#she's a simple gal. her priorities are winning championships and dreams of motorboating aaron

[billdenbrough]

fem kevaaron, 790w, for @naturecalls111, inspired by this sketch mina and i stayed up way too late bc of reasons that were mostly my fault, so i wrote this for her the morning of our suffering as a virtual coffee substitute. wasn't originally planning to share it anywhere except just to her but we kept talking about it & now the doc has spiralled beyond its original purpose so i figured, ok, i could share the original scene. kevin is down horrendous

There’s a box of Frosted Flakes in the upper corner of the kitchen shelf.

Kevin knows this, because she put them there.

She’d done it with altruistic motives in mind—saving the twins from a life of cavity and sugar-induced stamina failures on the court (extremely embarrassing, mostly for Kevin, but probably them too)—but she’s having a hard time remembering that now.

Aaron got out of the shower about fifteen minutes ago, see. Her hair had been wrapped up in a loose twist of her towel, but her cereal-obtaining endeavours had involved some attempts at jumping—Kevin had paused in drinking her smoothie for a longer moment than she’s proud to think about—and now it’s half-fallen out. Aaron pays no notice. She has her hands on her hips, and she’s scowling up at the shelf.

“Fucking Nicky,” she mutters, which—Kevin can’t decide if she’s pleased to be spared Aaron’s wrath, or if she’s dismayed that Aaron thinks there’s a universe where Kevin and Nicky have interchangeable actions.

Her hair is making the shoulders of her shirt damp. It’s a loose, worn thing, so thin at some parts of the chest that it feels indecent to look. (Kevin still does, of course. She’s not in the habit of denying herself the things she wants.) There’s a discoloured album cover on the front: a bared throat, a naked collarbone, and a band name hidden by the way Aaron has it half-tucked into her shorts, but Kevin knows from prior observation is semi-faded anyway.

Aaron turns around, and for a moment, Kevin thinks she’s going to ask for assistance. She’s still deciding what she’ll say—her rational brain’s firm absolutely not warring with her appalling animal instinct’s drawling what’ll you give me if I do?—when she realises Aaron is planting her palms flat on the counter behind her. She bends her knees, as if to launch herself up. Okay, no.

Kevin moves quickly, slipping off her barstool and making her way around the kitchen island to stand next to Aaron, too close for Aaron to continue her action without knocking into Kevin.

“You could just ask for help,” Kevin says. She’s kind of looming over Aaron like this. It’s not a new sensation, but it kickstarts something in her chest every time.

Aaron glares up at her. “You could have offered,” she points out, which is true. Kevin’s been keeping her gaze fixed on Aaron’s face so she doesn’t get too obviously distracted by the swell of Aaron’s tits through the (genuinely loosest possible, Kevin is just a fucking degenerate, probably) fabric of her shirt, but it’s kind of backfiring now. The way Aaron looks, glaring up at Kevin, is just as hard to look away from. She’s close enough that Kevin can see her eyelashes, even as light as they are.

Kevin clears her throat. “That’s too close to an endorsement of your terrible dietary choices,” she says.

“Oh my god,” Aaron mutters. She’s relaxed her grip on the counter now, just leaning against it. The position has her arm resting lightly against Kevin’s stomach. It’s a searing heat through Kevin’s gym tank. “Then stop complaining and let me get it myself,” Aaron says, shifting a little to re-balance her hands on the counter. Her chest heaves with the movement, and Kevin’s eyes follow the motion, unbidden.

It’s that, more than anything, that makes Kevin swallow a sigh and say, “Fine.” Aaron glances at her before she can get her gaze away completely, but she hopes it’s a blink and you’ll miss it kind of thing, not the pathetically obvious ogling that Neil accused her of last week in the world’s worst whisper after Kevin’s eyes strayed over to the backliners’ section of practice, where Aaron was trash-talking Nicky with a sharp grin while Nicky tried to step on her heels.

Kevin reaches up to the shelf, stretching a little for the box. She’d pushed it towards the back of the shelf, hoping the extra effort required would deter Nicky too, so now she has to twist a little to get her arm far enough in. She huffs as she manages to close her fingers around it, pulling it down.

“Here,” she says, turning to Aaron, who’s suspiciously quiet. She’s not looking at Kevin, exactly; more like she’s looking to the left of her, eyes firmly fixed.

“Thanks,” Aaron says, grabbing the box. She glances up at Kevin. Her cheeks are a little pink. There’s a slight scrunch to her nose, like she wants to say something, but she doesn’t, just steps back.

Kevin nods, then realises her shirt’s ridden up a bit. She absentmindedly adjusts it.

There’s a small noise, like a swallow, but when Kevin looks up, Aaron is nowhere to be found.