#fanfic shelf

[undercoverdrxco]

I’d like to introduce my fanfiction tracker 🫶

top row is my dramione set, and the bottom row is some of my completed works from other fandoms from when I was anywhere between the ages of 13 to 23 :’)

I love love love this and wanted to share it! Top row can be found under undercoverdrxco on AO3 (including Party Juice) and bottom row under NickJonasLove on Wattpad!

[zephyrchama]

Consider: Barbatos opening portals to MC’s room in his sleep.

He can try and conceal his feelings all he wants during the daytime. Even the strongest demons can’t lie to themselves for long.

It began as quite the embarrassing predicament. You’d never seen Barbatos so flushed. You both exchanged puzzled expressions from opposite sides of a portal in the dead of night, dressed in sleepwear, too astonished for words. As suddenly as it appeared, the portal closed, leaving you to wonder if it was a dream.

Barbatos’ profuse apologies the next day proved that it wasn’t. You insisted it was okay, accidents happen, and begged him not to prostrate himself on the ground in front of you when he started to kneel. He vowed to make it up to you in some way. Any way within his power.

The second time it happened, he was angry. The two of you were startled awake at roughly the same time and the butler had to suppress a groan.

“It is most unbecoming of me to repeatedly invade your privacy in this way.” His eyes were narrowed with fury. He spoke through clenched teeth. These lapses in control really took a mental toll. “Disgraceful, even. Please excuse me.”

You wondered if this happened more than twice and Barbatos just covered it up. At times, he acted more protective of your dignity than anyone else.

“Glad to see you taking a break for once,” you joked, but the portal had already closed again. You stared at the space it once occupied until you fell back asleep.

The occurrences began ramping up. From once per month, to once per week, to every couple of days. As time passed, Barbatos’ disgruntled annoyance at himself turned into resigned acceptance. “I never took myself to be this kind of man,” he shamefully confided to you one day. “As you know, my restraint is typically excellent.” 

You peered at him over the pillows. It looked as though the two of you were laying next to each other despite being in different buildings. “Maybe you’re stressed? Have you been working too much?”

“I doubt that’s the case. I would gladly do more if it benefited the Young Master. But, ah... I’ve kept you up for too long, haven’t I?” Barbatos smiled your way. “Sweet dreams.”

With your nightly meetings becoming an almost everyday occurrence, there would be rare times Barbatos didn’t immediately wake up. In sleep, his magic was as strong as ever, if a smidge less coordinated. The portal frame would wobble or randomly change size. Sometimes it appeared above your pillow. Sometimes you wondered if it was stable enough to move through, to reach an arm over and pat Barbatos on the head. Though, in the end you always figured it was best to let sleeping demons lay.

Even if he does it to you when you’re asleep.

[almostfoxglove]

AN END TO DROUGHT

written for @perotovar's offering of Frith

RATING: Explicit (18+) | PAIRING: Javier Peña x f!Reader GOD: Freyr God of fertility, harvests, and peace WORD COUNT: 5.4k CW: Smut (f!oral, m!oral, unprotected piv, creampie).

SUMMARY: The future of your family's homestead hangs in the balance as Javier Peña comes home in the middle of a drought.

read on ao3 | almostfoxglove masterlist

For two fortnights you’ve seen no rainfall. Not a single, silver drop. The orchard, rich with the stunted globes of pale apples not yet fully formed, withers browner every day. Leaves crisp and folded in prayer, the last-ditch desperation of dying fronds. You spend hours hauling well water to the rows of cropland on which your livelihood relies, but it isn’t enough. Each morning you wake to the sun rising phoenix-like on the horizon, hotter and more accusing than the day before.

You speak to the trees, the fledgling stone fruit, apologizing when there is no more water your body can carry, when the well runs dry. 

Six generations your family has raised apples like they raised their kin. 

Now it will die in this drought with you as its shepherd.

Hopeless in your waking, back throbbing, shoulders sore, you rise from your bed at the crack of a new dawn to the fragrance coaxed every Sunday by your mother’s slender hands. She is fragile now in that child-like way, skin thin and veins sapphire blue, hearing going, but sturdy, still, for you. Doesn’t matter that you’ve been grown for decades now, solely responsible for the farm and her mounting care—your mother bakes a pair of her grain-kissed boules every week without fail.

“There you are,” she says, when you are just two steps away. These days she cannot hear your footsteps on the stairs.

“Sit, now,” you say softly, slipping your hand over hers to take the bread knife, and with a soft tsk your mother surrenders before settling at the breakfast table.

You break bread together: salted butter swept glistening over the delicate crumb and sturdy crust, spoons of preserves canned the year before. Cinnamon and cloves, honey and stewed apples, wild pickled blueberries. It takes so long to notice the change in the air, but when you do it’s obvious—you aren’t sweating in the way you have for weeks. The house, once sweltering, has cooled ever so slightly. When you gaze out the windows into the orchard, the sky is no longer the blue you’ve come to resent, but a wash of cotton batting. 

Clouds. 

Your mother, thin wire glasses low on her nose, grins at your expression. 

“He’s home,” she says.

“Who?”

Her smirk is the same as you remember it being when you were a girl. “The Peña boy,” she says, lifting her bread slice to her mouth. “Weather always fixes itself when he comes ‘round.”

You hum beneath your breath. You can picture him only vaguely—lean and liquid, little more than a silhouette in the distance on the other side of the fence that cages your family’s property from his. His father you know better, see often. Spiced apple cider traded for horse manure or Chucho’s brawn. Twice this past winter he fixed your fence after a furious storm and asked for nothing but a loaf of your mother’s bread in return.

Javier you’ve not glimpsed in a decade give or take, if you’re remembering right. Moved somewhere south for duty’s dauntless call.

In the lullaby of easy silence, you finish your meal, rinse the dishes, and walk out into the fields with the second loaf in hand where overhead the sky is performing a miracle befitting the gods: letting out the first tender, forgiving drops of rain. Your body brightens as you watch it freckle and darken the starving, yellowed earth. 

A caw, something of a laugh, shocks loose from your chest—delight, pure in its relief.

Tracing the aisles of death-bed apple trees, you sweep your fingertips along their trunks. Water pools in the green spades turned to spoons for liquid crystal. The precipitation for which you’ve longed and begged and prayed: here, at last, to save the grange.

The rain picks up. Forceful in its abundance, peppering the sandy earth. Soon your boots stick as you walk between trees, dirt becoming mud, so you shield the boule beneath the leaf of your buttoned shirt.

At the end of the orchard, the log fence stands and the grass grows tall and clover-riddled, purple thistles starved yellow in the heat. You stride towards the fence, far beyond which the Peña house stands white and shingled, framed by the umbrellas of old oak trees that border the meadows in which their herd of equines laze back and forth, grateful as you for the merciful change in weather. It is beautiful here, though it’s easy to forget when all the season brings is wilting. 

You hear him before you see him: a quiet, clicking tongue. 

Then a mare picks up her cantor, spurred forth by Javier—indeed returned, wide in the shoulders and dark hair slicked by rain, out forty feet or so—tanned skin made gold around his eyes by yellow aviators, periwinkle shirt undone a button too low. More handsome than you remember, but it’s been a long time. 

Your mother was right: it seems he brought the rain home with him.

As you come to a stop near the fence, tall grass clinging to your calves, his head turns slowly in your direction. Jaw working over something—gum, if you had to guess. You lift your free hand, show him your open palm, and he takes a last look at the horse before sauntering your way.

Like you, he’s undisturbed by the rain. No shelter-seekers here; you’re grateful enough to bathe in any storm. Come hell or high water—isn’t that how the saying goes? You’d swim any flash flood after all this unending dearth, drink any tidal wave.

“Heard you were home,” you call out over the pebbling downpour, watching his broad hand rake through his hair. 

Much more handsome than you remember, the nearer he strides. Unhurried, Javier lifts his sunglasses off to slip into his shirt pocket and even from some way off you don’t miss the path of his brown eyes as he takes you in. Against your better judgment, the hungry stripe of his gaze flips something low in your stomach, something needy. 

He stops just shy of his side of the fence, no more than an arm’s length away, as the splatter of kind weather kicks up the earth’s perfume. 

“This morning,” he admits, his voice all gravel and mead. Low and heady, a little sweet. Not shy—his eyes drop again, this time to your stomach where you’re holding the bread beneath your shirt. Sort of useless now—the rain’s too strong to save it—so you draw it out, flashing him by accident a glimpse of your bare stomach where his gaze stays pinned. 

Then, bread rising in your hand, seeded crust glistening as it speckles wet, his eyes at last leave you to follow it. “Ma thinks you brought the rain,” you say, not bothering to hide your smirk.

The corner of his mouth pulls into his cheek. “That so?”

You shrug, loaf held like a waitress’ tray not yet offered. “Accordin’ to her.”

To your surprise you see in his eyes what appears to be timidity—perhaps bashful to be given credit for the sudden end to the wrecking drought he’s no doubt heard about. With a sweep of your arm, you present the bread in your outstretched hand and one dark brow rises high on his head. 

“Before it’s drenched,” you insist, and Javier takes it, smile lopsided and pretty. 

Above the chuffing sound of a horse grazing on the trampled grass, the sky splits like a seam and sunlight cuts through the cloud’s white cover, throwing down a ribbon of yellow that licks the stables. 

Javier tilts the bread in his hands, inspecting the ear, the crust. Flashes those dark eyes back at you, exacting and tender at the same time.

“Our way of saying thanks,” you say, already stepping backward, toward the apple trees. “Neighbor.”

The rain doesn’t stop for three days—just long enough to wash the ash of long-snuffed forest fires from the orchard’s leaves. When the sun returns whole and yolk-gold to the sky, it brings heat of a kinder type. Warm for the growing things but barbless in its licking flame. You swear in just three nights the orchard lifts itself from its stupor—broadens, stretches, unfurls new leaves. 

Your mother bakes like she’s got an army to feed and doesn’t wait till Sunday to do it. 

“Take them, take them,” she insists, as fragile in stature as she is adamant in tone. Such a small, hunched little thing. “Least we can do.”

“Ma,” you sigh, powerless to her persistence, how she rests the arched handle of a basket in your hand for you to take. “You don’t seriously think he—”

She tuts softly, shoos you with one pallid hand before re-knotting the bow of her apron behind her back. “Just be grateful,” she says. “S’only right.”

Might as well be a girl again because here you are, obedient. Carrying the basket of seeded bread across the grass, between reborn apple trees, the fragrant orchard rows that days ago seemed doomed to die. Your heart thuds, surrendering itself to gratitude. Suppose it doesn’t hurt anything to take the Peñas bread.

Javier’s out in the pasture cleaving a rotten log from a sunken fence panel with an axe. White t-shirt translucent and clinging to the muscle that banks his back, he heaves the blade down with a biting crack and a grunt. Your footsteps give you away—he straightens as you hop the fence between your properties and land on his side, halting his rhythmic swinging.

As he turns, face halved by the shadow of an oak looming overhead, eyes squinting to make you out in the light, Javier cocks an eyebrow, dimple winking in his cheek.

“Neighbor,” he says, unabashed, now, in his lingering gaze. Dark curls cling to his temples and forehead, licked by sweat, across which he wipes the back of his forearm before setting the axe down against the fence.

Growing up on adjoining farms never sowed friendship between you—you’d estimate you’ve exchanged no more than a couple hundred words in damn near four decades—but there is in Javier a certain familiarity. A sense of him fitting into the landscape, reliable as an oak always looming in the distance. As constant as these valleys and hills, as the house beyond his muscled shoulder. Never something to acquaint yourself with, but something to rely upon.

Peculiar to stand before him now—twice in the same week—exchanging words.

You hold out the basket, linen cloth folded neatly over the boules. Javier, eyeing you suspiciously, takes one cautious step toward you with his hands on his narrow hips, peering down at your offering. His eyes flicker beyond you to your house and though you don’t look back you’d bet the whole season’s harvest that your mother is standing on the porch, watching. Guaranteeing you hand off the gift as she’s asked, like you aren’t well past grown.

Amused, he hums low and quiet. “For me?” he muses, knowing the answer, and when you roll your eyes he only smirks. Pleased, maybe teasing you.

You squint at him—glistening, all sinew and bated breath. Your mother’s mind may be failing in that drawn out, terrible way—hearing fading, her logic a little swimmy—but standing this close to Javier you can’t blame the woman for mistaking him for a god. 

“Just take it,” you say, betrayed by the curl of your lips. “She won’t let me back in the house ‘till you do.”

This time as he slips the gift from your hand to his, Javier sweeps his fingertips against your open palm, sending a sparkle of heat up the length of your arm. You watch him peel the frond of cloth back, unveiling the golden tithe as you drop your arm at your side. When he inhales slow and deep you can smell it too, that redolent unfurling of warmth. Hypnotic, despite its familiarity. Hypnotic, too, is the breadth of his chest as he takes that long, indulgent breath, thin fabric slick to his damp, lithe form. 

“She really think I brought the rain?” he asks, frowning a little. Watching you like he knows you’re watching him. Each of you sizing the other up, scrambling to build opinions of someone who’s only ever been a figure across the lush trees and grass. 

Did you once lose a kite to one of their oak trees? You think you might remember a young, rawboned Javier climbing a web of gnarled branches to fish it free, delivering it safely to where you waited on your side of the fence. Yes, you can see it now—that lazy, one-sided smile on his boyish face, the sun-bleached kite, and the relief of its homecoming to your trembling hand. 

Three decades older he is no less honest in the way he awaits your reaction.

“Or she’s messing with me,” you admit. “I never know anymore.”

His scoff triggers yours—a brief, quiet chuckle in the remains of a salvaged summer. Javier shrugs and yes, you think he catches the way your eyes skirt briefly to his shoulders because his jaw ticks, cheeks hollowing as he sucks his tongue against his front teeth. He turns his head in the direction of their house, sees no sign of Chucho, same as you. A low hm sound rattles from his chest.

You’d swear the sun flares a little hotter when he returns his gaze to you.

“If it rains again,” Javier says, his voice swooping to a deeper shade. “What will you bring me?”

You cross your arms. “I think you can count on the bread indefinitely.”

“Don’t mean her—I mean you.”

Traitorous, your heart: how it speeds, skips a note or two in its once steady pattern. “I don’t think you brought the rain,” you tell him. “Just timing.”

When he narrows his eyes, his crow’s feet swallow them. Mustache quirking, pink tongue darting over his bottom lip. “Call it hypothetical,” he says, and you’re not sure if you were standing quite this close just a moment before, if one of you has moved and if so, which. 

Hunger rarely devours you in any of its forms. A life spent in service of harvests leaves little excess to spend. Yet it stirs unmistakably, low and begging, at the sound of Javier’s gruff voice and the graceful way he pins your eyes to his mouth with every tiny movement of his lips. He doesn’t have to smile for you to feel him smirking—a fact alone that feels somehow mythic in its dominion, its quiet, unassuming power. All of him marble-sleek and solid, the image of virile beauty. It almost feels like a shame to think you’ve seldom stood this close before.

You jut your chin to the sky—that blue untouched by a single cloud—and shake your head. “It’s not going to rain,” you say, steadfast in your certainty. “Not anytime soon.”

“And if it does.” He doesn’t say it like a question—rather, an inevitability—which is to say you hear his real meaning: and when it does.

Head shaking, cheeks set aflame, you once more roll your eyes, this time turning back to return to your side of the fence. Over your shoulder you call out, “If it rains this week, I’ll bring whatever you like.”

For six days there’s nothing but sun. You watch the apples blush on their branches, those first pinkish stripes that promise a red and sugared fruit. Autumn will bring spices and cider, days and weeks and months of fermentation, of watching fruit turn liquid and then to gold. This stretch of summer is make or break for the harvest to come: the right weather now can mean perfection or a crying shame.

All week you watch Javier at such a distance he appears as only a tiny, charcoal figure roaming the fields, hauling lumber and picking up the far-off slack.

Yet often when you do, you think his head looks to be already angled in your direction. Impossible to know for sure in the blazing light and with so much land between you, but you’d take that bet. You’re pretty sure he’s watching you too.

You’re sure, also, that you’re right about the weather. At the dawn of the seventh day the skies look no less blemished than they have all week. Doesn’t look at all like it’s going to rain.  To your surprise, you’re a little disappointed, but the feeling passes.

You push out into the orchards, tend to the lifelong task of keeping everything verdant and alive. Sweet is the air at this early, fragile hour in which the birds are just now waking, filling the world with their jubilee. Sky pink at the horizon, white overhead, you spend the morning gloating to no one but the trees—you were right, and Javier was wrong. But when midday breaks golden and ripe, he nonetheless appears in the tall grass, hand steadied on the neck of a tobiano as he and the creature walk between gated pastures, and his face turns in your direction, catches you drinking icy cider on the porch while you catch your breath between tasks. 

This time when he catches your gaze, he lifts his free hand, forefinger spearing up at the sky. Too far to call out to each other, you have no way of asking what the gesture is for, so you step down from the croaking porch into the crabgrass and look up.

There hang, above you, newborn wisps. Clouds ashy at their bellies.

But clouds are just clouds. They aren’t rain.

The reckoning comes an hour later. 

You dismiss the first, shy drop. A fluke, a fleeting blip of your imagination. Then the second: clear and wet on your forearm. Then a third. Soon it’s unavoidable—above you gray has gathered like dust bunnies beneath a couch, the bright summer shaded by the weather’s impossible will—and the rain that falls is not a patter, not a whisper, but a stony fist fight. The kind of rain that comes sweeping and determined, that has something to prove. 

It’s like autumn has taken the stage two months too early. Childlike in its eagerness to command your attention—a downpour harsh and giving. 

You emerge at the end of an arbored aisle to see Javier cut stoic against the shaded sky just shy of the boundary between your properties, chest wide and proud, just as drenched by the onslaught of rain but not fazed in the slightest. Too cavalier to smile but its essence hangs in the air between you, silver as any raindrop, unmistakable in meaning. He nods in the direction of a stable not far from the first shelter of elder oaks and without a word or invitation lopes off toward it, so fluid in his lazy strides, legs a little bowed and no small bit solid, hugged tight by denim that might as well be painted on.

You are following before your mind can think to.

You are hopping the fence.

You are dashing for the shadowed stable after him.

Breathless, hair kelped to your cheeks, clothes more water than textile, you cannot at first make out the stable’s interior, eyes not yet adjusted to the shift in light, ears booming with its cacophony. “Okay,” you say to the darkness in which Javier must be standing, blinking fast, wiping the rain from your eyes. “You got really fuckin’ lucky. What do you want?”

Embers warm in your chest—the first fronds of new wanting. You know what you hope he’ll say.

A flash of movement as your eyes adapt: Javier’s tanned arms reaching for you. His broad hands frame your face and you are not yet surefooted as he, swept up in his sudden, steady embrace. You hear yourself laugh over the barrage outside, silenced only by the blackness in his eyes—all that warmth and brown swallowed by his pupils. Your hands cuff his wrists, holding him to holding you without hesitation. 

It should be awkward, this first real meeting of your bodies. How Javier steps up to press the length of his torso to yours, sly in the subtle turn of his lips as he breathes one quiet word: You. But it isn’t. He slots his lips to yours like kissing you is just another step in his languid stride, graceful and planned, his arms dragging you against his steady frame. The softness of his mouth a welcome surprise. Dizzy on the first swipe of his begging tongue, you’re entirely unaware of Javier walking you backward until your shoulder blades hit the stable wall.

What a gift it is to be kissed and kiss with one’s whole body. Javier licks hotly into your mouth, sucking sweetly on your tongue or bottom lip depending on his whim, hands holding you flush to the fire of him. When he moves to your jaw, the soft flesh of your ear, you are a candle never before lit, touched a thousand times wrongly and made finally right.

Javier mumbles something lost under the bellowing tempest. Every raindrop riots on the sheeted roof. 

“What?” you pant, eyelids heavy with lust. Your shirt hangs open, as does his, both unbuttoned though you’d not noticed their undoing. Now visible in the gray light is the bronze of his freckled chest, the dark hair drawn from his navel to the waistband of his jeans.

You’d stare, but Javier then laps at the hollows of your neck, drinks rain from the dip in your collarbone, and you hum softly, entranced by his touch, eyes fluttering closed. He moves his lips closer to your ear. “Perfect,” he repeats, before his mouth is lost once more to the curve of your shoulder, the slope of your chest.

Meanwhile the path of your hands draws a symphony from him: low grunts and breathy huffs and, when your fingertips trace the hair on his stomach to graze his jeans, an earthy moan sweeter than any rainfall after any summer. 

Javier cants his hips against yours like he’s making a promise.

How sublime, the wet ask of his tongue down your stomach as he falls to his knees. 

Though he—after catching your eye, fingers frozen over the fly of your shorts until you nod—is the one to strip the layers from you first, you aren’t certain which of you is the one who’s praying, only that the reverence hangs heavy as a heatwave in the humid air.

Your head falls back against the stable wall. All but the roar of the storm is lost beyond your panting bodies as Javier kneels at the altar of you, shelves one of your legs on his shoulders, and laps hungrily from your aching heat. The pledge of his mouth sucks the air from you—your hands fly to the laurel of his hair, bathed locks slipping between your fingers as you clench and throb and tug, hardly conscious of the whimpers you let out in the wake of his tending.

Dutiful, he brings you gasping to the brink of some new chasm. Tongue expert in its tracing, circling, slipping, driving. Lifts his face to smirk just before you fall, dark stache glossy with your need and eyes blown black, and perhaps you’d be annoyed if Javier looked arrogant at all, but his confidence appears to you only assured. Resolute in his wanting. As if the world would have to come to a sudden, gasping end for his concentration to falter at all.

“Like that?” Javier asks, perhaps as winded as you. Genuine, you think, in his asking, though he must know.

You’re not sure if you remember how to nod or speak, but your hips buck on their own accord, desperate for him to see this through. 

“Yeah,” he rasps, his thick fingers squeezing your hips. “Think you do.”

Then his grin vanishes as he resumes and all at once you are tumbling, swept away in a landslide and earthquake at the same time as he slips two fingers into you, coaxing a rush of pleasure into his mouth. You might cry out his name, but the sound is lost to the din of the deluge.

When next you catch your breath, Javier is standing, denim wet and straining against the swell of his length. Hesitation is no longer a word you know or hold, already greedy for his taste, so you urge your mouth to his and lap the taste of yourself from his tongue, fingers busy with freeing him, the slick peeling of his jeans. You fall without realizing you’re falling, sunken to the ground with Javier’s cock heavy and throbbing in your hand. 

He might whine when your tongue flickers sweetly against his weeping head—but there’s no mistaking the desperate groan dug loose from the earth of Javier’s chest as you bring the whole of him into the furnace of your mouth, wet and tight and willing. Your moan sends a shiver through his body, then Javier’s hand shoots out fast as a gunshot, palm slamming into the wall to keep himself from toppling. 

“Shit—” he gasps, and you look up at him through dewy lashes to find his eyes have closed, lips swollen and jaw hanging open. 

Again, you hum. Make a game of the stroke and slide and swallowing that makes him quiver until it’s too good, too good, too close baby and he pulls you off him, drool slugging down your chin. His cock aching, surely, when you nuzzle your cheek against it, tempted to take it in your throat again. But you smile as he plummets to meet you on the ground, then swoon when he lays you out on the topsoil not yet drenched by the rain. 

“Wanna feel you first,” Javier murmurs, petting the hair back from your face, lapping the spit from your chin with his tongue before he unites it with yours. Lips plush, more tender than you expect amidst his fervor, the kind of kissing you can’t help but lose yourself to. You think you’d kiss him the rest of the day, through any night. Brows pinching when he pulls away, cupping the blaze of your burning cheeks with the palm of his hand, thumb swept across your upper lip as he gazes down at you with adoration.

“Need to fill you,” he groans. “Don’t I, hm? Dime, baby.”

Thighs spread to make room for him in the bowl of your hips, you pull him over you by the shoulders until he blankets you, covering all but a sliver of the rain-rich sky visible through the stable’s entrance, and the oak tree’s canopy lashing in the fevered gale.

Is his shirt below you now, somehow? You think it must be—spread carefully to protect your needy flesh.

“Yes,” you breathe, as Javier kneels between your legs, fisting the base of his cock. “Yes, yes.”

A grin, but not of ego—he is only pleased. Pious in his watching the way breath shudders in your chest. Javier nods, brow dented low and serious, curls black with water and plastered to his face, and pumps himself once, then takes your ankles in his hands. Sets them flat on the ground, bending both your knees to frame him. Hands butterflied and wide, tracing the slant of your thighs to the bend of your hips like all of a sudden he has all the time in the world. 

Maybe you do. It almost feels like you do. 

Like this might not be a spell that breaks with the end of the rain.

“I’ve got you,” he says.

“I know,” you breathe.

With both hands Javier lifts your hips from the ground and pulls you toward him until your core presses against the underside of his cock. He hmphs, transfixed by this silken meeting, and thrusts his hips once, gently, rubbing himself between your folds. You whimper at the friction, cunt fluttering, begging. 

Javier clicks his tongue as you claw at his forearms, hips pitching in his hold to ask for more, and this time there is perhaps a drop of pride in his cunning gaze. Glad to be the one you stir for, the one you choose.

“Needs me, hm?” he coos.

You paint the air between you with his name.

“I know,” he murmurs, guiding himself to you now, nudging his tip against your clit once, twice, then notching.

Then rhapsody. The urging in and dragging out, the sweet perfection of Javier inside you, taking space that now seems like it was made for him from the start. “Fuck,” you hear yourself say, more breath than voice, and Javier grits his teeth as he feeds his cock to you slowly, throbbing and whole.

“So soft,” he grunts, resolve slipping—his hips snap against yours on the next thrust and you yelp from the bliss of it. Teeth bared above you, Javier yanks you flush against his slender hips, buried to the hilt as he tries to catch his breath. “Shit, baby.”

Thighs clamping around his waist, you writhe, plant your palms on his sternum, desperate for more. 

“Javi,” you plea, and in a flash Javier spreads his hands over your hamstrings, pins your thighs to your stomach, and bends over you, fucking you into the ground.

Your teeth bump when he moves to kiss you, then he tilts his head and it’s all saccharine again: his tongue lapping sweetly into your mouth, mustache scraping against your cupid’s bow. Like this, the angle is exquisite. So deep it’s like he’s everywhere, stretching you out and stringing you taut and Javier must feel it too because he starts to grind, the thatch of dark hair at the base of his stomach rubbing against your clit as he grazes his teeth along the underside of your jaw.

“That’s it,” he mumbles. “Damelo, baby, quiero sentirte.”

You shatter, or bloom, you can’t totally decide. Exaltation in a single moment, your whole body electric in its trembling, clenching, gasping. Javier falters only when your body comes down from its high, emboldened to move again. Folded as you are, you can only whine and moan and sparkle as he once more takes up a rhythm. Smooth and hot as cider on a cold night, his cock glistening with your need as he pulls out and presses in, patient again.

“Perfect,” he prays.

It’s possible that this is heaven.

You don’t know when it stopped, but the skies have quieted. A lick of sunlight casts into the stables and falls over the expanse of Javier’s back and shoulders as he rocks into you again and again and again. Hand weaving into the curls at the nape of his neck, you hold him to you as his pace begins to stutter.

Javier licks the column of your throat, purring against your neck, “Lo quieres, baby? Hm?”

“Yes,” you tell him, one arm winding around his shoulders. “Deep.”

He kisses you once, then pulls back just enough to watch your face, his own lust-tense and sneering as his high builds and climbs. You swipe your thumb across his bottom lip, tell him to let go, and he is beautiful—lit copper and gold by summer’s warmth as he drops his forehead to yours.

Perfect in his promise, Javier offers all to you, fills you wholly, his body tense and then unraveling. His weight drops onto you properly as he paints your cunt with his seed. When you grunt he lifts just enough to free your legs without leaving your heat, and you lock your ankles over the small of his back.

Javier nuzzles his nose to yours.

You aren’t sure how long you stay like that, but when you’re standing again, his hands guides your weakened legs back into your shorts. You button each other’s shirts instead of your own. 

Outside the stables, the earth sings petrichor, grateful for the fleeting flood. Across the fence beyond the tall grass your orchard sparkles, glittered with rain as you stand beneath the oak tree gazing out in gratitude. Javier’s hand ghosts over your spine and you feel a rash of goosebumps break out as if he’s once more touched your skin. 

His breath is warm against your hair, the apple of your cheek. “Don’t wait for rain next time,” he whispers, then slinks off regal and graceful as a wildcat, clicking his tongue to call out the horses to the pastures now marbled with loam.

It doesn’t rain again for weeks, but you go to him anyway, hopping the fence that cradles your homes to seek his arms.

moodboard by @perotovar & dividers by @saradika-graphics

tag list & some mutuals:

@thethirstwivesclub @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @hediondoamor-blog @tuquoquebrute @thundermartini

@littlemisspascal @luxurychristmaspudding @tonysopranosrobe @evolnoomym @jessthebaker

@burntheedges @studioghibelli @la-eterna-enamorada29 @goodgirlwannabe @guiltyasdave

@spacelatinos4life @sweetpascal @biggetywitch @wannab-urs @pedgito

@jolapeno @pastelpinkflowerlife @ak-vintage @rav3n-pascal22 @sixhours

[multiimoments]

Happy birthday James Potter!

🎂 𝐈𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐫 𝐨𝐟 [𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧] 𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐏𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 ✨

Since last year, James (especially the versions from these fics) has helped me understand myself, make sense of life, and manage changes more than I can adequately express. ILY James and thank you to all of these authors 💛

Also, I love all Jameses, but I am partial to desi James bc I am also desi 💌

Fics mentioned:

📖 Art Heist, Baby! by @otrtbs

📖 Crimson Rivers by bizarrestars

📖 Shelf Awareness by @ghostofbambifanfiction

📖 The Long Game by @lackadaisicallizard

📖 Kill Your Darlings by messermoon

****

P. S. Kindly do not come at me for liking Jily. I have been reconnecting with them & I do not find them boring & don't care to hear about it any more than I already have in this fandom. pls and thanks 🥰

[illogicalvulcans]

[Fic Book Covers 11+12/?] Integrative Approaches by Nnm / @mouseonamoose

Demonology and the Tri-Phasic Model of Trauma

As soon as Aubrey Thyme, psychotherapist, had opened her office door and seen her new client, Anthony J. Crowley, sitting in her waiting area, she was observing and assessing him. At first glance, she paid attention to the following: --His clothing was expensive and stylish; --He wore very strange but noticeable cologne; --His relationship to the seat he occupied could only, very loosely, be described as “sitting;” --He looked angry; --He was wearing sunglasses. What Aubrey Thyme, a professional, thought, upon first seeing her new client was: you’re going to be a fun one, aren’t you?

Angel-Centered Therapy Through A Multicultural Lens

“I’d love to meet with you,” Davey said, apologetically, when he had been called up by a fellow looking to initiate therapy, “but I’m all booked up for months.” “Are you sure?” The fellow said, through a poor connection that crackled. Davey had been sure. And yet. Right there in his calendar was a blank spot, just a few days away, which he had somehow completely overlooked before. “How about that…I’ve got Wednesday at eleven, if you can make that work.” “What a miracle,” the fellow said, “that would be just the perfect time.”

[makncheese12]

Top Shelf

Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7

Jenna Ortega x fem!reader

Masterlist

Summary: being the kid of a well-known book store owner was easy, so was running into famous people. But being book smart doesn’t make everyone people smart.

Warnings: my writing, language(bad words😯), my attempt at being funny, mention of gun shots and head shots, mentions of my favorite book(literally love Ruta Sepetys sm omg.

A/N: part 2? I am going to make you all suffer through the most oblivious slow burn. R if going to be so dumb/oblivious it’ll hurt you all🫶🏻

Word count - 3.6k

Credits: @novmoth (my friend from school who feeds into my delusions and gives me more ideas for this story🫶🏻)

(bare with me English is not my first language🥲 I’m getting help from my friend to edit it)

You were born to it.

The books. The films. The music and video games.

It was your life, literally. With your parents being owners of the infamous establishment called ‘top shelf’, you had no choice but to.

And you wouldn’t ever change.

Books upon books, movie after movie, games old and new and music that could last you weeks. Who would want to change such a life?

Your father was the first to start it.

He was poor man in Washington but had just enough money to buy it from the man who owned the small movie shop before he retired. He slowly started added book shelves and video games to the mix. Getting few customers but enough to survive day to day during the time of his early years

Your mother was a wealthy run away. Wanting something different and new in her life when she met your father. The man was playing on his game boy behind the counter before he saw her.

The poor boy and his run away wife, a classic really.

The rest after that is history.

As soon as they found out your mother was pregnant with you, they used the rest of her money they saved and went to New York where they bought the huge abandoned apartment complex.

They broke all the insides down and built what you now know as your second home. Hundreds of video games, films and music in one section and thousands of books in another.

Thus, Top Shelf was born only two weeks after you.

You met many friends there in the comfort section where students and business people worked as you all goofed off.

Your had also met your small friend group during your younger years, the four of you all never letting your father have the peace he wanted and dragging him all over New York.

With the thousands of books and hundreds of video games and films your parents sold, you had money. Lots of it.

But your mother made sure you never let that get the best of you, never. It went against everything she went for when she ran away.

She would make sure you would work for and earn everything you got, always.

She never let you have too much online activity, in case her family found you and made sure you were both street smart and book smart.

Your neighbors made sure you were street smart more than anything but you still gave her credit for trying.

Though, the book store was beautiful in every season. Winter was a favorite and when it was busiest. It was too your favorite.

Your father lighting the public fire place, your mother setting soft seasonal music, hell even the cheesy Christmas cartoons on the TV’s set the mood for the perfect bookstore vibe.

The lights dim just enough to where it almost felt like dark academy yet the plants that grew down the upstairs railing made the entire place feel more alive.

————

“Bullshit!” You yell out as you throw your head back onto the head rest of your chair, groaning loudly as the photo sound of your death snapped in your ears.

“Man, he’s fucking using cheats!” Dru calls out through the mic before his name pops up above to yours in dark red on the screen as you respawn.

“Of course he is, he’s a pussy.” Mj says, as her name, too, pops up on the screen.

“Oh come on, guys!” Lyle says through his staticky mic. “You all just suck.” He laughs

“Now I know your cheating, dude. Your mic is acting up again, just like last time!” Dru says, the sound of his voice booming louder than needed and you roll my eyes.

“DD, just because you like to replay games without using cheats doesn’t mean the rest of us do.” Lyle says in a matter-of-fact tone.

“It’s multiplayer, stupid! It’s meant to be fair for everyone!” Dru says making you snort. “Says the guy who chases around little kids and steals their horses making them cry.” Mj says making Dru blow into his mic making loud, unnecessary noises.

“Quit that!” You say taking one head phone off your ear. “Tsk tsk tsk,” Lyle starts. “Such a sore loser.”

“I’ll show you sore loser, get on Elden ring and we’ll test your irritation.” Dru says, mic now muffled by his own spit.

“Your tank build is not enough to stop me, comet azur will always save the day.” He says in a sing-song voice.

“And you call me a try hard, yet you’re the one always using a broken spell.” Dru complains. “Theres nothing I have to try hard at when I can just hold a simple button.” The sound of Dru’s groans become louder as his spit clears out from his Mic. “Same thing!”

You laugh once again before picking up your phone and looking at the time.

“Shit!” Your eyes go wide at the sight, 8:48 AM.

You quickly throw the head set off and push yourself out of the chair, opening your closet grabbing a quick pair of jeans and a hoodie before rushing to put it all on.

Your cat skids across the floor, startled by your sudden movements before a crashing in the your pile of books and out the door.

“Shit, shit, shit,” you mumble as you jump up and down to put on your shoes, failing at not falling and race toward the door. “Sorry!” You call to your cat who yells at you next to his food bowl.

You grab your keys and rush out the door before slamming it shut and locking it.

“Ay, y/n!” Your neighbor, Rosa, shouts from beside her door. “Quiet will you! I just put Nona to sleep!” She yells raising her news paper tapping your head with it.

“Sorry! sorry, Señora Rosa.” You whisper yell as you try to push her weaponized hand away. “I’m just a little late.”

“And I just got a moment of peace! Quiet!” She says giving you one last wack making you try and shrink away from her as you rush toward the stairs.

“You got your pepper spray, right?” She calls and you raise your key chain to show her the attached small can. “¡Buena niña!”

You rush down the stairs and push passed the glass door, almost slipping on the ice before running down the street.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket making you quickly take it out.

“Hello?” You ask without knowing who it was.

“Arthur Morgan would be very disappointed at your sudden disappearance from an important mission.” Lyle says before sighing.

“It’s multiplayer, there are no main missions.” You say, trying to avoid the ice on the ground before stopping at the red hand across the street. “Plus, we were in the middle of four way 1v1. He’d be more upset that we were going against each other.”

“Loyalty is everything in such a game,” he says, sarcasm in his voice and you imagine him shaking his head. “Of course he would be upset at my bullet in DD’s head.”

“Why’d you call me exactly?” You ask watching the hand turn into a green man walking before taking off again.

“Well, you just yelled ‘shit!’ Before disappearing on us, had to make sure someone didn’t break in and kill you.” He replies casually as if he knew that weren’t the case. “But after hearing you continue on your ‘shit’ rant and the door slam I figured it was okay, just had to call and make sure, y’know?”

“Ever heard of a text, loser?” You ask, barley missing a man walking and looking down at his phone. “Gross,” he says before making a gagging noise. “why waste such time typing when I can simply just hit one button?”

“You’re so lazy.” You laugh out loud as you run across another street. “Work smarter not harder, Y/N. You should know this with that big brain of yours.”

“What if I want to work both smarter and harder?” You ask, running up to the glass window to see the books lined up. “Well, then your just weird.” You roll your eyes.

“Just kidding. I guess you can do both, I just personally prefer the alternative.” He says as the sound of guns shooting fills the phone. “Yeah, also sorry about leaving.” You say pushing into the store being greeting with the familiar smell of books and the warm smile of my mother.

“I forgot I had to get ready for work.”

“You’re at top shelf?” He ask and you reply with a ‘mhm’. “I might stop by later to say hello actually, I need a new game anyway.” He laughs as the sound of Dru yelling in the back ground becomes more prominent.

“Sounds good, see you loser” You say as you take your sweat shirt off, leaving you in your tank top you hand before leaving. “Later,” you hear him say before hanging up.

“Good morning,” you hear your mother say as you pull the staff sweat shirt over your head and pull up your sleeves. “Mornin’,” you reply before kissing her cheek.

“Wheres dad?” You ask looking around before your eyes setting on the woman stack a pile of books into one pile.

“He’s going to be out of town for a few days,” she says carrying the pile to the check back station. “A vacation, I insisted as I continue your training.” She says making you smile.

“We both know he needs it, he’s getting older.” She says and your smile fades as you nod. “So are you.” You mumble and she, too, nods.

“You know him getting old is different from me getting old.” She states, sighing quietly.

“What’s todays task?” You ask, quickly changing the subject at the sight of her sad frown. She looks at you for a moment before smiling once again.

She moves to storage closet and unlocks it, allowing you to see the boxes upon boxes along with stacks of different other things.

“To be a good store owner, you have to know your customers.” She says returning with a large box that you quickly take from her.

“Just put it on that table — and to know your customers, you must socialize and help them throughout the store.” She finishes as you take the box to the table noticing the label romance written across it.

“That also means having to work while helping the customers, so you’ll be on stock duty as well.” She says with a smile.

Yes.

You mentally say to yourself. Stock duty required work of you finding the places of different books, movies and games which also meant finding new things you didn’t know about before.

“One more thing,” you mother says as she walks behind the counter to finish opening up the store. “No head phones.” Your eyes go wide.

“But ma!” You call out to the lady who switches the sign from closed to open. “What else am I supposed to do when I stock!” You call, holding onto the white cords and swinging them around.

“Help the customers and socialize.” She laughs out making you frown. “I should call CPS.” You mumble carrying the box to the sorted area before hearing the woman’s laugh.

“Sure, call ahead but don’t be disappointed when they decline a twenty year old.”

You roll your eyes before continuing down the aisle.

“And after you sort those, get the others out of the storage closet!” You huff quietly as you glance back with a small playful glare on your face.

“If I wanted to work out, I would have gone to the gym.” You say and she rolls her eyes. “You’ll be just as sore in the morning, trust me.”

————

Hours hand passed, since you last seen the romance box having moved on to the horror section of the films.

You search through their placement areas, looking at all the old cinematic master pieces, the many Dracula films placed neatly next to each other, in order of both year and name.

Horror was one of the favorites when coming here, your father being a collected through his years he had many people couldn’t get their hands on.

Sure you could watch it online now but where’s the fun in that when you have a real copy with the static noises and written voices on screen. Some people still had some class left in them.

You hear a book hit the floor making the library echo as heads turned toward the cause of the sudden interruption of their silence.

“Shit—” You hear someone say quietly, making you roll your eyes as you place the rest of the CD’s in their rightful places before making your way toward the aisle the noise came from.

You subtly make your way toward the aisle while acting like your checking the books before taking a peek around the corner.

You see a rather short girl — shorter than the third shelf — craning her neck to look up at all the books in front of her.

Just to your luck, your mother placed a box for that genre next to the end of the shelf and you picked it up.

You make your way down the aisle and set the box toward the middle before looking up the girl who was already staring, and boy was she something.

Freckles littered across her tan skin, strands of her short hair fell from her half up half down style, her eyes — damn her eyes — they were the prettiest brown you’ve ever seen.

You smile lightly before picking up the first book and reading both the authors name and the title while trying to slow down your racing heart.

Who was this girl? Matter of fact, what was she? She wasn’t a regular, that’s for sure but you always get random people coming in so it didn’t exactly matter.

After putting away a few books, you glance up to see the girl a few feet away and on her tippy toes, reaching for a book on the fifth or sixth shelf.

You snorted quietly catching the girls attention making you quickly look away to keep yourself from laughing.

“You think this is funny?” She asks and you begin shaking in quiet laughter.

After a few moments, you compose yourself and stand shaking your head.

“No, not at all. Would you like some help?” You ask taking step toward her. She narrows her eyes. “Are you making fun of me right now?” She asks, both amusement and annoyance in her voice.

“Why would I do that? It’s poor customer service.” You say with a smile before watching her own smile grow.

“It’s poor customer service to laugh at a customer.” She mumbles before stepping back. “Please.” You walk up and grab the book.

“Look how easy that was.” She says, taking the book you held out for her. “Being six-foot-two does have its perks.” She says looking over the back of the book.

You roll your eyes but your smile only grows. Looking down at the book you nod and raise your eye brows, “that’s a good one, read it a few years back.” You say, making your way back to box of books.

“I’d hope so, for all the work I had to do to try and get it.” She mumbles making you smile and shake your head. “Anything else good?” She asks, looking down to you.

“You’re asking me if there’s anything else good in here when there’s just by the look of it thousands of books here?” You ask, smirking at her when she rubs the back of her neck.

“Yes, there is, I’ve read more than I can count. My recommendation board is up by the front desk if you want to check it out.” You say before placing crave by Tracy Wolff into the slot.

“You must have come here a lot before working then? If you’ve read so many books from here.” She asks, following hot on your trail with the book tucked between her arm. “Oh, for sure,” you say nodding. “The owners and I are real close, we were together a whole nine months before I was born.”

Her eyes widen slightly at the information. “You’re parents own this place?” She asks, gesturing to the entire book store and you nod, smiling.

It felt like you were a teenage boy, flaunting his muscles to a girl he finds attractive.

“Wow,” she says looking around once again. Book still tucked tightly into her arm as she did so. “Just wow. Your parents have taste.”

“More like their people pleasers.” You say shaking your head. The real other reason why horror is so popular in the movie section is because of their request.

Every week they check their request list and buy everything people ask for. New books, new movies, new music and games, there’s always something new. You’re surprised there’s still room, then again the place would be as big you supposed.

“They like having their customers choice their number one priority. It’s good business.” You say looking up to the girl who had a look of wonder in her eyes as she stared down at you but there was also something else. Something you couldn’t quite place.

She stares at you for another moment before speaking again, “do you.. know who I am?” She asks and your furrow your eye brows in question.

“Should I?” You ask tilting your head. She stares for another moment again, eyes scanning your face and it’s features as if searching for something.

Her smile then grows, as she shakes her head. “You shouldn’t, or rather shouldn’t have to. It’s just a surprise.” She says, tucking her hair behind her ear.

You knit your eye brows together in confusion.

She walks out of the aisle and you catch the light smile on her face as she does.

What the hell? You wonder to yourself as you place the last few books away.

You were pretty sure that was the last section, unless your mother put out some more stuff you didn’t notice. You’d just check out the to-do list.

Your mother and father always had one for both you and their own sake. Adding things so no one would forget.

As you made your way to check out, you see the girl walking in the general distraction as well.

“All set?” You ask, placing the box inside the others, moving past the small door attached to the low counter.

“Yep,” she says once again staring at you.

You take the book you got for her earlier along with another you recognize almost immediately. “Between shades of gray?” You ask, looking at her as if she were serious.

“Your description seemed trust worthy enough to make me interested.” You glance over to see your board clearly flipped through before nodding.

You scan both books. “Careful, it’s sad, dark and traumatic. It’s one of my favorites though.” You say looking up at her, she pauses for a moment, staring at you once again and just smiles and shakes her head.

“I think I can deal with a few of those.”

“Bartering or buying?” You ask. “Bartering,” she replies and you nod. “Good, I need to get a review on what you think.” You say with a smirk and you see a glint of something in her eyes.

“Name?” You ask and she looks at you a little confused. “We have to know whose using our books, how else do you think we send emails threatening to charge or get them back?” You snort.

“Oh, your totally right.” she says quietly before taking out her credit card.

“Jenna Ortega..” she says and you nod, typing in the name before reaching for the credit. Her grip on the card tightens at your lack of response.

You pull the card gently but her grip is to hard for you to take.

“Can I… get the card?” You ask, looking around slightly uncomfortably with the stone like stare she was giving you.

“Are you sure you don’t know who I am?” She asks letting go allowing you to swipe the card.

“Again, should I?”

You both stare at each other, both confused and entrapped by the other.

You find is strange how she thinks you know who she is or why you don’t know her.

Maybe she was some big deal somewhere off and you still have yet to hear about her.

Her name did ring a bell but you weren’t sure. Was she a person you knew from your child hood? An old friend trying to reconnect? Maybe some relative on your moms sent by the older ones to investigate if it was really you.

“Miss Ortega?” You’re both broken out of your thoughts as two large men stand behind her. “Time to go.” he says gesturing to a few people who were standing and staring in your general direction.

One grabs the bag off the counter before quickly walking towards the door.

“Looks like I gotta go,” she says, smile now suddenly shy with others watching. “Don’t worry, I’ll return your book Y/N.” She says before walking toward the door, one of the men right behind her.

“Yeah, you bet-“ you pause after the the realization hits you. “Wait, how’d you-?” You begin to ask before watching her gesture to her chest.

You knit your eyebrows together, you look down to see the name tag right under the library symbol.

She was strange.. cute.. but strange

Read next sort here!

A/N : Some parts once again rushed🧍🏽‍♀️This is just an introduction I suppose, the details will get better I tried my hardest🥲

[ritalacochona]

BET ON LOSING DOGS by F0urshame is the best fanfic I have ever read. It is easily the best I have read in OFMD. How have I not read this before. I am absolutely floored. Ed and Izzy on a doomed ship. They are both written so well I am certain that F0urshame is David Jenkins or one of the other writers. The relationship between them is so pitch perfect. The motivations for why their relationship is what it is have never felt more true. Some lines I literally put the phone down to gasp.wowowow and F0urshame has only written one fic. If they are on tumblr thank you thank you thank you, I would add a link if you are comfortable with it. Every one must read this one.

[professordrarry]

My favourite and most unhinged fandom decision ever was printing and binding Turn (with the author's permission and for personal use only).

[astalkerof28]

reading all this great dbd fanfiction, i would love to read a full novel about them.

not just printed fics but like an official book, either prequel or sequel to the show or anything, really.

i love this universe and these characters and their dynamics so fucking much and i would be thrilled to see their story written with physical words on paper that i could hold and imagine expressions and places to.

like their universe and stories hold so much potential that i, personally, could really imagine reading.

[raz-writes-the-thing]

Crimes of Essex Proportions (Broadchurch)

Alec Hardy x GN!Reader / requests are open and encouraged

Summary: Alec's stuck on his case. You just so happen to know exactly what he needs to know.

CW: murder investigation, body carving, Alec being tired as usual, reader knowing all the right things inexplicably

Broadchurch Tag List: @clarina04 @kaylinelizabeth4004 @yeethaw13 (send an ask to be added to a tag list!)

___ ___ ___ ___ ___

“Alec, are you alright?” 

Your beloved DI is currently sitting at the kitchen table, head in his hands and papers strewn about haphazardly across every single surface in your kitchen (and the lounge room too). The man groans in deep frustration and when he finally pulls his head up from his hands, you have to refrain from giggling at the red marks across his face where his hands just were. 

“I just- I don’t ken what the fuck this means,” he replies, not really answering the question but also answering the question for you at the same time. A half-answer. Ah, not alright then, you gather. “I just hate bein’ stuck- I hate it.” 

You hum, taking a look over a sheaf of papers being weighed down by his ‘best boyfriend’ mug that he says he hates. He never uses a different one though, you’ve noticed. The papers are full of notes from the coroners. There are some pictures you probably didn’t need to see, but you’re immediately pulled in by the numbers carved on the corpse's chest. ‘203.’ Hmm, interesting. The rope tied around the bodies’ hands also piques your interest as well. You can’t be certain, but- it looks as though it has been woven by hand. 

“What don’t you get, sweetheart? Maybe I can help? I know I’m not supposed to, but- you know. Fresh pair of peepers, might be worth something.” 

Half of Alec’s face is smushed against his hand, and he pulls the spare seat out for you to sit down at the table with him. He fumbles around with some of the papers before showing you a slightly grainier picture of another body. 

“He was found in 2020- there was a- erm, number carved into the skin. Two-hundred- and a little wooden carvin’ of a whale. Cold case, the locals never solved it.” 

You look over the image. You know it’s not quite appropriate, but you kind of want that wooden whale. Oh, hang on. 

“That’s a sperm whale,” you say, brows furrowing as you pull the image closer to your face. “And- we don’t even really get those here in Broadchurch. Been a few sightings in Scotland, though.” 

Alec looks between you and the paper before he interrupts your rambling. 

“Hang on- do you- hang on, do some of these things make sense to y’er?” 

You blink, dragging your eyes away from the papers to look at your boyfriend. He’s looking at you expectantly, and your mouth opens and shuts a couple of times before you mutter out an- “erm- y-yes?” 

“Well, okay- so- here’s the thing,” you say, putting the pictures down and averting eye contact. “Oh, I don’t even know where to start. Okay, so, you know Moby Dick, right?” Alec nods, clearly not following you. 

“Well, it was based on this real whaleship called the Essex, and, erm- in 1820 they set sail on a whaling expedition,” you trail off, scratching at your forehead after noticing the look on Alec’s face. “This has a point, I swear- and 2020 was the, uh, the two hundredth anniversary of them setting sail. When did you find this new one?” 

You picked the newest victim’s image back up again- “And what’s this rope made from?” 

Alec shuffles through some notes before replying.

 

“Erm- newest victim was found… November twen’y by the beach,” he pushes his glasses back up his nose as he looks for the other requested information. “Twine was made from…. Hogs hair.” 

You scoff. Of course. This was just… there was no other way. It couldn’t be a reference to anything else. 

“One of the crew mates- Benjamin Lawrence, uh- well when they were sunk by the sperm whale and those that survived were stuck out at sea in their little bitty whaleboats- Benjamin used the time to make a thing of twine with his own hair. I think… just as something to do? I mean, they were stuck out there bobbing along for ninety-three days and eating each other when they started to pop off. What else did he have to do?” 

Alec was staring at you, unsure what to make of all this. You brandished the images in front of him. 

“See- look, ‘203’ carved into the skin for the anniversary, the hog hair hand-made twine, the date the body was found, the hand-carved sperm whale? Surely there couldn’t be another explanation for all this?” 

Alec looked unsure, but based on how he’d appeared when you came in earlier, this was the best lead they had. 

“I’d be looking at people with a really big interest in nautical stories. Maybe someone in the historical society? Oooh, I wonder if a distant descendant is living here somewhere from one of the eight survivors.” 

“How do y’ken this stuff?” He asked, noting some things down. “I mean- it’s not exactly a rivetin’ subject, is it?” 

You chewed on your bottom lip, admiring the images of the hand-made twine. 

“Oh, I dunno. I think it’s pretty interesting. A special interest of mine. I’m just… glad I channelled that into creative expression and not… murder.” 

“Well, yes, there is that,” Alec replied. He got up from his seat and pressed a hard kiss onto your forehead. “I still don’t ken how y’put all that t’gether,” he said in disbelief. 

“Could you, erm- would you mind comin’ into the station later, providin’ a statement f’er all this?”

You wiggle your eyebrows at him suggestively, delighting in the way he laughs. He almost sounds embarrassed. Almost. 

“You taking me in, officer? Hmm? Have I been naughty?” A flush creeps up his neck, and oh, isn’t that interesting. Hmm. You might have to see what that’s about later. Maybe he’d like it if you were a little naughty sometimes. “Course I will, love. Just let me know when. You can borrow my books too if you like. I have a few on the Essex.”

 

“That would be great,” he says, taking your hand and pressing a kiss to the skin. “We could leave now. Sooner we get this case sorted, sooner I’ll be able t’sleep again.” 

Makes sense. You peck him on the cheek, grab your coat and find your couple of books from the bookcase in the home office and meet him by the car. It’s crazy to think that your little special interest is helping out with a criminal investigation, but you were happy to help out in any way that you could. And like Alec said, the sooner this whole thing was solved, the sooner you’d get your boyfriend back. 

As expected, once all the connections were made between the Essex and the bodies, it didn’t take long for Alec and Ellie to solve the case. 

Another criminal behind bars, and a slightly easier sleep for Alec.

  And another year passes on the anniversary of the sinking of the whale ship Essex.

[klikandtuna]

Abandoning his ineffective ablutions, he moved closer and saw that it was a toy: a lamb of sewn fleece, likely stuffed with sawdust, a jaunty yellow ribbon around its neck.

Meet Bitty!! I found her on eBay back in June, while googling what toys might have been like at the turn of the nineteenth century. She may or may not be strictly period-appropriate, but she’s definitely antique; I loved her immediately, and wrote her into Sky Clear Blue. I kept that tab open, though, for weeks…and weeks… And eventually I said “okay, if she’s still there, she’s mine.”

Guess who’s mine 🥰🥰 Welcome home, Bitty!

[almostfoxglove]

I'LL CARRY IT

written for my angst challenge

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Pairing: Javier x f!Reader

Word Count: 5.9k

you can read on ao3 too, if you like!

SUMMARY: Your childhood best friend returns to Laredo a celebrated hero. When he shows up at your bar shackled by grief, you drag him home for the night. CW: Heavy alcohol consumption and brief reference to the death of a parent. A fair bit of yearning.

Takes place somewhere in S3E1 after the wedding but before Javier returns to Colombia.

part II | series masterlist | masterlist

12:00 A.M.

At first you mistake it for a good thing. Last shift before your weekend, two hours to go, and the long-gone local hero back in his hometown smoking a cigarette at your bar. Your break over, you slink from the backroom into the riotous din of The Last Man Standing—one of Laredo’s many dives—to reclaim your post behind the bar. Place is a hellhole as often as it is crowded and tonight’s no different, and yet you’re halfway to a smirk. Pleased to see an old friend.

He hasn’t looked up, hasn’t seen you yet, so you busy yourself with the guy who flags you down to order the second he spots you. Fine by you, the guy tips well the later it gets and it’s already after midnight, and regardless, you don’t mind having an excuse to observe The Javier Peña, DEA agent extraordinaire, at a distance. Top button undone, cigarette vanishing in his hand, eyes glued to the ring-stained bartop as smoke shivers out between his lips. Quite the celebrity now. Been home three weeks if the rumors are true but you’ve yet to see him. You figured he’d call, but he didn’t—not that you’re surprised. 

Eight years feels like nothing now. Maybe he’s a hero to everyone else, but to you Javier looks exactly the same as he has his whole life—all that’s changed is the depth of his misery. How he doesn’t look up for anything or anyone, except to shrug off the occasional shoulder clap from some drunk stranger. 

When you’ve served the guy his drink and collected your tip—30%, thank you sir—you shake the nerves loose from your shoulders and slide up, glass in hand. 

“Well shit,” you say when you’re in front of him, and Javier slowly lifts his eyes. You smile, all rogue. No shake to your voice at all as you pour a whiskey blind. “This the part when I ask for an autograph?”

Javier’s dark brow dips in the middle and you might as well be twenty-eight again. Twenty-one. Eighteen. Eleven. All the ages you’ve been with him in all the years you’ve known him. Because this, right here—that little furrow that looks like a frown if you’re not looking close enough—is exactly how he’s always been. How he’s always looked at you after time spent away. 

Sure, there’s never been this much away . This much radio silence. The kind of parting that comes with getting older, getting further—something you once would’ve sworn only happens to everyone else. You’ve made your peace with it. Wished him well from the wrong side of the hemisphere. You’ve had lives of your own. 

Seems he can still cut a tiny hole in your chest when he withholds a smile. 

Javier spears smoke from the corner of his mouth as you slip his empty glass behind the bar and replace it with the fresh pour, watching as he nods in a tired, humorless way. “Not signing shit for you,” he gruffs, and snubs his filter into the crystal ashtray beside his glass. 

One-two-three-four-five others sit beside it, ashed in their grave. 

So he feels about as bad as he looks.

“Awful snappy for a man hoggin’ a barstool,” you reply.

The corner of his mouth flinches but doesn’t pull. He picks up his glass, eyes sagging away from you. “Nice to see you too,” Javier concedes.

1:00 A.M.

Friday means it’s crazy, means the rest of your shift slingshots by, and most of the night someone else is working Javier’s side of the bar so you lose track of his drinks. The windows of the bar have fogged, giving the world beyond a kind of eerie glow. 

You do your best to watch him, holding in your stomach a knot of newborn worry, but there’s always someone shouting for another drink. Now and then you catch some guy in a cap lumbering up to him to boast loudly of his pride, and though it’s microscopic—invisible maybe to everyone else—you see the way Javier shrinks in on himself. Folds.

The smoking, too, goes on. You sweep past him on your way to a booth in the corner, tray of shots balanced in hand, and accidentally inhale a sour cloud as he blows it out. You try to stifle your cough as you reach the table, doling out the silver glasses slick with tequila. On your way back to the bar, Javier catches your eye and snuffs the spent cigarette with an apologetic look. Pendant lights sway in his eyes like fireflies. You shake your head like he’s being silly, squeeze his shoulder briefly as you pass, and the roar of his body beneath your palm blazes like a campfire. The kind of heat that blackens everything to char. 

You think he’s had four drinks, maybe five, but not for sure.

2:00 A.M.

Only the drunks remain to kick out into the bog of late-summer, all that humidity that ruins your hair. You like most of ‘em. Most swagger out with a slurred night, sweetheart as you usher them safely into their cabs. Then all that’s left is your childhood sweetheart slumped over at the bar. Dated for two weeks in sixth grade—broke up over god knows what, probably him stealing your favorite gel pens—and were inseparable ever after. The second that kid sloped into your classroom, all gangly limbs attached loose as rubber bands and dark curls drifting vagrantly into his eyes, you just knew. Didn’t know how, didn’t know why—but you knew that boy would be home, and he was for years. 

Look at him now. Passed out drunk, lips parted, cheek squished flat beside his empty glass. His cigarette flares from his limp hand beside his face. You shoo off your coworker with a friendly gnight before slipping the cigarette from Javier’s fingers to crush in the crystal tray with its brothers. 

You go about cleaning up around him. He doesn’t wake for anything—not even when you have to count all the coins in the till for the night—which also, is new. Javier’s always slept like shit, even when you were kids and there wasn’t much to sweat over. Woke up if someone in the other room dared to breathe too deeply. 

Guess a bathtub’s worth of whiskey will take anybody out. 

When it’s time to go, you slip your hand up his spine to rest between his shoulder blades. “Alright, cariño,” you say softly. “Time to go home.”

Javier stirs, but only barely. A grunt, a shallow breath, a flutter in his lashes. You pat his back firmly, not harshly, but enough that he sniffs and grunts again, awake. 

“Blue’s still up there,” he mumbles with his eyes closed. 

Grinning, you lift your face to the ceiling fan overhead—one of two dozen in this place, none of which run and all of which droop with a rainbow of bras tossed into the rafters. Above you now sways the strap of a pale blue bra mildewed with dust. Would’ve been your twenty-first when you shot that up there, and it’s never fallen. 

“I’m a decent shot,” you say. 

Now he grins, just half his lips, but a real one all the same. “I remember.”

“Course you do, I was better than you.”

At your teasing, the grin snaps clean off his face and his real frown replaces it. “No’anymorre,” he slurs.

Your heart plummets. You can see, now, the bruised darkness beneath his closed eyes as you rub a small circle in the middle of his back. If you were already home you’d pull him into your arms, but he can’t rot on this stool all night. In your silence, Javier cracks one eye at you. “Can’t drive,” he groans.

“No shit,” you say, forcing a soft grin, and he mumbles some gibberish that sounds like it’s supposed to be Spanish. “Come on, work with me here.”

His eye shuts again as he grimaces, face still smushed against the bartop. His hair’s a mess so you comb it back, but the fucker still won’t budge. Rolling your eyes, you lift his arm and drape it over your shoulders to help him off the stool, his body warm and pliant. More solid than you remember him being before. Layers of slender muscle built up like the rings of a tree.

When he rises, gravity lurches and you stagger under his weight, catching yourself against the bar. 

“Careful now,” you warn him playfully. 

Javier turns his face towards yours, close enough in this awkward position that his nose presses against your cheek. He reeks of smoke and shitty whiskey. A little of sweat. You’d mock him for it if he were anywhere within a hundred miles of sober, but he’s a lost cause for now. Your arm fits snug around his waist. To his credit, he makes an effort to stay on his feet. Turns his head down to watch his boots as you walk him outside like he’s focusing intently on putting one foot in front of the other. You pinch his side and he hmphs at you. 

“Could’a just called, you know,” you say as you walk him to your car. The street is all empty parking spots and shuddered windows and packs of thirsty mosquitos, cicada song chirping densely in the air. Your car sleeps down the block alone, black as the sky and in need of a wash, green-strung beads hanging in a loop from the rearview mirror inside.

“Wanted t’ seeyou,” Javier says. 

You nudge your head against his cheek gently. “I missed you too,” you say.

As you drive, streetlamps stripe past the windows. Brick buildings sit squat and lightless, bodegas shackled for the night, and a wilful trash bag balloons with a passing breeze, blowing across the road with a quiet, swimming grace. In the passenger seat, Javier slumps against the door, temple pressed to the half-open window. You think he’s asleep until he licks his bottom lip. 

“Saw Lorraine,” he mumbles, those dark eyes closed away, like he can hardly keep himself awake.

You turn back to watch the empty road. Stop at the stop signs just for show. No one’s out here but you at this hour—Laredo is a ghost town.

“Heard Danny was gettin’ married,” you reply.

Javier exhales profoundly: slow, labored, loud. He’s always been a pouty drunk, but this is something else. “You weren’t there,” he says.

“Had to work.”

“Liar.”

You roll your eyes even though he isn’t looking at you to see. He’ll feel it. Always does. Drumming your fingertips against the steering wheel, you fight back a smirk. “Fucked one of the groomsmen last year,” you admit. “Didn’t feel like havin’ a reunion.”

When you glance at him again, Javier has opened his eyes a sliver to smirk at you, the corner of his mouth pulled into his dimpled cheek. “Julien?”

You frown at the road. “Mateo.”

“Shit,” mumbles Javier, still smirking.

“Somethin’ like that,” you agree.

At the next red light his eyes are closed again and despite the fact that he’s, what, thirty six now? Javier looks like a child to you. Spine hunched, torso sunken. Shoulders broader than ever but curled in on themselves, like if he only had the room he’d be small as a seed. Fetal and miserable. A thousand years older on the inside than anyone should ever have to be. 

“Starin’ a’me,” he scolds, his words slumping into each other.

You huff quietly, caught. “Shut up,” you say. “Just remindin’ myself what you look like. Think you got uglier.”

He growls darkly, unamused.

As you turn at the next light, the green-beaded rosary sways from the rearview mirror. If he had his eyes open Javier would recognize it. His mother’s—passed to you before she died. You aren’t one for praying but you’ll die with it in your hands, you think. That’s the kind of person she was to you. Eternal.

Beside you, Javier mutters something unintelligible, his breath fogging the window. 

“Hm?”

“Seein’ anyone yet?” he repeats, and shifts to loll his head back against the seatrest. 

You gasp softly, feigning offense. “Yet? Ouch, baby,” you tease.

“Didn’t mean it like that,” he grumbles.

“I know,” you say, as you turn into the suburbs. Quiet starter homes lurk in the dark, kids’ bicycles lying like skeletons in their yellowing lawns. “I’m being mean.” 

“I like y’mean,” Javier replies, and finally opens his eyes as if he can sense you’re getting close to home, even though he’s never seen this place. He stares through the windshield glazed and distant, and you try not to stare like you’re concerned. He looks destroyed, you think. Obliterated. Sure, you’ve kept up with the news. Devoured everything you could about the quest to tackle Escobar, terrified Javier’s name would appear in the black ink that stained your fingers, reporting he was dead. That he’d be another casualty, and you’d not have said goodbye.

You know you’ve got no clue what really happened down there. That you never will. But you can see it choking him, hanging from his neck like a noose that’s just biding its time before it pulls.

“Nah, it’s just me,” you say, dragging your eyes off him again. “Think the two weeks we dated was about the closest I ever came to love.”

You’re joking, all foxish grin, but Javier doesn’t laugh. He just stares into the middle distance looking like a ghost. “Sixteen,” he mumbles.

“What?” you say.

He sighs. “Was sixteen days,” he annunciates, and your heart sputters.

Then his face folds in on itself suddenly; he pales, then greens. “Gonna b’sick,” he says.

3:00 A.M.

“Christ, you got heavy,” you groan, hobbling slanted up your porch steps. Though more alert, Javier is no less useless in walking, and though he mumbles shame-riddled sorrys he can’t much help you here. You hold him tightly to you, fingers pinching into his hip as he leans, hot as a furnace against your side in the worst of summer. You don’t care.

It doesn’t matter that it’s been eight years. It could be forty, and if Javier showed up on your doorstep ready to fall, your response would only ever be give it to me. I’ll carry it.

He grunts as you prop him against the side of your house to fish out your keys. “All muscle,” he teases, voice deep and coarse.

“Glad you haven’t shed your ego,” you snark.

You give the door a shove as the lock turns. Javier tips his face up to look at the sliver of moon left out to wink from the sky as if he’s saying a prayer. He reeks of sick—his shirt stained in one spot on his chest where he failed to aim away from himself—and while he stares up at the dark rash of night you work open the buttons of his shirt to take it off. Despite puking in your car, he’s still too lost to the world to notice your hands until you’re halfway down. Maybe in another life you’d be staring at his chest as you uncover it. The broad slopes of muscle, his stomach, the dark path of hair trailing towards his jeans. But in this life, you aren’t that to each other. You don’t get to be. 

“Cariño,” Javier says, and one of his hands covers yours as you pinch the last button. Looking down at you now, concerned through hazy eyes. Summer hangs wetly in the air; his curls lay damp against his skin, licking his temples, the nape of his neck.

You shrug his hand off yours, offering a small grin. “Gotta get this in the wash, Javi,” you tell him. “Not allowed to get in my bed smelling like puke.”

Cicadas sing from their trees. Your house, small as it may be, is a welcoming place. All red bricks and white shutters. The swing on the porch sways behind Javier, giving the occasional squeak. You shuck his button-up off his shoulders and ball it in your hands before catching his eye. “Can I trust you to stay upright while I put this in the wash?” you ask, one eyebrow arched.

He scowls, all pouty bottom lip—trying to make you laugh, even now. You huff as if exhausted, sarcastic and a little pleased. He’s in there, the person you’ve loved. Somewhere buried.

When the laundry is running you find him on your porch swing, horizontal. One bare arm dangling off the seat, his eyes closed again. Skin that’s usually golden washed silver by moonlight. In this heat there’s no reason for you to cover him but still you feel the nagging urge. Even with you here with him, you hate the thought of anyone coming out onto their porches or lawns to see him like this—out of control. You rouse him just enough to lift his head so you can sit at the end of the swing, then lay his head in your lap. He hums. A low, gravelly sound of pleasure. Glad to feel you beneath him in this small way. 

“M’sorry, baby,” Javier murmurs groggily, nuzzling his cheek against your leg as you stroke the hair away from his face again. He’s flushed, damp and sweaty, and even with the shirt gone could use a shower but you’d never say so. At this point, you’ve seen him in every state—sunny and terrible and everything in between—and don’t fear any of them. Don’t hate any of them. Never could, because all of them are him, so how could you.

“Cleaned up your puke before,” you reply. “Nothin’ I haven’t seen.”

He sighs, and with no small effort rolls himself onto his back with a grunt—the swing sways with the movement, rocking you both. Then once more, this time to his other side to face you. You chuckle softly as he settles, one of his arms reaching behind you to wrap around your hips, and for a while you drift back and forth with the porch light off and the moon’s claw cutting through the dark.

It’d be something close to heaven if it weren’t for his pain.

“Wanted to call you,” Javier sighs, after a long while of cricketing quiet. “After—”

Nothing.

You wait.

The rest of whatever he was going to say dissolves, never follows. Never becomes something for you to hold, to know, to carry. He keeps all the weight.

“Could’ve,” you say, hand in his hair again, how he always used to like. Even when you were kids he always wanted to be touched. His head in your lap, your hand in his hair to scare off his bad dreams. You could never tell a soul without destroying him—and you never wanted to. The way you were for each other was just that: for each other. Everyone knew you were close, inseparable at school. But the depth of that bond was a secret no one had to know. How his body needed to be close to yours to settle, to breathe, sometimes to sleep.

Javier’s nose scrunches as he fights off some stabbing thought. You stroke your thumb across his temple, trying to get him to look at you, but he won’t. 

“Tell me,” you whisper. 

Two words you never say. A question you never ask. He’s so far past drunk he’s practically a child—maybe it’s wrong to ask him like this—but you’d do anything to relieve even one ounce of this suffering.

Eventually, he exhales deeply, breath warm against your hip. Behind you, you feel his hand stroke your back, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. “Thought you’d hate me,” he mumbles.

Your heart splinters. Every cell in your body wants to pull him against you, pull him into you, swallow the ache. “Should know better than that by now,” you say. 

The shoulder he isn’t laying on bobs with what must be a shrug. “Been a while.”

“Been a long time,” you agree. Not angry, not bitter, not blaming—it’s been a long time. It’s nothing to you now but a fact. Seeing him again has erased the nag of your neglected longing.

With a gruff, Javier’s arm tightens around your back and he pulls himself closer, his forehead nuzzling your hip bone. “Feels like a’undred years,” he says, his voice hoarse and broken.

There isn’t anything you can do but card your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp with featherlight nails. You let your head fall back against the brick of your house. Exhausted, but you won’t sleep. You’ll stay awake with him all night if he needs it, if he asks you. Even if he doesn’t. 

4:00 A.M.

“No more water,” he begs. “Please.”

In your kitchen, just the stove light on, he’s sobering. Not sober —but he can stand up on his own. Leaning back against your counter, both hands outstretched to rest upon the laminate. Cool light splits his face in half—one bright and weary, one lost to shadow. You roll your eyes and hold one hand out to accept his water glass which he passes you with a grateful sigh.

You listen to the harsh rush of water draining into the kitchen sink—a stark disruption to the eerie quiet of the middle of the night in which it feels like you and Javier are the only people left on earth. 

Behind you, Javier groans, watching the glass fill again.

“It’s for the nightstand, baby,” you assure him as you pass it back. 

He pouts at it, arms drooping at his sides. Trying again. Digging for your laugh. With expectant eyes you pick up his hand and cup it around the glass, and when you let go and he doesn’t drop it you let a smile creep slowly across your face. Satisfied, he straightens a little, swaying slightly, and nods. He looks down at the floor, his bare feet, and his face blues. Darkens like he’s remembering.

You lay the palm of your hand over the center of his chest and beneath it Javier’s heart throbs steadily. His lungs expand. His blood moves. Alive—whether he feels it or not—and a comfort to you. 

Though you’ve lived in this house only three years and Javier’s never once seen or stepped foot in it, he trails through the narrow halls to your bedroom like he knows it well. Sloppy footsteps, yes, and always with you behind him braced to catch any sudden fall, but he makes it in the end. Water sloshes over the lip of his glass as he sets it down. Then—still in his jeans, which hug his thighs so tightly you’re surprised he doesn’t try to peel them off—he crawls into your bed, on top of the duvet. In the doorway you pause to watch him and get a vision of another life in which he does this every night, at ease in your home because it’s his home too.

It is a terrible thought, weak and troubling. It’ll burrow if you let it, so you kick it away. While you strip free of your work clothes, you watch him in the small mirror above your dresser; his head flops into your pillows, cheek smushed, eyes sliding closed. Those dark lashes, those parted lips. Always exactly the same. He doesn’t even glance in your direction—he doesn’t need to peek at your body. He’s seen you before. You him.

“Was Mateo worse than me,” he asks from the bed, like he’s read your mind. No surprise. For years, you would’ve sworn he could.

You blush, though he’s not looking. “Javi,” you say softly.

“Sorry,” he sighs.

In a t-shirt, you pad around the other side of the bed to crawl over the covers and curl onto your side to face him, one hand beneath your cheek. “Sex in college is supposed to be bad,” you tell him, grinning.

His brows pinch together, bracketing his forehead. “Shouldn’t've been with you,” he mumbles.

Yes, he’s how you remember. Ever chasing some rabbit hole to plummet down to avoid the cavern to which he’ll give no name. He’s got one hand buried under his pillow—how easy it is to think of your things as his—and the other lies between you, limp. You take it in your own, pull it to your lips, and press them to his knuckles. “We were kids,” you say, sure to smile against the back of his hand so he’ll feel it.

He huffs. “Drunk.”

“That too.”

“Better now, I swear.”

You laugh. Can’t help it. Silver light from the moon puddles over you, illuminating half his face, the curve of his shoulder, the slope of his arm. Even miserable, probably in a blackout, one foot hanging sadly off the edge of the mattress, Javier is someone who draws laughter out of you with ease, same as when you were kids. You kiss the back of his hand again, still grinning, and watch the frown dissolve from his face. He’s always been beautiful in a way that never seemed fair, but you think it might be getting worse with age. No one should look so good in this state, but there he is.

“Sure hope so, baby,” you tease.

Now he cracks one dark eye to squint at you, the corner of his mouth loosening, curling into his cheek. Then there’s that dimple. Your heart patters. You’ve missed him. “Could show you,” Javier smirks.

You roll your eyes. “You aren’t showin’ me shit right now.”

His bottom pink pops again, pouting as he broods, yanking another chuckle from you while he murmurs something you miss. Something that ends with good though.

“Hm?” you say.

“You smell good though,” Javier murmurs, and though soft you hear it this time. That almost whine.

“Well, when you put it that way,” you tease, and like magic, he laughs. Smile lines crinkle beside his eyes, nose scrunching. Beautiful. It is, you think, the best of him—how he looks when he actually laughs. It takes over his face. 

As you both settle, he scooches closer on the bed, squeaking the mattress. You feel the warm plume of his breath whisper over your face as he sighs. He has, it seems, only a match of levity at a time. It sparkles, flares, and smokes out too quickly. 

It isn’t a frown that replaces it, but despair. “Gonna feel like shit tomorrow,” he mutters, no louder than a whisper. No need to speak any louder when you’re lying this close. Your lips press to his knuckles again and this time he squeezes your hand, the muscles in his forearm briefly tensing. Freckles dot his bicep like stars.

“You feel like shit right now,” you whisper in reply.

Javier nods, face folding like he wants to cry. But he almost never does, not even in front of you.

5:00 A.M. 

You drift into brief tides of sleep with the warmth of him around you, his face in the crook of your neck. For most of your life, you’ve chalked up the ease with which you touch each other to an echo of your childhoods—a time in which touch is given often and without judgment. There has never been hesitation between you, not in this way. Even now, eight years since the last time you saw him, Javier slots against you in a way that just feels right—new, broader shoulders and all. 

His slow, deep breaths warm your neck, your collarbone. You couldn’t wiggle out of his arms if you tried, and though it’s warm even with the window open, even with both of you on top of the covers, you don’t want to. Eight years is a long time to go without this.

When he stirs with a tortured groan, you nudge your lips against his forehead. “S’okay,” you mumble, and the whine that snakes out of him rattles your chest and slices clean through your heart. Wrapping a hand around the back of his head, fingers threading through curls, you pull him closer, and his arms tighten around your waist.

Maybe it should feel wrong when Javier nuzzles into your neck to kiss you softly beneath the jaw, but it doesn’t. 

“Baby—” he croaks, and you hush him, petting his hair.

You don’t want him to say it. You never say it. If he says it now, it’ll ruin you.

“I know, Javi,” you whisper, squeezing your eyes closed so tight you see a rain of stars. “I know.”

“Y’ never let me say it,” he mumbles against your throat, his breath fogging your skin.

“You don’t need to,” you say.

“Wanted to, you know,” he replies, his voice so gentle you feel it pass from his chest to yours in a shallow tremor.

You chuckle softly from the darkness behind your eyes, like opening them will break the spell. “Oh yeah? When?”

He shrugs, his body loose and boneless. The heat of him is making you sweat. 

“The whole time,” Javier mumbles, and you wish suddenly that he weren’t so close because he must hear the sudden racing of your heart. “Pensé que me casaría contigo.”

If he didn’t hear its racing, you think, there’s no way he misses when it stops. Your Spanish is mediocre at best but you catch fragments, piece it together. I thought I’d marry you.

Your forehead wrinkles as a sudden urge to cry slams into you, shattering your bones. At least you manage to pat his back teasingly, feigning coolness, steadiness. Pretending he hasn’t toppled you. 

“Think you’re confusing me and Lorraine, cariño,” you tease quietly, hopeful that the wetness in your eyes doesn’t taint your voice.

Silence stretches like an elastic threatening a snap, a sting, a burn. But Javier exhales in a way that feels like he’s asleep again, like all of this is just nonsense cooked up in some drunken dream. Soon sleep is dragging at you sweetly, loosening your limbs again. You grow heavy, face slack, your limbs indistinguishable from his. When he whispers again you hardly hear it and the words don’t stick. You’ll forget them when you next wake for real. But he says them all the same.

“Not confusin’ you with anybody.”

Then you’re gone, sucked away. Asleep.

6:00 A.M.

The yellow morning leaks through your bedroom. You wake to a glint in your eyes: sunlight reflecting off a picture frame on your dresser. You and Javier twenty years ago dressed for junior prom, hidden now by the blinding. Squinting, you groan a soft mph sound as you wake, desperate to bury yourself in sleep again. 

In your brief slumber the two of you have remained braided—two strands of clinging ivy. Against you, Javier groans, humming tiredly against your throat, and you feel his hand slip up the hem of your shirt again, his palm flat over your spine. 

Half asleep, you let him. 

Half asleep, you let yourself remember.

You’re twenty five again. Just a few years out of college, both of you home for the summer. Out in the long grass in Chucho’s yard, you stretch yourselves out to sunbathe in the Texas summer, watching bumblebees laze drowsily between blooming thistles. Beside you, Javier lies on his back with both hands cradled beneath his head while you read, those yellow aviators over his eyes.

“Could get a place together,” he says. So casual, so simply.

Looking up from your book, you see the pink collar of sunburn around his neck and grin to yourself. “We’d get sick of each other,” you lie.

Javier only shrugs, unaware, you think, that you spent all of college in love with him. In freshman year, you’d stumbled home together after a party and he’d kissed you against your front door, waking you from what you realized then had been a lifetime of slumber. You’d never considered kissing him before, but all of a sudden it was obvious. You thought this is what your lips should have been doing all this time.

But it never happened again. The sex was awkward, clumsy—you’d only done it once before—and you told yourself that’s why he never tried again. You never tried either. Now it’s a joke you tell each other, trying to make the other person blush. 

The thought of sharing an apartment with him sends a river of panic through your veins. It would kill you to watch him bring Lorraine home. To hear him fuck someone else through the wall. It's bad enough watching her starry eyes whenever he walks into a room. Bad enough watching him kiss her, hands pressed to the small of her back.

“If you say so,” he says, looking not one bit disappointed.

Half asleep, you let yourself dream you said yes.

7:00 A.M.

You don’t know who leans in—if you tilt your head down or if Javier tilts his up, if it starts in your sleep—only that when you next stir the morning is darkening to gold and orange. Panels of windowed sunlight crawl slowly across your legs, and you are kissing.

Javier’s lips melt against yours. It’s nothing like when you were kids. Eighteen and nervous wrecks, your teeth always getting in the way.

It’s different now. You know how to kiss each other like you’ve had the practice, like it hasn’t been almost two decades since last you tried. Pliant and sleepy, his tongue licking gently into your mouth. His mustache scratches sweetly against your skin. When a breathy sound whimpers from you, he cups your jaw, his other arm locking snug around your waist. There’s no rush to it, no progression. You don’t strip down and fuck—both of you content with only this: the soft murmurs you breathe into each other. The lifetime of wanting in every kiss. 

Because you have wanted him, you realize. Not just in college, but before then and every day since. Maybe from the first day he walked into your sixth grade class and felt like home. Even these last eight years when you’d accepted that he was gone from your life for good, your friendship having reached the end of its life, you wanted him.

He grunts when you nibble gently at his bottom lip, and you smile. Then he moans. And it’s perfect, somehow, like he’s dug around in the cabinets of your mind to know exactly how you want to be kissed. Deeply, patiently. All tongue and breath and yielding lips, your hands in his hair, the fire of him enveloping you.

You say nothing; you talk with your touch.

He stripes his tongue along your bottom lip: I’m sorry.

You tug at his curls: I’m sorry.

He kisses the corners of your mouth: I’m sorry.

You lick the hinge of his jaw: I’m sorry.

His thumb strokes the apple of your cheek: I’m sorry. I’m falling asleep.

You tilt your head to better taste him: I don’t want to fall asleep.

But you do. The tide drags you out, your body molten, exhausted, hypnotized. Your lips still touching as you fall into a dream.

8:00 A.M.

When next you open your eyes, you’ve rolled towards the window and the weight and warmth of his arms is gone. You don’t bother turning over. Don’t bother reaching for him. 

You know the bed will be empty on his side, cold. 

[d011zk1ll]

GUYS GUYS GUSY GUYS GUYS GUYS I WROTE

I FINISHED THE FIRST CHAPTER TO THE FUTURE AU IM SO PROUD OF MYSELF

I ALSO HAVE THE NEXT 9 CHAPTERS PLOT DONE SO I CAN WORK ON IT EASIER IM SO HAPPY

HERE IT ISSS IM SO HAPPPYYPYPYPY

[makncheese12]

Top Shelf pt. 5

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 6, Part 7

Masterlist

Summary: being the kid of a well-known book store owner was easy, so was running into famous people. But being book smart doesn’t make everyone people smart.

A/N: the location set for where they eat isn’t a place in New York I think but it is where I’m from so I’m using it🥲

You guys would be astonished if you knew who the characters I created represented

I had a hard time writing for the character I put in here because I’m still not sure how to write people like her🥲

Warning: my writing, language,

Jenna Ortega x fem!reader

“I changed my mind,” Lyle says suddenly as you dry your hair off glancing toward him. Hair dye setting in hair that is now dyed half pink and half black as he smiles down at his phone.

The boy had an unhealthy obsession with dying his hair lately and you had to be the one to dye it.

“About what?” You ask tightening the towel around your body as you walk out of the bathroom and toward you closet. “This is my favorite.”

He holds up a picture of you and Jenna walking down the street from the last few days making you roll your eyes.

The two of you had hung out a quite a few times after the first time and you were starting to get used to the both her and the paparazzi’s presence in your life.

You were actually enjoying it. The scandal online of people thinking the two of you are dating with how much you two are together, not to mention the Instagram follow.

The photos that were taken of you both were decent.

It’s funny really. The pictures, the edits, being stopped suddenly in the street so Jenna could take a picture with a fan or sign something. You were enjoying seeing her interact with them and how different she acted with you.

The only downsides were the amount of threats and questions you were getting on Instagram. It got to the point where you had to turn off you messages.

Another being that when they took pictures of you it was always you looking at Jenna some type of way and it irked your nerves at how obvious your love struck state was.

“You just said that about the last one you saw.” You reply as you pull an outfit off the hangers.

“Yeah but this one is the one.” He says, rolling onto his back on your bed. “You two look so cute in it, plus your making lovey dovey eyes at her, as usual.”

You huff out before letting the towel drop and start to get dressed. “What’s you guys relationship, anyway?” He asks without looking up knowing you were changing.

What was it really? Truth be told, you didn’t know yourself.

“We’re friends, what else?” You say pulling your shirt over your head. He lets out a loud groan, plopping his phone down before rolling around on your bed.

“You cannot be serious right now.” He says now laying on his stomach and looking up at you.

You let out a huff pulling your pants up. You were just friends, friends who text and go out a lot. He was just jealous your time was being taken away from him surely.

You’d have to admit, spending time with Jenna was way better than spending time with Lyle. Not that you didn’t enjoy Lyle’s company it was just that Jenna gave you other feelings than Lyle ever could.

While Lyle made you feel disgust, happiness and frustration Jenna made you feel nervous, excitement and attraction.

The feelings were definitely different.

“You cannot be serious right now.” You repeat his words in a high pitch mocking tone before tossing your towel in the basket and making your way toward your desk.

“At what point will you take me seriously?” He asks as Achilles jumps on his back before settling into his new found seat.

“At what point will you be serious?” You ask. “Right now.” He replies, tossing his phone on the bed and looking toward you.

“You two are literally so cute together but very oblivious.” He says making you press your lips together and roll your eyes.

“I’m so serious, like,” he says sitting up and Achilles falls off before being picked up and put into his lap.

“I’ve seen the videos and pictures, one looking away while the others stares or the way you smile at each other.” He rambles as you let out a sigh.

It was true that you couldn’t deny your feelings for Jenna, Lyle knew that. The way she makes your heart beat faster at her unrelenting stare, the way her laugh makes you want to smile.

But you couldn’t assume her feelings for you, of course she wouldn’t have any other than friend ship.

“Just because you see something doesn’t make it real.” You reply, interrupting his list making him roll his eyes.

“I know what I see and I can see the attraction coming from both of you and onto the other.” He says menacingly stroking Achilles who purrs out closing his eyes.

“I never said I wasn’t attracted to her,” you argue shaking your head and he raises an eyebrow. “I just think she doesn’t feel the same thing.”

The man lets out a hum of slight disapproval. “Obliviousness is truly a torture.” He says clicking his tongue and shaking his head.

“You have to show your attraction, not that you already have with those looks but you also have to say and show it.” He finishes and you knit your eye brows together.

Did he straight up want you to confess without knowing if she returned the feeling?

“How exactly?” You raise an eyebrow at him and lean back into your desk chair.

“Allow me to demonstrate.” Oh god.

The man stands and grabs your arms to pull you onto the bed to sit next to him. He sits closer to you and makes sure to get into your personal space. “This is weird.” You mumble scooting away from him slightly.

He only responds by scooting closer to you and looking into your eyes. You look around for a moment, unsure of what he was doing.

He continues to stare and you continue to look away, avoiding his eyes. “There,”

“What?” You ask, now confused with the man who was supposedly trying to help you.

“You have this issue of not being able to hold eye contact, it’s a form of attraction through body language.” He says, smirking down at you as you roll your eyes.

“It makes you seem sexy and mysterious.” He wiggles his eyebrows at you before leaning in with a kissy face and you stop immediately with your palm. “You’re not sexy nor mysterious at all.”

“Yeah, but I try.” He shrugs leaning back slightly. “But it really should work if someone finds any attraction toward you.”

“Okay, cupid,” you snort before scooting away from him once again. “Only problem is is that I’m not attracted to you.” You finish as the boy scoots closer to you.

He once again ignores you as he yanks your legs to face him. “Pay attention, demonstration number two.”

He puts his legs in the same position as yours, along with his posture.

“What is this?” You ask, once again confused as the man copies your movements. “It’s a big sign mostly, copying the movement of the person you like or mirroring the position. you used to do it a lot in high school when you dated that senior chick.” He replies and you send him a glare.

“I did not date her.” You reply, crossing your legs. “Yeah,” he says copying your movements. “But you had sex with her it’s the same thing.”

“You and I have very different perspectives on dating— stop that!” You raise your voice slightly as the man uncrosses his legs along with yours.

“Demonstration number three!” He claps before leaning his shoulder toward yours, body very close to yours as you try to lean away from him.

“Let me guess,” you huff out pushing his shoulders away from your own.

The man never had any form of personal space, even in your early years or when you first met. He was always in someone’s bubble.

“They lean toward you while your talking to them, focusing only on you.” You say as the man leans closer with a cheeky smile.

“Ding ding ding.” The mimicked sound of a bell makes you roll your eyes. “And tonight I will be on the look out for those signs.” He says smiling to himself in thought.

“Speaking of,” you say standing up and grabbing a towel from a pile. “Let’s get your hair done so we can get ready to go.”

“Insta story!” He grabs his phone before rushing past you and into the bathroom. You shake your head and let out a quiet chuckle at his obsession with pictures.

You all had that obsession though. Posting pictures and moments you like to have for later and to look at when you got older or grew apart. Not that he’d ever allow that to happened.

But it got to the point where you were scared of the pictures he had, you knew he had bad ones but you didn’t know how many. The scary part was that he had the power to post it whenever he wanted.

He should be afraid of the ones you had too.

“Hurry, I need to get a good angle before you wash it all out.” He rushes as he holds in the camera to the mirror as you grab gloves and begin putting them on ignoring the clicking sounds.

“Don’t worry, I’ll only post the good ones of you so your boo doesn’t see your bad angle.” He says while scrolling through the pictures making you roll your eyes.

“She’s not my boo.” You mumble and he snorts. “Whatever you say.”

————

“Remember,” the man walking next to you says after pulling your head phones off. “Look for my three attraction signs.”

You huff out and nod while scooting closer toward him as more people entered the train.

“And if she doesn’t show any signs?” You ask, chest against his as someone bumps into you. You both send a subtle glare before looking back toward each other.

“Then you show them,” he smirks down at you, hair tied up in a half up half down style but still having some strands cover his face. “I’m sure she’s not as dense as you are.”

You now send him the glare as you glance down at your phone before smiling at the sight of Jenna’s double text before texting back.

Jenna -

We’re on the way now:)

My friend can’t wait to meet you!

You -

Lyle is just as enthusiastic about meeting you

We’re on the train about be there

Jenna -

Cant wait to meet him

“‘Love struck’ is definitely the word to describe you.” Lyle states and your smile falls looking up at him.

“Don’t hide it now, I’ve already seen you smiling at your phone like she’s there for real.” He rolls his eyes before checking his own phone.

“Whose her friend anyway?” He asks and you shrug. “She won’t say, says it’s a surprise.”

“Great, yet another sexy and mysterious individual in our lives.” He shakes his head and you hit his chest with the back of your hand.

The train comes to a slow stop before the doors open allowing you both to make your way out and toward the exit.

It’s a struggle though as you move past the many people in the train station trying to find a way out without pushing.

“Jeez, the tourist this time of year are always so annoying.” The man mumbles, grabbing your hand. He was right, people wanting to spend Christmas in New York was a hassle but it was worse after Christmas was over.

“Watch it!” A man calls pushing past your shoulder. “Sorry..” You mumble getting closer to Lyle as the man glares down at you before moving through the crowd once more.

“Asshole.” Lyle mumbles, wrapping his arm through yours to keep you close as you both finally make it out of the crowded staircase.

“Come on, before we’re late meeting your boo and her friend.” The man pulls you through the street as you groan.

“She’s not my boo! Stop saying that it’s so weird.” You say as he drags you through the crowd. “But you want her to be.” He calls out in a sing song voice that makes you gag.

He slows down after a moment, deep in thought as you stare up at him.

Another moment goes by before he lets out a hum.

“You never really confirmed it,” he says glancing down toward you. “If you actually want her or not. Yeah, you said you were attracted to her but not if you actually liked her.”

The statement causes your entire face to heat up as you look away from the boy.

You never really thought about it, mostly thinking about how stunning she looked or when she would text and ask to hang out next. Never once did you think about if you could actually be in a real relationship with her.

“In a sense..” you mumble scratching the back of your head. He raises his eyebrow at you and waits patiently for you to finish.

You both take notice to people glancing in your direction, whispers suddenly surround you. Something you were still getting used to.

“I mean, I do like her.” You start your ramble and the boy smiles. “She’s amazing, perfect even. Her personality is even better than it is on TV, she’s funny, way more considerate of where I want to go with her, she talks just enough to where I can also talk, she’s absolutely gorgeous,” you continue your list and Lyle nods, smile growing as you speak.

He had never seen you so passionate about something other than the music you listen too or something you’ve hyper fixated on. So listening to you speak of something — or rather someone — else was definitely a sight for him to see.

He knew the brunette had you wrapped around her finger just by your long list, even if you didn’t know it yourself.

“And did I mention she has a great sense of style?” You suddenly come to a stop of your rambling. “I’ve seen it plenty to know.” He laughs and you groan out.

“Okay, so why don’t you make a move exactly?“ he asks and your smile falls.

“Why would she say yes to me?” You ask lowly as the boys smile falls to.

She had many other options with people who could treat her to a life of luxury or even just treat her better. So why would she pick the weird library kid who stays inside playing video games all day?

“You’re all those things too, minus to the style of course.” Lyle tries to comfort you only for you to elbow him in his gut.

“I’m being serious,” he laughs grabbing your arm and pushing it away lightly. “You’re just as amazing as anyone else. You don’t give yourself enough credit.” He finishes with a small smile.

You nod slowly before looking back forward and grabbing for his hand.

“Don’t be gross now.” You mumble and the boy chuckles to himself.

You both continue to walk through down the street before arriving at the location sent to you by Jenna making Lyle let out a loud gasp.

“Sushi?” He asks, arms spread out as he gestures to the red sign ‘Kenko’s habachi’ as if he was trying to hug it. “How’d she know?! What’d you tell her?” He questions are more of demands as he turns to you.

“Nothing, as I said.” You say, stuffing your hands in your pockets. “She has taste.”

A grimace is set on his face at your comment. “Please don’t tell me your referring to yourself.” Your face falls and you point to it, clearly annoyed at his comment after your last conversation.

“Kidding,” he says turning back toward the building like a child in a toy factory. “So how does this work? Do we go inside and wait?”

“We just wait, I usually do.” You say, taking a seat on a nearby bench as the man continues to stare up.

“What a good dog.” He replies only giving you a glance. “But what about seats?” He asks mc ignoring your loud huff.

“Usually taken care of.” You say before slipping your head phones back on and turning up the sound to drown out what ever he says.

You close your eyes and begin to think of the various ways this night could go. Lyle embarrassing you to death, the so called signs he wants you to use and look for, Jenna’s friend, how Jenna looks. Anything to pass the time before you come to a realization.

How long was she staying in New York?

She had been here for about a month and half now, at least since you’ve known her. She was bound to leave for LA again to be with her family and home again.

The thought made you feel some sort of dread. The relationship you both built could go crumbling down once she left and you couldn’t do anything about while all the way across the United States.

Then again what could you do? Ask her not to return to her home and stay with you? Not possible. You weren’t in any position to ask such a question but that wouldn’t stop you from begging if you had a choice to.

Who wouldn’t want to be on the knees in front of such a woman after all?

You’re pulled from your thoughts as your head phones are yanked off. Your eyes snap open to see Lyle glaring down toward, Jenna trying to hold in her laugh and a girl who’d you recognized after watching Jenna’s most recent show.

You didn’t know her name but you knew not to call her by the name you knew her by, that would end horrible on your end by Lyle.

“Hey,” Jenna says as you stand up and snatch your head phones back from Lyle. “Hey.” You reply and Lyle makes a face.

“‘Hey’? That’s it?” He whispers to himself as if he were expecting more and you send him a glare.

“We’ve gotta stop meeting like this.” Jenna says gesturing to your head phones as you put them back in their case.

“Are you suggesting that I have a head phone problem?” You ask, smirk in your face as you shove the container into your pocket.

She considers the question for a moment before nodding. “Maybe a little?” She says and your face falls as it does whenever Lyle tries to say something funny.

“I’m only saying you have them in all the time right before I see you.” She defends putting her hands up.

“What else am I meant to do? Just sit there or walk? No, I gotta have some sort of background noise that’s not yelling or cars honking.” You huff out and shake your head.

Jenna’s smile grows as she looks up at you.

You glance to Lyle who puts up a single finger mouthing ‘number one’ making you internally roll your eyes.

Your eyes travel back to Jenna who continues to smile and stare and you can’t help but agree with. The eye contact was insanely attractive when it came to her as you try your hardest not to look away from hers.

You both continue to stare unbeknownst to the pair beside you. It was starting to become unbearable for the two, is this all what you two did?

Sure, it was only a few moments that and passed but it was still awkward.

Lyles eyes travel to the girl Jenna brought as he presses his lips with a suggestive look on his face that makes the girl smile and nod in agreement to his silent statement.

“Well then!” Lyle calls out clapping his hands together. “Re-introductory time,” he smiles and holds out his hand to Jenna.

“Great to meet you again on less awkward time, I’m Lyle.” He says as she takes his hand and shakes it. “Nice to meet you, i’ve heard a lot about you.” She says and Lyle smirks.

“As have I about you.” Your cheeks rise in heat as you clear your throat and look away from the two.

“Oh! And this is Emma.” Jenna introduces and the girl steps forward with a adorable smile you can’t help but notice.

“Hi, I’ve also heard a lot about you.” She laughs as she shakes your hand. Jenna’s cheeks also get warm as she she sends a small kick to her friends foot you don’t seem to notice.

“It’s nice to meet you, Emma.” You say before Lyle begins rushing the three of you.

“Sushi time, let’s go. Let’s go!” The man states as you all make your way inside.

“I’m beginning to see what you meant by him being a bit much.” Jenna says watching Lyle make his way toward the fish tank like a child.

You huff out before going after him. “Dude,” you mumble as you watch him watch the fish. “You’ll get to eat some in a bit, stop slobbering on the glass.”

“You two really are bad at reading signs.” He replies, head turning side ways but eyes never leaving the tank. “You’re trying too hard to act natural, just relax.”

You scoff before pulling him back toward the duo only to see Emma whispering something to Jenna whose face had only become more red.

The waitress grabs four menus and makes her way toward the back of the restaurant.

“I love your hair, by the way.” Emma says, falling back to walk with Lyle who gives her a toothy smile. “Why thank you, I just got it done.” He says as if he had paid to get it done, you should have made him pay.

You watch as the waitress places the menus down in a booth before making your way to one side and taking a seat. Jenna not too far behind you as she subconsciously decides to sit with you.

Lyle looks back at Emma with the same suggestive look on his face as he allows her to enter first before following after.

He takes notice to how close you both sit and allows a small smirk to set into his face before opening his menu and slamming it shut immediately.

You send him a questioning look as you opening your own. You places his hand on the table and drums two fingers on the table, looking around trying to be discreet.

You let out a quiet huff before looking back down to your menu, unable to resist the urge to look through your peripheral view to see he was in fact right.

Jenna seemed to be doing what Lyle was doing earlier. Your legs were slightly tilted toward hers and so were hers, hands holding the menu as you did.

But then again she was very focused on said menu, not enough to be able to copy anything you were doing. You were glad he was sort of wrong but also disappointed.

“You’d definitely like the shrimp tempura, it’s actually cooked but also really good for sushi.” Lyle states as he points to Emma’s menu, elbows on the table as he leans over to look over her menu. You watch Emma’s eyebrows raise as he continues to recommend different things, clearly listening carefully as she nods along.

A small smile forms on your face, his lack of personal space was indeed always there. Even for strangers. But then again that was his specialty, finding friends by just simply being himself rather than acting awkward.

But then there was his humor that threw most people off, very dark. You were used to it though, him mentioning things that would put him in an insane asylum before laughing to himself making the people who get it laugh as well.

“What are you getting?” Jenna’s voice breaks you out of your thoughts as your eyes snap from Lyle and Emma to Jenna who seemed to be sitting much closer than before.

You lean over to look at her menu forgetting about your own in your hand as you point to the thing you get the most.

She scrunches her nose — the action absolutely adorable — slightly as she read the description, clearly displeased with you answer. “Really?”

You shrug before closing your own menu and sliding it forward. “It’s what I’ve eaten for the past few times, i think it’s good.” You lean against your hand on the table, body turned to her more.

She nods to herself for a moment before looking back down to her menu, once again you find yourself jealous of a menu.

Lyle takes notice to your longing stares and Jenna obliviousness take scowls in distaste at the sight.

With how much you talked about her he would think you would be flirting at this point with how much you’ve hung out. But no, you clearly are too much of an idiot not to see both you and Jenna’s body language toward each other.

“But what is the best platter?” Emma asks suddenly and your attention is suddenly drawn toward her as you lean over the table to talk.

He gapes at you for a moment, wondering why you would take your attention off your ‘date’ to recommended things to his before he got the chance.

You had a goddess next to you and you decided to talk about platters? He decides then and there it was time to take matters into his own hands.

His eyes travel to Jenna who no longer looks at her menu, instead toward you and Emma with a look in her eyes Lyle knows inside and out.

He stares at her and waits for a moment, clearly intent on getting her to look back at him and she does.

He narrows his eyes her before tilting his head which makes her in return knit her eye brows. He glances toward you then back to her before raising an eyebrow.

Jenna too glances at you before biting her lip nervously before looking back to him. He widens eyes while keeping his eyebrow raised and tilting his head to the side to gesture toward you.

Jenna hesitates for a moment, looking between Lyle and you before nodding along with Lyle who lets out a silent breath.

At least someone took his hints.

She sends him one last glance as you sit back into your seat, all four of you now waiting on the waitress, Lyle and Emma taking up a new conversation topic.

“I meant to tell you before,” Jenna says suddenly catching both you and Lyles attention. “Your outfit looks really nice.” The compliment is subtle yet noticeable.

You look down to look at your outfit you had actually tried on. Ever since you met Jenna you had actually been trying on looking good instead of wearing simple jeans and a sweat shirt. Not that you’d ever tell her that.

“Thank you, my mom actually bought this for me.” You say and Lyle froze before his eyes travel to you in horror.

Who responds to a compliment like that?

“Well, she knows what colors look good on you.” Retorts, saving her own compliment. It works as your face heats up and you smile before chuckling nervously as the waitress walks up you table.

Lyle felt his eye twitch as you order, the sudden urge to strangely you was set into his mind as his finger start to flex.

The audacity of you not complimenting her back was an atrocity.

His eyes travel to Jenna who seemed well satisfied with her compliment and your reaction, far more confident than before. It did not satisfy Lyle.

As the waiter walks away, Lyle felt the need to punish you for your crimes. He quickly kicks his foot out attempting to kick you but instantly regrets it.

“Ow!” Jenna calls out and his eyes go wide. “What’s wrong?” You ask as soon as the word leaves Jenna’s lips.

“Did you just kick me?” Jenna asks, looking up to Lyle whose face sets into panic before looking to you. The worried look on your features evident as you place a hand on Jenna’s arm. He decides this was a far better punishment.

“Yeah,” he nods and looks to you. “Did you just kick her?” The attitude in his accusation bewilders you as your mouth hangs open.

“What?” You ask, glaring at the boy who glares back. “Why would you kick her?” He asks, gesturing his hands toward you and you let out a laugh.

“That’s funny,” you say shaking your head at the boy who crosses his arms. “I’m sitting right next to her how would that be possibly?” You ask and the man shrugs in exaggeration.

“I don’t know, you tell me!” He says and you huff out. Jenna, the pain now forgotten, finds the petty argument amusing as Emma just sits there sipping her drink enjoying the drama completely oblivious to what’s going on.

————

Lyle watches as the two of you speak while walking ahead, well more so Jenna talks and you stare shamelessly. You two walk closely, closer than the distance He and Emma walked together or just regular friends. Further proving his third demonstration to be correct.

His eyes travel to the paparazzi who also shamelessly stared and took pictures then back to you.

You two were to busy in your own little world to really notice. Now he sees why there were so many pictures, you two were just out there rather than hiding away in the safety of privacy.

The privacy you used to enjoy before Jenna, the privacy you needed for your family but just didn’t care anymore.

“Those two are so annoying,” he mumbles, catching Emma’s attention. “I mean, they’re clearly interesting in each other but Y/N doesn’t want to admit it!”

Emma’s eyes light up at his statement. “Exactly, thank you!” Emma says and the man’s eyes snap to hers. “All she talks about is Y/N.” Emma comes back to a sudden quietness the two had and his interest is now piqued.

“Go on,” he says, nudging her with his elbow and raising his eyebrows.

“I mean, she doesn’t only talk about Y/N but whenever she gets tracked up in her phone it always ‘Y/N texted’ or ‘I’m texting Y/N, hold on’. It’s ridiculous but what’s really annoying is when we try to get her to ask her out and she says that that’s a stupid thing to do and doesn’t think she likes her back or something.”

Lyle’s head snaps to her, eyes wide. “She thinks that?” He asks making them slow down so you two didn’t hear their conversation.

Emma hesitates for a moment, clearly debating if Jenna would like this or not but ultimately decides to nod.

“But why?” He asks and the girl tilts her head slightly in question. “I can understand Y/N because of many different reasons but Jenna? She can have castle full of people to choose from and they’d all want her.”

“Maybe that’s why,” Emma says. “Because of how many people she could possibly have, she doesn’t think that any want her for her.”

Lyle takes a moment to think that through and she was in fact right.

She met you by chance and you didn’t know who she was which most likely made the situation feel real. She could tell you about herself without you knowing information from online — true or not true— and you could tell her about yourself without lying to make her more interested in you.

It was all authentic and she could play it out her own way, especially with you already barely knowing her.

“You’re right,” he mumbles in response as he watches Jenna laugh and you smile at her. The smile was one he didn’t recognize, it was far warmer and soft than what he was used to.

Yes, she truly did have you wrapped around her finger.

“We should totally help each other out,” he says suddenly making the girls smile raise. “I could give you little pointers of what Y/N says and you give me one’s Jenna says, you know to keep things up to date for them.”

Emma’s eyes travel to the two of you as you both talk, still ignoring the paparazzi who try to get the best shots in strange positions.

“Plus, I do like to give Y/N little heart attacks so having information on Jenna would help with that.”

The girls smiles once again, clearly interesting on doing the same to Jenna as she pulls her phone out.

————

Lyle once again watches as you hug Jenna before she waves and gets into her car in absolute disgust and disappointment at how short a time you held her. You could have let it linger for a moment, he wouldn’t have minded waiting another moment.

She gets into the tented window car, Emma following suit as she taps her phone to Lyle who nods and throws her a thumbs up.

Her smirk doesn’t go unnoticed by Lyle as you shut the door behind and watch the cat drive off.

Once it’s completely out of view, he hits the back of your head with the back of his hand. And he does so very hard.

“Ow! What the hell!” You hiss out as your hand comes up to hold it. “I’m starting to see why you’re so worried,” he states angrily before turning on his heels and walking.

“You’re absolutely useless to my game of entertainment. You could have at least done a little bit of flirting.”

He continues to walk, now blocking out your yelling and argument as he sets in his plan to do something about this himself since you can’t do a single thing on your own anymore.

Read next part here! (Coming soon)

A/N: I know this is a itty bit rushed but idc cause the juicy stuff is going to happen now, me and my friend have decided to stop teasing and actually get this done.

[malarkgirlypop]

Goody Part 2 (Joseph Liebgott x Fem!Reader)

AHHHHH I'm sorry, there is going to have to be a part three. @loveydovey12 I hope you enjoy the second part. I will finish this third part for you and make it extra spicy! Like just a whole part of smut ahahah! I hope you all enjoy spicy Joe. Making me all flustered and I wrote it. This is based on the HBO show and the actors who portray the characters, no hate to anyone involved.

I returned the next day feeling refreshed, I slept like a baby last night. I smile as I walk in greeting the patients, they all grin at me, saying good morning. I walk past Joe’s bed, he gives me his signature smirk, instead of sending him back a glare like I always do I smirk back. His smirk drops, a confused look graces his face. I dig the knife in deeper by sending a wink in his direction. He looks worried, that’s not the reaction he was expecting. I chuckle, I have played him at his own game.  

I leave him till last again, he looks apprehensive as I approach his bed. I smile at him. He looks uncomfortable, not used to me being so nice. 

“Pants please.” I say sitting down at the end of the bed. He eyes me, looking sceptical. He watches me unmoving. I smile at him. “Joe, please may you take down your pants for me.” 

“No!” He retorts, I laugh. 

“What do you mean no?” I ask the man. 

“I don’t like this! Why are you being so nice? Stop it!” He interrogates me. I scoff at him shaking my head. 

“I actually think I like it better this way. Now I have you squirming, not the other way around.” I smirk at him, giving him a taste of his own medicine. He glares at me. Oh how the tables have turned. I bit my lip suppressing my laugh. His eyes glanced down to my lips, slowly dragging his gaze up to meet mine. His eyes darken, he grins, “Oh, two can play at that game.” A felt a blush rise on my cheeks, he had flustered me. He knew he had too, as he undid his belt with one hand still grinning at me. I averted my gaze, busying myself pretending to look through my supplies. I heard him chuckle as he rolled over. I stood pulling the curtain to give him some privacy. I started undressing the wound, when he spoke again. 

“You must love staring at my ass, hey Goody.” I could hear the smirk in his voice.

“No, why would you think that?” I said my tone clipped. 

“Well you’re the only nurse who does my dressing. I’m sure you all fight over it in the morning.” I scoffed, shaking my head. 

“Don’t flatter yourself ass-hat.” I growl. 

“Ah there she is, the Goody I know.” He chuckled, well that lasted for all of about two seconds.

I finish with his wound, turning around so that he can get dressed again. I pull open the curtain again as he lays back down in bed. 

“You gave it a good go.” I glared at him over my shoulder as he leered at me. I roll my eyes not falling for his bait. 

I make my way home with the rest of the nurses, we walk fast trying to get back as quickly as possible so we can eat and then go to bed. Mary walks next to me.

“Do you know that soldier?” She asks me. I look down at her giving her a confused look. “You know the one that has an injury on his butt.” She giggles. I roll my eyes smiling. 

“Yes I do.” I admit. 

She beams at me, “I think he likes you.” A bark of laughter leaves my lips. She looks confused at my reaction. 

“He most definitely does not like me, Mary. I can assure you.” I tell the young nurse, wiping the idea from her head completely. Knowing that if she thought that he liked me she would meddle. She’s known to try and be a matchmaker for the nurses. I do not need her antics along with Joe’s. She looks sad, “Are you sure? He is always watching you.” She insists. 

“He’s watching me cause he knows it pisses me off, which is what he loves to do.” I sigh, shaking my head thinking about every time I raised my head in the previous shift he was grinning at me, with his smug face saying I won!  

Mary goes off on a tangent about her own man, I’m happy for the distraction. We finally make it back to the little house we all share. I eat quickly, and clean up before washing my face and getting into bed. I lie down almost asleep when Joe’s face appears in my mind. I groan thinking of something else. I roll over getting more comfortable. I drift off to sleep. 

“You like that don’t you?” Someone mumbles huskily in my ear, I hear the noise of a belt buckle being undone. Lips drag down the sensitive skin of my neck, I tilt my head back exposing my soft skin. I sigh, liking the feeling of their lips on me. The person’s face comes into view, Joe’s smug face. 

I bolt upright panting as my alarm blares. I did not just have a dream about Joe. I get dressed quickly, I had accidentally slept in. Walking quickly to the aid station to get there in time. 

I arrive out of breath and feeling frazzled. I walk past Joe’s bed, “What’s got you all flustered Goody?” He raises his eyebrows at me. 

“What?” I pant, can he tell? “Nothing.” I say quickly, looking guilty. He gives me a questioning look. 

I busy myself the rest of the day trying my best to avoid the man. I avert my gaze elsewhere when he looks at me, feeling a blush rise to my cheeks each time. Snap out of it Y/N, this is Joe we are talking about, I have no feelings for him.   

I convince one of the other nurses to do his wound dressing making up an excuse that I have something else to do. The nurse comes back, “The wound looks good, but he asked after you.” she informs me as I hide in the nurses station. 

“Y/N can you get more bandages out of the storage room?” Mary asks me in passing. I nod making my way over to the small walk-in pantry that we made our storage room. I look around the room, where the hell are these bandages? I step back from the shelves, standing on my tip-toes to see on the top shelf, Ah ha! I see the box I need. I reach up, my fingers barely graze the box. I try again, standing on my tip-toes again to get more height. 

“Why do they put them up so high?” I am annoyed. I jump trying to reach the box. No use. Before I can turn around to find something to stand on my body is pressed into the shelves from behind. A tall figure looms over me, reaching up and grabbing the box from the shelf. They put the box on the floor. I whip around, Joe stands in close proximity to me. I can’t step away from him though my back is still pressed to the shelves. We stand toe to toe with each other. He looks down at me, his soft breath tickling my face. “Thanks.” I utter softly. Trying not to notice my heartbeat elevating and butterflies in my stomach. I swallow looking up at him, we don’t move. We have our own staring contest, I don’t wear my normal glare, looking more doe-eyed and innocent as I stared up at him. He stares down his nose at me. 

“Have I done something to offend you?” He asks, his voice gravelly. I feel heat rise to my cheeks, it was the same tone of voice he had in the dream. I shook my head, not able to form a sentence. 

“Why did you avoid me?” He asked leaning forward further, I tilted my head back trying to get out of the way of his face that loomed closer, his arm coming up beside my head as he leaned in.

“I was busy.” I whispered. I shifted my face off to the side so he was staring at my cheek. His other hand snaked out, grabbing me lightly by my chin and bringing my face back to the front. He tilted his head taking me in. 

“Don’t lie to me Goody. I know when you are.” He said lowly, warning me. I gulped. I could feel the heat of his body, so close but not touching, but I knew if I moved in the slightest we would make contact. 

“I’m not lying.” I uttered. Trying to convince him. He looked like he didn’t believe me. He huffed, stepping back. I took a breath, trying to calm my nerves. 

“You better do it tomorrow.” I nodded quickly, not saying anything. He turned on his heel leaving me in the storage room by myself. I took a shaky breath trying to regain my composure. I couldn’t tell what I was feeling. 

I did Joe’s dressing the next day as he asked. We didn’t say much to each other. Joe watched me with a close eye as I kept my head down. He was making me flustered than normal. 

I tended to another patient later in the shift, wrapping his arm in fresh bandages. 

“HELP!” I looked up from my task, a group of men filled the aid station carrying multiple patients in on stretchers. I stood going to the first patient brought in, he didn't look in great shape.  

“Put him here.” I pointed to a bed, we carefully placed him down as I ripped open his top. Blood spurted from a gaping wound in his chest. I grabbed the bandages beside me, packing the open wound with gauze to stop the bleeding, putting pressure on the wound. 

“I need help over here!” I called, as other nurses who could, came to help. “I think it’s hit the artery. I need you to set up a needle for me so I can sew it closed. But we are going to have to work quickly or he will bleed out.” The nurse nods, going away to get supplies. I reach my hand into the wound pinching closed the artery. I need to be firm but gentle, I carefully hold it closed. Blood still spurts out, I pack in more gauze to slow the bleeding. The man lies unconscious with a faint pulse and shallow breathing. The nurse arrives back with the needle. I move quickly sewing it shut, before I can finish, I glance up at the man. I don’t notice his chest rise and fall, I move my hand taking his pulse from his neck. I sigh, no pulse. I pull my hands from the wound. I don’t get time to think about it when another nurse calls for help. We lost another three men to their injuries. The rest we were able to patch up. My mind is numb, I’m covered in blood and I’m so tired I feel like a zombie. 

“We need a refill of bedsheets, can you go grab them.” I nod walking slowly to the storage room. I find the box filled with the bedsheets, I pull them from the shelf not realising there is another box on top. The boxes topple to the ground causing me to fall back, the heavy boxes land on my legs causing me to yelp in pain. I shove the boxes off me, tears brim in my eyes. I break down, having been pushed over the edge. I sob into my knees. I couldn’t save those men, that’s someone’s family and I let them die. I jump back when someone wraps their arms around me. I look up through teary eyes. Joe kneels in front of me, a sad look on his face. I wrap my arms around his neck as he pulls me into his embrace. I cry into his chest as he holds me. He doesn’t make any comments, just lets me cry. His hands rub circles on my back in a soothing motion. I look up at him, he wipes the tears from my face with his thumb as he holds my cheek. I lean back into him, curling into his lap. “It’s not your fault, you know?” He says softly in my ear. I don’t look up, resting my cheek against his chest. I hear his heartbeat, I close my eyes listening to the soothing sound. 

“It’s hard to not feel like it’s your fault.” I mutter. He hums stroking my back. We finally untangle ourselves from each other. I rub my eyes, sore from crying. “I’ll see you tomorrow Goody.” He says leaving me alone in the storage room once again. 

I arrive the next day, my head pounds from my sleepless night, haunted by the faces of the men I couldn’t save. I walked into the aid station to a commotion. 

“Who was the nurse who treated him?” Yelled the soldier in Mary’s face. I straightened, moving to stand in between the man and Mary.

“Sir what’s the problem?” I asked, keeping my face neutral. 

“You incompetent nurses let my brother die!” He roared in my face, his face red with rage. 

“Who was your brother Sir?” I asked, trying to figure out if I could help him understand what happened to his brother. 

“Alfred White.” My face dropped. It was the man I had treated with the chest wound. The one who died. 

“I’m sorry Sir, I treated Alfred. We just weren’t fast enough, by the time he was brought in he had lost too much blood.” I tried to comfort him in knowing we did all that we could. However it did not seem to help, he looked even angrier than before. 

“We did all that we could, I’m so sorry for your loss.” I said with an empathetic tone. 

“YOU STUPID BITCH!” He screamed in my face. I didn’t step away, I reached out to him trying to comfort him. He flung his arm outs trying to fend me off, in doing so, he struck my face. The sharp smack echoing around the aid station. Everyone fell silent, as I cupped my cheek. Tears brimming in my eyes. He lunged forward grabbing me by my shoulder as he violently shook me, “YOU KILLED HIM! YOU KILLED HIM!” He shouted. I didn’t push him away, feeling guilty, I let him hurt me. 

A fist flashed in front of my face, hitting the jaw of the soldier who had hold of me. He released his bruising grip on my shoulders, stumbling back holding his face. Joe was on me in seconds, he cupped my face, his eyes scanning me. His eyes filled with concern. I looked at him shocked. I peered around him, seeing the man on the floor. Joe pulled me back to look at him. He grabbed my hands, turning them over in his own. Looking for any injuries. 

“Why did you do that?” I said harshly, pulling out of his grip. He looked at me taken aback by my sudden anger. 

“What? Protect you?” He says angrily back. 

“I don’t need you to protect me!” I snapped at him. He scoffs. 

“That’s not what I just saw.” He fumes. Getting in my face. 

“It’s not your place to get involved with my job.” I spat in outrage. God he makes me so mad. 

“Fuck you.” He growls, turning sharply and walking away. Leaving me panting with rage. I look at the crowd who stand watching. 

“What are you looking at!” I yell at them, snapping them out of their trance. The crowd disperses, whispering to each other. I picked the man off the floor. He pushes me back, getting to his feet on his own. He mutters to himself leaving the aid station in a huff. 

I get on with the rest of my shift. Feeling bad I lashed out at Joe. I was angry at that man and myself. I couldn’t yell at the man, so I turned my rage onto Joe who was just trying to help. He was genuinely concerned for me and I told him I didn’t need him to look after me. But that’s very hypocritical of me when just the other night I was curled in his lap as he comforted me. I hated to admit it but I felt safe with him, I enjoyed his company. I had grown to like him, after all this time of hating him. I bit my lip as I thought too much. I still needed to do his dressing, but I was nervous he would still be mad at me. But I needed to apologise. 

When I arrive at his bedside, he doesn’t notice me at first. I pull the curtain closed around us. 

“Go away Goody.” He mutters not looking up from his comic. 

“I just need to do your dressing.” I say meekly, sitting at the edge of his bed. He sighs and complies. I look at the wound, nearly fully healed. The wound doesn’t need to be packed anymore and a soft scab has formed over the laceration. It looks healthy, I’m happy with how it has healed. I clean the wound, taking my time. 

“I want to apologise.” I start, he doesn’t say anything. “It was wrong of me to turn my anger onto you. I want to take back what I said, I didn’t mean it, Joe.” I say softly, busying myself with my task. “Thank you for helping me, thank you for caring about me.” He laughs at my statement. 

“I don’t care about you Goody, never have, never will.” He shrugs at me showing me how much he truly doesn't care. I try not to let it hurt, but it does. A pain in my chest, I bite my lip trying not to think about it. “I’m really sorry Joe. Truly. Can you forgive me?” I ask. 

Joe turns around giving me a cruel smile, “I will never forgive you, Goody.” I blink back tears, nodding my head. The hurt in my chest weighing heavily on me.  

I finish my task, standing, as he pulls up his pants. I open the curtain leaving, not looking back at him. Tomorrow is my day off, so I won’t have to see him and by the looks of his wound he will probably be gone before I am back.               

   Joe’s POV:

I toss and turn, unable to get to sleep. Her heartbroken face haunts my dreams, the only thing I see when I close my eyes. After I had told her I would never forgive her I wanted to take it back immediately. She looked so hurt by my words, tears in her eyes. All she did was nod and leave. I looked for her later in the evening asking one of the nurses where I could find her but I missed my chance, she had left for the night. I groaned rolling over and burying my head into my pillow, willing sleep to consume me, so I wouldn’t have to think about her anymore. 

I thought I disliked her, sure in high-school she was annoying always following the rules, but she never did anything to me, I just liked to wind her up. It was easy to get under her skin, so I did. But when we met again she was different, sure of herself. She had grown up. I liked mature Goody. She was cute, funny and kind. I liked to watch her care for everyone. My eyes followed her like a hawk. I smiled when she smiled. When she turned her attention to me, I would give her a smug look, trying to pretend I was just winding her up, but it was a front. I didn’t want her to know I was enamoured with her. 

When I saw her caring for one man, my jealousy got out of hand. She had avoided me all day, even sending a different nurse to do my wound care. I looked over to her laughing with another soldier, she threw her head back as she held him by his arm. I had to stop myself from walking over there and asking what the hell was so funny. Then I made my move when she went into the storage room. I followed her in watching her struggle to get the box she wanted. I had purposely pressed myself to her back when reaching up, trapping her with my body. She looked so sweet looking up at me with those big doe-eyes, her lip between her teeth. The normal glare she threw my way wasn’t on her face. I wanted to kiss her then, but I held myself back. I wanted to explain to her first how I was feeling rather than springing it on her. 

Then it was hectic, I watched her lose men. With each one she had become more defeated. I could see it physically weighing on her shoulders. She went into the storage room. I wanted to ask her if she was ok. I was concerned when I came into the room finding her weeping on the floor. I took her into my arms, just wanting to support her, make her feel a little bit better. She had curled her into me, clinging to me like a lifeline. I was happy it was me. It hurt me to see her so upset. 

It hurt me even more when I watched that man shake her so violently as she stood there and took it. I was overcome with anger and before I knew it I had punched the man. She wore a blank expression on her face, as I scanned her body for injuries. Her cheek welted and red. I was ready to turn around and hit the man again. He must’ve struck her before I saw them together. Then she pushed me away, yelled at me, told me she didn’t need me, didn’t want me. So I wanted to hurt her like she hurt me when she came to apologise letting my anger get the better of me. Now I regret it. I wish I just hugged her and told her I forgave her. But I didn’t, I was cruel and hurt her back. 

I don’t sleep at all, thinking all night of the apology I am going to say to her. I look at the clock, the next shift almost starting. I jiggle my leg anxiously waiting for her to walk through the door. An hour passes and she still hasn’t arrived. I stare at the door, begging for her to walk through. 

“Joe?” A nurse asks me, I glance at her nodding my head, then turning my attention back to the front door. “You’re for discharge. You can go.” The nurse tells me, reading from the notes.

“What?” I ask, focussing on her fully now. 

“Your wound is all healed. Your rifle is kept at the front desk so you can collect your gear and leave.” She smiles walking away. I stand from my bed following after her. 

“Is Goody coming in today?” I ask, she gives me a confused look, “Sorry, Y/N.” She smiles recognising who I am talking about now. 

“Oh no. It’s her day off.” The young nurse says, looking disappointed. “She’s at the apartment. Second floor, green building, in the middle of town you can’t miss it.” She smiles at me, I look down at her name badge. 

“Thanks Mary.” I say taking off out of the aid station. I run as fast as I can, through the town to find that damn green building.