you were for the migraine to subside).

the couch was your next destination. you felt the soft cushions and way too many pillows and plushes rest against you, giving you immediate relief from the aches in your body. see? i told you it was a good idea you said internally at your mom who was complaining how the couch decor was “excessive”.

you waited for the pills to kick in, to give you any relief from the persistent pressure that surrounded your temples. and it did…only to move down lower. it starts off as a slight pressure on your abdomen, then blossoming into heat. you weren’t innocuous at this point in life, and recognized exactly what it was: you were horny.

and the heat only grew, morphing into a roaring fire, with the incinerator located right between your thighs. you could already feel the dampness, threatening to leak past your folds onto cloth. this cannot be right. who gets aggressively horny during a hangover??

you begrudgingly hoist yourself up from the soft plushes, and make your way back to the medicine cabinet, starting to wonder if the tylenol might’ve been expired or something. the bottle itself looked normal, until you looked inside it. tylenol isn’t supposed to be pink.

you fish a pill out, looking for any engravings that might tell you what the fuck you ingested half an hour ago. libido-max. from the name of it alone (along with your still intensifying symptoms) you should’ve realized what it meant. nonetheless you resort to good old google to help explain.

“libido-max is an over the counter sex enhancement pill for women complete with a warming formula for maximized pleasure” your hand clasps over your mouth as you continue reading, “the recommended serving size is one pill as the dosage is quite strong.”

it dawns upon you that you took double the recommended amount. shit. you were definitely never drinking like that ever again. you contemplate texting your roommate why tf did you switch out the tylenol for female viagra, but decided against it. technically it was on you, too. leave it up to your dreadfully hungover self to swallow bright pink pills without thinking twice.

as you felt the temperature in your body continue to rise, there was only one method you could think of for relief. switching to incognito you pull up a porn site, settling on a video you thought would do. you skipped through all the bad acting in the intro, right into the action, desperate for some release. 

“harder…fuckk” the woman through your screen moans, and you could feel your clit throbbing in response. reaching down, you’re met with more slick than you’d ever encountered touching yourself. squelching noises echoed your room, growing louder than the sinful moans coming from the speaker of your phone.

your small fingers slid easily into sopping entrance, and the sensation was more than welcomed. small moans began to escape your lips as well, harmonizing with the other woman’s. you synchronized your fingers with the thrusts in the video, imagining it was you getting pounded, fucked so mercilessly by a thick cock.

after a particularly loud moan through your phone, you can feel it. like you’re at the edge of a cliff ready to drop before-

knock knock.

aand you lost it. grumbling, you exit out of the tab and pull up your already drenched panties. if it was another old lady trying to recruit you to join a pyramid scheme, you weren’t sure if you could resist slamming the door.

“look i’m not interested in-” instead of a short old woman with a fake smile, you’re met with a pair of teal eyes. two actually, now that you noticed the second figure behind him. 

“oh my gosh i’m so sorry, i thought you were- well nevermind um can i help you?” you stumble over your words, half out of embarrassment and half because you realized the two guys standing in front of you were attractive. 

“we stopped by to return your jacket” the one with light maroon colored hair says, holding up the familiar coat you left your house wearing last night. 

“shoot, thank you so much” you take the coat out of his hands, noticing that they’re veiny with long fingers. you try to ignore the flash of heat the observation causes.

“how did you know it was mine though?” you cautiously ask.

“oh she must not remember” the taller one says softly. your mind starts racing. what the fuck did you do in front of them?

“it wasn’t anything that bad” the one in front reassures you, seeing the panic settle on your face. “you just passed out in our apartment and we had to carry you here.”

wasn’t anything that bad??? you were mortified. you knocked out in some random (really attractive) guys’ apartment and they had to bring you back. well that explains how you got home last night then.

“oh my gosh i’m so sorry,” you replied, clearly flustered. the guys don’t give much of a response though, simply shrugging. you noticed that they were pretty expressionless.

“it’s ok, we live next door anyways” the green haired one says, looking to the right. “we were taking out the trash and came back to you on our couch. your roommate called you a bit after so we knew where to take you.”

ah, they must be the cute new friends your roommate texted you about.

before you could respond, a pair of cold hands were on your cheek (or maybe you thought they were cold because you were still under the effects of the pills).

“are you sick?” the owner of the cold hands was the maroon-haired one. you flinched away from his hands, turning an even deeper shade of pink. 

“n-no, probably just a bit hungover though” you nervously laughed, hoping they’d just accept that.

“you look like you’re burning up, maybe a fever?” the other one steps forward, taking a closer look at your flushed appearance. yeah it’s because you feel like a fucking dog in heat and having two insanely hot guys in front of you is not. helping. 

“no i promise i’m fine” you try harder to convince the duo, “i probably just need to rest up from last night…”

neither of them move from the front door, and the green haired one cocks an eyebrow. they clearly don’t believe you. 

“do you need any medicine? we should have flu medicine-” the green haired one starts.

“nope no flu medicine needed here” you let out a nervous chuckle, trying not to let your knees buckle. the knot in your abdomen grew significantly since you answered the door. you needed to cum, and soon.

“hey we don’t mind getting you some. i think your roommate mentioned she was leaving this weekend and you shouldn’t be home alone without medicine-” this time the maroon haired one is cut off.

“i promise i’m not sick” you exasperate, now having to lean against the frame for support (clearly not a good look for your case). the shorter guy’s eyebrows furrow in concern. both pairs of feet were still planted in your doorway, and you realize they weren’t leaving until you either accepted the medicine or told them the truth. 

looking back, the other option was clearly the more logical and less embarrassing one. you’d blame the hangover for the words that spilled out of your mouth next.

“it’s not because of a fever. i…i accidentally mistook sex enhancement pills for tylenol and took way more than the recommended dose,” your bit your lip, hoping they’d leave now that you were honest. the two look at each other, and the teal glint in their eyes served as a signal that they were thinking the exact same thing.

“there’s still a way we can help you though”

~~~

“rinn” you moaned as his fingers ghosted over your already pebbled nipples through the thin tank you had on. 

pleasantries and introductions were quickly exchanged as they kicked off their shoes and began undressing. you could hardly believe your ears at their suggestion, but you weren’t exactly in the position to refuse such a tempting offer. in fact, you were more than eager to accept.

now, you were draped over the couch, your head facing who you now knew as rin. sae was on the opposite end, marveling at the mess you made through your cotton shorts. 

“it’s like a fucking flood down here,” and he starts pulling at the waistband. 

rin continues to tease your nipples, never giving you enough friction. you were so responsive, even the slightest touch had your back arching. please, more, you beg internally. rin seems to recognize your pleads though and finally pulls your tank down to reveal the hypersensitive skin.

his lips are upon them immediately, sucking harshly, causing an exceptionally loud moan from you. from your half-closed lids, you could see sae’s eyes darken. as if unhappy how his brother could emit such a reaction from you. he was determined to do better.

you were fully exposed waist down now, and sae slowly runs a finger down the soaked slit, taking note of how you shivered from the action. he presses two fingers and is amazed at how easily they slip in, prompting him to add a third.

“fuck sae…so full” you moan out, which sae responds with a smirk before he starts moving his digits. in and out, in and out, and you could feel yourself tiptoeing the side of the cliff again. what does it for you is rin though.

“stop hogging her pussy” he says, rising from your chest. one of his hands move down, pausing precisely at your clit. as soon as he’s circling them you feel the push over the edge. 

“i-i’m cumming!” you scream out, followed by waves of intense moans. you weren’t sure if you’d ever cum so hard before. it took a minute for you to recover, only to see the brothers’ hands had left you.

“what the fuck rin. that was my moment” sae spat, clearly pissed he wasn’t the catalyst to your orgasm. 

“you should’ve been faster then” rin responds, a glare settled on his face. the warmth in your stomach was still growing, and you were still desperate for their touch.

“i want another” you whine, and teal orbs immediately snap back to you. right, the match was far from over. that was just the first goal.

they assume their old positions, except sae intends to use more than his fingers this time. it felt like fireworks the moment his lips hit your heat. the soft muscle of his tongue circled your clit, then moved down to dip inside the leaking hole. the added combination of the pill’s effects along with the sensitivity from your last orgasm had you bucking your hips which sae quickly restricted. he pins down your lower waist with his arm, and you could feel how strong he was. 

rin’s lips instead sought out yours, messily kissing them as he fumbled with his belt buckle. then his lips were off yours. a light push causes you to fall onto your back, and he pulls you forward abruptly so that your head is left hanging off the side of the couch. sae’s tongue never leaves you, moving forward with the pull. 

you see your first cock of the day, and it’s pretty. long and curved upwards, towards an insanely handsome face. you instinctively open your mouth, tongue slightly hanging out against your bottom lip.

“fuck, i could cum to this view” rin sighs before pushing his length into you. it almost immediately hits the back of your throat, but he pushes further. tears prickle from the invasion, but you refused to push him off you. not when he’s making such sounds.

breathy moans leave his mouth as he thrusts harshly. you could swear that alone made you grow even hotter. the sight of the bulge that forms at your neck every time he pushes in makes him delirious.  

sae utilizes his fingers with his free hand again, pressing three fingers into the entrance that happily welcomes them as he laps up the slick that continues to flow out. he curves his fingers just right, hitting the spot as if he’d known the exact blueprint of your body. and the second set of waves come.

“that’s right, cum hard for me”

even sae’s arm couldn’t hold you down as your next orgasm shook you, not that he minded. your move rin he mentally said, but rin had other concerns. your throat had gotten tighter, and the vibrations from your moans were pushing him to his own threshold. 

your mouth is hit with a new heat, coming from the man positioned above you. as much as he tried, he couldn’t contain it, and thick white ribbons hits your throat which you struggled to swallow all of. 

as he pulled out of your abused cavern though, his length still remained. it was as if the pill’s effects were contagious. 

sae had risen from his position, taking the time to free his own cock. thick was the first word that came to mind. it no doubt had a wider circumference than his brother’s, although a bit shorter. he uses his strong arms to flip you over, pulling your ass up near him. what a sight. he aligns himself at the entrance, eager to chase the next crash of waves.

usually rin would object to letting his brother take such a pretty girl first, but frankly, he had to take a break; fucking your throat left him breathless. instead he focuses his attention back towards your lips, laying more gentle kisses against them this time. 

sae was still full of need though, and rin’s soft kisses were starkly contrasted with the abrupt stretch of sae’s girth into you. your mind went into a haze, not knowing where to focus your consciousness as rin begins to knead at your hanging breasts. 

“taking cock so well” sae grumbles as the sounds of slapping skin grows “like you were fucking made for it.”

sae’s pace is merciless, and it persisted. you couldn’t fathom the extents of his stamina, seeing as how he didn’t even break a sweat. your voice began to grow hoarse from the repeated moans, and sae’s pride grew knowing he was the cause. 

“hey, mind sharing?” rin deadpans, growing impatient at his brother’s greed. he’s met with a glare, but sae begrudgingly pulls out, leaving you empty. you began to protest, but rin quickly reassures you.

“i’m right here. gonna fill you up real quick” he picks you up with ease, placing himself under your figure. his cock twitches as the tip prods your entrance, reveling in the way your slick coats him. he swiftly bottoms out in one push. sae’s previous work makes it easy for him to quickly pick up the pace, and you’re left an incoherent mess once again.

“f-feels so good rin” you stammer between thrusts. 

“wanna make you cream on my cock. need to feel you cum around me” he mutters

sae’s taken rin’s old position, lining his girth directly in your line of vision. you know what he wants and you happily open your mouth once again. sae begins his attack of new bruises against the back of your throat, relishing in the feeling as you hum in pleasure from rin’s length. 

harder, faster you think, desperate to dissipate the pool of heat in your abdomen.  

even with your mouth full, rin seems to understand you perfectly, hands gripping harder at your waist to help him reach new depths in you. your muscles began to involuntarily clamp around rin, a sign that you were looking over the cliff again. his thrusts also grow erratic as he’s close to his high. 

“f-fuckkk!” you exclaim, losing strength in your lower body. rin continues to pound through your climax, increasing his speed even more until he inevitably shoots strips of white into another tunnel of your body.

sae follows soon after, except he opts to pull out and mark your face instead. 

the three of you collapse on your couch, utterly exhausted from the intensity of the session.

before you could catch your breath though, you felt a familiar warmth start to pool once again down below. 

“still..still hot” you pant, overheating by the second. 

“you heard her rin,” and the brothers shift towards you again, ready for another match.

[silveredfeathers]

OH NO SHE IS ESCAPING!!! WE CAN'T ESCAPE THE WRATH THAT IS ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS!!

THE CURSE THAT KEEPS HER CONTAINED IN ICE IS WEAKENING!!

GIRATINA SAVE US ALL FOR WE ARE DOOMED!!!

IT IS NOVEMBER FIRST!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! HAPPY DELIBIRD DAY IN ADVANCE, CHUCKLEFUCKS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! TIS THE SEASON!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

MARIAH CAREY IS DEFROSTING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[noyasmashing]

Excessive praise for Hoshuimi, reader calls him a "good boy."🙏

MY BAEE, I love him sm it hurts, sorry for taking so long to write this, i just forgot to post 😭

CW: Lots of praise, gn!reader, whiny and sensitive hoshu, corruption kink??

Korai emitted a soft plea as you tenderly traced your fingers along his torso, beneath his shirt, exploring his sensitive skin. In response, he naturally leaned into you, his hips brushing against yours, as the magnetic pull of your wandering hands making his body tingle.

“Such a good boy.. for me hmm?” You whispered into his ear, gently nibbling on it, causing him to tremble once more.

Eagerly, he nodded, his ears flushing with warmth from your affectionate words. He had never been so close to someone like this before, and he didn’t understand how good it felt. Often distracted by volleyball, he often neglected his need for sexual release. Presently, he was on the verge of that release, as he felt your thigh softly press against his throbbing erection.

"P-please," he whispered, his customary self-assurance and pride vanishing. Your smirk brushed against his neck's delicate skin, and you gently drew away to make eye contact with him.

“Please what sweetie?” you inquired, tilting your head slightly, acting utterly clueless about his needs in that moment.

A lump formed in his throat, and he instinctively pressed his hips against your leg, yearning for you to assertively take control. He sought the comfort of your touch, craving the pleasure that would erase all thoughts from his mind.

“ Y’know…” He glanced at the visible sign of his desire in his sweats, then returned his gaze to you, timidly awaiting your understanding and response.

“Tell me what you want me to do, or I can’t make you feel good.” You coo’d, before you tenderly placed your hands on his hips, feeling the bones beneath your touch. His breath caught in his throat, his bottom lip quivering as he let out a timid whimper.

"Please, touch my c-cock," he pleaded with evident need, causing you to suppress a giggle. Your expression transformed into a slightly mischievous grin as you reached for his waistband with gentle fingers.

“That’s all I wanted to hear sweetie.” You murmured, as you promptly lowered his pants and underwear, revealing his erect member which made a lewd slapping sound as it struck his abdomen.

He emitted a soft whimper, instinctively lifting his hips. You gently encircled the base of his penis, taking a moment to appreciate its paleness, considerable girth, and the pretty pink tip, adorned with a prominent vein running along its side.

He was practically falling apart under your gaze, and it didn't help when you lowered your head, licking your lips before pressing kisses all over his sensitive head. Making him squirm and cry out helplessly, it didn’t help when your free hand danced along his exposed hips.

He emitted a considerable moan, his head falling back onto the pillow. Nevertheless, he promptly lifted it upon hearing the sound of a bottle cap being opened and a soothing liquid trickling along the length of his member.

Attempting to sway his hips, he encountered resistance as you settled onto his thighs. You’re coo’d at his helpless response. With gentle care, you employed one hand to distribute the lubricant evenly across his length.

“You look so pretty for me baby. I wish you could see yourself right now.” You complimented, causing blood to rush to his member, resulting in a noticeable throbbing within your grasp.

He tried to respond, yet the skillful maneuvers of your wrists restricted him to mere whimpers and pleas, which you couldn't help but chuckle at.

“ I think i’m abo-about to cum.. gunna cum for you [name].” he panted, his back naturally arching from the pleasure. Your eyes finally met his half-lidded ones, and fuck did he look cute with drool leaking from his mouth and cheeks a helpless shade of red. You could feel your core heating up at his disheveled state making it all the more intoxicating.

“Go ahead Korai, you’ve done so well for me, my sweet boy.” you purred, making his mind all the more hazy.

With a loud "Ah!", a white, creamy, liquid oozed from his tip, accompanying your consistent rhythm.

“can’t stop!” He whined, thrusting his hips deeper into your firmly grasped hand. His cum continued to leak and spread, lubricating your hand and allowing you to maintain your motions.

Ultimately, he began to pull at your hand, indicating it was too much. His thighs quivered in tandem with his sniffles, a clear sign of heightened stimulation.

[miss-oranje-disco-dancer]

my kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder

pairing: javi p x reader

cws/tags: angst, p in v, oral, idk? drinking? canon death mention? javi pov

summary: reader, a dea agent, arrives in medellin (season 2 time) and quickly forms a bond w javi. are they just friends or is it something more?

a/n: there is a part 2 which will give the full picture (hopefully)

wc: 8.6k

taglist:

@gothcsz @onlyasimp4-2dbitches

There was Helena, and then, Gabriela, before that, Vanessa, and certainly some others here and there, but with all of them, Javi had his expectations set upfront. Or at least, he thought he did, he tried to, but he'd be lying if he said Helena only came to mind when he was lonely in the middle of the night, naked and unable to sleep. 

Elisa was a mistake, an unfair mistake that was dropped off at his doorstep before he could tell himself that this doesn't mean anything. There must've been some self-preservation instincts in him that held him back from begging her for more, from moping around after she left. He risked a lot for her, but he would've risked more if she'd let him.

Prostitutes and wanted communists are one thing, but you are something else. Javi can't quite put his finger on what that something else is yet, and it’s too late once he figures it out. 

In the beginning, Javi was skeptical of you, mostly because you came to Medellin with Messina and crew, and he falsely assumed that being her subordinate meant you would take her side if there were ever to be conflict between her and Javi – and there was from their very first conversation.

More than skeptical, he was intrigued. Being sent to Colombia to participate in the fight against Escobar was usually reserved for higher-ups with a much longer tenure, or fresh meat for the front-lines. As a newcomer, that meant that you were either a highly-skilled agent in the field of investigation or you volunteered yourself – likely unknowingly – to be slaughtered. You might be a fast runner or a sharpshooter, but young girls aren’t known to fare well on the battlefield.

Once he’s determined that you’re not a threat, you’re a coworker. You keep to yourself. You don’t seem shy, just focused, and for that Javi is grateful. Considering the fact that he’s forced to work with the people he deems to be ‘RIP’ and a fuckton of bureaucracy, you make his life easier. 

Obviously, you’re gorgeous. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder or whatever but he sees the way others look at you. He notices because he is also looking. You walk with confidence, but not arrogance. You traverse the halls with purpose, but not urgency. You rarely stop to mingle with Colleen and only exchange cordial glances with men who would melt if you gave them any more attention than that. 

His first interaction with you aside from your initial greeting, begins with a headache. It’s the phone ringing, then the keys clicking on the typewriter, even the tick of the clock gets to him. He groans - somewhat dramatically - and puts his head in his hands. 

“Agent Peña,” you pipe up from beside him. “Are you okay?”

“Just a headache. I’ll recover.”

“Do you want Advil? I have some in my purse.”

“Yes, please.”

You dig through a sizable bag until you find a small bottle. You carefully shake two caplets out and pour the excess back inside their container, closing the cap tightly before putting it back in your purse. 

“Hold out your hand unless you want me to feed them to you,” you say jokingly. 

He opens his palm and takes the offering, greedily swallowing the pills dry. 

“You should really take those with water,” you say. 

“Does coffee work?” He presents the near-empty mug on his desk to you, swirling the contents. 

“Here,” you say, giving up your water bottle. 

“You’re a fuckin’ angel, you know that?” he says, before taking a gulp of your water, tasting the chapstick on the rim. Cherry. It leaves a pink stain that matches the color of your nails.  

When he returns the bottle to you, you seem oddly flustered. He meant angel as in miracle worker not as in divinely gorgeous woman, though both could be used to describe you. You should know that, he thinks. 

“Not really,” you say with a breathy laugh. “I’m just prepared for any surprise Aunt Flo could bring me.”

“Huh?” Javi’s a man without sisters, daughters, or a wife, he’s never heard the expression. 

“My period.” 

Honestly, he’s impressed at how plainly you say it, shameless as you should be. 

“Ah.”

“She makes me more of a demon than anything, but it means I’ve got a whole pharmacy in here.”

“Got anything fun?”

“Not unless you find enjoyment in a handful of tampons and a spare pair of underwear.”

Depends on the underwear, he thinks. They’re probably modest, but you’d look good in fuckin’ granny panties. By the end of the day, he’s imagined you in just about everything.

At the time, Javi's not interested in flirting with you. It's not a conscious effort not to get involved, he's just so caught up in everything else that there's little time to think about romancing you. 

Even the night he and Steve first invite you for drinks, it's sheerly for the sake of camaraderie. In fact, it was Steve's idea, not his. Murphy thought you looked lonely – in retrospect, Javi thinks it might've been projection. Javi agreed to invite you out of pure interest in what you'd be like outside of the office.

Nice. That's the best way he could describe it. Likable.

You all get drunk. Javi watches your professional facade slip as you’re swaying in your seat to the rhythm of the current hits on the radio. Your skin, dewy with summer sweat, makes you glow like an angel in the dim light of the bar.

It takes Steve a drink and a half to bring up his marriage problems. Javi, stupidly, has forgotten that you're not privy to any of this, so you endure 25 minutes of conversation time before asking, "Who's Connie?"

"Steve's wife," Javi says.

"Where is she?"

"Miami."

"I've never heard you talk about her before."

"Because he's in hot water," Javi, again, is the one to answer.

"I can answer for myself, thank you." Steve insists.

And so Javi lets Steve talk - he's probably heard it all before - and he lets himself have a break. Just a little break, no one will notice if he lets his mind wander for a second. Really, he's mostly listening, he thinks.

"Javi." Murphy's voice from across the table is oddly stern.

"What?" Javi mirrors his tone.

"What do you think I should do?"

"About what?"

"Connie."

"I don't know."

"Were you even listening?"

"Yeah, of course." 

It takes one long stare to get him to break. "Okay, fine. I was not listening. Tell me one more time."

You excuse yourself from the table to use the restroom, and it feels like you've fed him to the wolves – rightfully so.

"You like her." It's not a question. It's a statement, whispered as if Murphy cares about the confidentiality of Javi's love life or lack thereof.

"It's not like that." But Javi can't meet his eyes.

"I know sleeping around usually works for you, but I don't want you to fuck this up. Not right now when we're so close."

What he means is: do not fuck her. It should be simple – and to Steve's credit, he's right. But the thing is that Javi doesn't just want to fuck you. It's not like that.

"What do you think I am? An animal?" Javi asks.

Yes, he absolutely does. To him, Javi is a tiger, waiting to pounce on whatever prey he can get his hands on. Really, Javi's a mopey zoo lion if anything.

When he notices you making your way across the room, he changes the subject. "Anyway, I think you should call Connie, and tell her how you feel. Just be honest."

"That's what I said," you beam with pride, as if you've gotten the answer right.

Looking into Murphy’s bloodshot eyes, he adds, "But you've gotta sober up first."

"I agree," you say, and Javi only notices now how you slur your words.

He convinces you both to go home with the promise of a second hangout next week. It's an empty promise – he just needs to get you home safe. He assumes you won't remember in the morning. But come next Friday, you approach him, and ask if you're going to the same bar you went to the weekend prior.

It was an empty promise, but one he decides to keep.

It becomes a weekly thing. The three of you. You all get along perfectly well, but if this were any other circumstance, if you were any other beautiful woman, Javi would've pulled Steve to the side and told him to pound sand. But there is a mutual knowledge and acceptance that Steve is cock-blocking Javi. It's for everyone's benefit.

Your group hangouts typically begin and end at the same bar down the street.

The friend group arrangement works until it doesn't. Until Murphy has plans.

"How the fuck do you have plans? Your wife is in another country," Javi asks bitterly.

"Unlike you, my life isn't centered around women I want to sleep with," Steve says with less bite because he knows he's won the conversation.

Fuck Murphy. Javi was tired of hearing him bitch about Connie anyway. But you. He could never get tired of you.

"We can still go out, right, Javi?" you ask, and he's fairly sure it's the first time you've ever called him by his first name.

He doesn't have time to find an excuse to say no when he's pushing away every knee-jerk flirtation in his mind.

"Yeah," he says, "of course we can."

It takes only one word to seal his fate, but he gives you five.

That evening he sits across from you rather than next to you, so he can't put his arm around the back of your seat and you can't lean on him when you start to feel tipsy. Instead, he has to try to pay attention while you're looking him in the eyes, smiling at him and no one else.

When you decide to call it a night, and you stumble on your way out the door, Javi grabs hold of your arm, steadying you.

"I'm gonna walk you home," he says. Not an offer, a statement of fact.

"I got it," you say, patting him on the chest in thanks.

"No, you don't." He sighs as he leads you against your will, trying not to let your stupid grin get to him.

As you walk past the lit-up buildings filled with young singles dancing with their bodies pressed up against each other covered in sweat and spilled drinks – the nightlife of Medellin, a song escapes one nightclub that you recognize, and you begin to sing along. Your tune isn't bad, but your lyrics are far from correct.

Javi laughs heartily, unable to hold it in.

"What? You don't like it?"

"No, I love it – it's original. I love the way you've completely changed the lyrics."

"You're so mean, Javier!" You playfully shove him – or attempt to, but you end up falling into his arms.

He takes your hands in his, holding you upright. 

“It’s ‘hold me closer, tiny dancer’, not ‘hold me closer, Tony Danza’,” he says. 

“Okay, fine,” you say, hands still clasped in his, swaying a bit, coaxing him into dancing with you slowly. 

Halfway through the song, he’s leading you, step-by-step, twirling you like a ballerina because he loves the way you laugh when he does it. 

Though you’re the one that needs help standing, you keep him on his toes too. The words are no longer ‘Tony Danza’, nor ‘tiny dancer’ - it becomes ‘hold me closer, Javi Peña’. 

For the rest of the walk, he keeps his hands – respectfully, protectively, friendly – on you. Just an arm around your shoulder, or your hand in his at most scandalous.

It takes you a moment to unlock your door as you fiddle with the keys – their clinking metal being the only sound echoing through the halls of the apartment building. Anticipatory silence. He won't come into your apartment, he knows that. You're too drunk to consent to anything. You leave him with a kiss on the cheek, and he hopes that it means less to you than it does to him.

“It’s kinda like Cheers when you think of it,” you note off-handedly.

“In what way?” Javi asks like he’s challenging you.

“Well, we’re always at the same bar.”

“Oh yeah? ‘Where everybody knows your name’? The bartender still calls you ‘señorita’.”

“He calls me ‘gringo’,” Steve mumbles into his glass.

As it turns out, the bartender does know your name, and just as Sam Malone would, he makes out with you in a room marked ‘employee’s only’.

Watching you get whisked away by the bartender, Javi sighs a little too loudly, prompting Murphy to inquire, “you jealous?”

“No. I’m gonna go… mingle,” he says, turning towards the area that has become a dancefloor over the course of the night.

“Okay, I’ll be here when you’re ready to talk about it.”

“Fuck off. We agreed that I’m not sleeping with her – I did not take a vow of celibacy.”

Murphy doesn’t stay to watch Javi find an eligible woman to suck him off in the women’s room. Instead, he closes his tab and asks the bartender – the one not making his way from second to third base with you - to relay a message to Javi when he inevitably comes looking. 

“What do you want me to tell him?” The man – unamused, but bored enough to entertain him - asks.

“Tell him I left to fuck his wife.”

The bartender seems to think it’s funny enough, especially when he already harbors certain negative feelings towards Javi for reasons that may or may not be justifiable, depending on who you ask. 

Javi learns of this later when he closes out his own tab, but before he does so, he has a mission to see through. 

Barely concealed by a stall door that could use a new coat of paint and some WD-40 on the hinges, Javi is about to tell this woman - whose name he’s already forgotten - not to leave any marks above his collar, but then, he remembers you, and says nothing, only groans when her teeth scrape the skin on his neck.

He brushes this need to ‘conquer’ off as a typical rivalry between friends. When your friend exits the room to go hook up with someone, it’s your duty as a man to find a mate of equal social stature to theirs, and engage in at least some heavy petting by the end of the night. Or at least, that’s how it worked back in college – which, come to think of it, was about a lifetime ago for Javi. Looking back, he realizes that those nights taught him the infinitely valuable skill of bullshitting his way in and out of situations.

Though, he tells you the absolute truth of who, what, where, and how it all went down for him that night on your walk home. He only omits the why.

“Are we going back to the same place next week?”

“I thought we already established that we go there every week, just like they do in Cheers,” he says.

“Can we go somewhere else next time?”

“Why? It seemed like you were having a good time back there,” Javi teases.

“I guess…” you mumble, kicking gravel aimlessly down the sidewalk. “But he wants to see me again.”

Javi hums as if he understands.

“I just don’t wanna get caught up in anything serious, you know?”

“Oh, but I’m the asshole when I say I’m not good at commitment?”

“That was Steve, not me, and to his credit, you said you left someone at the altar. You committed and then you backed out. You broke a promise – that’s why you’re an asshole.”

“Then, she dodged a bullet by not marrying an asshole like me.”

The rest of the walk home is silent. Tense, and not the good kind. 

This is not the climax of the movie where Javi pushes you up against the wall next to your apartment door, and you engage in the steamiest makeout session allowed on cable television – the kind where you pull away panting, take one look into each other’s eyes and realize you’ve been in love all along. 

You keep your eyes pointed at your feet and he keeps his hands by his sides. It feels like you’re strangers who happen to be walking at the same pace, to the same destination. There’s nothing more to say. 

Until you reach your apartment, and when the two of you part ways, you say to him, “I’m sorry I called you an asshole.”

“It’s okay.” I’m used to it, he thinks. “People have said a lot worse about me.”

With Connie and Olivia back in Miami, Steve has a spacious apartment to himself, which is where the three of you decide to congregate after your little hook-up with the bartender the week prior.

Buying a case of beer from the convenience store is much more cost-efficient, and Steve can easily talk to his wife on the phone when he gets a little too drunk and misses her, leaving you and Javi in his living room together.

Briefly, you both listen to him murmur into the handset, cradling it like a baby. If it were someone else, you might gossip, at least speculate, but there’s nothing salacious about it, and despite the fact that Steve will one day return home to his loving wife, beating all of the odds currently stacked against them, it’s not a tale of epic romance. Not that Javi knows anything about romance anyway. 

You and Javi sit in the living room, chatting about nothing important, mostly bitching about work and how there’s never anything good on TV anymore. But then, out of nowhere, as if it’s nothing special, you mention a man – a colleague, but the DEA is a large organization, so Javi is unfamiliar with him.

“He asked me out.”

“Did you accept?”

“Yeah, I figured, why not? You know? I feel like I should get to know more people. I really only hang out with you and Murphy.”

“Oh, so we’re not good enough for you? I’m offended,” Javi says, sarcastically, but there’s a grain of truth deep down.

“You know you’ll always be my favorite, Javi.” You lean your head on him and he hadn’t realized how close you were sitting until now.

“Yeah, yeah.” Javi nudges you with his elbow, pushing you away despite himself. “Now, tell me about this guy you’re going out with.”

“He’s really sweet, and like super polite… a gentleman,” you decide.

“Oh, so you like a ‘nice guy’? Someone you can bring home, someone who holds the door open for you…”

“I guess. He’s pretty handsome, too. He’s got brown hair, and pretty brown eyes – kinda like yours.”

You smile, so he smiles. But, how can you say that with such levity?

Because he’s just a friend to you.

You've truly formed a bond with Javi by the time you step into the dating scene in Colombia. So much so that you ask Javi for his opinions on what you should wear for your third date – just as you did for your first and second.

"Either you're great with fashion advice or you're my good luck charm," you say. "So, I need you to tell me which looks best."

"Okay. Go put on outfit number one before I get bored and fall asleep on your couch."

"I'll be quick, I'll be quick. You can pour yourself a drink if it'll keep you awake."

He's never been one to turn down a drink, but what keeps him awake is your 'fashion show'.

"This is outfit number one," you say, smiling in your classic little black dress.

"Beautiful," he says honestly.

"And then," you say as you begin to unzip your dress.

"Whoa-"

"What?"

"Why are you getting undressed?"

For the first time, he's nervous to see a woman naked.

"Each outfit has a matching set of lingerie, so you have to see that too in order to accurately judge."

He gestures for you to continue and tries to keep his expression neutral. And his dick soft.

It's torturous to see you stress so much when he knows the guy doesn't deserve the sight of you like this. Neither does he, for that matter.

"You really like him?" He asks.

"I mean, yeah sure, he's nice, and he's good-looking"

"But you're not over the moon about him." He can hear it in your voice. You don't deserve to settle.

"No, but you can have sex with someone you're not over the moon about - you, especially would know that, Peña."

"Yeah, but I don't dress up all fancy just to have sex."

He has the tendency to get attached even in the most casual of situations, so he’d never dare make an occasion out of sex.  

You sigh. "I guess I do, or else I wasted a shit ton of money on lingerie."

"Fuck the money. Do you actually wanna fuck this guy? 'Cause you know you don't have to. It's not a written rule."

Javi surprises himself with how much of his dedication to making sure you're making the right decision is out of genuine platonic care for you and not jealousy for the man who might get the chance to sleep with you.

"I know I don't have to, but I want to, and I want to look good for him because I want to make a good impression."

He shrugs, dissatisfied. You don't get it, you'll make a good impression no matter what you wear. Any guy would be lucky to get the opportunity to sleep with you, he could say, but it would come off wrong.

His silence allows you time for thought, for worry. Seemingly, apropos of nothing, you ask him if he's ever had sex with a woman who was 'bad in bed'.

"Sort of, not really. Nothing really bad, but I've had times where we're both pretty drunk and it's just… not great. One time I hit my head on the wall." He smiles at the stupidity and you laugh.

"Sorry. I'm sure it hurt."

"It hurt like hell, but it wasn't totally her fault. Another time, a girl's phone would not stop ringing, and she eventually picked it up and it was her mom telling her that her grandma died."

"Did she kick you out or did you stay to comfort her?"

"Depends on what you mean by 'comfort'."

"You did not continue fucking her."

"I did. But, as you can imagine, the mood was kind of ruined."

"Luckily both of my grandmas are already dead, so that won't be an issue."

"See? There you go. Just don't drink too much, make sure he doesn't hit his head and maybe take your phone off the hook."

But you continue to spiral through worries, telling Javi each and every one of them while he sits at the foot of your bed.

Will you bring your date back here? Is the only worry in his own mind. 

Eventually, he asks you, "do you like him? Yes or no. And I mean really like."

"Yes."

"Do you trust him?"

"I don't not trust him."

"That's not the question I asked."

"It's hard to make a blanket statement saying that I trust someone. Trust him with what? To save my place in line, a briefcase holding a million dollars, my life?"

"Let me ask you this way then, who do you trust?"

"My mom, my sister, Murphy, you…"

"When you say you trust me, what does that mean for you?"

"I've trusted you with my life many times before and I'd do it again. But in our jobs we have to put our lives on the line."

"If he had my job would you trust him like you trust me?"

"Not as much as I trust you."

And somehow Javi is stupid enough to think that this means you'll skip the date, maybe even schedule one with him, but you go as you planned to – if he were able to look at you dressed in lingerie and keep his opinions completely detached and as objective as possible, he would say you should go with the red set because it looked the best. But he hopes, selfishly, that you saved it for his eyes only.

As most relationships do, that one ends. The man - whose name Javi rid his mind of - breaks up with you. You lament over it for about a week and then move on.

Javi lets you cry it out with your face buried in his t-shirt, staining the fabric with mascara tears. It was his favorite, but he rubs your back and holds you closer instead of telling you to stop using him as a tissue.

“It’s his loss,” he says along with all the typical phrases one expects to hear after a devastating breakup.

But what makes you feel better is when Javi suggests you watch the episode of Cheers he’d taped earlier that week.

“Can I lie down while we watch?” you ask.

“Yeah. How do you want me?” he asks because the couch is the only piece of furniture facing the TV, which means you’ll have to share it. 

“You wanna lie down behind me? You could be the big spoon.”

He nods, lying down on his side, leaving space for you to curl up beside him.

He wraps his arm around you lazily, resisting the urge to run his hands down the side of your body, to touch you everywhere.

“Can you see from back there?” you ask.

“Mm-hmm,” he lies. He’s already seen the episode, he’d much rather fall asleep with his body pressed up against yours. It’s the closest he’s ever been to you.

Javi has practiced the art of keeping himself hidden. It's a useful trait as both an agent and a reluctant hopeless romantic. He never gets too drunk, not like you and Steve. He never reveals what lies below the facade of a grouchy, sometimes disobedient but wholly dedicated agent on your Friday night hangouts. He disguises himself as a womanizer, an asshole, until he can't anymore.

You find him in desperation. Post-tragedy, a traumatic incident that he can't quite shake. It makes him vulnerable. He does the right thing the first time – he calls up Gabriela and fucks her like he hates her, tips her real well afterwards. The second time is when he makes the mistake of seeing you, not just looking at you when you cross paths, but seeing you.

He knew things were bad after seeing Murphy teary-eyed for the first time. It brought the first incident to the forefront of his mind again. A cigarette and some fresh air would help, he thought. But when he steps outside, he finds you.

"It's late," he says. 

"Why are you out here?"

"I can't sleep."

"Me neither."

You won't look at him. Why won't you look at him?

"I heard what happened today."

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"I'm not asking you to talk about it. What I'm saying is, I know what you're feeling."

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do, and you know it. We were both there when-"

"I don't wanna talk about that either."

"Good. I don't either. We should go inside. It's not safe for you to be out here right now."

"I'm not a fucking baby."

"You know what I mean. I'm trying to help you, okay?"

You ask him to stay with you – that's what will help, you say. He shouldn't, but he's too weak to say 'no'. You make him weaker.

"I need to forget," you tell him, and he knows exactly what that means.

It means sex. It means throwing away the future he could've had with you. Not the romantic kind – that was already gone, that's been gone since before you came into his life. He won't have a white-picket-fence-two-and-a-half-kids-in-the-suburbs kind of future with anyone. But he could've had a friendship, he could've gotten the gift of existing near you without any tension, something light and untouched even if it meant keeping himself at a distance.

But, you need this. You're begging him to fuck you, and if he chooses not to, it'll only make things worse – you'd withdraw from him entirely in embarrassment from his rejection because there's no way he can tell you that it's not because he doesn't want to have sex with you. God, no – he wants to have sex with you. In his ideal scenario, you get drunk once – on a business trip, at Steve and Connie's house, at the celebration of Escobar's demise – and you make the "stupid mistake" of sleeping with each other, and it becomes an inside joke between the two of you.

In his dreams, you get married on the beach or at city hall or even at a church if that's what you wanted. But dreams are dreams for a reason. They're distinctly different from reality. They don't come true.

In reality, Javi says the best thing he can, which is "okay", and he lets his lips collide with yours.

When your frantic hands begin to strip him of his clothes, he wants to tell you "it's okay, we have all night" because he wants to take it slow. He knows he won't last long when he gets inside you.

He tries to balance eagerness with gentleness when he takes off your clothes. He wants to be close to you.

"Let's go to your bedroom," he mumbles into the crook of your neck.

You don't bother to pick up your clothes, which are strewn near the doorway, so Javi doesn't either. He can tell you're impressed when he undoes your bra with one hand, and it makes him laugh, a little proud too, despite the fact that it's no more than a party trick (if you consider sex a party).

But his need to be the best you've ever had has him dropping to his knees in the hallway, and it's milliseconds before his hands are gripping your thighs and his nose meets the fabric of your panties.

He looks up, and asks, "can I take these off?"

"Yeah," you say, assisting him by slipping them down your own thighs.

With how quiet you are in the office, he expected you to be the same in the bedroom but you're not. The moan you let out when his tongue meets your clit is loud and unashamed – his favorite kind. It spurs him on.

"Javi, Javi, Javi - wait - I'm - hold on-"

So, he stops. "What's wrong?" He massages your thighs while he speaks, soft and sweet.

"I'm gonna cum."

"I know. That's the goal."

"But I'm gonna fall over."

"You're not, baby. I'm gonna hold onto you. But, if you want, we can finish this in bed." He doesn't wait for an answer before lifting you over his shoulder.

It makes you gasp, just like his lips did moments ago, but this time it makes him laugh. Only you could make him smile on a night like this one.

He doesn't tease you, he dives back in, lapping at your folds, more desperate for your orgasm than you are. If Javi is one thing, it's dedicated, and the bedroom is no exception.

You're still panting when you ask him to fuck you. It might be the first time you've said 'fuck' in front of him. "Fuck me" is Javi's line.

Utterly captivated by the sight of you disheveled beneath him, he agrees.

The second time you say 'fuck' is when Javi tells you he'll go grab a condom from his wallet – which is in his jeans, which are somewhere near the front door – and you say 'fuck it'.

And, utterly captivated by the sight of you, he agrees.

"How do you want me?" he asks.

"Rough," you say. "Make me forget."

You say it with such conviction that he sighs and says, "Okay. Turn over."

He buries himself to the hilt in a single thrust and since Javi can't see your face, he can't tell if the moan you let out is pleasure or pain, so he leans in and whispers into your ear, "Tell me if I'm hurting you."

"I want you to hurt me."

I don't want to hurt you. 

Something holds him back from saying it. He's not one to disappoint, especially in this facet of life. So, he saves the kiss he wants to place on your cheek for later. Instead, he drags his teeth along your soft skin and bites the flesh.

He fucks you hard, the way you want him to – holding onto the headboard, hips slamming into yours from the back at a merciless pace, and maybe if you weren't you, he'd feel different about this. But, instead of staring into your eyes and trying to cover up the immense fondness he feels for you, he looks at the pictures that hang on your wall, held up by clothespins on a string–you're smiling with your friends, blowing out birthday candles, laying on a beach towel in a bikini. He is in none of these photos. Why would he be? You've never taken a photo together. He's not a part of your life like that.

All the while, he keeps an iron grip on your hips and keeps a steady rhythm. Your moans turn into sobs, and he doesn't know how much longer he can take. Both because hearing your cries makes him feel conflicted about everything and because your walls are so tight around him, you're soaking wet and your legs are trembling. It's not long before he feels your pussy spasms and your whole body jolts – you have the sense to scream into your pillow, but he can still hear it.

Finally, he pulls out and jerks himself off, letting his release spill onto your ass, and once he's let go of you, you promptly flop down fully onto the mattress.

With the room finally quieter, you hear banging on the front door. You're about to get up but Javi stops you. "Stay there. I'll deal with it."

He slips on his boxers and flings open the door, and it's the person he least wants to see. Steve. Not because he hates Steve, but because Steve will bring this up.

He doesn't even have to say anything.

"Sorry. We'll keep it down," Javi says.

"Good" is the only word he says, though it's clearly not 'good' because Steve looks more pissed off than he's ever seen him.

He tells you it was a neighbor, but doesn't specify which one. He cleans you up, and prepares himself to leave. That's how this goes, right?

"Stay," you say, tugging him by the hand, so he falls back into bed.

He falls asleep with his bare skin flush against yours but this time it's gentle. He gives you a kiss on the temple before you turn out the light. You're silent but you smile.

The hurt comes the next morning. For you, it's physical, but can you really complain? For him, it's deeper than that. You're deeper inside him than he ever was inside you.

He wakes up beside you, feeling hungover despite not having any alcohol the night before. It's the vague sense of guilt and confusion, the way he feels more awake than the night before but less awake than he should after a full night's rest.

He retracts his hand from your body, hoping he can slip away before you notice but you turn to him, fully-awake.

If life were different – kinder, he would smile at you and you would try to kiss him.

"Mm-mm. I have morning breath," he'd say.

"I don't care," you'd say, grabbing his cheeks and pulling him towards you.

He'd pull back, just to argue because he likes the way you pout and the way he falls for it every time. You'd settle for a kiss on the forehead with the promise for something more after Javi brushes his teeth.

The quest for better breath would all be for nothing since he'd have coffee and a cigarette for breakfast (you'd tell him to eat more, of course), but you'd kiss him anyway.

His eyes linger on you for too long while he fantasizes, long enough for you to notice – for you to begin to see him for who he is.

Murphy brings it up at work when you're out of the room. Javi can see it in his eyes before he says anything.

"Sorry for keeping you up," Javi mutters, straight-faced and honest.

"Nothin' else to say?" Murphy probes. He seems more curious than angry. 

"Nope. Is there something you think I should say?"

"You fucked her," he whispers.

"Yes," Javi whispers back.

"How? Did it just happen? Or have you guys been a thing for awhile now and I just haven't noticed?"

"We're not a thing."

"You're not not a thing."

Javi doesn't have to admit to Steve that he's right because you walk into the room.

He is forced to silently admit what you are to him when he fails to hold back a rare smile upon seeing your face.

He sees Gabriela again, and though he's slept with her more times than he's slept with you, it still feels like he's cheating.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks while he stands by the window with a cigarette hanging from his lips.

"Work."

"Bullshit." She exhales a breathy laugh.

"Yeah."

"It's not something, it's someone. Isn't it?"

He turns, silently.

"I could tell you were thinking about her when you were fucking me - I thought it was just a sexual fantasy, but you're still fantasizing… and we're not fucking anymore."

"You'd be a great shrink, you know? In case this doesn't work out for you."

"It's working out fine." She flashes him the wad of cash he handed her before they got in bed together.

"Right."

"Maybe I'm supposed to be offended, but you were sweet this time - gentle. If you keep fucking me like that, I don't give a fuck who're you're thinking about."

"You liked it?" He asks with a flirtatious glint in his eye, opting for indulgence as distraction.

"I did. In fact, I think you could get a second round. On the house."

His cock springs to life and he slips out of his jeans. He fucks her slow, pressing kisses down her spine. She cums twice and he feels like a god.

But not like a lover, not like her lover.

You sleep together again, but you don't have sex. You're tipsy off whiskey in his apartment one night, trying to shake off the past week.

The DEA, being of the USA, only knows violence as conflict resolution, so you and Javi aren't trained to solve any problem that comes after the fighting is over. Distraction is the best you can do and alcohol is often one of the greatest methods.

"I wish we had something stronger than whiskey," Javi remarks.

"When in Medellin…" you say, swiping a finger under your nose.

"I think the amount of coffee I've had today is probably equal to a gram."

Doubtful, considering Javi is dozing off in his chair.

"Javi," you say, snapping your fingers to get his attention.

Startled, his body jolts awake. "What?" he asks, frantically.

"Nothing. You're just falling asleep."

"Sorry. I didn't sleep well last night."

"I figured. Everyday for the past week, you've looked like you're going to keel over. Are you okay?"

He takes a deep breath. Shakes the magic eight ball in his mind. Try again later. "I've just been having a lot of nightmares recently. It hasn't been like this since I was a kid."

"Well, how'd you get them to stop back then?"

"My mom used to sleep in my room with me."

He smiles at the thought of his mother. He doesn't often think of her because the funeral comes to mind. But sometimes, when he's lucky, she'll come back to him in memory - now, he sees her through a childlike lens, her face bright despite the bags under her eyes. The love he felt for her was so simple and pure.

His love for you is the most complicated kind.

"I'm not your mom, but if you want, I can sleep over."

"You'd do that for me?"

"Of course. I'd do anything for you."

You say it so flippantly that Javi barely has time to process it. It's better that way.

Finally, he gets a good night's sleep. But that only makes him need you more.

You both go on pretending things are the same until Carrillo dies. He was always the catalyst.

"I don't do funerals," Javi tells you.

You nod, pursed lips, accepting his decision. Giving in easily, which is unlike you.

"I'm thinking about leaving," you announce abruptly.

"You should go home, get some rest, especially if you're going tomorrow." To the funeral. Javi can't stand the word either.

"No, I'm thinking about leaving."

"Leaving where?" He already knows.

"Colombia."

"Are they reassigning you?"

"No, I'm quitting."

"Have you told Messina?"

"No. You're the first person I've told."

He nods and takes a deep breath. "Is that what you want to do? Quit?"

"I don't know. I wanted your advice."

"It's your choice, not mine." I'll miss you.

"I just can't do it anymore." You reveal yourself. You shatter.

"Hey." He places a hand on your shoulder, but you fall into his arms. "That's not true. You're strong. You know that you're strong."

I need you, he means.

So, you stay.

There is something about the grief that fuels you both to fight harder. You're no longer just fighting for justice, you're fighting for vengeance. It makes you both colder, more numb to the cruelty.

But physically, neither of you are much stronger. You overestimate yourselves, run through the streets with handguns after blood-hungry sicarios.

In his pursuit of one of the men, Javi fails to see a shooter on the roof with a gun aimed right at him. You see it, and shove Javi out of the way.

The bullet only grazes you, and Javi leaves with a few scrapes and dirty clothes. And guilt.

A shopkeeper who seems all too used to crisis situations grabs a first aid kit while Javi sits with you.

"You're not gonna call for backup?" you ask.

"No use. They got away. Let's just focus on this right now, okay?"

"This" means the wound on your side.

"It's not a big deal," you say, though you're clearly on the verge of tears.

"You got shot. The number one priority is making sure you're safe."

"Didn't you say that we can't focus on the casualties? That Escobar wins if we waste time mourning our dead?"

"Neither of us are dead."

You'll need more than the basic first aid that Javi can give you, nevertheless, he uses an antiseptic to clean the wound.

You break down in tears at the burning sensation.

"You're doing so well," he tells you, "I'll be done in just a moment."

When the ambulance arrives, he insists on accompanying you to the hospital.

They ask him who he is and he flashes his DEA badge, knowing that "friend" doesn't mean anything in this case.

Friend isn't enough.

You don't need surgery, just stitches – and some pretty decent pain pills. The kind that makes you sleepy.

Once the two of you are alone, after the doctors have finished with you, Javi tells you - finally, "Thank you, by the way, for saving my life."

"Who's to say it would've been a fatal shot?"

"Still." He leans down and kisses you on the cheek in lieu of saying anything else, knowing how badly he could fuck this up if he lets himself say everything he's really thinking – if there are even words for his feelings.

Luckily, there might not be.

"Javi," you whisper.

"Yes, hermosa?"

He rarely calls you nicknames, so it seems to fluster you a bit.

"Can you kiss me for real?"

"How much of those drugs did they give you?"

You look like you're holding back a batch of giggles and Javi can't help his stupid grin.

Before his cheeks hurt from smiling the most he has in a while, he leans in and kisses you – for real.

Breathless, you pull back and ask him, "do you think we could get away with doing it here?"

"Are you serious?" There's no way you are, he thinks, and yet he considers the option. "No, cariño, we shouldn't risk it."

He does take you home with him, but again, you don't have sex.

In the morning, you tell him confidently, "I'm leaving."

And he knows you don't just mean his apartment.

"I just can't do this anymore – the constant fear of dying was bad enough, but now…" you point to the bandages covering your stitches.

"I know." It doesn't matter what he says. You're going to leave anyway.

And, he feels guilty for convincing you to stay anyway. You should've left before this, but he was selfish and wanted to keep you a little longer.

He doesn't say goodbye in the way he wants to. He lets you go with a kiss on the forehead after waiting with you until you're called to board.

"Goodbye, Javier," you say.

He can't say anything back or he'll cry. The kiss is all he can give.

You call periodically at first, but the calls get more sporadic until they disappear entirely.

Javier is used to falling in love. So much so that he expects to feel the same way about the next woman he sleeps with. He gets attached to one woman, and then moves onto the next, loving her the same way as the last. The process of forgetting involves ending up in the same mess, feeling the same thing for someone who is blonde instead of brunette, or brown-eyed instead of blue, maybe a cup size larger in the bust. Something old, something new. There is more to the phrase, but the idea of commitment began and ended with Lorraine back in Texas.

Texas. After all is said and done in Colombia, he goes home. Like you, he can't do it anymore. His mind is already rattled with nightmares and his body is worn out.

There's an airport in Laredo, but he can't get a flight there until Monday, so he decides San Antonio is close enough.

The airport bars tend to be filled with people waiting to depart, not passengers who have already arrived. But, Javi decides to have a drink before calling a cab. There isn't any rhyme or reason to it. His feet lead him there, not his brain.

There are two open barstools, one on each side of a woman he can only see from the back. He chooses the one to her right. She looks like you, he thinks, just a slightly different haircut.

He barely glances at you before trying to wave down the bartender.

"Javier?" It's your voice from next to him.

He turns his head so quickly he swears he might've given himself whiplash. He's speechless, but smiling.

"What are you doing here?"

"On my way home. To Laredo."

"You left Colombia?"

"Yeah, I quit."

"And you didn't tell me?"

"I didn't know you wanted me to."

It's been years since we talked, he thinks. The last conversation was about you leaving.

"Are you on your way home or…?"

"Yeah, I will be, once my boyfriend gets our bags."

Boyfriend. Boyfriend who gets her bags. Boyfriend who sits next to her on the plane. Boyfriend whose spot is beside her.

"Oh."

"I feel like I've been sitting here forever."

"It's hectic down at baggage claim."

"Yeah, there's a million suitcases and none of them are mine. I really hope it's not lost. My favorite necklace was in there."

"The gold one… with the pearl?"

"Yeah, that one." You grin, excited yet surprised. "You remember that?"

I remember seeing it on your bedside table. I remember you taking it off with everything else. The one thing you didn't tear off, the one moment you slowed down.

"Yeah, you wore it all the time."

"And you stared at my tits a lot, so…" You wink, sipping your drink.

"I did not… not all the time."

A man walks up behind you, lugging two suitcases.

"Hey, babe," he says, kissing your cheek.

"Oh!" You beam at him. "This is Javier. My coworker from back when I worked at the DEA."

Coworker. Not even friend.

'Eric' – as he introduces himself, extends his hand to shake Javi's, and it feels like he's making a deal with the devil. Promising your love – something he doesn't even have – to this man for nothing in exchange.

"I'll see you around," you say.

And he thinks it's just politeness, an everyday lie, but you call.

You invite him to your housewarming party.

“Eric and I just got our own place,” you tell him.

Javi congratulates you, and it’s an empty platitude. He says it because he has to – why else would he be here if not to celebrate you and your new home? He knows why. 

He shouldn’t have come at all, but he had no excuse that he could give you. The reason why wants to see you and the reason why he shouldn’t see you coincide, but after years of knowing you, and years being apart, he still can’t admit that reason. 

You were right to call him a coworker – it’s an undeniable truth. You might have been friends too at some point back in Colombia. To make the best out of the situation, Javi brings a bottle of wine – that’s what a friend would do. It’s a nice red blend, something too expensive for Javi to buy for himself. He managed to save money by not buying you a bouquet of roses. It’d be too romantic a gesture coming from a friend, let alone a coworker. 

The party is an intimate affair. Everyone he speaks to is friendly, even your boyfriend, and while he wants to be happy for you, he can’t help the fact that it irritates him more than anything else. He is no better than this man – in fact, he’s worse. 

Over the course of the evening, he meets coworkers and friends of yours. “I love you all,” you tell them, “but Javi’s my favorite.”

Everyone tells him he’s a hero for taking down Escobar, including you. He feels like a fraud, but accepts their thanks humbly because it’s easier not to talk about it.

He’s happy when the attention is taken off of him. Eric makes a toast. It’s to you, to your future.

A wave of nausea hits Javi as he watches your boyfriend become your fiance.

He shouldn’t drink anymore, so he goes outside for a cigarette. You appear by his side and the sweetness of your voice pains him.

“I thought I lost you,” you say.

“You could never lose me,” he lies.

When you show him the ring, he takes your hand in his, gently, pretending to care deeply about the shiny new diamond, but it’s just a rock, an obstruction, something hard covering your soft skin. 

It’s beautiful, it suits you.

You linger on the balcony with him. You show him the ring, you let him touch it.

You must know that the goodbye hug you give him will be the last time you’ll touch him.

Despite the ring on your finger, you kiss Javi on the cheek one final time. Your fiance won’t mind. Because it doesn’t mean anything.

Javi doesn’t kiss you on the cheek. Because kissing you would mean something. It always has.

[chimielie]

wonderland

summary: didn’t they tell us ‘don’t rush into things?’ didn’t you flash your green eyes at me? haven’t you heard what becomes of curious minds? (or: what happens after graduation to a pair of teenagers in love)

word count: 1k

cw: irresponsible decision making (but i assure you there will be no consequences), The Teenage Need To Get The Fuck Out Of Your Hometown, mountains of fluff, my usual Thing iykyk, excessive 1989-related puns

hajime’s never considered himself an impulsive person.

sure, he’s: headstrong, audacious, hotheaded. but he almost always has oikawa spearheading his more reckless decisions with wild emotional situations, a shield that makes him look like a calm, responsible adult. oikawa could make almost anyone look sane.

hajime is pretty sure even oikawa would call him crazy right now, if oikawa weren’t in argentina. maybe, for all his turbulent nature, his friend really is some grounding force; since he’s been gone, hajime’s felt on the precipice of something… big. earth-shattering.

“i just can’t stand it,” you say, head lolled back onto his shoulder, spine curving into his chest. hajime is trying valiantly to ignore the soft weight of your ass on his lap, even though you’re mostly sitting between his applesauce-crossed legs. he can feel it, though, against his right thigh. he is failing miserably. “it feels like everyone’s moving and i’m… stuck.”

“stuck,” he echoes, and you roll your head so you’re looking right, out of his bedroom window at the familiar landscape of miyagi. the sun is close to setting, having burned through the daytime clouds and casting a brilliant glow over you. your lips look darker and fuller and more kissable in this light, he’d thought earlier, right before he’d kissed them bruised.

“more like a balloon,” you muse. “on a still day. just drifting up, and up, and up, and the birds are just flying by.”

he hums, deep in his chest, in agreement. something’s felt wrong ever since graduation. you and he had stayed, and it had been what you both wanted at first.

but not like this.

miyagi without oikawa, without makki, who was rooming with mattsun in the city while the latter earned his junior degree and the former chased youtube fame, wasn’t what he’d thought it would be at all.

“it’s gonna be all ours,” you’d promised him, graduation cap tilted jauntily and smile brighter than the pure white clouds drifting above. “you’re all i need, hajime.”

but miyagi without the people you’d grown up with was empty, a melody that only echoed memories. it was you and him—and the ghosts of your childhoods.

“you’re not happy here,” he says. not a question.

you twist to look at him, eyes open wide. “i’m happy with you. i didn’t mean—”

“i know,” he says, kissing your pursed, worried mouth. “but we’re not happy here. i feel it too. maybe i’m crazy, but i think we need—”

“change!” you’re sitting straighter in his lap now. “every day is the same. i’m starting to feel like i need to do something insane. i need enrichment in my enclosure.”

he puts his arms around you and you draw yourself tighter into him until you’re cheek to cheek.

“do you trust me?” he says. you snort.

“what is this, haji, aladdin?”

“yes,” he says, rolling his eyes. in this light, they’re a forest, green and deep and irresistibly inviting to you. “do you trust me, princess?”

you nod, and he feels it against him, your skin rasping together. “of course. take me to wonderland.”

“that’s corny, too,” hajime grumbles. “don’t criticize my romantic gestures then reference the wrong movie.”

“whatever,” you brush him off. “how much do we need to pack?”

that’s how the sun sets on your last night in miyagi.

hayakawa tomoka’s job at the ticket counter is so boring. she sits there all night—during the day, she studies fine art—, a magazine propped up in front of her, arching high brows at anyone who hadn’t had the forethought to buy tickets online.

she does so now at the young couple skidding to a stop in front of her, suitcases bulging even if there’s only one each, panting for breath and knocking shoulders as though even their bodies are on a gravitational course to each other. they can’t be more than twenty.

“when’s your next flight to california?” one asks, his straight hair sticking up like a hedgehog.

“…where in california?” hayakawa asks, pointing her mouth at them. “it’s a big state.”

“anywhere,” the other says. “we’ll find our way to where we need to be.”

hayakawa blinks slowly at them. these new romantics are too exhausting to deal with at this hour. she types, click-click-click, wrinkling her forehead at the blue glow of her computer.

you stare anxiously at her as she does, desperately hoping for anything in the next day.

hajime tugs you into him as you wait, and you relax, turning a closed-eye smile up at him while he looks down on you with a mirrored expression.

“too impulsive for you yet?” he says, mouth twisting wryly. you shake your head.

“there’s one to santa ana,” hayakawa says. “the south. in five hours.”

“perfect,” you say eagerly.

“thank you,” hajime says.

there are two seats free next to each other, serendipitously. ticket prices are exorbitant, but not bank-breaking—both of you had worked all of high school at the café next door, earning good tips and waiting for something worth spending it on.

“okay,” hayakawa says finally. “your flight’s set, mr. and mrs. iwaizumi. safe travels.”

“thank you,” you say effusively, “so much.”

“you too,” says hajime, and then turns very red.

hayakawa watches you go, a rare and soft smile gracing her features as your suitcases crash into each other even as both of you refuse to let go of the other’s hand to control their direction. the night shift is boring. something like this shakes things up.

after a race—more like a marathon—through customs, hajime finds himself shifting in a plastic seat, peering through the blackness of the night for a glimpse of airplanes landing. falling stars, sort of, magic to be wished on. you breathe evenly, deeply asleep with your head on his shoulder, his denim jacket wrapped around you, leaving him with just his hoodie and the new band of cheap jewelry around his fourth finger.

his mother would flip if she knew how rushed his wedding was. next time, he promises himself, he’ll do it again with you if you’ll keep having him and the ceremony will be beyond your wildest dreams.

it’s colder than he thought it would be in the airport. the earth is moving under his feet.

you’re all he needs; he’s gonna give you the world.

[permafrown]

"you wouldn't catch feelings for a car"

—  A pretty red sports car and it's mysterious "racer", Knock Out, catches Omen's eye. Little do they know, the attraction's mutual!

SHIP ; knockomen (Knock Out x Isa "Omen" Camille)

MEDIA ; T.ransformers Prime

WORD COUNT ; 1.2k

CW/TW(s) ; THERE'S NOTHING SCARIER THAN A 9-5 JOB ! 👻 OOGA BOOGA, jk there's none, other than like street racing which is illegal

NOTE(s)? ; mind my constant use of "The Co-worker" I did not want to find a name for him. Title is a reference to "you wouldn't download a car"

Isa leaned over the register counter, foot tapping on the ground as they went over the mental checklist of tasks they had to finish for the night. The gas station they called a job had only recently emptied just enough for them to leave the front area, despite being almost already three hours into their shift. Three hours of straight customer service? They can't help but shudder in disgust.

Their eyes flicker towards the parking lot monitor. One car pulls in. Then two. Then three, and more until the entire front lot was filled up.

They spoke too soon. (Much to their dismay.)

"Uh oh," they mutter to themselves as the doors fly open, and several groups of people walk in, chatting amongst themselves. They were all similarly dressed, they noticed. Motor jackets and jeans paired with boots and dark undershirts. Must've just gotten out of an event of sorts. they figure. But this late? It's almost one in the morning. Judging by the some of the people wearing sports caps, maybe it was car related?

They grip at the microphone attached to their radio, pressing down. "We've got a group." Isa informs their co-worker, and, the only other person working the store. It was actually pretty tame for a large group. Nontheless, they figured they should call for the extra help sooner rather than later.

Their co-worker bumbles out from the kitchen just as a line starts to form, joining them at the counters and ready to strike up a conversation with any of the people he could find the time to.

Isa listens in to the excess chatter as they deal with their own store patrons. They get down to the last few customers, and their co-worker utilizes the opportunity to ask a man what had brought all the people in tonight. Two words explained it all -

Street racing.

"Ohhh," Their co-worker says in awe, nodding his head. "That makes sense."

Isa wasn't entirely off the mark with their earlier assumption.

"Gotta get up to something out here, right?" the brunette chimes in, moving behind the other cashier and towards the large window beside the registers to gaze outside at the gas pumps filled with cars, now that their lane was empty.

They weren't what they would self-describe as a Carhead, but even they could recognize the front of the store was loaded with stunning vehicles. There were trucks, sports cars, even a beetle or two, interestingly enough. It's the kind of spectacle their grandpa would appreciate.

Most of the cars were darker in color, with the odd bright paintjob here and there. One of the ones pulled up by the gas pumps caught their eye.

The red one! Of course it's the red one.

It was a sports car, a sleek one, at that. That's all they could really garner, but damn, was it gorgeous! The front window was heavily tinted, and the hood seemed to be two complimentary shades of red. A dark red middle surrounded by a brighter, more vivid tone.

"What's up with that one?" Isa jerks their thumb, turning their head to the two behind them. The man leans over the counter to get a glimpse at the automobile in question.

"Some new showoff in town. Calls himself Knock Out." He clicks his tongue in annoyance. "Nobody's ever even seen the guy outside his vehicle, just stays in his fancy shmancy European car all the time. Damn good racer, though, I'll give him that much."

Isa raises their eyebrows at the new knowledge. The man and their co-worker finish up the transaction with a two-way 'Have a good night!' and then he joins them at their side to ogle the crimson-colored car.

"Can't say I blame the guy," Isa hums, circling back to what the guy had said. "If I had a car like that I'd show it off all the time, too. And I've got the racing skills to back it up?" They lean their head into their palm, a dramatic sigh escaping them to emphasize their swooning. "It'd be so over for everyone I'd come across."

"Do you think Knock Out is the name of the car or the guy?" Their colleague questions idly.

"Both, probably." Isa gasps in excitement. "Like a Double Knockout! Ohh, that's awesome."

They pause for a moment, realization dawning on them. "Hey, do you think he knows we're staring?" They ask, continuing their tradition of ping-ponging questions off of one another.

"Probably." Their colleague doesn't skip a beat. "Especially from where he's at, as in like directly infront of us."

"Not to mention, the way your glasses make it super obvious what you're looking at. You might as well have your face pressed against the glass and stare intensely." He gestures to his eyes to the window for emphasis.

At the mention of their eyewear, Isa idly pokes at their red frames, mumbling. "Damn."

Almost as if hearing the conversation, the red car flashes it's lights at the two.

"Oh, he knows." Isa grimaces. Their livelier associate moves over to the nearest intercom, pressing the button so all those both inside the gas station and outside could hear what he had to say.

"We love your vehicle! We think it's very pretty!" He says gleefully. Isa promptly turns away from the window to save themselves from embarrassment. "We is crazy," they mutter under their breath.

The pumps start to clear out, and their co-worker throws in a final "Drive safe!" before he steps away from the intercom.

There's few honks audible from outside in response. They can only assume it was Knock Out, and a couple of other cars, probably, saying goodbye.

"Did you notice that guy didn't actually get any gas?" The other one points out after a moment, tapping the register screen as he goes to pull up the previous transactions. "See? There's no receipt for the pump he was at, and it's not like he stole any gas from what I can tell."

Isa quirks a brow. "Ehh, maybe he was just waiting on the others?"

The two shrug at one another, and get back to work.

No more than fifteen did their co-worker come to them with another interestimg question related to the night's earlier events. "Hey, if you had a Street Racing name, what would it be?"

Isa stops filling up the coffee beans for a second to consider his question. "Omen, probably." They decide right then and there. "Mystery of the night!" They gesture grandly, immediately falling back to their nonchalant demeanor.  "...Or something like that."

It felt like a fitting nickname, with the way they skulk around in the dark of night, bringing trouble with them in this hypothetical scenario. Like a harbinger. It didn't have a bad ring to it.

"Omen.." Their co-worker repeats, the two nodding their heads at one another for a good eight seconds. "I'm gonna start calling you that."

"Alright." They glance around. "Sure."

The next weekend, Omen set out on a mission. They tossed on their favorite sweater, cargo pants, and tennis shoes, and took into the night in search of the site of the elusive street race. It surprisingly, wasn't all that hard to find. It helped that they had seen, nontheless heard, a few speeding cars on their late night walks here and there, so all they had to do was follow what they remember, keeping heading in that direction for a bit, and.. Bingo!

They stop on the sidewalk atop a hill, spotting a crowd of people and a line of cars. At the starting line, someone stood holding a flag, waving it around as they yelled about something Omen couldn't hear in their current position. Race rules, probably. More importantly, they could easily spot that red sports car from the other night. They came at just the right time.

They make their way down the hill, joining the crowd. They make sure to hang back just enough as to not to be crazy obvious, but where they could still see the cars. Their eyes immediately shift to Knockout's car, now noticing the sick yellow rims the car he sported and the decal on the side they didn't get to see previously. A grin tugs at their features. There's barely noticeable movement that catches their eye. They shift their gaze towards the vehicle's sideview mirror,

And they see their distant reflection.

They instinctively gasp a little. Just then, a whistle blows out, indicating the race starting. All the participating vehicles speeding off into the night, leaving nothing but dust in their wake, and the audience eats it up, bursting into cheers.

By the third lap, everyone's holding their breath in anticipation. And then, they hear the sound of an engine roaring through the street. One blink, and they would've missed it, but crossing that finish line with virtually zero competition

was Knock Out.

The crowd roars, and Omen feels a swell of pride in their chest, a giddy giggle falling from their lips. That's the joy of audience participation, huh? They think. They finally understand a slight bit of the hype their family would experience during those Sunday football games, if this was anything to compare it to. It felt good.

Stepping away from the crowd, Omen begins to walk back home, stopping at an empty park to collect themselves before they make their way back home.

They sit perched on one of those metal tables off to the side of the actual park, legs propped up on the bench as they take out their phone to inform their friends of their 'nefarious late night activities', one leg bouncing as they excitedly recount the experience, typing furiously while the lingering excitement still courses through them.

They're so caught up in their wonderful storytelling that they completely miss the sound of a car pulling up to the road beside the park, just across from where they sat.

"There's my not-so-secret admirer," A voice calls. Omen yelps, dropping their phone onto the concrete below as they frantically look around, eyes landing on the only possible source - Knock Out. They were expecting to see the windows rolled down and some smug driver grinning at them, but all that greeted them were those ever-familiar tainted windows.

"You wound me, sunshine! I thought you'd atleast stick around to congratulate me on winning the race." Omen could practically hear him pouting.

"How did you even know I was there?" They ask, embarassed by the sound that came out of their mouth.

"Oh, that's easy. I'd never forget a face like yours, sweetheart." He hums. "Not with those spectacles. They're a dead giveaway."

Ah. Smooth. Omen thinks, resenting the way that little flirtation made their heart skip a beat. The thought also crosses their mind that maybe they should stop wearing such a bright red. "T-Thanks, I think."

They shake their head, clearing their throat after to prepare their next question. "More importantly, how.." Omen furrows their eyebrows. "How are you talking to me right now?"

"Through a microphone, obviously."

"That's a very crisp microphone." They note. The engine on Knock Out, the car, purrs, as if the automobile itself were obviously pleased by their observation. "Only the best for someone like myself, of course." He goads.

Omen giggles a bit at this, sighing afterwards. "Yeah, that tracks. That's awesome."

"Oh, hey! You came to check out the race too, huh?" A voice calls from behind. Omen whips their head, and sees their colleague from that night approaching. He looks at Omen, and then at Knock Out. "Knock Out, right? I see you've met Omen." He says cheekily, gesturing towards them.

"Omen, hm?" Knock Out rolls the nickname on his tongue, or, atleast that's what Omen would assume he was doing if they could see him. "Pleased to finally have the name of my biggest fan."

"That's not-" They stammer out, but before they can finish their sentence, their co-worker was already delving into a different conversation topic with the driver. Oh, he was gonna talk Knock Out's ear off. No doubt asking him all sorts of questions about this that and the other. They huff softly.

Three minutes into nonstop conversation, and Omen decides it's their time to go. They hop off the bench, slinking off without a word to get ready to head home for the night.

They see the sideview mirror angled towards them again, and they toss up a heart with their hands, mouthing 'Good luck, Goodnight,' before continuing off. They almost feel bad for leaving him with such a chatterbox, but hey, maybe it'll be an ego boost to have his own paparazzi, or something like that.

They get a good distance away before they hear their co-worker finally shout "Goodbye!" their way, and they toss up a peace sign without looking back, and keep moving. There's a a private grin on their face the entire way home as they think to themselves,

God, what a pretty car.

[sirenmoth]

Little Moments

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x GN!Reader

Synopsis: You have Gaz have a horribly thrown together date at a safe house

CW: Fluff, domestic fluff, military talk, war mention, hurt/comfort, kinda

19:00

Late evening light filled the sky in rays, casting hues of bright oranges, pinks and reds, all blending together as the sun started to set over the horizon. You would've stopped to admire the scenery and the beauty, stopped to take in the last of burning star's warmth and drink in the peace and tranquillity as it set below the treeline. But it wasn't time for that, walking in the middle of nowhere, you were given instructions to hold down a safe house while the other three dealt with other things elsewhere. Told to wait until the team reunited to set up the base of operation.

You have no idea how long you've been walking, the trees all look the same, your legs hurt from the excessive walking on the unstable terrain, nerves on fire from all the exercise, "God, it feels like I'm doing rucks again." You mutter, breaking the silence between the two of you, disturbing the late evening birds singing their final tunes before sleep, Gaz gives a brief chuckle at your attempt at humour and small talk, slowing his pace down for you to catch up, once you reach his side he picks up his pace again.

"It does, doesn't it? Would rather do a ruck march again than this." He adds once you met his pace, continuing the hike with you beside him. "You think Cap sent us alone for a reason? I know we're good at our job, he makes that clear, but I feel like he knows something."

The suspicaion that Price knew something was always present in the back of your mind, that he knew about you two and the relationship you both carefully nuilt and nurtured, was worrying. Having a relationship with a co-worker was one thing, but having a relationship were both are in the military, let alone one of the most elite task forces in the world, was a whole other thing neither you nor Gaz are ready to face.

"I don't know, he probaly would've said something by now is he did." You reply, looking at him in your periphel vision, reaching across to his hand, intertwining your fingers with his.

The rest of the walk was completed in a deafening silence, as you enjoyed each other's company, with the previous conversation still fresh on your mind with worry. Listening to the songbird tweets fade into the croaks and chitters of the forest nightlife. Finally arriving at the location, a small cabin hidden between a few trees, you both decide to split up, with you securing the outside perimeter and Gaz securing the inside, mentally scanning and logging any advantage and disadvantage spots.

The inside of the cabin was nothing special, most safe houses weren't, with its sole purpose to keep its occupants safe and away from danger and supply them with the bare basics a human being would need to survive. Gaz places his weapon on safety mode, and leans it against a wall then removes his kevlar vest, making himself at home on the old ratty sofa in the living room, sighing heavily once his legs get to rest and the pressure is taken off them from walking so much, all too eager to relax after that hike. You follow suit and copy his actions, weapon on safety against the wall, kevlar vest off, sitting down on the sofa, side by side.

Silence once against filled the air, this time comforting, as you lay your head on Kyle's shoulder, his head leaning against yours, taking his hand against and lacing your fingers together once more, enjoying his warmth and company.

You two lived and cherished these moments, relished in the tiny pieces of domestic bliss, not knowing when it will end or be ripped from you. Romance on the Task Force was rare to come by outside the small hookups and meaningless flings, and even more rare for a chance for it to fully bloom and properly look after, being away for months on end and being busy all the time, with little room to attend dates and anniversaries, family and relationship alike, all members are estranged from their normal life in some way due to this, which is why anyone involved with the Task Force, both directly or indirectly, avoided it all together, expect Laswell. Everyone likes hearing Laswell mention the dates her and her wife go on, a small sense of normalcy they will never get.

"What's the status report?" You ask, toying and fiddling with his fingers, closing your eyes to drink in the calm.

"Standard MRE's, supplies, beddings. Y'know, the usual that's stashed in a place like this brings and offers." Kyle replied, moving closer towards you, his knee brushing against yours, "We do have ravioli MRE's though, beef, so I see that as a win."

His last remark earns a small laugh from you, causing the man to smile, beef ravioli was seen as the better choices of food out on the field, people sometimes traded things to a packet, and it was commonplace for tiny fights to happen over it. "Do I have to fight you for it?" You jest, lovingly squeezing his hand. These moments alone are something you both enjoy, just the two of you, alone and undisturbed, Kyle once mentioned he felt like he could live off these moments alone.

"If there's enough, we could have a date, a terrible makeshift romantic dinner." You laugh, the idea was outlandish right now, but not an overly bad idea. There's a time and a place and right isn't the time nor the place for such a thing, but that wasn't going to stop you from pressing forward with the idea," We can hide them from the rest of them, keep all the good food to ourselves. They won't know."

Kyle lets out a genuine, hearty laugh at your proposal, "If you want to deal with a grumpy Scotsman who won't shut up and an overly pissed off Captain, be my guest, I won't stop you."

You sign at his words, knowing he's right. Ghost is fine eating just about anything on the field, as long as it's edible, he doesn't care. Soap and Price on the other hand like having decent, or as decent as packet ration food can get, out on the field, Price says it's a 'rewards for dealing you lot of a bunch of muppets' and Soap jokes that he's 'a growing boy, I need a balanced diet' while flexing, only to get hit in the back of the head by Ghost, who tells him to shut up.

Getting up and stretching, you smile down at Kyle, "Well, you rest up pretty boy, I'm going to see if the radio works. Can't have a broken lien of communication now." Kissing him on his forehead you leave into one of the adjacent rooms, watching the sun finally set outside the window, slivers of light dance around the room as you change and check each radio frequency until you get in touch with either Price or Laswell. Once you do and state your positions and everything is accounted for and checked, you leave the radio on in case of an emergency and turn the volume up so you can hear it from the other room, and head back into the living room.

Entering the living room once against, you notice Kyle is no longer there, thinking he probably went upstairs to claim a room before the others show up, you head towards the stairs to do the same, the last thing you want is to share with anyone, unless it's Kyle. Walking by the open kitchen door, you fail to take note of what the British man has been doing in your absence.

Kyle clears his throat as you walk past, causing you to stop in your tracks and turn to him, now he has your full attention he smiles, takes your hand and states, "I have something to show you," before leading you into the rundown, and frankly probably safety hazard kitchen. There sat on the old, worn out wooden dinning table, were two neatly placed beef ravioli MRE's and the standard issue drink that came with them, laid out as best as possible, opposite each other, the scene mimicked one you would find at any fine-dinning restaurant.

Kyle stands behind you, still holding your hand, anxious but pleased with himself. "Do you like it?" He asks, looking at you with pleading eyes, trying to gauge your reaction, "We haven't had a proper date in a while your idea gave me some inspiration and I thought 'Why not'. We don't have to tell them we took them," he adds on, "I know it's not perfect."

Turning around to look at him, you place a gentle, loving hand on his check, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, "It's prefect. More than prefect, thank you." You reply, smiling as he practically melts in your hands when your words reach his ears. Kyle takes your hand and walk you over to the table, pulling out the chair facing the door out, like the 'true gentleman he is' as he says, before sitting in the chair opposite you, his facing lit up with a bright smile.

The both you talk and laugh as you eat your meal, treating this like any normal date you would have, already forgetting where you are and that you are currently on the job. Even after the food is gone as well as the drinks, you still talk, sitting at the table engrossed in your own world as you discuss recent events, work drama and where and when you should go on your next proper date once this mission is over, maybe a small corner café or a stay at home take out night. The radio screeching startles you both, Price's voice crackles from the other end of it, announcing they'll be arriving in around thirty minutes.

You get up from your seat, taking the empty food packets and bottles from the table to throw away. Gaz resorts the table to what it was and so there's no obvious signs of your little date, you share a look at the fact you both forgot you were in the middle of a mission, nonetheless you have a job to do. Gaz wraps his arms around your waist, you wrap yours around his neck, embracing in the final moments of solace and bliss before heading back into the fray.

[high-theyre-frendough]

I don't usually reblog art on tumblr (to this page I mean, usually it goes on my main blog cause there's more followers there) but I fucking love art. I fucking love fucking comic artists with their awesome fucking comics with fucking scribbly faces that somehow perfectly encapsulate human emotion. I love traditional artists with their watercolor and crayons and oil pastels and fucking idk acrilic paint and charcoal and pencils and shit. I love seeing timelapses and expressive gestures below finished products. I love seeing it. I fucking love art thats non traditional like throwing rice or assembling Rubik's cubes. I LOVE IT ITS FUCKING GREAT. The skill and creativity. I fucking love it. I love seeing fairies and other magical creatures and scifi settings. I love seeing them so much and i would say fantasy and magic in any setting is beautiful and bassass dddd cause I love faries and shit but honestly all settings great. I fucking love it all. I WANNA SEE FUCKING INKY PAINTED CHARCOLS. fucking helle. i love the goddamn fanart of television shows and other media wirh worse art. i swear to fucking god. some of you artists dont get enough love. even """ammatures""" fuck that. youre all fcuking great. i am more of a writer than a visual artists (((not proof here but trust me when im actually writing i am fucking good at it. fuck you dad. i am good at fucking writing. See, the fucking idiot said. If I just put in active effort to write, and use the baskspace button, the writing becomes better. It is one of my few skills, therefore I feel like I can acknowledge I am good at it. Personally, like I alluded to earlier, I enjoy fantasy. I have spent years escaping into fantasy stories. Sometimes I fail to finish them, due to adhd and depression, but what I do create actually is fucking good. When I was younger, I wrote on Wattpad, and like the pretentious little shit I was, I would leave comments on all the stories I read correcting grammar. I have spent so long studying story structure (admittedly informally) and used to read a lot which, I'm trying to do more again soon. however for the purposes of this textpost, its too much effort especially in this context))) anyways fucking hell one time this person (who sounded kinda young tbh in text) messaged me on wattpad and asked for permission to make FAN ART OF THE MAIN CHARACTER OF MY STORY I WAS WORKING AT THE TIME and i was like HOLY SHIT THEY WANNA MAKE FANART OF MY CHARACTER and they did and were embarassed about it SOMEHOW and it was so good this drawing (looked great)

found it you can read the story here anyways yeah fucking artist. fucking love yoou guys hell yeah. did i mention watercolors? landscape artists? comics? comic writers who use their art as a way to communicate serious things? with non bland fucking corporate art bullshit. thank you for explaining complex issues to me in an easier way. thank you for helping translate news stories and recent issues with colorful doodles and comics to help me understand. thank you for making me more interested in graphs and statistics. thank you for making one facet of numbers that are more acceptable to me. thank you for the above average more competent graphic design. thank you so much. i love you fucking porn artists. i fucking love you furties and trans people drawing ideal selves to show EVERYONE IS AN IDEAL BODY YO SOMEONE BECAYSE EVERYONE SEES DIFFERENT AND YOURELLL FUCKING GREAT and all the beads and candy art and custom sculptures that are useeful or mayve not and doodle sn scrivles and crazy experiments. and fucking dumbass youtubers who spent $$$$ making the most creative but also stupid and useless shit you have ever seen in your goddamn life because who even thinks of theses things ans went through and did it because why the fuck not. you are infuriating but entertain my world compared to the commentators who will make their own little sketches and lectures in their own videos. fucking fucking shit. all og it. whenever i see someone go "idk if i can make animation itll look silly* WHO FUCKING CARES BRING ON THE SILLY AND LET IT SLOWLY AND SATISFYINGLY EVOLVE INTO MORE COMPLEX AND DETAILED ANIMATION FOR THR WORLD HELL YEAH I LOVE THE EVOLUTION FROM SILLY BOUNCE TO MUSIC TO COMPLEX SHORT STORIES AND SHIT YOUR GODDAMN CHARACTER ARC IS NECESSARY FOR ENTERAINMENT JUST FUCKING DO IT BECAYSE ALL PARTS ARE EQUALLY ENTERTAINING IN DIFFERENT WAYS come on just fucking draw. fellow yarn people. i know you. look at me i am you. i am an amature but fuck it ill try to keep up. fucking love you crochet and knitters and sewers making plushies and custom clothing and shit yes fuck yeah. KEEP THAT SHIT UP i just make giant enormous pride flag knitted blankets (cant make money doing that cause no one is dropping $200 for that - which would be underpaying me probably) i have seen the most intricate and detailed fucking crochet lingerie and other outfits and they are so fucking cool all of it i love it fuck yeah. i probably forgot something but for some reason i cannot feel my fingers because there is no bloodflow and they are frozen because i have undiagnosed and untreated circulatory problems

[tongue-like-a-razor]

Altitude - Chapter 13

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Mitchell Fem!OC

Pete "Maverick" Mitchell x Fem!OC

Summary: Sydney is not a pilot. But she knows all their tricks. That's why, when she meets the smooth-talking Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw, she's not falling for any of them. She's not falling for him, either.

CW: Love triangle, super slow burn, drinking, swearing, angsty Rooster

Start from the beginning: Part I

Bradley enters Maverick’s house warily; he has, at best, mixed feelings about attending his instructor’s impromptu gathering. At worst, he is completely dreading the evening. The moment he sees Hangman with Sydney, he decides that it’s the latter which he feels most prominently. Not because he’s jealous or because he thinks Sydney could do a hell of a lot better than Hangman, but because seeing the two of them stupidly happy makes him more nauseated than pulling 9G’s in an aircraft designed to do no more than 7.5.

He sets his jaw and heads morosely toward the kitchen through the open corridor, ignoring Phoenix and Bob who wave excitedly in his direction. He steps into the kitchen, glancing over his shoulder at the excessive noise he’s leaving behind, and nearly walks into Maverick, who’s on his way back into the living room.

Bradley swears gruffly while Maverick lifts his arms up to steady the drinks in his hands. “Lieutenant Bradshaw,” he says with a surprised sort of grin. “You made it.”

“Wasn’t this shindig mandatory?” Bradley grumbles, stepping around Maverick.

Maverick lifts his brows and purses his lips. “Nope.”

Bradley glares at him irritably but Maverick just shrugs and heads out toward the increasingly louder sounds of conversation. Bradley lets out a long, bad-tempered sigh, and walks over to the fridge. He pulls a beer bottle out and glances around for a bottle opener when Sydney enters the kitchen.

“Oh,” she says, not even trying to conceal her shock. “You came.”

Bradley gives her a flat look. “Why is everyone so surprised? I’m part of the squad.”

Sydney raises her eyebrows at his attitude and walks past him to get to a drawer by the sink. She pulls a bottle opener out and hands it to him mutely.

Bradley takes it from her, eyeing her moodily. “Having a good time?” he asks.

Sydney leans into the counter folding her arms. “Uh, yeah,” she says, but she doesn’t sound overly enthusiastic.

Bradley drops the bottle cap into the trash, keeping his eyes on her. “Are we good?” he asks after several moments of awkward silence.

Sydney watches him impassively. “Is that important to you?”

Bradley stares at her as a smirk threatens to disrupt his gloom. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s important to me.”

Sydney smiles faintly, lowering her gaze. Bradley takes a sip of his drink to distract himself because he’s been staring at her for long enough. “We’re good, Brad Bradshaw,” she says, grinning up at him.

He nods, returning her smile. “Good,” he responds, cursing himself for not being able to think of anything more interesting to add.

She laughs, probably thinking the same thing. “I hear your mission’s been pushed up a week,” she says, her smile faltering slightly.

Bradley nods. “We should, uh… we should do something before” – he stops abruptly, not sure how to articulate what he means to say. Before we part for possibly forever.

“We should,” she agrees.

Bradley tries unsuccessfully to tear his eyes away from her face. “We could have that coffee, maybe,” he says.

Sydney’s jaw drops in mock outrage. “Lieutenant!” she exclaims. “I am spoken for!”

Bradley chuckles. “Okay, okay,” he says. “I get it, I’m an idiot.” He admires her laughter with a smile. “I’m glad you’re not mad at me.”

Sydney eyes him sympathetically. “My father’s not the easiest person to get along with.”

The last thing Bradley wants to do is talk about Maverick. He nods toward the fridge. “Can I get you a drink?”

“I was going to make a bloody mary, actually,” she says, taking a jug of tomato juice out of the fridge. “Want one?”

Bradley rests his forearms on the island and watches Sydney pull the necessary ingredients from the cupboards. “I’d rather eat vomit,” he replies.

Sydney gives him a look as she slides a slice of lemon around the rim of her glass and flips it upside down into a bowl of seasoning. “Have you ever tried a bloody mary?”

Bradley cringes. “There is nothing that you could say to me that will convince me to drink spiked and spiced tomato juice.”

Sydney grins, shaking a bottle of Tabasco sauce over her cocktail. “You’re going to try it.”

Bradley laughs. “There is no way in hell –”

“You’re going to try it,” Sydney assures him, adding horseradish into the mix.

Bradley shakes his head as she cuts a stick of celery and plunges it into the glass. “What’s in it for me?” he asks as she extends the drink toward him.

She eyes him playfully. “The most incredible culinary experience of your life.”

Bradley grimaces but takes the cocktail from her hand. He brings it to his lips and wrinkles his nose at the pungent smell before taking a sip. The drink is horrendous and, as he hands it back to her, he spares no details of his ‘culinary experience’. “That is truly the most awful thing I’ve ever put in my mouth,” he says.

Sydney chuckles. “Just wait,” she says. “A few weeks from now, you’re suddenly going to be craving one of these.”

Bradley smiles. “There’s no fucking way I am ever going to ingest that again.” He takes a big gulp of his beer to erase the hodgepodge of flavors on his tongue.

Sydney shrugs. “You’ll see. You’re going to be knocking on my door, asking for a bloody mary.”

Bradley purses his lips, watching her levelly. If he’s going to be knocking on her door, it won’t be for a fucking bloody mary.

“Anyway, I better go socialize,” she says, skirting the island in the middle of the kitchen. “Feel free to pretend you like people.”

“I do like people,” Bradley says, following her through the hallway. “I just don’t like your father. Or Hangman.”

Sydney throws a pointed look in his direction before heading into the living room. Within a second, Hangman is by her side, scooping her into an affectionate hug while Sydney scolds him for almost spilling her drink. Bradley grins at the interaction despite the weight in his chest.

“Oh, you’re in trouble.”

Bradley looks over to see Maverick standing next to him. “What do you mean?” he asks sourly before glancing back at Sydney as she tries to shove her bloody mary into Jake’s face. Bradley laughs lightly.

“I know that look,” Maverick says.

Bradley juts out his jaw and releases a steady sigh, furrowing his eyebrows. Jake is squeezing his eyes shut and plugging his nose in disgust as he takes a sip from Sydney’s glass. Bradley bites into the inside of his cheek to hold back a smile when Sydney’s face lights up with anticipation.  “Yeah,” Bradley says finally. “I’m fucked.”

Maverick doesn’t respond but Bradley swears he could hear the smile spreading on his face despite pointedly not looking directly at him.

…

“Need some help cleaning up?” Bradley offers when most of the guests have left.

Sydney glances up at him suspiciously, two empty beers cans in her hands. “You would subject yourself to interminable conversation with my father just to stick around for a few extra minutes?”

Bradley smirks. “Absolutely not,” he responds. “Maverick’s not here though. Took off about half an hour ago.”

“What?” she asks, tossing the cans into a nearby recycling bin. She waves at the last two guests as they walk out the door. “Where did he go?”

Bradley shrugs. “Said he had an errand to run. Told me I should hang back to help you with the tidying.”

“Ah,” Sydney says. “So, it wasn’t your idea.”

“Nah,” Bradley replies casually, collecting glasses from the coffee table. “Just following orders.” He looks over his shoulder at her and grins as she chucks an empty paper towel roll at his head.

“As if he just left me with this huge mess!” Sydney exclaims. “The nerve!”

Bradley makes a subtle grimace as he speculates on the motive behind Maverick’s abrupt departure. If the old man thinks he can worm his way into Bradley’s life through his daughter, he can think again. “Yeah,” Bradley agrees. “That was shitty of him.”

Sydney looks over at him sharply. “Let’s not make this a Maverick hating fest.”

“You started it.” Bradley shrugs, holding out a garbage bag so that Sydney could throw out her handfuls of dirty napkins.

“Well, now I’m stopping it.”

“Perfect,” Bradley replies. “Don’t want to talk about him anyway.”

Sydney rolls her eyes. “What do you want to talk about?”

Bradley eyes her as she bends down to pick up an assortment of paper cups, his gaze trailing absently down her legs. “Uh,” he utters. Then, he gulps uneasily, frustrated that he’s let it get this far. He shakes his head wearily and shuts his eyes.

“Bradley?”

He blinks his eyes open to see her watching him with concern. “Sorry,” he says. “Vertigo.”

Sydney raises her eyebrows skeptically. “A fighter pilot with vertigo?”

Bradley presses his lips together, nodding silently for a few moments. Then, he says, “Must be the beer.”

Sydney narrows her eyes and approaches him. “How much have you had?” she asks. “Aren’t you driving?”

Bradley chuckles nervously, taking a step backward as she advances. “I am,” he admits. “Don’t worry about it, I’m fine.”

Sydney stops walking. She’s watching him cautiously as though she’s half-expecting him to have another episode.

Bradley brings his hand up to rub the side of his neck, uncomfortable with the scrutiny. “It was nothing,” he assures her. “I promise I’m okay to drive. I’m not leaving yet anyway.”

Sydney sighs. “I’m watching you, Bradshaw,” she says threateningly before turning away.

Bradley bites his lip to contain a grin. “Right back at ya, Mitchell,” he says under his breath.

…

Once the clean up is nearing completion, Sydney lets out a dramatic sigh and plops herself onto the couch.

Bradley chuckles at her theatrics. “How about that coffee?” he asks.

Sydney glances up at him sleepily. “At two in the morning?”

Bradley purses his lips. “I need something to wake me up for the drive home.”

Sydney’s drowsy expression instantly morphs into worry. “Are you too tired to drive?” she asks, straightening her posture.

Bradley lets out a laugh. “No,” he says, waving a hand. “I’m just looking for an excuse to stick around for a few extra minutes,” he admits.

Sydney stares at him, her eyes studying his face intently. “You’re… looking for an excuse to stay?” she asks. “Why?”

Bradley can think of many reasons, but he figures it’s probably best to keep most of them to himself. He shrugs nonchalantly. “I like your company.”

Sydney rises slowly from the couch, watching Bradley carefully. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll put on a pot.”

Bradley gives her a half smile, his eyes locked on hers. His heart starts to beat a little faster as she moves in his direction, as she pauses for a moment before brushing past him toward the kitchen. Bradley closes his eyes and passes a weary hand over his face. He wonders if she’d have the same effect on him if he hadn’t met her before he knew who she really was. Surely, he’d have absolutely zero romantic interest in the girl knowing she was a Mitchell from the start.

“You coming, Bradshaw?” she calls.

Bradley shakes his head with a sigh and then heads for the kitchen. He stands in the doorway watching her contend with Maverick’s ancient coffee machine. “Are you staying for awhile?” he asks.

Sydney looks up at him inquisitively.

“In San Diego, I mean,” he clarifies.

She eyes him curiously as he makes his way into the kitchen. “I don’t know yet,” she says. “Depends.”

He pulls a stool out to sit at the island across from where she’s standing. “On?”

Sydney shrugs. “A few things.”

Bradley meets her gaze, allowing a few seconds of charged silence pass before asking, “You going to make me guess?”

…

Several days later, Bradley delivers a substantially inebriated Maverick to Sydney’s doorstep.

“Dad?” Sydney says to the man grinning at her from ear to ear.

“How’re you doing, sunshine?” Maverick, who’s leaning into Bradley’s shoulder, responds.

Sydney turns to Bradley with a look of alarm. “What the fuck?” she whispers.

Bradley shrugs. “Don’t ask me, I found him like this. He was walking down the side of the highway.” Bradley grimaces. “Not very competently.”

“Well, I didn’t want to drive,” Maverick defends himself emphatically.

Bradley clears his throat. “He said his bike’s back at the Hard Deck.”

Sydney goes to take Maverick out of Bradley’s arms, but the latter shakes his head. “I’ll bring him in,” he says, practically carrying Maverick over the threshold. He puts him on the couch and then grabs the throw blanket hanging over the armrest, unfolding it tossing it over Maverick, who’s already curling his knees into his chest.

Bradley lets out a sigh and turns to look at Sydney, who is watching her father anxiously.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Bradley says.

Sydney shakes her head. “This isn’t like him,” she says quietly.

Bradley cringes as Maverick starts to snore. Then, he walks back toward Sydney and puts an arm around her shoulders, steering her out of the living room. “You know what I could go for right now?” he says casually as they head into the kitchen. “A fucking bloody mary.”

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