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psychedelic-ink · 1 year ago

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄 || 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐌𝐈̇𝐂𝐒

** banner by the amazing @pedrorascal thank you so much bby for taking the time to make this for me 🧡🧡🧡

series summary: Still struggling to come to terms with his father's recent passing, burdened by the weight of the business he left behind, Javi feels adrift. Meanwhile, years later, an unexpected twist of fate brings you back into Javi's life again—the daughter of his favorite housekeeper. Uncertain about your future and what to do with it, you find yourself at a crossroads, while Javi wrestles with the irresistible pull he feels towards you.

pairing: javi gutierrez x ofc!mia pradera (written in second person, no body descriptions)

word count: 6.1k

chapter summary: Javi wasn't expecting your return after years, he also wasn't expecting to see you naked through his bedroom window.

warnings: javi secretly peeping into your room through the window, male masturbation, thoughts of oral, age gap, javi showing signs of depression, grief, brief mention of drug use

a/n: welcome to the new and improved first chapter of the series! I've been reworking this for a week now and decided to repost it. There's a lot that has been changed and added so I highly recommend reading this one before going forward. The second chapter will be coming soon (and I mean it this time lmaodfvd) I'll be making the other version of the first chapter private and I'm hoping you guys will enjoy this version as well 💜💜💜

Special thank you to @emilianamason who beta'd this for me and also helped me out with the Spanish bits, I'm truly grateful so thank you once again 💕

***dividers by @firefly-graphics 💕

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist

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The sky is a matte gray. It reminds Javi of the sea when there’s a storm raging underneath, the sand lifting from the bottom and giving the beautiful blue a more mud-like color. He sees crunchy leaves and smells cinnamon. It’s fall alright. He always finds this time of year a bit somber but in a romantic way. He’s holding a cup of espresso, the dark liquid still steaming. The pool has been drained for cleaning.

He can hear clatter coming from inside the house, mattresses are being flipped, apple pies are being baked. He’s the only man that lives here, yet everyone who works here spoils him, even if they don’t need to. No one really says anything but Javi can see it, the way they walk on eggshells around him, the conversations that fade into hushed whispers that carry the same lilt of his name.

Everyone treats him as a child. Not that he can blame them. Javi gave them little reason to behave otherwise. He did drugs, knew how to shoot a gun, and was the son of one of the most powerful men but still. . . he was a child in the sense that he knew little of the world. He wasn’t like Lucas who was more than eager to get his hands dirty.

A gentle child, that was what his father called him when he was young. He always uttered the words gently. Yet, hidden within his gentle expression but in his eyes, Javi could see the disappointment. He wanted a partner. Someone who did more than looking over the olive oil and wine business, it didn’t matter if Javi was good at it, his father wanted more of him.

In the end, he doesn’t mind the pampering—he’s grieving, isn’t he? He deserves it. He had no one else to take care of him, and the staff had been with him for years. He feels closer to them than Lucas. When his cousin mentioned taking over, Javi didn’t care. Not in the slightest. They were close enough that Javi didn’t have to worry about being killed or thrown out.

Besides, Javi enjoyed the finer things in life, which is why he didn’t mind overlooking the “front” of the job. He made sure that everything ran smoothly and Lucas seemed impressed by the growth of the business. Javi hated to admit it, but he did enjoy seeing that faint shimmer in his cousin’s eyes. The look that said; Oh, he’s not completely useless after all.

Besides, Javi enjoys sampling the wine. He adores the sourness that hits his tongue with every swallow.

“¿Discúlpeme señor?”

He takes a sip of his coffee.

“¿Si, señorita Pradera?”

Javi turns to look at her, a little smile playing on his lips. Lucía is one of his favorite employees and one of the ones that can read him like an open book. She’s a natural mother, a caretaker. Whenever he’s down on himself, she never once hesitated to pick him back up. It didn’t matter if he was shaking from going overboard on LSD or if he was crying during Paddington 2, she was there. It was nice to be taken care of. Something he couldn’t receive from his own family— maybe once or twice from his father. Javi didn’t know who his mother was, there was a lot of speculation about that.

Lucía just makes him happy. Talking to her feels like something light. He doesn’t need to overthink it, and if he says something wrong, he could always come and apologize. She never held a grudge. But despite how cheerful she seems, in her eyes, Javi can see the soft waves of sadness. Sometimes he saw the same waves in his own eyes, telling him that he was disappointing someone somewhere, that he’s done too many mistakes to turn back from.

She seems to be genuinely happy this time, her cheeks slightly flushed, forehead and cheeks glistening with a sheer coat of sweat.

“Do you remember, Mia?” she asks. “Mi hija.”

That’s right, Lucía had a daughter. Javi remembers you running around before you left to live with your father in the States. She often mentioned your name and sometimes she left to visit her but Mia never came. He isn’t sure if it was the father who didn’t let her or if Mia herself didn’t want to come, but regardless, Lucía was hurt by being away from her daughter for so long.

"I wanted to ask if my daughter could come para una visita. She's done with university y necesita un lugar to relax, figure things out."

He takes another sip of his coffee, it’s finished now. A leaf slowly spins down from above, the sunlight gently filtering through its translucent veins. It lands gently in the empty pool.

“¡Pero claro que si!” he says, and smiles. “When is she coming?”

“Next week.”

Javi was sitting on the terrace when you arrived.

He has a small plate of olive oil with thyme placed in front of him. Tearing a slice of bread into two, he dips a piece into the aromatic blend and brings it to his mouth. Javi only bites the part drenched in olive oil, he savors the taste, the sharp taste of dried thyme hitting his tongue. Shortly after, he goes for a second dip.

When he’s done chewing, you’re already at the top of the stairs.

You have no luggage, only a large backpack that slightly pulls your body back. Javi recognizes your face, the soft features he’s grown accustomed to when you were trailing behind your mother, asking to watch a movie on the big screen. You look more mature now, the corners of your face sharper yet still carry that roundness.

You’re staring at him as if he’s a long-lost sibling, your smile bright and wide. The expression is contagious, making him smile wide as well. Your gaze reminds him of a look he’s only seen in movies, the close-ups that sole purpose is to show the fondness in a person’s eyes. He’s not sure what he feels about that fond look in your eyes. Your gaze is incredibly soft and affectionate for a person who has been in the air for god knows how long—which is why he’s usually flying people in instead of the other way around.

You can see right through him, he thinks, nerves crackling with an uncomfortable feeling. It makes him conscious about how broken he truly is, his mask hardening the longer you smile.

“Javi!” you exclaim, arms opening wide. Not knowing what else to do Javi mimics you and wraps his arms around you. You giggle into his chest, your breath warm on his chest. “¡Te he extrañado!”

He missed you too.

Javi's ear catches the trace of an accent in your Spanish.

You smell of cheap coffee, chocolate, and the airport—and also a little bit of sweat, which is normal after such a long flight. Javi squeezes you once and feels you melting against him, you really must be tired to become so plaint under his touch. Swiftly, he releases his grip, yet your palms find solace on his shoulders, causing him to awkwardly flex his knees in order to accommodate the lingering touch. He wasn’t aware of how close you were standing. Your breath mingling with his own as your eyes dance along his face, taking in every worn-out detail.

You suddenly pull your hands back, a bashful chuckle slipping past your lips.

“Sorry about that— I’m feeling a bit jet-lagged.” you rock back and forth on your heels, anxious energy overwhelming your nerves. “How have you been?”

Javi stands still, eyes slightly wide, not knowing how to answer such a question. Physically, he feels good. Mentally, also good but he isn’t sure. He’s fine during the day, his routine occupying his mind enough so that he doesn’t register the loss. His father wasn’t around that much anyway. But when night fell and he laid his head against his overly fluffed pillow. . . that’s when he remembered. His chest ached, his eyes stung. He didn’t know how to deal with it so he remained silent, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Sometimes he even gets angry trying to muster up an answer.

He can never get angry with you though, besides you had no idea of knowing. His tongue nervously swipes over his bottom lip and his teeth dig into the inside of his cheek. He’s about to answer, say he’s fine, but you beat him to it.

“God, I’m being such an ass. Of course, you’re not okay,” you murmur more to yourself than him. He still hears you though and your words catch him by surprise. You softly hit yourself in the head, which makes worry roll down his spine. “I’m really sorry about your father, Javi. My mom told me. That must’ve been hard for you.”

Has it been hard for him?

Honestly, he’s not sure. His death, his funeral… it all passed by in such a blur. He remembers his father dying slowly, in an expensive hospital bed with flowers by his side. Javi doesn’t quite remember the rest. He doesn’t remember the funeral, the moment he was gently laid into the earth, never to be seen again.

He does remember feeling Gabriella’s hand on his shoulder. He also remembers Lucas standing close to him, his eyes watching the casket go down.

“I am okay,” he takes the hand that you’d hit yourself with, thumb slowly moving over the soft planes of your hand. He smiles when you let out a sigh of relief and turns his eyes to the empty chairs. “And thank you. I have been doing better. Why don’t you take a seat, you must be tired. I will call your mother for you.”

He watches as you take a seat and after a brief phone call to Lucía, Javi sits down as well. He asks what you’ve been up to, about your life in America after you’d moved away from your mother. Briefly, Javi sees a hint of hesitation and regret pooling in your eyes. He doesn’t know much about why you left, he only remembers that you were young back then, just a kid basically.

Javi manages to ease your thoughts by slowly sliding the basket full of bread and the small plate of olive oil toward your way, saying that you should eat. Only after the first bite you being to speak freely, telling him how hard university has been and that the competition was rough and had drained you out, making you feel like a shell of a person.

“You’re not a shell,” he answers, brows drawn together. You smile between bites of oil-soaked breath, shooting him an appreciative smile.

“You’re still the nicest man I know,” you say. Javi’s not sure how you could’ve drawn that connection, he doesn’t remember doing anything to gather such an observation but takes the compliment anyway. “I had a troublesome professor. He really did a number on me mentally, I like my field but I really want to do something else with my life.”

“And what is that?” he dips the leftover bread into the last pools of olive oil. “What do you want to do?”

"I yearn to weave tales," you express with a melodic lilt as if addressing an audience, then you laugh. Javi feels like he’s watching his favorite painting come to life, raw and vivid. “Sorry, that sounded snobby of me didn’t it?” your tongue pokes through your cheek. “I want to write a book, create screenplays, and even directing—I want to do it all. That's why I'm so happy mom called me here. It's such a beautiful place to think about big things like that, you know? And well. . . "

You trail off and worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “You’re here too, which is nice. You still like watching movies?”

“Of course,” he answers, feeling the tip of his ears growing warm. “You know that I take my movie-watching very seriously.”

You’re grinning now, “I do. I think you might be the one who introduced me to the media actually. We watched movies at home but here. . . ” you sigh, eyes taking in the scenery. “Here it felt magical. And I loved the endless movie facts you seemed to have stored up in that brain of yours.”

“You flatter me,” despite himself, he’s smiling from ear to ear. “It’s nice that you want to direct.”

“That’s only one of the things I want to do,” you say, stuffing your mouth with the last bit of bread. “But yeah. I know it’s a competitive field, some parts of it are downright evil, but it just calls to me. Imagine someone watching your story, isn’t that exciting?”

Javi's mouth momentarily opens, then promptly shuts. Yes, it is exciting.

Suddenly your brows furrow, your gaze meeting his as you swallow, “Didn’t you want to write a script as well? I remember you being really into Nicolas Cage.”

His lips part again but the words die on his tongue. He’s surprised that you remember so much about him. In all honesty, Javi does remember the movie nights he had with you before you left—But it definitely wasn’t anything inspirational. During the many boring, work-related dinners, he would find you crouched behind the wall listening, watching your mother, clearly bored out of your mind. He asked if you wanted to watch a movie one night, and you said yes. After that, it became a habit. You would come to him, tugging his sleeve and asking to go to the cinema room. He happily indulged, of course.

Javi doesn’t remember the first movie he played for you, but he does remember the second one; Raising Arizona.

Thankfully, your mother's animated voice swiftly dispels the silence that was dancing on the line of turning awkward.

“Mia!” Lucía's attempt to reach her daughter almost resulted in a tumble down the stairs. She catches herself midstep. “¡Estás aquí! How was your flight?”

“¡Mamá!”

Javi watches them hug, an uncomfortable yearning stirring in his gut. In a tearful embrace, Lucía holds you close, squeezing her daughter tight.

Javi wanted to talk more about films, ask about your favorite actors, he wanted to hear your stories. He seems to be invisible to them now, not that he blames them. Just in case one of them catches his wistful look, he forces a smile.

They climb up the stairs, mother and daughter. Javi catches fragments of Lucía's voice, softly describing the breathtaking view from your room. A feeling he can’t place tugs gently at his heart and whatever it was, he keeps it hidden beneath his quivering smile.

Javi stares at the now empty basket and plate. He sees only crumbs. The chair you were sitting in is pushed back, misplaced, forgotten. He picks up the plate and basket, slides the chair back into place, and heads up the stairs, making his way to the kitchen.

Javi is laying on the bed, the sheets cozy and warm. A book rests delicately between his broad palms but his mind is elsewhere, the words only mere shapes inked on paper.

He’s thinking of you. How full of life you are, how you still have ambitions– Your life full of undiscovered paths, he envies it. He envies the hope, the excitement, the illusion of choice. He’s happy for you, of course, but he can’t help the wistful beating of his heart. He had responsibilities since the day he was born. Javi is aware that he’s a privileged man. He’s not going to pity himself in thinking that he isn’t. He got what he wanted, but he also heard an earful about how he was wasting his life on silly things. That he should focus.

Focus on what? He always wanted to ask. He didn’t see why he couldn’t indulge in his hobbies and the business that was forced upon him. In the end, his father’s greatest fear came true, Javi has no interest in taking over. The family patriarch never said anything but it was clear to Javi that his father was disappointed.

A soft, gentle light catches his attention. It pours through the expansive, elegant windows adorned with ornate square bars reminiscent of wrought iron. Closing his book, Javi assumes a sitting position, his socked feet firmly planted on the cool floor. His interest is piqued. Normally, no one stays in the building across from him. It was usually reserved for family visits.

What happens next is an accident.

Or perhaps it is a blessing disguised as an accident. He’s undecided.

Javi sees you, towel loosely wrapped around your figure, hair still dripping wet. His mouth goes dry, eyes wide as he stares, unable to tear away his darkened gaze. Compared to when he first saw you today, your walk is slow, languid. You stand at the side of the bed and clumsily free yourself of the tight clutch of the fluffy towel. Dipping your head, you cradle the back of it with the towel and fold it in front, only to throw your entire head back, leaving you bare for all to see.

His cheeks become a shade darker, fingers uncontrollably twitching against his thigh. The muscle at the base of his stomach tightens, radiating warmth.

Did you know? Were you aware that he could see you? No, of course not. There’s no fathomable reason as to why you would want him to lay his eyes on you. Javi holds his breath. He should say something, should he not?

Briefly, you disappear from his eye line only to reappear a short moment later with two bottles of —what he assumes— lotion in your hands. His cock hardens as you slather your body with lotion. He swears he can smell it. A delicate scent that carries notes of daffodil and vanilla. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. Warm honey drips down his spine, forcing goosebumps to appear over his skin. He hates that he’s still watching.

He knows what he'll see if he was brave enough to look down; the telltale bulge of arousal within the front of his sweatpants. He can feel it twitching angrily, tempting him to reach down and take it in his hand and give in to the pleasure that would undoubtedly come with it.

Why the fuck is he still watching?

You start applying the lotion from your legs, going all the way up to your thighs. You massage it sensually into your skin, fingers spread wide as you lean down and pull yourself back up. Javi’s stomach churns, his own hand sneaking under the waistband of his sweats. He wraps his fingers around his thick cock, thinking how fortunate it was that he skipped wearing boxers before bed.

His shirt sticks to his skin. His chest heaving as he begins to stroke himself, the pressure of his hand makews his eyes roll back. His thumb swipes at the slit, spreading the precum all over the length of his cock. A groan echoes from the back of his throat. His hand is moving with ease now, tenderly gliding up and down his hard cock.

His teeth clenched tightly together, Javi’s eyes flicker back to the window. Your hands slide up your stomach and over your breasts, they bounce perfectly as gravity tugs them back down. You spread the lotion over your chest and neck. His hand moves faster. He slightly hunches forward, hips jerking as if he’s actually fucking himself into you.

His mouth opens in a silent moan as his fingers grip the base of his shaft. The sensation builds until his spine is aching for release. His hips buck against his hand and his thighs clench as the pleasure courses through his veins.

Javi imagines the soft moans he'd hear coming from his mouth, your lips wrapping tightly around the tip of his cock. His body tenses at the fictitious swirl of your tongue, tantalizing flexing with each stroke that takes him closer to the edge. With each thrust of his hips your body would grind against his leg, he’d feel you quiver. He thinks of the slickness of your saliva sliding down his length as you suck him dry. You’d squeeze his hips with both of your hands. . . it feels like electricity shooting through him. He wants to feel you against him, feel the heat of your skin, and kiss you senseless.

He cums hard while you’re getting dressed, his jaw lax as he thrusts fervently into his fist. His sweatpants cling to him like a second skin. He can feel the sticky mess inside as it pools in the fabric, disgusted by the warmth of his own body as it wraps around him. There’s a short second where the urge to throw up consumes him, he thinks about running to the toilet, emptying everything out to trick himself to believe that it never happened.

But it did.

The lights of your room fade away, only the moon left to kiss away Javi’s concern. His legs tremble and ache as he gets up. Pleasure still licks at his body, making him want more. His soft cock is uncomfortable trapped under his sweatpants, throbbing and aching despite the events that just transpired.

Javi grabs a new pair, this one thinner than the other and heads to the bathroom.

Javi jolts awake to the sound of a loud knock. Groggily, he rises from his bed, attempting to rub the sleep from his eyes with a loose fist. Another knock follows, causing a small, annoyed growl to escape his chest. He reluctantly opens the door, his eyes half-lidded, only to find a familiar face on the other side that leaves him momentarily dumbfounded.

Memories of the previous night flash through his mind, and suddenly he becomes acutely aware of his morning arousal, discreetly straining against the front of his sweatpants.

“Mia?” he asks, voice thick with sleep. “What are you doing here?”

He notices the set of clean towels in your hands, but his attention is captivated by the way your eyes sweep over his body, your lips forming a mischievous smile. Confusion tugs at his thoughts while a gentle, chilling breeze infiltrates his room, leaving his abdomen colder than usual.

Oh.

OH.

He doesn’t have his shirt on—shit.

“Looking good Señor Gutierrez,” you tease, eyes going over his body one more time. “Mom told me I should help around, so I brought you your clean towels.”

“Ah,” he says stupidly. “Gracias, querida. I hope she is not working you too hard.”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” you shrug. “Besides, I’m staying here rent-free. I might as well do a bit of work.”

He takes the towels, his hands feeling oddly disconnected, as if they belong to someone else. You flash him a final smile before pivoting on your heel. Javi watches with undeniable hunger as you confidently strutted away, his eyes admiring the way your hips sway as you saunter off. He feels the familiar stirring in his body, his cock demanding attention that he can’t give in the middle of the hallway. He continues to gaze until you vanish into one of the many corridors.

His throat feels unbelievably tight as he closes the door and heads to the bathroom. Javi feels a flock of birds pecking at his brain, reminding him of Prometheus. He doesn’t know what he should be feeling. The only thing he does know is that he shouldn’t be thinking of you in such a way.

Javi stares at his reflection in the mirror. The whites of his eyes are stained red, the bags underneath prominent and dark. It looks as if he hasn’t slept in years.

A deep sigh escapes his lips as he undresses. He won’t be seeing you like that again anyway, there’s no point in dwelling over something that only happened once.

Javi had underestimated how frequently he would be seeing you around. Your gaze is constant. He knows you’re watching him without actually having to look; his skin tightens, the back of his head starting to tingle. You’re mostly doing chores and don’t stop to chat with him, which he’s grateful for. But still, from your gaze, he senses that unlike him, you do want to talk.

The guilt is eating him from the inside out. Your naked form is engraved into the back of his lids, whenever he closes his eyes, he sees you. The sting of his eyes is constant, aching for moisture. He can’t fight against it and blinks, and as soon as he does, his cock grows hard.

Lucía would be furious with him if she knew—she’d be absolutely disgusted.

He worries that you might’ve seen him last night. Maybe that’s why you wanted to stop and talk with him. Fortunately, the mansion is spacious enough to provide him with hiding spots, allowing him to retreat when needed.

With each passing hour of the day, his uncertainty and guilt fester within him like poison.

He hurries to his bedroom as soon as dinner is over. Normally, he would have a glass of wine, engage in conversation with the staff, and unwind. However, not today, not with you present. . . observing him. . . talking to him.

He just can’t.

Javi ignores confused glances directed at him and excuses himself. The looks linger as he walks away, though there’s a probable chance that he might be imagining it. He’s convinced that you and your mother are both counting his every step. He doesn’t turn to check.

When he closes the door to his bedroom, back pressed snug against the wood, his breathing becomes strained, lungs rattling with every struggling gasp of air. His pupils blown, his gaze immediately flickers to your bedroom window. Much to his relief, and disappointment, the lights are off.

Javi settles onto the bed, the watch on his bedside table ticking away, drawing closer to the time he had seen you naked yesterday. He finds himself waiting until the hands of the clock reach the exact same moment. The lights are still off. Another minute goes by.

Then, finally, a beam of light that comes from a far pours through his windows, shadows stretching across the floor. He can breathe again.

Standing in the middle of the room, you stretch, your arms seemingly reaching for the sun. Javi’s gaze follows your every move. He watches as you scroll on your phone for about five minutes on the bed. He watches as you disappear, leaving him to stare into an empty room. He watches as he swears he can hear the music that you’re blasting from your phone.

He watches and waits until he can see you again. Just like the day before. Bare. Soft.

His mouth waters, cock already throbbing with need.

Javi’s not sure how long he waits. It could’ve been an hour or a minute, but whatever time had passed, you appear once again, the same towel wrapped around your body.

His mouth dry, he swallows hard. Javi's breath catches in his throat as his eyes drift over your curves. Unbidden, his hand moves eagerly to his crotch, eyes fixated on you as he palms himself. His tongue peeks out, wetting his lips as you shift onto your stomach. Your towel slides up, revealing the perfect mounds of your ass, and he gulps, his fingertips trembling as he hastily unzips himself. A moan escapes him as he admires the lobes of your ass peeking from beneath the towel.

Precum already oozes from the tip, and Javi eagerly wraps his fingers around his hardening cock. His strokes are slick and smooth, his breaths coming faster.

Javi hears the rush of blood pounding in his ears as his breathing grows even more jagged with every passionate thrust of his hips. You lift your legs, spreading them apart and crossing them from side to side while watching a video from your phone, completely unaware. His hungry gaze is met with the entire expanse of your body exposed only to him as small water droplets still cling to your skin, cascading down your legs and wetting the area between them. The sinful image of your pretty pussy becoming wet and glistening spurs him on, he imagines how wet you’d be, only for him.

He pushes his hips harder against his fist, the need to feel connected to you driving him forward. His pounding heart is accompanied by an unquenchable craving to touch and explore every inch of your body.

Javi’s grip tightens and tremors start to run through his body. His head drops back as his movements quicken, pushing him closer and closer to the edge. With a deep moan, his muscles coil tight as the pleasure cascades through him, a warm rush flooding every inch of him. He shudders joyfully and with a final thrust, he coats his fist in his own release.

His face is contorted in a blissful expression, his eyes closed in reverence. Drops of sweat slowly trickle down his toned body, drawing paths through the smattering of light brown hair that adorns his tanned skin. His lips are slightly parted as he drinks in the pleasure, a low moan coursing through his lips.

With half-lidded eyes, Javi’s gaze drops down to his spent cock. He made a mess of himself and the floor underneath, the pearly droplets glistening in the soft light.

He’s going to have to clean that.

The guilt comes rushing through. He’s disgusted by himself, the feeling tasting of bile that is thick on his tongue. It felt good at the given moment but now that his head is clearing, what he did just makes him feel sick. He’s quick to wipe the floor with one of his shirts, then tosses it into the laundry basket for cleaning.

Javi gives you one last glance before leaving the room, you’re still on your phone, completely oblivious to him.

He decides to stay in one of the guestrooms that night, but it doesn’t stop with one.

Javi stays there the next night, and the next—

And the one after that.

“Are you ignoring me?”

“What— No, why would you think that?”

Javi was lying, of course. He’d been avoiding you like the plague, turning the other way whenever he saw you approaching him. It's been about a week since he changed rooms. He didn’t tell anyone about it, the house was big enough for him to occupy another room without anyone knowing.

However, he hadn’t expected you to actively seek him out, which he now realized was stupid of him. He just wanted to do a bit of skeet shooting, a means to vent his frustrations. The morning was chilly and it made goosebumps rise across his skin. He enjoyed the feeling, which was why he skipped wearing a jacket.

You, on the other hand, were covered from head to toe.

“I don’t know,” you mutter, wrapping your arms around yourself. A faint cloud dances from your lips. “Maybe it’s just me being paranoid. You really don’t mind me being here, right?”

Javi gently leans the gun against the sturdy stone rail. His heart clenches at your question, he never wanted you to feel guilty, or for you to feel unwanted. He slowly shakes his head, his gaze rising up to meet yours.

“Por supuesto que no,” he responds, his voice quivering, the biting air seeming to grip his vocal cords as he struggles to express himself. Of course, he doesn’t mind. “You are free to stay here as long as you wish. I just…I have been—”

He chokes up, mouth gaping, his gaze still fixed on yours. You're the first to look away, shifting your eyes elsewhere, and instinctively, you hug yourself tighter, trying to ward off the chill in the air. A nervous laugh escapes your lips.

“You don’t need to explain yourself to me, at least, not if you don’t want to. I’m always happy to listen. I just wanted to be sure if I was overstaying my welcome or not.”

“It’s okay. As I said, you are free to stay.”

You smile at him then, asking him whether or not he'll be joining you for breakfast, he says that he’ll come after taking a couple more shots. You eye the rifle, eyebrow raised in a peculiar way. You state that it’s too cold and head inside. Javi stares as you leave, he decides not to shoot anything, instead, he follows you to the dining room.

Javi moves back into his room that night.

You had excused yourself early claiming that you felt dirty and needed a shower. Javi couldn’t help it. He waits, like always does. A week of not seeing you made him grow hungry, his body was left in a constant state of wanting. He needed to see you, he needed to cum while witnessing your naked body.

This time he has no shame in ridding himself of his pants, wrapping a hand around himself, he lazily strokes himself. He still remembers every curve and crevice of your body, it haunts him day and night, decorating his dreams and nightmares alike. Javi’s eyes travel along the windowsill of your room, the lights are still off, much to his surprise.

He’s startled as the door slams open, a triumphant “I knew it!” ringing out.

With panic, Javi attempts to pull up his pants but the stubborn fabric sticks to his legs instead, making him stumble forward and almost falls off the bed. Luckily, he manages to catch himself at the very last second, planting himself firmly on the mattress. He hears the door close, more silently compared to how it was opened, he finds himself staring at your shoes. He gulps.

“Why are you here?” he asks, voice horrified. “How long have you known?”

“Not that long,” you answer. He still refuses to meet your gaze. “I had my suspicions when you started to avoid me, then I noticed you switched rooms. One night I waited in my room to see if you were watching or not.”

Tears sting the corner of his eyes, he’s pathetic. Then, like a soothing oceanic breeze, he feels your finger curling underneath his chin, forcing his downcast gaze up. His cheeks flush at the soft touch. He expects you to laugh at him, but he finds a gaze of sympathy instead. You pull down his bottom lip and every bit of oxygen leaves his lungs.

“Lo siento, Mia,” he whispers.

“Está bien, I don’t care. I. . . I have an idea, actually.”

Wide-eyed, he looks at you with concern. Your thumb still lingers on his lip, he enjoys it there, he enjoys the comfort you provide despite his mind screaming at him how disgusting and pitiful he is.

“And what might that be?”

“We can. . . help each other out,” you answer, flustered, your breathing short. “If you want to, that is. I had a stressful year. . . I wouldn’t mind having some fun.”

His brows furrow, “I do not understand.”

Another lie. He did. He just couldn’t believe it to be true.

“I think you do, Señor Gutierrez,” you tease. His heart skips a beat at the playful lilt of your voice, his mind is racing. You squeeze his bottom lip gently and his breath hitches.

“I’m not—” he licks his lips, the tip of it touching the pad of your thumb. “I am not that experienced.”

This time his whole body burns. He had lovers in the past, of course, but not many. None of those relationships lasted long either, how could it with the family that he had? He wasn’t even sure what he liked or disliked, and after a while, he just stopped trying to form a meaningful connection with anyone. He closed up, not really knowing what else to do with the cards he was dealt with.

Your answer takes him by surprise.

“That’s okay. We can learn new things about each other, together.”

His heart flutters at the softness of your voice, the kindness of your smile. He parts his lips to speak, to tell you how grateful he is, but before he can, you drop to your knees, a sly smile stretching across your face.

“Do you want my help?” you ask, your fingers spread across his thighs. He sucks in a sharp breath as you give him a gentle, yet firm, squeeze. “Tell me what you want, Javi.”

“I would— I would love to feel your lips on my cock, princesa.”

“Princesa?” you repeat, amused. “I like the sound of that.”

He finds heaven between your lips.

#javi gutierrez x f!reader #javi gutierrez x reader #javi gutierrez x oc #javi gutierrez x ofc #javi gutierrez x you #javi gutierrez x fem!reader #javi gutierrez x mia pradera #the unbearable weight of massive talent #tuwomt fanfiction #tuwomt fanfic #tuwomt #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal characters

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aceofcupsbiggestfan · 4 months ago

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Panathenaia

~ 23-30 Hekatombaion~

Meaning 'All-Athenian', Panathenaia celebrated Athena as the patroness of Athens. It was the premier festival of the year, sparking large celebration. Two versions of this festival took place, Panathenaia ta mirka (Lesser Panathenaia) and Panathenaia ta megala (Greater Panathenaia). Greater Panathenaia took place every four years compared to its annual counterpart. The only difference in festivals was that of scale and performance, with Greater Panathenaia marking the greater festival.

Part of the name sake of the month, Panathenaia based with a hecatomb throughout. Processions took place outside of Acropolis, a means to show the new peplos for Athena's statue. This weaving of the new fabric was held at Plynteria. The traditional blue and yellow would be taken to Athena in a ship. Everybody took part.

Kanephoroi (young women with baskets on their heads containing grain), Diphrophoroi (young girls carrying chairs), Thallophoroi (Old men bearing branches and young men in purple robe, and non-citizens proceeded to Athena's temple. Non-citizens often held cakes and honeycomb while freed slaves and non-Greeks carried oak branches. Daughters of Metics carried water jugs. Representatives of City-States throughout Attica brought armor and cows as offerings. The victors of the games were included in the procession.

The procession walked throughout many Attican cities most notably, Eleusinium, Acropolis and Propylaea where they ended. Sacrifices were completed with prayers. Sacrifices included several epithets of Athena including Athena Hygiaea, Athena Polias and Athena Nike. Each epithet was given something different.

Part of the festival highlighted the Panathenaian Games, similar to its Olympiad counterpart. The games held torch races to determine sacrificial fire, all-night service and meat meals for anyone, all at the city's pocket.

While the early games were for Athenians only, in 566 BCE the games were open to all Greeks. This was part of Panathenaia ta megala. In the annual festival Athenian-Only games persisted, the Greater festival offered the opportunity for others to join.

Later, musical competitions and recitations of Homer were added. The Iliad and Odyssey were popular choices as well as short-length poetry. Foot-racing, pentathlon, wrestling, gymnastics, boxing and pankration were observed in three male "age" categories: older men, younger men and boys. Chariot races were also added along with javelin-throwing from horseback and races for foals and full-grown horses.

Winners of the games were prized olive oil from Athena's sacred olive tree along with money depending of rank of winning.

Traditional Offerings:

Beef

Olives and Olive oil

Water or khernips

Oak branches/leaves

Hymns to Athena

Traditional Acts:

Games, such as running, horse racing and torch racing

Hymns and Offerings to Athena

Reciting or reading poetry, such as Homer

Wearing purple, yellow or blue

feasting with community

Khaire Athena! Happy Panathenaia! 🦉🏅🍃

#hellenic polytheism #hellenic witch #hellenism #hellenic deities #hellenic polytheistic #hellenic worship #theoi #hellenistic #helpol #athena deity #athena #hellenic pantheon #panathanaia

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trannakinskywalker · 7 months ago

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If george lucas didn't want people sexualizing the relationship between obi-wan and anakin then he shouldn't have made them naked wrestle each other while covered in olive oil

#seriously what was he thinking #obikin

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piratewithvigor · 8 months ago

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I wouldn't put it past Bryan Danielson to decide that he wants a match in his final year to be OG Olympic style:

Both participants are in the nude and foreskins are tied with a particular string

Both participants are slathered with olive oil

Ring is made of dirt and mud

Participants wrestle until there is a dirt mark on the hip or ass of their opponent (made visible by the olive oil sticking to the dirt)

Victor is awarded a Stick of Glory

#and if they cant make it perfectly accurate #it'll suffice to do it like the Try Guys did years ago #AEW #Bryan Danielson

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spine-buster · 3 months ago

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So High School ft. Adam Cole | Chapter 1

“Austin, babe, do you want your eggs scrambled or sunny-side up?” Violet called out from the kitchen as she stood in front of the stove, drizzling some olive oil into a pan.

“Scrambled!”

She walked over to the fridge and took out four eggs and milk, cracking them all open in a small bowl before whisking them together simply with a fork. She began to smell the hashbrowns in the oven and almost couldn’t wait for their delicious crispiness and crunch. The mundane activity of making breakfast for herself and Austin – the cutting of the avocado on top of the hashbrown, the sprinkling of everything but the bagel seasoning on top, the scooping of the scrambled eggs onto the plate after some salt and a final mix with the spatula – wasn’t anything special. But it was one of her favourite things to do. The simplicity of it was what made it so special. She’d done it countless times before, but never got tired of it.

Soon enough, she heard Austin make his way towards the kitchen – heard, because it wasn’t just Austin. It was Austin and his boot and crutches, having worn them for weeks now. The freak accident was still haunting him, the surgery necessary to fix his ankle still lingering within them because it was all still visible. “Smells delicious, babe,” he said, stopping momentarily.

“Go sit,” she offered, scooping the last of the eggs as she heard him walk again. “Two sugars for your coffee?”

“Uhhh, one I think.” He was trying to watch his intake since he wasn’t working out at all due to his condition.

Her head raised to look at him. So did her eyebrow. She gave him a look and he looked back at her. “Two,” she smirked, in a tone that told him to stop lying.

She knew him better than he knew himself. Who was he to think he could really get away with saying just one sugar in his coffee when he knew, she knew, everybody knew that he took two? He smiled, chuckling slightly. “Two.”

He sat at the table with his crutches leaning against it. With everything set, Violet finally took her seat. Before she could even grab her fork, she could feel Austin grab her forearm. “C’mere,” he said, leaning in slightly. He gave her a peck, but let his lips linger before giving her another kiss. “Thank you. I love you.”

“I love you too,” she smiled.

“Thank you for what you do for me.”

Austin had been saying that a lot lately. Ever since he got his really bad concussion, and it was a huge question as to whether he’d ever make it back to normal, let alone make it back to wrestling. He’d said it a lot throughout the years too, more so when he was injured, but other times when life was ‘normal’, too. “I’ll do it till the end of time, Austin. You know that.”

***

Austin hadn’t gotten on the bus to school the next day. Then, the weekend meant that Violet hadn’t seen him for a further two days. All she could think about was their last interaction, and whether she had offended him by her comment. She honestly didn’t mean anything by it at all, and now he probably hated her even though he had saved her from that creep.

She was impatient the second she took her regular seat on the bus, wanting the bus driver to speed down the street so he could get to Austin’s stop quicker. When he finally did, she felt herself stop breathing as she saw Austin come on the bus. They made quick eye contact before he averted his eyes and slipped into his usual spot, a two-seater, sitting in the inner seat against the window.

Okay, so now he was just going to ignore her? Not a chance.

Once the bus started moving again, she got up from her seat and made her way towards him. She clung on to the bus poles along the way before sitting dramatically beside him. He looked at her as if he’d seen a ghost. “Did I offend you on Thursday?” she asked, not bothering to beat around the bush.

His eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“Last week, after the creepy guy,” she apparently had to remind him. “I made that comment about Lancaster West not having AP World History because then you’d know who Robespierre was. I was just trying to be funny. But then you just, like, left.”

Austin’s jaw dropped and closed, dropped and closed, not know what to say. To her. “I—”

“It was an accident if I did, I swear,” Violet said. “Like, I didn’t mean to—”

“—I honestly thought you had to study,” he blurted out. “You didn’t offend me at all. I just thought you’d want to study. You read sometimes when you’re on here, I thought maybe you’d want to get back to that.”

Violet took a few breaths to digest his words. “So I didn’t offend you.”

“Not a chance.”

“Then where were you on Friday? Why did you avoid the bus?”

“My friend’s dad drove us in because we had to go to Philly right after school.”

She felt a bit stupid. “Oh,” she blurted out. She stayed silent, and so did he, looking at each other, then at their hands, then at the floor a few times before finally she got the courage to speak again. “I just don’t want you to think I’m stuck up because I go to St. Anne’s or anything.”

Austin immediately shook his head, his hair moving along with it. “I don’t think that.”

Silence again. Awkward teenagers. What else was going to happen between two sixteen year olds? The hum of the bus was the only noise between them. “Thanks again for Thursday, by the way,” Violet’s voice was close to a whisper.

“It’s no problem. Does that happen often?”

She shook her head. “Not on the bus. Just when I’m, like, walking anywhere or something. Like if I’m ever out a shop in Lancaster I can see the stares. We all can. Us St. Anne’s girls, I mean. When I was a freshman there was a car full of seniors from Lancaster West catcalling me.”

Austin grimaced. “Ew. On behalf of Lancaster West, I’m sorry. There’s always a group of idiots in every grade who think that sort of stuff is okay. Because you guys have to wear that uniform.”

It was time for Violet to furrow her brows. “It’s not like we exist in a different world, you know,” she said, looking down, slightly self-conscious suddenly as she smoothed down the tartan fabric of her kilt. “We’re just girls.”

Even as an awkward teenager, he knew there was more weight to those words than just their surface level meanings. He felt almost bad for her having to go through that, despite not even knowing her. Well, he knew her name now. He guessed that was a start.

They stayed silent the rest of the bus ride into Lancaster. There was nothing left to say.

When they got off the bus, Austin began walking as he usually did down the sidewalk towards Lancaster West High. Violet followed behind him, again standing continued on to St. Anne’s Academy. But before she did, once again, she stood on the sidewalk, watching him as he walked in, all before making her own way towards St. Anne’s.

***

“Take a look at this,” the doctor said as he came back into the room with the x-rays before putting them up on the backlight for Austin and Violet to see. “This is your ankle, Mr. Jenkins. It’s healing, but it’s not healing properly. You see this, right here?” he asked, pointing to a specific area and dragging his finger along it. Austin nodded. It was very clear that there was a break. “These are the places where your fracture is. This is where the plate and screws are going.” Austin winced at the mention of plates and screws. He was already in so much pain, probably the worst pain of his career, and that was saying something considering some of the injuries he’d endured, considering what he had just endured with his concussion. Though the screws and plate was going to be better for him in the long run, it was going to make the pain even worse. “How many, again?”

“Eight screws. All along here,” the doctor began tapping one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight times showing where all the screws would go, “and the plate, right alone here to stabilize the bone.”

Austin nodded silently. “When’s the surgery?”

“October 5th, being performed by yours truly.”

After the appointment was over and they signed the necessary forms, Austin and Violet made their way back to their car. Once she helped him settle into the passenger seat, Violet slipped into the driver’s seat and buckled her seatbelt. When she started the car and looked over at Austin, he was already looking out the window sombrely. “It’s going to be okay, Austin,” she decided to say, hoping it would bring him some comfort.

He didn’t respond.

When they arrived back to their house, she helped him out of the car. Austin hated having to see her do that for him. It made him angry to think of what she was putting her body through physically to help him just because of a freak accident. Angry that it wasn’t better. Angry that he had put them into this situation in the first place. Angry that he just had to jump off that ramp.

Violet got a text from Kyle as she was filling their blender with frozen fruits and veggies for a smoothie.

how’d the doctor’s appt go?

He hasn’t had a good few days, Kyle. I’m worried.

***

Another day, another bus ride. Another day, another instance where something had been bothering Violet and she had to go to the bottom of it. She watched as the Austin boy made his way onto the bus, watched him after they made eye contact and he slipped into his regular seat, watched as he clutched his backpack in his arms, seemingly digging through it for something.

She didn’t wait. She pounced.

Her speed even frightened her. She sat next to him with a loud thump. “I’m starting to think you’re lying to me.”

“What?”

“I must have offended you by accident but you’re too nice to say anything.”

“Huh?”

She wished he had more words. “Why do you always, like, run away from me?”

“What do you mean?”

She held the urge to roll her eyes. She didn’t think he was stupid, but she did think he was being deliberately obtuse. “When we get off the bus. You just, like, ignore me. As if we didn’t just sit beside each other for 30 minutes. What’s the deal?”

“I—I—I don’t know,” he stuttered out. It was almost as if he feared her, but she knew that couldn’t be the case. There was absolutely nothing scary about her. “I just—we—we’re not friends.”

“Well…can’t we be friends?”

Austin was shocked hearing those words. She wanted to be friends? Friends? The girl who went to St. Anne’s Academy and the boy who went to Lancaster West High? “You want to be friends?” he asked.

“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked rhetorically, not giving him an opportunity to reply. “We live in the same town. We’re going to schools literally down the street from each other. We’ve been taking the bus together for two years already and we’re going to be taking this bus together for the next two, too. We may as well make it worthwhile. I mean, you don’t still think girls have cooties or something, do you?”

He snorted and smiled. Her confidence was something to admire. He liked that she was bold. “Definitely not.”

She liked his smile. His eyes crinkled and it showed his dimples. “Well then it’s set,” she said assertively, raising her hand between their bodies. “Violet Schwarzkopf.”

Her hands were soft. He would remember that. “Austin Jenkins.”

#adam cole #adam cole fic #adam cole fan fic #adam cole fanfic #adam cole imagine #aew #aew fic #aew fan fic #aew fanfic #aew imagine #wwe #wwe fic #wwe fan fic #wwe fanfic #wwe imagine #so high school series

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wishmaster · 1 year ago

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Turkish Fun

Hey costume shop? I’m looking for a wrestler outfit. My friend says he needs me to be a huge muscular wrestler for his party. Not sure why but he recommended me to you.

I have just the ting for you. I hand you a pair of leather wrestling pants, you look at me like I was crazy, but you decide to trust me as you go in back to change a strong odor of olive oil takes over the store as you emerge excited and a bit horny.

Suddenly your friend appears pouring oil all over your new massive Turkish body. The strength and energy flowed through you. This wasn't the wrestling you had in mind but were much more impressed. Suddenly we were standing in a field, you were practicing with your teammates for an upcoming match. Surrounded by all this testosterone and leather had you really wanting to fuck one of your new friends.

I'd leave you to it as your costume had transformed your best friends into your fellow players now and you spent the next few weeks endulging in the sport and the sexual tension that came withit. Enjoy yourself you big Turkish stud! zevk almak

#submission #male transformation #body transformation #cursed object

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mybeautifulchristianjourney · 6 months ago

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A Reproof of Ephraim, Judah, Jacob

1 Ephraim chases the wind and pursues the east wind all day long; he multiplies lies and violence; he makes a covenant with Assyria and sends olive oil to Egypt.

2 The LORD also brings a charge against Judah. He will punish Jacob according to his ways and repay him according to his deeds. 3 In the womb he grasped his brother’s heel, and in his vigor he wrestled with God. 4 Yes, he struggled with the angel and prevailed; he wept and sought His favor; he found Him at Bethel and spoke with Him there — 5 the LORD is the God of Hosts— the LORD is His name of renown. 6 But you must return to your God, maintaining love and justice, and always waiting on your God.

7 A merchant loves to defraud with dishonest scales in his hands. 8 And Ephraim boasts: “How rich I have become! I have found wealth for myself. In all my labors, they can find in me no iniquity that is sinful.”

9 But I am the LORD your God ever since the land of Egypt. I will again make you dwell in tents, as in the days of the appointed feast. 10 I spoke through the prophets and multiplied their visions; I gave parables through the prophets. 11 Is there iniquity in Gilead? They will surely come to nothing. Do they sacrifice bulls in Gilgal? Indeed, their altars will be heaps of stones in the furrows of the field.

12 Jacob fled to the land of Aram and Israel worked for a wife— for a wife he tended sheep. 13 But by a prophet the LORD brought Israel out of Egypt, and by a prophet he was preserved. 14 Ephraim has provoked bitter anger, so his Lord will leave his bloodguilt upon him and repay him for his contempt. — Hosea 12 | Majority Standard Bible (MSB) The Majority Standard Bible is in the public domain. Cross References: Genesis 25:26; Genesis 28:5; Genesis 28:13; Genesis 29:18; Henesis 29:20; Genesis 32:24; Genesis 32:36; Genesis 32:28; Genesis 41:6; Exodus 3:15; Exodus 14:19; Leviticus 23:42; Numbers 12:8; 2 Kings 17:7; 2 Kings 17:13; Psalm 30:4; Psalm 62:10; Proverbs 11:1; Jeremiah 2:36; Jeremiah 7:25; Lamentations 5:6; Ezekiel 18:10; Ezekiel 18:30; Ezekiel 28:5; Hosea 2:15; Hosea 4:1; Hosea 4:9; Hosea 4:15; Hosea 6:1; Hosea 6:8; Amos 8:5; Revelation 3:17

#reproof #Ephraim #Judah #Jacob #Hosea 12 #Book of Hosea #Old Testament #MSB #Majority Standard Bible

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kneelbeforeyourdogbabylon · 5 months ago

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Tag Game: AO3 and fic writing!

Tagged by @cheeseplants and @dbacklot99 💖💖

How many works do you have on ao3? 24

What's your total ao3 word count? 303,167 with big collabs! But without those, I clock in at 170,775. 👀

What fandoms do you write for? Good Omens currently, but have written in Stargate Atlantis, Firefly, and Battlestar Galactica as well as one classic film fic.

Top five fics by kudos:

Not including the big collabs, and all Good Omens (E, NSFW):

A Sixty In Nine Saves Time

Aziraphale reads the wrong book, uh oh! Feeling responsible (or maybe just titillated), Crowley tries to lend a hand.

Takedown / Reversal

After their near miss in 1941 with a bullet, Furfur, and Nazi zombies, Aziraphale and Crowley retire to the bookshop for a mellow evening of too much wine. Unfortunately, someone is wearing quite the saucy fedora, and someone else takes quite a fancy to it. Obviously wrestling and banging and angst must ensue. Bittersweet ending with a 1955 followup. (inspired by @gleafer arts!)

Shake Like Hell and Spell Success

Set after S1/Armageddon. Newly smitten (I believe), Aziraphale tries to create the perfect first-time scenario but has difficulties. As usual, Crowley doesn’t know what’s going on until he does, and then he knocks it out of the park on his first swing, because, demon? There's lingerie involved.

Wooing Peaceably

Sometime after the Second Coming, Crowley and Aziraphale are visiting Crete during olive picking season. A little bit of happiness (and smut) after too long. Olives olives olives and olive oil!

An Arrangement in the Dark

England during Georgian/Regency time period. Crowley turns down Aziraphale’s offer of an Arrangement swap for a Northamptonshire holiday house party. Naturally Aziraphale turns up anyway to see what kind of especially Evil! wiles need thwarting.

Do you respond to comments? Absolutely! Like all of us I adore comments. Someone liking a fic I wrote enough to say so is such a great feeling.

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? Definitely Takedown / Reversal, although I tried to soften it with a follow-up. Not sure if that worked. 😆 Also Impersonal (Firefly, Inara/Zoe) is a bit angsty but hopeful.

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? I think a lot of my fics have pretty happy endings! Maybe It's the Edge of the World As We Know It?

Do you get hate on fics? Not yet...

Do you write smut? Yes ma’am

Craziest crossover: nothing super wild? Most GO fic features some kind of fun historical reference or person (without feeling like RPF to me since they’re usually long dead, but essentially…) @angelictroublemaker and I wrote a Firefly/SGA crossover and that was about as wild as I got.

Have you ever had a fic stolen? Not to my knowledge 👀

Have you ever had a fic translated? Not yet!

Have you ever co-written a fic before? Yes! My first ever fic was cowritten with @angelictroublemaker and I’ve done more collabs within Good Omens fandom. My fave so far is a big ol project with @dbacklot99 and @sixbynine-da ❤️. The others:

Coming Home - A Choose Your Own Adventure Story

Interdimensional Leakage

Keeping it in the Vault (and its less-hairy counterpart)

All time favorite ship? I love Aziraphale/Crowley so much. I have lots of other favorite ships from fandoms I've read but not written in, though.

What's a wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will? Probably one of my Human AU bits from the Guild Thursday sprints: Aziraphale as wedding planner/Crowley as floral designer, or Aziraphale as photography dabbler/Crowley as Some-Eldritch-Thing-Or-Other he (Az) starts capturing on film. And just typing these out makes me want to work on them now, so NEVER SAY NEVER.

What are your writing strengths? Description, grammar(ish), dialogue, smut (I hope. I like to write it and rewrite it at least).

What are your writing weaknesses? Description 😳 Also I have to really work on movement of plot (if I actually manage to have one, instead of events that happen for Purposes of Smut) and pacing.

Thoughts on dialogue in another language? Perfect for Good Omens in my opinion. I like it overall.

First fandom you wrote in? I wrote a (disavowed) Mary Sue-insert fic for Star Trek Voyager in a notebook when I was a youngun. My first posted fic was for Battlestar Galactica.

Favorite fic you've written? I really like how To Ride a Journey on a Jade turned out, and also Sea Change. I also am loving working on Sins of Knowledge, although the size of it is intimidating to me.

And also whichever one I'm finishing up at the moment! Right now that's a Pride Exchange fic that I'll share (if the giftee is willing) this Saturday, and an angsty Doppelbanging fic that may or may not see light of day.

Tagging: @angelictroublemaker, @lemon-tart-221, @ghst-signal, @ladybracknellssherry, @demonsandpieohmy and anyone else who wants to play!

#fic memes #fic tag games #writing #my writing #ao3 #good omens fanfiction #give me prompts btw #who needs sleep or life or family time

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inaweek-project · 7 months ago

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In a Week

April 27, 2024

Rev 3

______________________________________________________________

Palestine, 1948

In a week.

She looked past the woman, mulling over what was told to her, along with other horrible thoughts that were not reflected in her concentrated stare. The woman repeated herself and a man appeared behind the catatonic young woman in the threshold of their countryside home. He put a hand on her shoulder which broke her trance. She quickly rounded past him and into the home. He locked eyes with the Romani woman who gave him an apologetic nod and had turned to leave when the young woman rushed out the door with a sack filled with food. The other woman declined but, undeterred, she marched past her and went to the woman’s horse that was standing untethered yet still. She reached into the bag, gave the horse a carrot, and tied the sack to the rest of the woman’s belongings. As she stomped back toward the house, the man waved the Romani woman goodbye. She mounted her horse and rode past the homestead toward the sea below the blue sky peppered with smoke.

* * *

They sat in front of full teacups. Looking down with an arm around her, he rubs the far side of her hip with the desire for her to look at him, but she abstains in favor of continuing to stumble through the treacherous jungle of her thoughts for she knew she would burst into tears the moment she caught a glimpse of his chin, his lips, his nose, all before she could even reach his eyes. He lifted his cup and once she saw how it shook, she choked and ran off as if she meant to tend to the animals.

* * *

The sun had snuck away unnoticed when she brought the rabbit inside and gently lowered her to the floor. She stood in the middle of their small living space, head in her hands. Before he could take the two steps over to her, she fell to her knees. He kneeled down and slowly rubbed her back. The silence was unnerving him, so to interrupt it he picked up the oud and plucked with less confidence than he would the guitar he left behind on his troubled island, only to end up in a land of a similar fate with a young woman who he had to go to the ends of the earth for in order to make smile. While trying to remember a song he heard playing on the streets, he boiled kehwa, smoked hashish, and paced around his wife on the floor (who had fallen onto her side) until it was time to help her up and bring her to bed.

* * *

The next morning, she stood in the kitchen tearing up food: Nabulsi cheese, khubz, kousa, dates, pistachios, apricots, and stewed lamb shoulder. She got up early to simmer the warak dawali she left bathing in olive oil and had meant to cook the previous day, only to have been visited by the Romani woman. She took the deep pot that had cooling down and poured as much as she could into the orangey wooden bowl with the rest of mismatched mélange of food. He awoke not long after, kissed her on the head, started a fresh pot of kehwa, and took the bowl to feed the animals. She fed the rabbit the remaining sprigs of parsley she would have otherwise used for kofta. At the counter again, she cut up pieces of potato, tomato, and cucumber. Starting furiously and slowing to a stop she gazed out the window fixated on the unwavering tunnel of smoke in the distance.

He returned out of breath from wrestling the goat into a hug when his wife had a sudden spark of urgency and asked whether they should open the gate and set the animals free. She followed his eyes out the door where she saw the gate door wide open while the herd remained near the house, unaffected. The two gazed upon the spread of food laid out in the kitchen. The thought of consumption was an uneasy one.

* * *

He tried to hug, to hold, to handle, but for her, affection did not come easy, even toward the only man she would ever love. For her, when fear comes, fear floods, but he stood there determined, tapping his foot on the cool stone floor and humming a local tune he seemed to have picked up faster than her, who had heard it her whole life. His momentum grew as he tried to stare her into submission from across the room.

I don’t ever dance, you know this.

Not even on our wedding.

I don’t have it in me.

It’s in everyone.

Not me. It doesn’t matter now anyway.

It didn’t matter before and it all but matters now.

It doesn’t matter now and there is nothing to—

He lunged at her by intuition alone, grasping both hands, pulling her close, and swinging her around their small, secluded home. She laughed and stumbled and endlessly tried to wipe the knowing grin off his face as she let him marionette her body into dance. The rabbit hopped in to join them, and the woman faltered to avoid stepping on her. She lowered to the floor to hand over the attention the rabbit had wanted. After the rabbit had her fill and retreated under the table, he sat down behind her, pulled her close. The brutal silence inside the home gave way for the screams in the distance to travel far enough to be heard. She was disturbed, but halfway to acceptance when she got up and went to their bedroom. He opened the draw of the coffee table where a picture of the two them sat and pocketed a small cloth sack. She returned donning gold jewelry and carrying soft pouches of her own. She put on the remaining gold bracelets, and he clasped another necklace he had gifted her at their wedding. He admired how the gold she wore was like a magnet, pulling to the surface all the radiance and warmth within her.

She took the bowl from the kitchen outside to feed the animals once more and for another bout of hugs and kisses. The jingle of her jewelry excited the goat, who excited the sheep, who excited the calf. There was an excessive amount of animal feed under the mound of fresh food. He brought the rabbit out and she held her one last time before setting her down. Stepping slowly to the front door, she took the solid piece of steel from the pocket of her thobe, inserted it without precision, and turned it until the lock clicked. She held the key to her mouth in breathless acknowledgment for what she had done. He took hold of her other hand as they walked toward the hill.

He reaches for the shovel propped up against the robust olive tree. She continues to walk forward and looks upon the changing land below and the sea the distance. She lets the damn break and sobs for what she sees and what she cannot. Behind her, he is making his own changes to the land, sweaty and struggling to breath—not in regard to labor, but from of the weight of the tortured sounds coming from the plight below and from the unremitting wails emanating his wife. He slumps to his knees and crawls to her. She does not meet him, so he burrows his face into the folds of her thobe.

Eventually night falls around them as they lay crumpled up on the ground, still as water in a well.

* * *

She is in his arms, and he is restless. As if by divine intervention, he shoots up and begins to dig at the earth once more. She is curious and fearful as she looks behind her to find him emphatically stabbing the divide between two rectangular plots. He is mumbling and cursing himself and does not cease until the two depressions are one. She turns away once she sees he is giving in to laying down. He calls for her, and she imagines looking toward him, not able to see him, only hear his voice summoning her. The thought haunts her just as his voice does, and the incessant anguish inside her races down her face as tears, as snot, as bubbles of spit.

They are no longer able to hear screams. Only the machines that stifle them.

* * *

It is much colder than he imagined. He thinks about how deep one would have to dig before feeling the faint first waves of the fires from hell. The deep heat he craves while lying in the frigid soil would come soon; he knows all too well from blistery winters spent back home of how the extreme cold can burn just as much as heat. He did not know if what brought him to his feet was that of love or of selfishness, but he grabs her to hold her tight

and drags her down. One ear pressed to dirt and the other open to the assault of her soul tearing through her opened mouth, he reaches for the sack in his pocket, bit what is in it in two, and forces one half into her howling mouth. He let the bitterness of his portion linger on his tongue as punishment as he uses his hand to cover the lower half of her face.

#free palestine #gaza #palestine #creative writing #hozier #hozier album #in a week

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garoujo · 2 years ago

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✩ ˛˚ . ONE NEW MESSAGE FROM EMMIE: @anantaru YORU! no fucking way is that MICHAEL KAISER making his way towards you right now!

EVENT STATUS: CLOSED!

it’s stuffy as you make your way from the dance floor, resting your empty glass on the ceramic of the bar before the bartender is sending you a knowing look and a nod — another tequila, he knows it by now, you’re enough to leave a lasting impression quite like the burn of the amber liquid.

the way you turn on your heels at the bar is quick once you get your drink, eager to get back to the dance floor — back to feeling the steady thump of the base and the warm air rolling over your shoulders. but you almost collide into something a little harder that almost makes you trip, someone who seemed a little too close all of a sudden despite knowing you were about to turn.

“hey hey, come on now. you look like you’re in a hurry, i just got here.” it’s quick the way the blonde seems to steady you, giving you enough time to sweep your gaze along his figure. he dresses well, complimentary to the blue that bleeds into the ends of his hair — a look that someone only as handsome as him could pull off you’re sure.

“keep looking at me like that and you’re gonna make me blush~” kaiser teases, smirks in a way that’s so unfortunately attractive despite the way you want to roll your eyes. “i was just about to go dance, this is my song actually.”

“oh? let me buy you a drink and i’ll request it again — you’re quite the dancer, wouldn’t wanna miss it.” it’s quick, shameless his reply and you notice the way the question only seems to make his grin twitch wider as he brushes a hand through his hair.

“it’s a free bar.” your words are honeyed, giggled as you goad the blonde infront of you before he’s taking another careful step closer. but you suddenly feel warmer when kaiser leans in just enough for you to be the only one to hear his words, to smell his expensive cologne and feel his breathing fan along the dip of your shoulders as he chuckles lowly.

“tsk, you’re even better than i expected~ let me order you a drink then.”

but the exchange between you both seems to have drawn a few irritated eye movements from a certain detective and midfielder who’ve had their eyes on you.. the nights still young atleast.

─── HOPE YOU ENJOY! a little cameo from our fave crimson haired boys, i was gonna make them wrestle in olive oil for ur affection but :/ ig this’ll do ILY <3

#˖ ݁ . ࿓ matchups!#I HOPE U LIKE IT ILY PLS ENJOY OR ILL CRY BRO FR!!!

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aidanchaser · 1 year ago

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This fic is owed to @valiantlyjollynightmare for the original and @ladyofthenoodle for a full 3 rounds of beta reading. I haven't had so much redrafting of a fic or intensive beta reader work since I was writing the HP AU. She was truly a phenomenal help, and her work paid off. Please drop her a thank you for organizing the @mlsquaredance event and all her incredible hard work on this one-shot.

Read the original work here.

Read the remix on Ao3 or below.

Marinette left her phone on her bedside table as she trudged downstairs. She was done checking messages and pictures, and she was done with tears.

Luka had made his choice. He was on tour again, probably having a great time without her, and there was no sense scrolling through his posts for any signs that he missed her. She certainly didn’t miss him. She’d spent too much of their relationship missing him. Just because she was a bit horny didn’t mean she had to be sad about it.

But the apartment sure was quiet without him.

The refrigerator’s magnetic rubber seal broke that silence with a reluctant pop, and brilliant white light flooded the kitchen. Marinette squinted at her recently filled shelves.

Alya, Nino, and Adrien had been lifesavers after the breakup. Nino had filled her fridge with fresh vegetables; Alya had stocked her cabinets with bottles of wine. Adrien, whose finances were still a legal mess in the wake of his father’s passing, gave her his time.

She’d seen more of Adrien in the past two weeks since the breakup than she had seen of him in the past year while she had been dating Luka. He’d sat with her through her BBC Pride and Prejudice marathon, through three watches of Pride and Prejudice (2005), and through one watch of Pride, Prejudice, and Zombies. He’d even offered to stay overnight, to keep her company, as if he knew that company was the way she coped, but she’d turned him down.

One of the challenges of being newly single was waking up at midnight with a very strong urge to be dicked down. She appreciated that Adrien was willing to hold her while she cried through romantic movies; she did not need Adrien to see her wrestling with the urge to roll her hips against his thigh, especially when she couldn’t even be sure that it was Adrien that she wanted. Adrien was a friend, and she wasn’t going to use him just to get some temporary fix. Yes, maybe she had liked Adrien once upon a time, but it was all too complicated now. Just creating a friendship with Adrien had been so much work. She didn’t want to mess it up and lose him.

Neither the vegetables nor the wine held any appeal, so she closed the fridge with a sigh. Marinette leaned against the cool silver door while her eyes readjusted to the dark of her kitchen. Maybe a cold shower was what she needed. She usually had no objections to a steamier shower, but she didn’t want to end up crying her way through an orgasm. She was done crying over Luka, she told herself. She was done feeling sorry for herself.

She opened up a cabinet and pulled down a bottle of olive oil and a jar of popcorn kernels. She’d just make herself a greasy, salty snack before setting into Emma (2020).

The stove clicked and sparked until the gas caught and the fire ignited with a woosh. Marinette poured in the olive oil and waited impatiently for it to sizzle with heat. As she picked up the jar of popcorn kernels, a thud on the small balcony patio of the apartment caught her attention, more muffled than the sparks of her stove, but just as sharp and sudden.

Through her gauzy curtains, silhouetted in the dim streetlight, she saw the shape of a person perched on her balcony. She might have been terrified, or at least startled, if it weren’t for the cat ears on the shadow’s head.

Marinette dumped the kernels into the sizzling oil then unlatched the patio doors.

“What are you doing here?” she said by way of greeting.

Ladybug saw Chat Noir for patrol regularly, of course. But Marinette had hardly seen him in the past year. When Luka had gone on his first tour, Chat Noir had held her while she’d cried, but once Luka had come home, he’d disappeared. Did he know Luka was gone again? Did he know that she and Luka were properly done?

“Making the midnight rounds,” he said easily. His voice was low, like a cat’s purr. “A hero’s work is never done.”

Marinette shifted the weight on her feet, unconsciously pressing her thighs against each other. It was irritating that even just the sound of Chat Noir’s voice was enough to warm her core. Maybe Emma would have to wait until Chat Noir was gone and she’d rubbed out the memory of his purr.

Chat Noir paused and his nose twitched. “Are you cooking in the middle of the night?”

“Just popcorn.”

“Midnight movie?” he asked.

Marinette crossed her arms over her chest and used her ankle to surreptitiously scratch an innocent itch on her calf. She tried not to think about Chat Noir on her couch with the low light of a movie and the weight of a blanket draped over them both. She tried not to think about scratching a different itch.

“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe I just wanted a snack.”

Beneath his mask, his green eyes glinted with a familiar mischief. One eyebrow quirked. “All for yourself?”

She wondered if he was simply asking if she was alone or if he was implying that he wanted to join her. She couldn’t help the icy edge in her reply as she said, “I don’t have a boyfriend anymore, if that’s what you’re asking.”

His perky ears seemed to flatten. It was his turn to shift his stance uncomfortably. He leaned against her patio table, but it wobbled uncertainly and he straightened. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Do you want company?”

There was something delicate in the question. Something in it nagged at her brain, and she recalled the text that Adrien had sent her that morning.

Do you want company today?

Of course she had said yes. She needed noise, she needed distraction, she needed to not be alone with her thoughts. And then she’d sent him home after dinner, because Adrien didn’t deserve to see her like this—sleepless, lonely, and horny.

But Chat Noir wasn’t Adrien.

She pursed her lips and quirked an eyebrow. “I’m certainly in the mood for company.”

His ears perked up again, as if they were perfectly attuned to the purr in her voice. He stepped closer. “And just what sort of snack are you in the mood for?”

“Something simple,” she said as the first kernel of popcorn popped.

The corner of his mouth twitched with a smile, but she thought—maybe she was just projecting her own heartache, but she thought—something in his eyes grew sad.

“I can keep things simple,” he whispered.

She pulled him into a kiss. It was sloppy and wet and she ran her hands through his hair to pull him against her as if she could consume all of him.

It wasn’t her first kiss with Chat Noir by any measure, not as Ladybug, certainly, nor even as Marinette. There’d been kisses done to break curses, kisses done under the weight of curses, kisses done and rejected—and one very wary, delicate kiss on Marinette’s balcony. Chat Noir had told her that he was in love with Ladybug, but, somehow, in the midst of his heartache and her longing, they had kissed. She’d apologized, promised him that it didn’t mean anything, that she was in love with Luka anyway. And a week later, she and Luka had started dating, and Chat Noir had stopped coming by Marinette’s balcony—at least until Luka’s first tour.

He seemed to have an uncanny sense for when she was lonely.

She rolled her hips against his thigh and moaned into his mouth as the popcorn on the stove began to rattle in earnest. His hand trailed down to her waist, but he hesitated as he reached her hip. That wouldn’t do.

Marinette grabbed his wrist and, without breaking their kiss, yanked him into her apartment. She backed into the kitchen counter and guided his padded leather gloves to the elastic waistband of her pajamas.

He took her invitation readily, slipping his fingers inside the soft satin of her underwear and into her damp folds. She hissed like the fire on her stove and moaned with a heat just as warm as his fingers pressed into her clit. She rolled her hips again, but he dropped his other hand back to her waist and held her in place. She whined as he set the pace of her pleasure and whined again as he broke their kiss.

He pressed his lips to her cheek and then to her ear. His hand continued to pump her as he whispered, “You’re letting your popcorn burn.”

She hadn’t noticed that the sound of popping kernels had ceased. She hadn’t caught the whiff of charred popcorn yet. And now that he pointed it out, she didn’t care.

“If you stop, I will kill you,” she hissed into his ear.

His laugh was deep in his throat, another purr of pleasure as he picked up his pace. She gasped and tipped her head back. He responded by pressing his lips against her throat. The sharp canines scraped her neck and she shivered. She was so familiar with those teeth, familiar with the way they scratched her tongue and now her exposed skin. It was those teeth that assured her that she had never met Chat Noir outside of their masks. She would know the shape of those fangs on sight.

If his claws had not chosen that moment to catch on her clit, sharp and poignant, it might have occurred to her that the canines were as conjured as his expressive ears.

Her entire body trembled and she bit down on her lip to hold in her moan, not because she was afraid to be loud but because she was afraid that her pleasure would break her if she indulged it too heavily.

Chat Noir, however, didn’t seem to notice her attempt at restraint. He flicked the tip of his thumb against her clit again and she choked on another moan. One of her hands tightened in his hair, and her other squeezed his waist like she was afraid he would evaporate. He sucked gently on her neck and curled his fingers up into her.

“Chat,” she whined and gasped as her fluids soaked his hand, as her orgasm rippled through her until she was boneless, pinned between him and the kitchen counter, and still he didn’t stop. “Chat,” she cried again, breath hitching as his thumb drew her up suddenly into another tight coil and release. “Chat, please—”

He dragged his lips back up to her ear, and his teeth nipped at her lobe. “I thought you’d kill me if I stopped,” he murmured.

“I think I’ll die if you don’t,” she gasped.

She felt the shape of his grin against her jaw. He pulled his hand out from her shorts and pulled her back into another soft, delicate kiss, just as wary and gentle as the kiss they had exchanged a year ago. Her first epiphany of the evening sparked without warning and she pulled away from him with a start.

He didn’t love Ladybug. He never had.

“You lied to me.”

“I would never lie to you,” he murmured, and moved his kiss down her chin, back to her neck. He nosed against the underside of her jaw like a cat insisting on affection.

“You told me that you were in love with Ladybug.”

His lips went still against her throat. “You said you wanted this to be simple.”

“I want you to be honest.”

He still hesitated. The sizzle of the oil hissed in the kitchen, but its delicate scent was overwhelmed with burned popcorn. If they weren’t careful, the smoke detector would force their kiss apart, but Marinette wasn’t going to let him go without an answer.

Finally, he admitted, “I was in love with Ladybug. Until we kissed.”

She swallowed, painfully aware of the way her throat bobbed against his lips. “And so this past year?”

“I’ve waited.”

“Chat…”

“You’re about to burn your kitchen down,” he murmured, and pulled away.

Reluctantly, Marinette turned off her stove and scraped the black scraps of charcoal that had once been popcorn into the garbage. Chat Noir scrubbed his gloved hands clean.

Hot tears, fueled by frustration as much as embarrassment burned behind Marinette’s eyes as she scraped the blackened mess into the pan. She’d sent Adrien away because she didn’t want to risk her friendship with him, didn’t want to need him in a way he didn’t need her. Now here she was, doing to Chat Noir exactly what she had never wanted to do with Adrien. As much as she might want to give back, as much as she might want to meet him where he was, she couldn’t, and that knowledge hurt.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she asked. She was glad that her voice was hardly audible over the running water; maybe he wouldn’t hear the bitter anger. It wasn’t meant for him, anyway. It was directed at herself.

She tried to nudge him aside so she could clean the pan, but he wouldn’t budge. Instead, he took the pan from her and picked up a towel. She was forced to watch as he scoured the blackened pan. He looked so intent on the task, she wondered if he had heard her question at all.

Then he turned off the water and said, “You told me that it didn’t matter.”

Her hand was on the pan, ready to take it from him and dry it off, but she froze. Though a protest sat on the tip of her tongue, she couldn’t give it voice. She was the one who had said that their kiss a year ago hadn’t mattered.

“I’m sorry,” she finally said, unsure what else she could say.

He shrugged, as if indicating carelessness, but as she took the pan, he anxiously twisted the ring on his finger. Though the green, glowing paw print was dim, it seemed brilliant in the dark kitchen.

“I’m no stranger to rejection.”

Her heart lurched as it occurred to her that his familiarity with rejection was her fault on two counts. But she never knew what she was supposed to do with Chat Noir’s feelings. Somehow she always managed to misunderstand him when he did nothing but lay things bare for her.

“I guess I should make more popcorn,” she murmured.

As she set the pan back on the stove, Chat Noir grabbed her wrist. “Marinette—”

She looked at him—truly looked—at the flat shape of his ears and the slump in his shoulders, haloed by the streetlight flooding through her open balcony. Despite the darkness, his green eyes glinted like his ring and his jaw worked as he worked through his thoughts. He was always so quick with his wit in a fight, but in the quiet spaces like this, when he was with Marinette, when he was asked to be vulnerable, he was always so cautious and careful.

“It’s okay with me,” he finally said, “if this is all it is. I just want to be with you, and I don’t mind if—”

“Chat, I can’t—that’s not fair to you.”

“I don’t care.”

“But I do.”

The irony that she cared too much to do this to him, that she cared but not in the way that he wanted, was not lost on her.

He let her go and turned toward the balcony.

“Chat…” She didn’t mean to call him back, but she didn’t know how she was supposed to let him go like this. “I am sorry,” she finally said.

His hand lingered against her kitchen counter, and his claws clicked delicately against the tile. “Would you trust me if I said that it hurts less to be with you, even if I can’t have all of you, compared with the agony of being apart from you?”

If she was just Marinette, maybe she would have accepted his offer. Maybe she could have trusted him when he said that he would let it be simple, that he’d allow her to use him as she needed without ache or bitterness. But she was also Ladybug, and she knew the way her partner threw himself on swords for others. She could not fight beside him each day while also destroying him each night.

But Marinette couldn’t tell him that.

As he took her silence for denial, his hands flexed and contracted with his unspoken frustration. He managed a rather tight, “Good night, Marinette,” before disappearing into the night.

She swallowed as he left, waited a moment in her dark kitchen as the silence filtered back in, as the quiet settled into her bones and the ache settled back into her heart.

Maybe she did know what he meant about the agony of being apart.

In search of noise and company, she went back upstairs to her phone. Her thumb hovered over Luka’s icon for only a moment before she swiped away. Instead, she snapped a picture of her laptop screen with the streaming page for Emma open and sent it to Adrien. Then she left her phone on her bed and went to take a cold shower.

Adrien would get the picture in the morning. He’d offer to watch it with her again during the day, and she’d accept his offer of company and distraction. Maybe they would watch Clueless after, or even branch out their romantic film subgenres beyond Austen films and try 10 Things I Hate About You.

But when she got out of the shower, there was already a text from Adrien.

I’ll bring snacks.

She was still reading the text, still trying to make sense of it, as she stood in her room wrapped in naught but a towel and her hair still dripping wet, when a gentle knock sounded from downstairs.

A key jiggled in the lock—she forgot that he had kept the key she’d given him to water her plants when she’d gone with Luka on his second tour—and her door creaked open.

Adrien’s voice broke into her dark, quiet apartment. “Marinette? I brought cheesecake.”

She shrieked, “Adrien, I’m not dressed!” and slammed her bedroom door closed.

His laugh was a snort, muffled and distant. Hastily, she toweled and combed her hair and yanked on a fresh, dry pair of underwear and shorts. She didn’t know where her bra was and she didn’t have the time to look, so she simply threw on a t-shirt.

When she came downstairs, Adrien was standing in her kitchen with two forks in hand. She knew she must look a mess, but he beamed at her, despite her own scowl.

“I thought the picture was an invitation,” he said, head tipped to one side.

“I didn’t think you were awake! I thought—I didn’t know—”

He cut her fumbling protests off with another laugh. Adrien settled onto the edge of her couch and opened up a pale pink cake box to reveal a cake with red raspberry swirled into the cream. She wondered where he had gotten a raspberry cheesecake at this hour.

“I’ll go if you want me to,” he offered, “and leave the cake.”

“No—stay.”

The words were hardly out of her mouth before Adrien was already pulling off his coat and collapsing into her couch. Beneath his neat black peacoat, he was dressed in his own pajamas, like he had seen her text and merely rolled out of bed and into a jacket.

While Adrien plated two generous slices of cheesecake, Marinette dug through the couch cushions for the remote. She found it wedged between Adrien and the back of the couch, yanked it out, and clicked on the T.V. The pale blue light flooded over the two of them, and when she turned to get cheesecake from Adrien, she found him staring at her with an unfamiliar expression.

He was smiling, eyebrows lifted in his usual fashion, like something between expectation and excitement, but she thought—and maybe she was just projecting her own heartache, but she thought—there was something sad in his green eyes.

Then those strangely sad eyes dropped to her collar and his hand drifted to her neck. His fingers brushed against her skin and lightning lanced through her lungs. A dozen protests bubbled to the surface, all the arguments she had just used with Chat Noir—she only wanted something simple; she wasn’t ready for anything truly intimate after this breakup; things were always complicated with Adrien—but they all died on her tongue, as her words so often did when it came to Adrien.

But instead of pulling her against him like she thought he might, he asked, “What happened here?”

In her haste to dress, she hadn’t bothered to check herself in the mirror, but her heart pounded with the memory of Chat Noir’s lips latched to her neck. Was it only a bruise of blood drawn to the surface, or were there also scratch marks from his canines? Her face was hot with blush, but she hoped in the dim light of the T.V., he wouldn’t be able to tell.

“It—” Her throat lurched against Adrien’s fingers as she tried to swallow down a lie, but she wasn’t sure how to tell him the truth. “I don’t—I mean, it’s only—”

And then Adrien’s fingers curled around the back of her neck and his thumb brushed the underside of her chin so gently, so carefully. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

Her heart stuttered with a familiar agony. She had promised herself that she was not going to cry about Luka tonight, that she was done with tears, but they welled up anyway.

She and Luka had tried so hard; they really had. But he always wanted more of her than she had to give. He wanted everything, and Marinette could never give her partner everything—she had too many secrets that she had to keep. She had too many bits of herself that even she was still processing, that were still too raw and rough to share.

She’d tried giving Luka everything that she could. She’d even left Scarabella in charge while she went on tour with Luka once, but nothing had ever made it better. She’d wanted time—they’d needed time—and there had never been enough.

But here was Adrien, offering her the two things Luka never could: her secrets and his time.

The tears she had been fighting all evening finally burst out, and Adrien pulled her against his chest, as he had so many times before. She didn’t want to know how many tears she had soaked into his T-shirts in the last few weeks, how many wrinkles she had worn into his clothes by clutching at them with tight fists, how much of her snot he’d had to wash out of his laundry.

With Herculean strength, Marinette rubbed her eyes dry and pulled away. She fumbled for a tissue, but the box on her coffee table was just inches out of reach. Adrien pressed a handkerchief into her hand, like he had come prepared. It wasn’t fair to him to take so much, but it was so easy when he gave so readily.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

Marinette wiped her cheeks and blew her nose. “What on earth are you apologizing for?”

Without her to hold onto, his hands found each other. His thumb rubbed into his palm like he might be able to push his explanation out. Even in the dim light from the T.V. and the street, she could see his jaw working through his words, like he was turning the pages of a dictionary in his head to make sure he picked the right ones.

“I…” He paused again and swallowed. “I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he finally said, which felt like so small of an apology when weighed against the length of the pause.

“It’s not your fault,” she assured him. “I just…” She didn’t need to explain how lonely she was to Adrien. He’d heard it all before, and of course he must know it, or he wouldn’t have shown up to her apartment in the middle of the night with cheesecake in tow. “I just really appreciate that you’re always there for me,” she finally said, and even though it felt small, it was earnest.

“I would rather be with you than not.”

Her heart fully stopped, and she searched for something in Adrien’s eyes, some clue that the connection between his plea and Chat Noir’s question was more than coincidence, but he was no longer looking at her. His eyes were on his hands as he twisted his ring around his finger. The dull silver still glinted in the dim light from outside.

She felt like she was looking at her Lucky Charm at the moment it fell into her hands, knowing the answer was right in front of her but unable to put all the pieces together. She followed her lucky instinct, though, and placed one hand over Adrien’s hands, forcing them still. The other lifted to the back of his neck and pulled him closer into a kiss.

It was soft, delicate, gentle. It made sense for Adrien in a way Chat Noir’s kisses had never quite made sense for him.

Adrien, who was so willing to give her his time, and Chat Noir, who was always there when the people Marinette wanted weren’t.

Adrien pulled away rather suddenly, like something had yanked him away from her. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I shouldn’t—you don’t want—this isn’t fair—”

It was unusual to watch Adrien flounder for words. Marinette, though, didn’t have it in her to be amused, not with the weight of this secret dawning. She waited a moment for Bunnyx to appear or time to reset, but Adrien continued to struggle his way through an apology, and the T.V. continued to hum its bright blue static glare.

There was no undoing what had been done, and she couldn’t exactly avoid it.

“I think,” she murmured, “that unfair is showing up on my balcony after I told you that I was ready to be alone.”

The panic in Adrien’s eyes was brief as he realized he’d been found out, but he crumpled into himself almost immediately. His hands raked through his hair and Marinette’s first thought was that she could be running her hands through his hair, but her second thought was how utterly broken he looked.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I didn’t want it to—I didn’t mean for it to turn out like it did. I just—I was worried about you. You know what it’s like at my house and—I know you think I don’t want to see you sad or something, but Marinette, being with you like this is a hundred times better than being without you.” He kept his eyes on his hands as he twisted his ring around his finger. “Please don’t tell anyone,” he whispered.

Marinette frowned. “I wouldn’t.”

“I mean it—I-I can’t let Ladybug know I’ve broken her trust.”

Marinette bit down on her lip. She wasn’t sure how to say the thing she knew she had to say next. Her throat felt tight with the secret she had kept for so long, that she had finally choked out to Alya after one terrible day.

But he looked so genuinely terrified to think he might hurt Ladybug, and Marinette had the power to assuage that fear. For once, she could offer him some comfort.

Marinette unhooked Adrien’s hands from his neck and pulled them into her lap. Then, she unfastened her earrings and placed them into his palm.

Though he did not move, did not look up at her, she watched the tension in his shoulders shift. His hand closed around the earrings and he felt the shape of them, the warmth from being fastened in her ears and from the magic that pulsed within them.

Finally, Adrien looked up at her. His eyes were still sad, but the longing was so much more prominent. His voice was tight as he said, “Are you… truly?”

She nodded.

Then his shoulders sagged and he looked away. “No wonder you keep turning me down. We have a job to do, and I suppose the job comes first. No sense complicating things, right?”

But Marinette’s need for simple had nothing to do with complicating Ladybug and Chat Noir’s relationship. It had always been about protecting her partner and protecting her own heart. But knowing that the boy she had fallen for long before Luka, the boy who was always there for her, and her loyal partner were one and the same? She was no longer interested in simple.

In fact, she felt like an idiot for thinking she could get away with only displaying the palatable parts of herself to Adrien. He knew her better than anyone, and she knew him, and it was never going to be simple when there were that many fractured pieces stacked together between the two of them.

“Adrien,” she whispered, “I think… maybe without so many secrets, it isn’t all that complicated.”

He met her eyes again and something in his posture perked; she could almost see the cat ears on his head lifting to attention.

“Marinette,” he said, so softly, so tenderly that Marinette could not help but lean in.

She leaned in until their lips were pressed together. The wariness, the gentleness, the tenderness—all of it was cast aside. This kiss transformed into nothing but want and need, as if she could draw all of him up into all of her.

Adrien’s softness and wariness evaporated suddenly. He turned his kiss against the corner of her mouth then to the underside of her jaw. “My lady,” he murmured into her neck, and his voice seemed to reverberate in her chest and curl into her stomach. He pressed her lips against the mark on her neck in a grateful, needy kiss and adjusted to sit on top of her, pinning her back against the couch as Chat Noir had pinned her against her kitchen counter.

Marinette fumbled for the remote and clicked the T.V. off. They didn’t need a movie to carry them through the evening, and they certainly didn’t need the glare of the empty screen. The dark was enough; each other was enough. The cheesecake would wait. Marinette had a much better midnight snack to get to.

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