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kiwisbell · 6 months

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Las Mañanas || Chapter 1 [javier peña]

She’s a waitress in a little café. He’s a DEA agent who likes the coffee. Just the coffee. That’s all. Or, slices of life (and sometimes pie) shared between Javi and his wife, including his tireless journey to making her his wife.

series masterlist | my masterlist

pairing: javier peña x f!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni)

tags/warnings: coffee shop AU if you squint really hard, reader has a shitty husband, domestic violence, mentions of sex work, soft and sweet!javi, protective!javi, grumpy!javi, simp!javi tbh, alcohol, smoking, javier pines like a mf, FLIRTING, referenced PIV (protection implied), food as sexual tension, angst, so much fluff, some light touching, steve being a little shit, nobody fucks with javi's girl, overuse of spanish pet names, poorly-translated spanish, "she" pronoun used throughout

word count: ~ 8.8k

a/n: HOORAY! it begins! since this is my oldest fic, it lacks some polish, but neverthless!! i'll be posting new chapters every couple days so your dashboards don't get clogged up, but i sincerely hope you enjoy this series!! to my lovely friends who have already read this series and given it so much love, words cannot express how much i appreciate you. to my newcomers, i am kissing you through my screen rn for giving this fic a chance. i hope you like!! xoxo

chapter one: for all the coffee beans in colombia

The café, Las Mañanas, makes stellar coffee. Javier Peña knows this; everyone in Bogotá knows this. That’s why he comes in at seven o’clock every morning and pays 30 pesos for a cup. Black. Then he sits at a table and sips it while he watches her move. He leaves at seven-thirty and clocks in at the Embassy ten minutes later. He does it again the next morning.

Two months ago, he would come in twice a week. Two weeks later, three times. Now, it’s daily. He thinks he might have an addiction, but so does every other bastard in the city. It’s not his fault the coffee wakes him up just right, striking his tired bones like hammers and making him sit upright all day, alert as a rearing cobra.

She’s got eyes like that: bright, sharp. They cut incisions into early-morning brain fog and part the haziness like curtains. Then she sutures the edges with that smile and turns every man in the café complacent, cheery, harmless. Javier goes for the coffee, but it’s nice to look at her. It’s not his fault she’s so nice to look at.

She doesn’t own the place. Her boss is a family friend and doesn’t share her last name; he knew her father, who died. The records don’t say how, and Javier had to sneak out before he could find out more. Technically, he wasn’t allowed to be snooping around in records that didn’t have explicit relevance to his job, but he was just being safe.

He knows this because he likes to know things. He’s proactive. It reassures him to know that his thorough background checks on each employee and regular produced nothing of concern, that she’s around safe, innocent people all day. When she brings his coffee to him, she smiles at him, and her eyes shine. He knows that when he leaves for work, she’s safe. It’s real fucking hard to be safe in Bogotá these days.

Javier drinks. The coffee goes down hot, always the same temperature, always strong. He lifts a cigarette to his lips, watches her, lights it. He keeps it in his mouth when she raises her eyes from her notepad at the counter and smiles. From this corner of the café, he has a perfect view of her. She’s relaxing to watch. She walks with a sway to her hips; she bags pastries so delicately it’s like they’re strapped with C4; she writes little notes on her customers’ receipts and her handwriting is impeccable. He keeps his receipts.

She puts her lip between her teeth and worries it, like she’s debating something in her head, pen pausing over paper. Javier narrows his eyes playfully at her, and then she moves. She ties her apron tighter around her waist, tucks her hair behind her ear with the pen, and grabs something from behind the counter before she’s moving. Toward him.

Javier panics for a moment, but he feels stupid when he does. He forces himself to adjust minimally, sitting up straighter and tucking his cigarette to the corner of his mouth. She’s carrying a pastry bag. “Here,” she says, “for when you leave.”

Her honeyed voice seeps bone-deep. They speak in English, but he’s heard her use the local colour with her patrons. “What’s the occasion?” he asks her.

“I want to see how long the poison takes to activate inside a human body.” She thrusts the bag out farther. “It’s a thank-you. Empanadas. New recipe.”

Javier takes it, looks inside. “You poison all your customers, or am I special?” he says, inhaling the fresh burst of warmth. “These smell incredible.”

“I hope you’re not a vegetarian.”

“God, no.”

“More coffee?”

He glances at his watch. 7:23. “I can’t,” he says, and it gives him pause when his voice carries a faint whine. “Work.”

She bites her lip again. Instinct tugs his eyes down to it. “You’re certainly the most mysterious customer I’ve ever had.”

He stands up so he can look down at her, puffing at his cigarette. She puckers her lips and blows the smoke away from her face with a teasing glare. “And the only one special enough to try the new recipe for free,” he says lowly. “Isn’t that right?”

She shoves the bag into his chest and rolls her eyes, beckoning him back toward the counter. “Who said it was free?” she says, looking back at him over her shoulder. It stops him, stunned, in his tracks.

He comes back the next day. He makes sure to learn her name this time.

At some point in the seven months since he first entered the café, Javier makes a friend.

He does not remember how it happened. His life is not conducive to friendship. But this half-hour routine inside the café doesn’t give a shit about his life. She’s begun to call his name when he steps through the door.

“Javier!” She shimmied around her coworker as she hurriedly untied her apron. He barely had time to open his mouth before she continued, “I took my break early. Now come on, I made churros.”

“Fuck, cariño, I think I’ve gained ten pounds since I met you.”

She just grinned at him and shooed him toward his usual table while she grabbed a plate with two sweet-smelling churros on it. “My father would say that’s a good thing. Go, go!”

He obeyed her without further complaint and put out his cigarette so he could sip at the coffee that was already steaming on his table. She slid into the chair across from him. He knew churros for breakfast were a terrible decision for his digestive system, but he physically could not refuse her. Her leg bounced excitedly when he picked one up and took a bite. He closed his eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re fucking magic. Where did you learn to bake like this?”

She grinned and took a bite of her own churro. He noticed she liked to hold her free hand underneath her chin to catch any residue that would make a mess of her apron; preventative measures. She was careful, meticulous. “My father lived in Spain most of his life; he taught my sister and I to cook from the second we were able to walk.” Her head tilted as she watched him eat, her smart eyes travelling in latitudes across his face like she was memorising a script, line by line. “I’m lucky to see other people fall in love with my food the same way I loved his.” She smiled suddenly, warm. “You’ve got churro dust in your moustache, viejo.”

He raised a brow. “You learn enough Spanish for that, huh, smartass?”

The bell above the door chimes when he walks through. She’s tending to a customer at the back of the room, but she looks over her shoulder. Smiles and waves. Gestures with her eyes to his usual table.

His table, which now has a very new, very handmade sign on top of it: RESERVED.

Javier sits down and touches the black ink. It smudges on his finger.

“I almost had to rugby-tackle Jorge for sitting there during his break,” she says when she arrives.

“All this for me?” He clicks his tongue. “Bad for business.”

“You’re a paying customer, viejo,” she says teasingly. “You are business.”

Javier slides his sunglasses off his nose and stares her down, dropping his voice all low and mean. “You better knock that nickname habit quick, baby. Could get you in trouble.”

“More trouble than the man who comes in every morning with a gun in his pants?” She bites her lip when she grins. “I think I’ll be okay. Oh, and here’s your coffee.”

She places a mug in front of him, snatches the RESERVED sign from his hand, and carries it with her to the counter.

“What is it you do at your big, scary, gun-totin’ job, anyway?” she asks as his coffee pours. He’s at the counter, waiting this time, knowing no one’s going to take his table. Not if they know what’s good for them, what with the leopard behind the counter.

Javier lights his cigarette. “Don’t wanna have to kill you.”

She cocks her head. “Can’t kill me, viejo. Who’d make your coffee?” She leans in real close and whispers, “Jorge can’t treat you like I can.”

He does not focus on the way her breath knocks against each knob of his spine.

“Janitorial services,” he blurts out, not so much suavely, “at the Embassy.”

“Hmm. Didn’t know they let janitors carry guns nowadays, but I guess there’s always something new to learn.”

“Tell me something about you,” he says.

“My doctor says I’ll never be able to get the smell of coffee out of my nose.”

Javier laughs, plucking the dish rag from her hands so she stops cleaning the counter and looks him in the eye instead. “Gonna need more than that. Tell me something I don’t know, cielito.”

She flushes. “You have to pay extra for that.”

“Then pour one on me,” he says, sliding the coffee pot toward her.

A wicked smile overcomes her face, one she tries to tame by chewing on the inside of her cheek. She spots a customer waving her down, so she turns quickly to Javier and says, “Give me two minutes. Pour it for me.”

He fills the cup she’s just cleaned until it’s almost overflowing.

The first day something goes wrong, Javier is unprepared.

She’s all smiles and flowy skirts when he walks in the door, but he feels out of sorts when he spots the men she’s pouring coffee for—mostly because he recognises them, and they’ve never been in here before.

His heart swoops down into his gut when he remembers where he’s seen their three faces before.

It stings to watch her smile falter when he ignores her familiar greeting for him, pretending like he doesn’t know her. He heads straight for the counter, sits down, waits twenty seconds, and then accidentally knocks a mug to the floor.

A few people idly turn, but it’s her excusing herself to clean up the mess that matters. He lowers himself to the ground with her when she grabs the broom and dustpan. “Keep smiling at me,” he says under his breath. “Don’t let your face change.”

“Javier…” His name is an exhale from her mouth. “What’s going on?”

“Those men are involved in some bad shit, and I don’t want you in it.”

To her credit, she does not look at the three men at the table, nor do her eyes widen, her mouth drop. He knows her mind is chewing on this, working it through, judging whether or not she can trust him. At last, still cleaning up the ceramic shards, she asks, “What do I do, Javi?”

That’s his girl. “I need you to take your break until they’re gone. Can you do that for me?”

She breaths out a yes and looks up at him for one brief moment. “Don’t do anything stupid,” she whispers. “Paying customer, remember?”

“Always and forever, baby. Now go on. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She stands up with the dustpan and thanks him loudly, that bright smile still on her face. She takes the broken mug into the back room, and she does not reappear.

Javier has backup waiting when the three narcos leave, filled with his waitress’s coffee and pastries. Javier stays inside, sipping his own coffee. They won’t know he called for backup. They’ve never seen his face. But they’ll be ambushed once they’re a safe distance from the café, and they’ll go away in handcuffs for the couple kilos of cocaine inside the trunks of their taxis.

Javier comes in the next day and expects her to cuss him out. She’s had every opportunity to call the police, to report him for being somehow involved with bad men, to ban him from her little safe haven. Instead, she just sets down the coffee at his table and shakes her head.

“Janitor, my ass.”

He wishes he could shut his mouth every now and then, but he finds himself telling her the truth about his job before he can think to stop.

He rationalises.

He owes her this much. The strange men may not have harmed her, but in a line of work like Javier’s, people have to learn to be cautious. In his case, he may have been uber-cautious, but his senses become a whirlpool when it comes to her.

She takes it all in stride, same as yesterday. She’s a rapt listener, tuning out the world as he stumbles through the truth, and when he’s done, when he thinks he’s laid out all she needs to know for now, she nods. She understands.

“Thank you for telling me,” she says, unusually sombre, brushing a knuckle under his chin the way he does her.

“Can’t stand the thought of you mad at me, cielito.” It’s the truth—he thinks he would forsake all his manliness and beg on his knees for forgiveness.

But he doesn’t need to do that with her. “It was scary, Javi,” she says earnestly, “but it would’ve been a lot scarier if you weren’t there, talking me through it.”

He grins up at her where she stands on the other side of the counter. “Any chance that means free churros for life?”

She hums like she’s pondering the thought. “For you, viejo? That’s only two more years at your tender age.”

Javier leans in close to her and glares. “Keep it up, honey.”

She drums her fingers on the side of his mug and smirks. “Plan to. More coffee, Agent Peña?”

She’s talking to another man when Javier walks into the café. He’s average height and muscled, around her age or a bit older, wearing a black leather jacket that matches the beard and hair on his head (the stuff that’s not greying), and he’s speaking rapidly, tautly. She keeps shaking her head, her lips pressed tightly together, furiously wiping down the counter and nudging his elbows away when he tries to set them down. Javier tries to eavesdrop, but they’re speaking too quietly, interrupting one another, so he settles into his chair at the back with his sunglasses still on his nose. And he watches carefully.

He's never seen this man before. He isn’t a customer, and his scowling face was not one Javier had combed through during his dubiously ethical background checks. It unsettles him enough to lean forward in his seat when the man abruptly tears the rag from her hand. Javier instinctively reaches for the gun in his waistband, but he will not fire here. He bites down on his cigarette when she aggressively wipes under her eyes and storms into the back room. Moments later, she emerges with her purse, fishes out a wad of cash, and throws it square at the man’s chest. He leaves once the money is tucked inside his pockets.

Javier approaches the counter with his coffee. She is visibly shaking, but she smiles at him like he’s a relief to see. “Javi,” she says in one long exhale. “Good morning.”

“Thought you might like some company,” he says, setting down his mug.

He doesn’t press her to tell him about what he’s seen, even though he knows she saw him walk in. Her shoulders loosen. “I… I didn’t have time to make you something, Javi.”

Her eyes are watering, and her irises undulate like they’re caught in a swell. Not for the first time in seven months, Javier reaches out and touches her. Lays a hand atop hers and squeezes her fingers. “You’re gonna make me fat, cielito,” he says softly.

She doesn’t let the tears fall. She just laughs and rolls her eyes, her cheeks warm.

It’s another month before Javier sees the man again.

Javier has been very good at keeping his life behind a wall, and while it’s obvious she notices, she doesn’t press him. He is profoundly stupid to give her the information he does; he’s told her about his father (she smiles like she’s remembering an old friend), bitched about Murphy (constantly), and told her about his hobbies. He told her that he reads in his spare time, even though nobody expects him to and fucking backwoods-hillbilly Murphy gives him constant shit for it. She knows he likes Tolkien, that he’s a fan of Lewis and Fleming. She gives him shit for reading so many “manly” books, but she laughs while she does it, and the corners of her eyes crinkle.

He knows he is older than her. She’s never read Tolkien. He finds himself promising things. He’s going to lend her his copies. He wants to share his interests with her, to watch her face light up with excitement when she tells him how much she loves Marilyn Monroe and Gloria Estefan and Selena.

She moved to Colombia two years ago, but he doesn’t know why. There is the switch. He’s found it: the moment of closure, when her spine stiffens and her smile trembles in an effort to hold on. Everyone has their switches. Javier understands.

But for the first time since he came to Bogotá, he wants to know someone. He wants to get attached. He wants a friend. Why the fuck shouldn’t he have that?

“Javi.”

He looks at her over the rim of his mug. “Hmm.”

She bites down on her smile. “It’s seven-thirty.”

Shit. He says as much, downs the rest of his coffee (she watches him with a raised brow), and begins to haul his jacket over his arm. He’ll have to put it on on the move; he’ll be late if he doesn’t leave now.

The bell above the door chimes.

He’s dressed the same as last time, but Javier knows his clothes are expensive. When he doesn’t see her at the counter, he peers through the employees’ door, then scans the café until he spots her, sitting across from Javier.

He stalks over and goes off immediately. “Whoring around, guapa? Haven’t you learned your lesson?”

He doesn’t even spare a glance toward Javier.

She looks more angry than embarrassed. “Nicolás, you need to leave.”

Javier settles back into his seat. No way in fucking hell he’s leaving her alone with him.

His dark eyes blaze at the woman, and he crowds her space, frowning. “I’m not signing.”

“We’ve talked about this,” she says calmly, though her skin is stretched over her knuckles as her hands clasp each other.

“You don’t just get to leave me.” The man’s scowl deepens, and when he grabs her by the wrist, she yelps, slapping a free hand over her mouth so nobody notices.

Well, Javier sure as fuck notices.

Last time, he stayed back, let the situation diffuse. He didn’t want to make a scene, didn’t want her to be uncomfortable. This time, he doesn’t give a shit.

This time, Javier sees red.

“Get your fucking hands off her.”

He stands up and clasps his own hand around the man’s wrist.

“I don’t see you letting her go,” he says gruffly. “Let’s try again.”

“You fucking son of a bitch, trying to tell me what to do with my wife,” grunts the man, letting go of her wrist with a jolt. She stands up and pushes him squarely in the chest.

“I am not. Your. Wife,” she says, spitting a large glob of saliva in his face. “Sign the papers, Nicolás. I don’t love you. I don’t even give a shit about you.”

Nicolás moves like he plans to smack her across the face, but Javier is quick—and itching to knock him unconscious.

The punch cracks his jaw. He howls while the owner emerges from the back room and another customer helps drag Nicolás out the door. They throw him on the street and cuss him out. Javier shrugs on his jacket and sniffs, feeling accomplished.

“Cielito,” he mutters, offering his hand. Trembling (more with rage than fear, he suspects), she holds out her wrist and he gently prods around the area, feeling for disturbances. She winces, but it will only bruise. Still—

“I should have been faster.”

“Javier,” she whispers. “Don’t start.”

He lets out one frustrated sigh through his nose and nods. “Is it a judgment against your character if I say you married a complete fucking asshole?”

She laughs softly, like sad little bells. “Wasn’t my choice in the first place.”

He frowns down at her. “Cielito—”

“You’re already late for work, Javi. They’re gonna chew you out.”

“Don’t worry about me,” he says, brushing a knuckle over her chin. “I’ll lay on my charm.”

She hums. “Maybe you’re the asshole, Javier Peña.”

It’s been a year since he met his waitress. Tonight, for the first time, he pictures her face to make himself come.

He’s in the shower when it happens. Standing under the stream of hot water, he's unable to quell the image that bubbles up in his hindbrain. He imagines her lips around him as he hardens, and when he takes himself in his hand and juts out his hips roughly, he grunts, pretending he’s pushing past the seal of her pretty lips. Her face—so beautiful, so smiling and kind—sweaty and ruined, more radiant than ever. Her body: its curves and its delectable softness, its taste like coffee beans and flowers, if he can imagine it. The tempting, unknowable skin under that waitress’s uniform. He wants to make her feel good. He wants to lick every inch of her, savour every drop of her wetness when he gets her ready to take him. Tangy sweetness, twilight and the calm of the water at dusk. Flashes of teeth, lips, skin.

That's it, baby. You can take me. I’ll make you feel good.

Javier… A rush of breath, the distant cry of a swan over the water. Please.

He doesn’t think until he’s spilling over his hand and the wall, harder than he’s come in a long time, of how wrong this is. How wrong of him to imagine a claim on her body, her life. Underneath the steaming hot water, his mind sharpens. He wants her, and he feels so filthy for it.

He turns up the heat some more and lets himself scald.

Seeing her in the little café after fucking himself to the thought of her naked is a surreal experience. He’s never even seen the more intimate areas of her; she wears an apron and a dress, and he can only ever see her knees, her arms, her collarbones. But now he wants to trace them with his fingers, watch them hollow out when she inhales, watch the curve in her throat as she swallows and sighs. He wants to get on his knees and lift up her dress so he can make her fall apart on his tongue. He’s fucked everything up.

Him and his stupid goddamn dick.

“I’ve figured it out,” she says triumphantly, sitting down at his table across from him. There’s a cup of coffee for both of them; he figures she’s taken her break. Which means she likes to spend this half-hour with him. Which means she likes him.

“What have you figured out?” he asks, pushing his sunglasses further down his nose to peer at her.

“That DEA disguise might work for you, but I see all.” She reaches for his glasses and puts them on her own face, pantomime-lighting a cigarette. “You’re a spy, Agent Peña,” she says mischievously.

He really, truly, desperately wants to kiss her.

The sunglasses slip down her face, so he pushes them onto the top of her head. Stares her in the eyes. “You got me, honey. What are you gonna do, huh? Lock me up?”

“How much money can I get for a spy?” she muses. “Guess it depends how good you are.” Her eyes narrow when a grin slithers up the corner of his mouth. “Javier, do not—”

“Oh, I’m very good,” he says, toasting his cup of coffee.

With a roll of her eyes, she lifts her own cup in toast, and takes a sip. The sight of her lips on the rim while she meet his eyes is enough to make Javier wish he owned looser jeans.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

Her eyes ask the same question, but she phrases it sweetly, the way she always does. She’s a fucking tonic to his bones and the reason he’s so goddamn tense. “Blinking is very important, you know.”

He does just that, clearing his vision and letting her come back into sharp focus. The morning sunlight adorns her skin like jewellery. She’s a vision. Even someone with a single sense out of the five could tell how beautiful she is, but it doesn’t make his life any easier. It doesn’t lower his heart rate, doesn’t cool him down, and it definitely doesn’t help the tightness in his pants.

He fucks his hand in a bathroom at the Embassy, and then he brings an informant home and fucks her, too. He makes sure she enjoys it when she’s on her hands and knees, because all he’s doing is picturing his waitress. He hates himself for the way it makes him grasp her a bit tighter, pump her a bit harder: imagining her syrupy whines, her flushed chest, her smooth skin all for him. He tunes out the noises she makes and pretends it's her. When he makes her come, he pictures her brows scrunching up, her eyes squeezing shut when she can't take the pleasure he gives her. He’d make his girl real happy, make her satisfied and dazed and fucking drooling.

Javier completes the transaction and cleans up in the bathroom. He stares at himself in the mirror for a long while, at his dishevelled hair and his tired eyes. Sex didn’t help.

She’s still in his blood. She’s in his system for good.

He doesn’t want a quick fuck. He wants her: his friend, his secret. His girl, whether she knows it or not.

The next day, she’s working on the books when he comes up to the counter, a pair of glasses perched on her nose, so engrossed she doesn’t even notice he’s arrived until he sits down.

She’s so fucking cute, he thinks, with her glasses and her thinking face, brows pinched together. But she smiles up at him like always. “Good morning, Javier.”

His mind is really a bastard, feeding him flashbacks of last night's wet dream. On her knees, taking him so well, so perfect, on her back while he left marks that would let everyone know she'd been fucked and who’d done it, on top of him, writhing and gasping and collapsing next to him. In his dream, he kissed the top of her head, laced their fingers together, and mumbled how well she’d done until they both fell asleep.

“Morning,” he says. “Don’t you have people for that?”

She huffs. “We’re short-staffed. Which means there’s me, one other cook, and Jorge. So I’m stuck making sure we won’t get audited.”

Javier whistles lowly. “Jorge’s got a real soldier working for him.”

She tucks her hair behind her ear. He likes making her nervous. “Maybe if you say that to his face, he’ll give me a raise.”

“You need money?”

Fucking moron, he thinks. Way to scare her off. Her eyes widen, but then she’s saying, “Oh, Javi, no. I’m doing all right. I promise. Just some… marital strain.”

His jaw may snap off if he clenches it any tighter. He can’t meet her eyes when he asks, “He been bothering you?”

It doesn’t piss him off that she’s married. She hates the guy, never wants to see him again. She’s been trying to get him to sign the divorce papers for over a year. What pisses him off is that any mention of her husband sucks her cheer away like blood from a wound. Javier has a real problem with someone making her frown.

She rests her cheek in her palm. “Every time I try to pay him off, he comes back saying it wasn’t enough, that he can’t afford a lawyer. Which is bullshit, by the way. He makes a hell of a lot more than me.”

“What does he do?”

She shutters off again, looks back down at her books. “It’s not a moral sort of work.”

Javier would know all about that.

“Oh!” she says suddenly, whirling around, the glimmer in her eye back again. “I forgot—I made you something.”

His chest feels tight. “ Bonita—”

She slides the books aside and places down a piece of blueberry pie. “You can’t say no,” she says, producing two forks, “because I’m helping you eat it.”

He’ll prod about her shitty husband later. For now, Javier enjoys the half-hour he has with her. They finish the pie in minutes.

Steve Murphy is a dick.

Javier knows it was a mistake to bring her up to him, because now Murphy has forgotten all his paperwork for the night, and he’s got his eyes set on making his partner’s life hell.

“Does she know you got those narcos arrested a few weeks ago?”

“She’s not stupid, Steve.”

“Do you know her last name?”

“Yes.”

“Is that because you told her, or because you stole her personal file?”

“Murphy, if you don’t shut up—”

“You’re not fucking her, are you?”

For some reason, that pisses him off the most. Javier grits his teeth. “Knock it off.”

He raises his hands in surrender. “All right, all right. Jesus, Javi.” When he leans back in his chair, he’s still watching Javier with a smile spreading slowly across his face. “You really aren't.”

Javier puffs his cigarette and tries not to fly across his desk at his partner. “And how do you know that?”

“’Cause if you didn’t respect her so damn much, you wouldn’t get all defensive.” Murphy whistles lowly. “You’re so fucked, Peña.”

Javier doesn’t look up from his typewriter. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, man. You don’t wanna fuck any random girl.” Murphy hides his mocking laugh with his hand. “You want to fuck your friend.”

Javier flicks his cigarette and it smacks Murphy in the cheek. “Pendejo.”

Murphy’s still laughing when Javier grumbles about going somewhere. He doesn’t even know where he’s planning to go, but it’s his lunch break and he needs fresh air. He definitely doesn’t want to linger on the reality that Murphy is right.

There’s a market across the street and down a block from the Embassy, which itself is a block away from the café. It’s not strange that she’s there, tediously browsing apples like choosing the wrong one will poison her customers, but Javier’s heart still kicks up, watching her as he waits for the traffic to clear.

She’s real fucking pretty in the daylight. Her hair is down, no longer in its clean ponytail, and the breeze picks it up like it’s watching her, too. She smiles at the vendors she passes; some call out to her, trying to sell or flirt. Javier crosses the street and gets giddy at the thought of seeing her outside.

He strolls up behind her and watches her inspect an apple. “If you stare any harder, it’ll wither.”

A little gasp leaves her mouth. “Javi!” she says brightly, eyeing him without a modicum of shame, her hand over her brows to shield herself from the sunlight. “So this is how you look in the light.”

She’s dressed in a flowy skirt that forms around her thighs when a breeze rolls by, and her shirt shows more of her cleavage than he’s ever seen before. He knows she notices his gaze lingering, but he doesn’t particularly care to look away. Watching her roll her eyes above his sunglasses delights Javier to no end. “You’ll get arrested walking around like this, cariño,” he says, leaning in real close and feeling her shiver when his breath reaches her ear.

She steps backward and holds onto the lapel of his jacket. “If you’re going to flirt with me, Javier, do it while you help me shop. I don’t have all the time in the world like you and your fellow superheroes.”

It only spurs him on. He lifts the canvas tote off her shoulder. “Fine by me,” he says. “What are the apples for?”

“Pie,” she says, picking two more apples from the cart. “You ever bake?”

“I cherish my place too much; don’t wanna see it burn down.” He steps in front of her when she reaches into her pocket to pay the vendor, slapping his own pesos into the man’s hand. She slowly lowers her hand and smiles at him in thanks. He lets her put the apples in the bag. “You want to teach me?”

Her face glows at the thought. “You’d really want to learn?”

It feels so good to make her happy that Javier doesn’t give a shit if Murphy finds out he offered to bake with this girl. “Will you put your hands over mine to show me how to knead the dough?”

Her hand trails across his stomach when she passes him. “Anything you want, honey,” she says.

Javier feels like he’s in high school again. He shuts his eyes for a moment to reset his brain, since the imprint of her hand on him shut it off. When his eyes are open again, she’s three vendors away. Javier scrambles to catch up with her. “So,” he says, “come here often?”

“Don’t you have a job to get back to?” she says. “You and your big, scary bloodhounds.”

“They only allow one bloodhound for a partner, and he’s pissing me off. Besides, how could I just let you walk around by yourself out here? It’s dangerous.”

She pokes him in the stomach. “You’re the dangerous one, Peña.”

She stops between two vendors’ carts and stares up at him with her hands on her hips. For a moment, Javier worries he’s in trouble, and he’s about to open his mouth to apologise, when she asks, “Are you free tonight?”

It is frankly humiliating how fast he blurts out a yes.

“Good,” she says plainly. “I’ll teach you how to bake.”

Javier is practically salivating when he arrives at her door for dinner. There are two reasons for it.

One: whatever she’s cooking smells incredible. It’s a lot fucking nicer than the shit he eats at home—on the rare nights he remembers to eat after all the long nights at work.

Two: she’s dressed in loungewear. It’s a pair of shorts and a too-large sweatshirt. It should not make him half-hard. But she’s adjusting the bun on top of her head when she opens the door and beams at him and Christ, he’s going to be lucky if he lasts the night without excusing himself to his car to relieve his situation like a horny teenage boy.

A grin splits her face, and she leans on the door. “You brought flowers.”

He did. He thrusts them out in front of him and grimaces, his face warm. “You like lilies.”

“Yeah,” she says softly, squeezing the hand that holds the bouquet of white flowers, “I do. Come in, Javi.”

He thinks of himself as a gentleman where it counts, so he bites his tongue when he takes in the state of her apartment. She isn’t messy—she’s clearly done her best to keep up appearances, despite the fact there are leaks bleeding down the walls and peeling wallpaper and her bed is mere feet from the puny bathroom. Javier feels suddenly embarrassed by his own swanky place, set up for him by the DEA. He’s hit with a burst of cold air when he enters the room, and she crosses the room, flowers in hand, to fiddle with the thermostat.

“I’m sorry it’s so chilly,” she says sheepishly. “This thing needs fixing. Unless the problem is behind the wheel.” She tries to dial the heat up by two degrees, but the dial falls off and lands next to her feet. She just sighs. “You ever go undercover as a handyman, by any chance?”

He chuckles, closing the door behind him. The broken chain lock worries him; there’s nothing but the lock on the door to stop someone from breaking in, and picking this sort of lock is too simple. “I don’t go undercover,” he tells her, “but I can smack your landlord around.”

She hums. “They’ll trace it back to me. Gotta be careful about those things, Peña. There should be a vase in that cupboard behind you.”

He finds it, fills it with water (which sputters for a while before it runs), and places it on the dining table (barely big enough for two). She places the flowers inside and smiles fondly. “You have an eye for décor.”

“Wrong,” says Javier, “I have an ear, and it listens to what the woman likes.”

She swats him gently in the chest. “Flattery doesn’t excuse you from helping the woman in the kitchen. Get an apron on those hips.”

Javier decides he hates baking. But she makes it tolerable.

His job is full of tedium. He likes to leave that behind in his personal life. She’s so easy to be around, to talk to. He likes leaving the Embassy, leaving behind the narcos, and knowing she’ll be the first person he talks to the next morning. There’s no politics, no bureaucracy, no bullshit with her. He trusts her.

Baking is tedious as shit. It’s precise, all about waiting, timing, and the end result is only good if you’ve worked like hell for it. It’s too much like work.

She has flour on her nose, and he lifts his thumb to wipe it away. The look she gives him makes him forget why he hates baking.

Javier tried to knead the dough for the pie crust but ended up treating it like an interrogation suspect, so she did as promised and placed her hands over his. He remembers her cheek resting against his arm as she leaned around him, felt her breasts on his back, her impossibly soft hands, her warmth.

“Be nice to it,” she whispered. “We don’t want our food to bite back.”

“It’s delicious, Javi,” she says, finishing her last bite of the apple pie. They made it, together. Javier is proud of that no matter how much sweat he wasted slaving over that oven. “Worth all the pain and swearing?”

“Fucking malparido,” he hissed. She whipped around, eyes wide. He rubbed his elbow. “Burned myself.”

“Oh, honey,” she said, wetting a cloth with cool water and wrapping it around his arm. She was always quick to react, quick to soothe. “¿Mejor? (Better?)”

He liked the way Spanish rolled off her tongue. It was sweet and smooth, not quite fluent but proficient enough to fake it. He grinned down at her. “Eres demasiado buena para mi, bebita (You’re too good to me, baby).”

She looked away and he pretended not to notice her smile.

“Yeah,” he says. “Worth it.”

It is a damn good pie.

He’s still in her apartment four hours later, and she hasn’t given him a hint she wants him gone. It’s the longest he’s spent at a woman’s home without getting into bed with her. Sure, he wants to, but Javier’s content here, on her small sofa, sharing a bottle of wine.

“So. Want to tell me how you ended up working in a café in Bogotá, married as far down as someone can possibly go?”

She shoves him lightly. “Don’t rub it in, Javier.”

“Just can’t get my head around a guy like that marrying a woman so far out of his league. You’re you, cariño. He’s—”

“A moron?”

“You said it, honey.”

She traces her finger around the rim of her wine glass. “Javi, I trust you. I honest-to-God trust you more than I’ve let myself trust anyone in a long time.”

He lifts a brow and ducks his head to meet her eyes. “That’s a good start.”

She lets out a shaky sigh. “I came to Colombia to help take care of my sister. She was sick. Nicolás approached me one night while I was out for her medication. He offered me work, told me it would pay more than anywhere could. I was desperate and stupid enough to buy it.”

Javier doesn’t like where this is going. Still, he places a hand atop her knee and lets her continue. “He turned me into a whore, Javi. I don’t care about that, not really. It paid, it gave me work. But the things he would make me do…” She breathes in harshly, like the memory pains her. “He made me believe he loved me. I married him, and my sister died anyway.

“My brother-in-law is a lawyer. When I served the papers, Nicolás took all the money and ran off. He only started coming back a few months ago, trying to make me believe he’s broke.”

Javier brushes a knuckle across her chin. His rage, horror, and sadness are a cocktail in his aching head. Her husband was her pimp. He forced her into sex with men and then put her money in his pocket. Javier wants to act—he needs to help her, to pull strings with folks outside the DEA and get the asshole to sign the papers. If not, a restraining order could work. But there are tears falling down her cheeks, and Javier’s plan of action retreats to the back of his mind. He smooths back her hair and places a kiss on her forehead. “Thank you for telling me,” he whispers, nearly chokes out, voice strained. “Thank you.”

She sniffles. “I can see your wheels turning, Javi. What are you thinking?”

“I know how it feels to be trapped in a marriage,” he tells her. She frowns.

“You were married?”

“Nearly,” he amends. “The kid wasn’t mine.”

“Ah.” She nods in understanding, like that’s all the explanation she needs. “We’ve both been truly fucked over, huh?”

He lifts his glass in toast. “That we have.”

She clinks their glasses together. “To making bad decisions.”

He chuckles. “I can toast to that.”

“Like… none?” Steve peers at him from across their desks. It’s times like these Javier hates being forced to sit right in the bullpen with Murphy. “None at all? How long?”

“You wanna play this game, Murphy? Really?” Javier glares. “When’s the last time you got fucked by your wife, huh?”

Murphy throws a pen at him, but Javier catches it. “Don’t talk about my wife, Peña. And since you’re curious, last night.”

Well, fucking good for Steve Murphy. Javier hasn’t cared to get in bed with a woman for weeks; even in the weeks before that, the sex was nothing inspiring, nothing good enough to make him forget about how badly he wants his waitress’s sweet body beneath him.

“Fuck your hand later, man,” says Murphy, “we got doors to knock on.”

Javier rubs his hand over his jaw. “I’m sitting this one out. Got another lead to look at.”

Murphy grunts. “Sure. Make sure you pay her well.”

“Fuck you.”

Javier waits outside the unassuming house, drumming his fingers beneath the driver’s side window with his sunglasses pushed down to the tip of his nose. He has triple-checked the address, memorised the routine of the man he’s watching, but it still unnerves him when he finds himself waiting for a long damn time for him to emerge.

When he does, Javier steps out of his car and walks right up to him. “Nicolás.”

The man curses when he sees Javier, surging forward. “You want to assault a DEA agent?” Javier challenges, choosing Spanish. “I just want to talk.”

“You assaulted me, you son of a bitch,” says Nicolás. “She send you?”

“No. But you’re going to sign the papers.”

Nicolás scoffs. “Just because you’re fucking my wife—”

Javier itches to pull his gun and press it to the asshole’s forehead until he shits himself in fear. “I’m not fucking your wife,” he says, “but it doesn’t seem like you are, either.”

Nicolás snarls. “I’m not signing the papers.”

Javier feels dirty when he reaches inside his vehicle and pulls out the divorce papers he stole from her bedside table. Nicolás’s brows come down in a furious line. “This is coercion,” he says.

“It’s a warning.” Javier’s patience is waning. “She’s not going to be nice forever, and neither am I. I won’t lose sleep if you go to jail.”

“Let me tell you something,” says Nicolás. “I own her. I have owned her from the moment she signed her contract and I will own her even if she’s not my wife. I have shit on her that will destroy any chance she has at a life, a career. You’ll have to do a lot better than fucking divorce papers.”

Javier’s jaw ticks, but he’s already tucked away the information he needs. He’s going to get her out.

That night, she shows up at his home.

Javier opens the door when a soft knock sounds. He’s not expecting anyone, which is why his gun is tucked into his waistband.

Her face is puffy with tears, and Javier is on red alert. His hairs stand on end and he steps into the hallway, crowding her gently so he can place his hands on her shoulders. Her lower lip trembles when he touches her. “Oh, cielito,” he murmurs. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

She shivers. It’s raining outside, and she’s soaked to the bone, her pretty skirt clinging to her thighs and her knit cardigan a blanket of sopping fabric. He knows she doesn’t have a car, that she walks everywhere, but he feels like an asshole for not tracking her down and picking her up anyway. “Went to the Embassy,” she says, teeth chattering. “I found your friend Steve; he gave me your address.”

“Oh, shit, honey.” He grimaces. “I’m sorry. He’s an asshole.”

She tries to laugh, but tears are still rolling down her cheeks. “I—I’m sorry, Javier. I didn’t know where else to go.”

Javier ushers her inside and she stands timidly on the mat while he closes the door behind them. “C’mon, take your shoes off. Can I…?” She nods, and he helps her shrug off the heavy wet cardigan while she slips off her tennis shoes, still hesitant about stepping onto his hardwood floors. “A little water never hurt me, honey. I don’t pay for this place. C’mere, I’ll get you some clothes.”

She holds herself reserved and taut as she follows him, but does not step beyond the threshold into his bedroom. He roots through his closet and refuses to look at the bed. Javier does not let himself imagine her lying there, both of them rolling around in hazy desire, morning laziness, and close talks while squinting against the morning sunlight. He finds a pair of sweatpants and an old, shitty sweatshirt emblazoned with Texas A&M spirit. She smiles down at it and says in a wrecked voice, “It’s gathering cobwebs, viejo.”

He wants to fire something back about her smart mouth, but he doesn’t have the heart. Not when she’s crying. “You can change in here,” he says. “I’ll make you some coffee. That okay?”

“You don’t have to—”

“I’ll make some for myself, too. How about that?”

Finally, she nods. “Okay.”

He leaves her just as she’s beginning to pull off her shirt, and he warns his heartbeat to settle before working on the coffee pot. Javier doesn’t let himself think much when he’s working. He tries to get the job done, accomplish what’s necessary. If he thinks… Well, if he thinks, he’ll think about why she’s crying. He’ll wonder what happened to her that was so bad she didn’t have anywhere else to go. He’ll want to track whoever did this to her down and the things he’ll do to them will be horrific enough to land him in jail, let alone fired. No. He’ll make coffee. He will assure that she’s comfortable. He will not—

Fuck.

Javier’s brain goes blank, like he’s wiped all the chalk off the board, when she emerges wearing his clothes. Her feet are bare, the sweatshirt too big, her arms hugging herself as she pads over to him. It’s almost domestic; it’s his fucking dream, seeing her in his home like this, and he can’t enjoy it because she’s in trouble.

He hands her a mug and waits for his brain to restart. They sit together on his sofa and she watches him for a while, scanning his face.

He doesn’t realise until a minute passes that he’s fucked up. Royally.

Her gaze is soft. “I don’t blame you, Javi. Please don’t blame yourself.”

Javier pinches the bridge of his nose and curses at himself in Spanish. “I… Fuck, I just wanted to help. I promise you.”

She reaches out and grasps his hand. “I know,” she says. “He didn’t hurt me.”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice raspy, “he did.”

She shuffles closer, and he can feel her fresh warmth, smell her dewy hair, watch her irises shimmer in the dim light. He clenches her hand tighter. “I’m okay,” she says, reassuring him even though he’s the one who brought the wrath of her husband down upon her. “Just had to see you.”

“Tell me what he did to you.”

“Knocked on my door and told me off for getting involved with a hijo de puta like you.” She smiles wryly, looking down at their joined hands. “His words. Then he told me you showed up at his house, threatened him.”

He tries a joke and feels even more rotten inside for it. “Couldn’t help it. He’s easily threatened.”

Now, as the initial panic subsides, Javier begins to think.

There isn’t a noise inside his home besides the sound of their breathing. He’s wearing jeans, a button-up, and he still feels like he’s on fire. She’s on his fucking couch. Her legs are tucked underneath her and she’s sipping his coffee, and she’s so close to him her arm brushes against him whenever she shifts. Her face is a foot away from his; there are little specks in her eyes, tear tracks on her face; she parts her lips to say something, and his ears begin to ring. He needs her. He needs her close.

Javier cups her face in his hand and brushes his thumb along her chin. She leans into his touch like it’s the most natural thing he could do, like they aren’t crossing a hundred lines. Both of the mugs are set down on the coffee table. She turns her body to face him, looking up at him with doe’s eyes, and his entire body hums for her.

“He knows, Javier.” Her voice is a whisper. “He knows what you mean to me. He said if I don’t start working for him again, he’ll kill you.” She licks her lips, curling her fingers around his forearm. Her eyes are welling up again. “I can’t…”

“Shh, cielito.” He wants her out of her head, wants his girl back. He drops his voice, too, and tucks her hair behind her ear. “Gonna get you out of this.”

She’s butter beneath him, soft and sighing. “Javi, I—”

“I know.” His other hand slips around her hip, fingers teasing the skin beneath the hem of his sweatshirt. She’s so soft.

He drinks in her little gasp. “We can’t—”

“I know.” He brings his hand forward, pressing gently into the small of her back and enjoying the way her warm body curves to him. He slides his hand back around the curve of her waist, memorising, relishing, making a map of the places he wants to explore.

She whimpers when his hand leaves her skin, only to rest between her hip and thigh. “He’ll use it against me.”

“I know, baby.” She’s close enough now that he can brush his lips to her temple in the mere suggestion of a kiss. “We’re gonna do this right,” he says, trailing his hand back up her side so he can grab her other hand and squeeze. “Hey? You and me.”

She nods fervently. “You and me.”

“That’s my girl,” he says into her ear.

“What do I do?”

“It’s already done. I just need you to do the final step for me.”

She traces her fingers along his jawline and he feels the tremor through his spine. He’s at home, here, melting under her touch. He nudges the pads of her fingers with his nose, and she smiles at him like he saved her life. “Anything,” she whispers.

#kiwisbell's fics #pedro pascal #javier peña smut #javier peña fic #javier peña fanfiction #javier peña #javier peña x reader #narcos #narcos fic #narcos fanfiction

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a-small-writer-in-a-big-world · 5 months

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Last cbf soap thought (for now 😉)

Seeing each other dressed up for the first time. Maybe to a date, wedding, etc.

My thought is like in the movies when this is the first time the friends are seeing each other in a more than friends way 😍🥰 it generally sparks Jealousy, lust, and just kick starts the feels!!!

oh man yesss. Where they both realize "wait...i might be in love with my best friend."

Johnny doesn't knock when he enters your house. He's there so often he has a spare key so it's like he lives there anyway. You wouldn't know he was there if he hadn't called out to you because you were in the bathroom putting the finishing touches of your makeup on your face.

"Was thinking we could-what's going on?" His eyebrows knitted together as he takes in your face.

"I'm going on a date!" You beam at him but he doesn't smile back, in fact his face pulls into a scowl.

"A date?"

Jealousy immediately began to fester. A date? Like an actual date that might end up with a kiss on your lips that wasn't from him?

Your eyebrows knit together from his tone and you give him a look.

"Yeah? Matt asked me to dinner." You explained and his scowl grew worse.

"Matt?" He exclaimed. "He used to cheat off you in bio."

"I don't know what that has to do with anything."

It didn't have relevance but he was hoping that maybe it would deter you from the date. He was trying to come up with something bad about Matt to get you to not go on a date with him. What if you found out you really like him and then suddenly started dating him?

There was no way Johnny was going to stop being friends with you just because of Matt.

"He was dating one of The Mean Girls a couple months ago." He tried but you shrugged as you pushed past him to go to your room.

It was glaring red flag, he knew you knew that but for some reason you were being stubborn. Is he really going to be that much more fun that Johnny? He really doubted that...

"It's one date." You called out to him from behind your closed door as you got dressed. "And like a real date too."

Johnny huffed and crossed his arms. Were none of the outings you both had together enough? He could argue that they were dates...but you didn't see him like that and he wouldn't say that to you.

You opened the door and his face softened.

"How do I look?" You asked, hopeful for his answer but for a moment he couldn't think.

Fucking beautiful. Stunning. Like you deserve the world and everything good in it. There were no words to describe it other than the feeling of warmth.

Johnny was far too deep in love to answer you truthfully.

"If I said ugly would you stay?" He said seriously and you rolled your eyes.

"Seriously?"

"What if I wanted to hang out with you tonight?"

"We can after my date!"

Johnny went to protest but you began to push him down the stairs and towards the backdoor. He fought against you but you were adamant that he leave to the point that he almost felt a little hurt you were kicking him out of your house.

"Just go home! I'll text you when I get back and then we can do whatever you want." You told him, struggling to push him towards the door and scoffed.

"As if I'm gonna let him bring you back home. What if he asks to come inside?"

"John!"

"Fine!"

Johnny spent the next three hours sulking in his room at home. Between checking for your messages and ranting to himself about how stupid it was that you were going on a date with someone else, he was starting to worry why it was taking so long.

What the hell was going on?

"That's it." He huffed and called you, not caring if he would be interrupting your date.

"Hey..."

Oh no. He knew that tone. You've been crying.

"What happened?" He's already rushing to get back to your house as soon as possible.

"He didn't show."

Bastard. The next time Johnny sees him...it didn't matter. He just wanted to be with you right now and comfort you instead of think of the asshole who stood you up.

"I'll be there."

"Okay."

Before long Johnny was walking up to your bedroom. He knew where to find you, hidden underneath the covers of your bed clutching your bunny for comfort.

He didn't hesitate to lift the covers and crawl in with you. To anyone else this would look romantic but for you and Johnny this was just second nature. Both of you lost count of how many times you accidentally and purposefully shared a bed together.

When he found you in the dark, he pulled you close to his chest and gave you a firm squeeze.

"I'm sorry." He whispered and you let out a shaky breath.

"Thanks for coming back." You sniffled and he tightened his hold on you.

"Always, bonnie."

The two for you stayed silent for a while, just basking in the comfort of each other. Johnny couldn't feel happy that you date didn't go as planned even if he had been against it, not when you were so upset about it not happening at all.

Instead, he wanted to make you happier than Matt ever could.

"You wanna go get food somewhere?" He offered, pulling the blankets off yours heads. "Can eat in the car or I'll take you to a fancy restaurant."

You rolled over to look at him. Your eyes were bloodshot and puffy as you stared at him with uncertainty while he gave you a soft smile.

It's not like it was the first time you two had ever eaten dinner together, but something about this felt different. Something about the way he was looking at you made your heart flutter and those pushed down feelings from when he kissed you last year came back.

Why would you ever want to go on a date with someone else when you loved Johnny?

"I'm a mess."

"I think you look pretty."

You scoffed and he chuckled, pulling you into his chest again. You buried your face in it, letting a few more tears fall before you took a deep breath.

"I don't care where we go."

You're just happy it's with him.

#childhood best friend!soap #AHHHHH #john soap mactavish #john soap mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish x you #john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mctavish x you #soap x reader #soap x you #slow burn #is burnin

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weirdly-specific-but-ok · 3 months

Text

hi it's the good omens mascot here's some shit about me that might be relevant

I appear to have accidentally caused chaos so I figured you might as well know about me since I'm responsible for it. And also so that you know who you broke, thanks ineffable fandom.

I have been called the prophet by some of you all. This is not entirely untrue, but I would like to add as I did in one post, that Apollo also gave me the curses of art, (very emotional) music, (sometimes good mostly dreadful) poetry, (same parentheses apply, except that the dreadful is on purpose) writing and (used to be good now dreadful) medical knowledge, and so yes, you did accidently adopt a messenger of an ancient Greek god.

Yes, this entire entry into your cult happened from start to now happened in 48 hours.

This will seem less bizarre when I give you context about me and fandoms. I changed career paths (after three years of intense study that cost me my sanity) from science to the arts because I was inspired by drarry fanfiction of them leaving their ministry jobs and following their dreams. Yes I tossed three years and my loss of sanity away in one week of decisions. I'm now a designer. Thanks Draco.

I read so much drarry fanfiction that my mum had to take me to the hospital for injured wrists. I wore wrist and elbow supports and was in constant pain for a few months. I was only later introduced to autoscroll. Yes, I am a fool. Yes, I am unaware of how to human.

I'm broke and cheap enough that I feel guilty buying bottled water, but for Christmas I spent the equivalent of around 150 bottles of water getting a Bakewell tart custom made (they don't sell them where I live). Why? Because in one single fanfiction, it is Draco's favourite food. I would never spend that kind of money on a dessert for any real human being.

That is to say, you all are not ready for when I REALLY fall for Crowley. I don't saunter vaguely downwards for people. I bypass earth and crash into hell, leaving a smoking pit in its infernal ground.

I swear I'm not as dumb as I seem, I just have ZERO general knowledge, and am terrible with faces. I can tell you what the graffiti on the walls of Pompeii from before 70 AD said but I don't know who my previous president was, and personally I think that's very classy of me.

Some of you seem concerned about my sleep schedule. Worry not, I sleep in four installments, night, morning nap, afternoon nap, evening nap. I sleep more than you all, that I can promise. I sleep more than my doggy sister.

About the streams and the timezones, I have no idea how to make it so people can watch, because I frequently mix up east and west and last morning I mixed up the Pacific and Atlantic ocean. I don't know at what point the Eastern hemisphere becomes the Western or how any of it works. I also thought Wakanda was a real place.

But hey fun fact, in 2020 diclofenac sales were dropping in Iceland. I know this because I wanted to make sure to use the correct painkiller in one sentence of a story I was writing. It was completely irrelevant. But hey any of you writers here probably feel my pain. I don't write fanfiction, but I am an author and I write original stories. And honestly what is more useful, Icelandic diclofenac sales from three years ago or timezones?

A career test once told me to be a standup comedian.

Yes that's me Asmi, just your regular dumbass lad who is slightly unhinged, serving himbo twink energy, hello hi nice to meet you all. PS: the poll results are out and Doctor Who won, so tremble, DW fandom.

#good omens fandom #good omens mascot #asmi #weirdly-specific-but-ok #this is me y'all #good omens brainrot #thanks for breaking me i figured you should know about me #crowley #just crowley i'm going to shatter soon #drarry #draco malfoy #fandom culture #fandom things #doctor who #dw fandom #more inaccurate summaries coming up #good omens #fanfiction #and how it ruined and saved me

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skyahri · 27 days

Text

Blind |Naruto Men X Uchiha!Reader| HC

Characters: Kakashi Hatake, Shikamaru Nara, Sasuke Uchiha, Naruto Uzumaki, Madara Uchiha, Hashirama Senju

Summary: How they handle their partner losing their sight due to the effects of the Mangekyo Sharingan.

Warnings: Mentions of fem, but not very relevant. Mentions of war and loss of sight.

- - - - -

Kakashi Hatake

He knew the day would come when the Sharingan would take your vision, but he didn't know it'd be so soon.

There were no other eyes available to you at the moment, so eternal was not an option.

Not that'd you do it anyway. It was highly against your beliefs to partake in the Uchiha nonsense that was eye swapping.

Something that drew Kakashi towards you in the first place.

You'd been preparing for this day since you first awakened your mangekyo.

You'd memorized the layout of your apartment, practiced roaming the village in a blind fold, and learned braille.

You'd been coping well, Kakashi... not so much.

He couldn't deal with the knowledge that you'd sacrificed your vision for the sake of the village.

You'd given up everything during your years as a shinobi, and this was the icing on top of the cake.

He'd watch you every day.

Watch you drag your hands across the walls of your apartment. Watch you walk a bit too far past the stall in the market. Watched you struggle to do simple things like grocery shopping.

Over time, you'd become worse and worse at eye contact, and that ate him alive.

There were no more longing looks or sneaky glances. Even your attempts to appear as if you could see were slowly declining, and it dampened his mood every time.

He felt as if he'd failed you. If only he'd been stronger, you wouldn't have had to overuse your doujutsu.

But he stayed quiet because you seemed happy. You were alive and safe and happy, and that's all he could ask for.

Shikamaru Nara

After the war, your vision had completely vanished. There were no blurry shapes or deaf perception problems because there was simply no sight.

There was no time to prepare. You hadn't planned on having to use the mangekyo so much in battle, and the price was astronomical.

He tried to help where he could, but you were being stubborn, constantly rejecting any aid he tried to provide.

"Just let me-"

"I told you I can do it myself."

"No, you can't, just let me-"

And that's when he felt the sobs rack through your body. Tears quickly fell down your face and your hands couldn't keep up.

He sighed and forced everything out of your hands.

"I can't do anything anymore."

"That's not true."

You scoffed, a bitter laugh leaving your lips.

"I can't go grocery shopping or cut fruit or put dishes away without running into everything or breaking something or,"

"Give it time. It'll get better."

"Two weeks ago, I was a shinobi. Today, I'm just a blind girl who can barely feed herself."

Shikamaru wasn't sure what to do. Strategy was easy becausebit was all factual. Feelings, though? So many variables he didn't know where to start.

He confided in Kakashi at some point, but wasn't too pleased with the advice he got it.

"Let her figure it out. She's a smart girl."

Despite thinking it was a stupid suggestion, he listened.

Slowly, over time, you'd regained your confidence and became the capable person you had previously been.

Doesn't stop Shikamaru from uncharacteristically babying you sometimes, though.

Sasuke Uchiha

He offered you his eyes, but you declined.

You weren't fond of Uchiha tradition despite being raised by it. Taking his eyes just felt like you'd be starting the new age Uchiha clan off on the wrong foot.

So you chose blindness.

It was difficult at first, but you quickly learned to get around and help yourself with little to no issue.

You'd gone from stumbling around the kitchen to making yourself breakfast within a few months.

Living with out sight wasn't too bad, and you'd grown accustomed to it. You felt like you'd made the right decision.

Until your first son was born.

It wasn't the parenting aspect that you found difficult, it was the emotional one.

When Sasuke told you your son looked just like Itachi, you knew you'd have to see for yourself.

So, you allowed Sakura to do the transplant.

Within seconds after the bandages were off and you had time to adjust to light, your sight was fully restored.

Sasuke brought in your baby, and wouldn't you know it? He looks exactly like Itachi.

The sharingan is based on strong emotions, yeah? Maybe you can base it on love in the new Era.

Naruto Uzumaki

Unlike the others, Naruto finds the whole eye transplant thing horrendous.

"What do you mean by that, huh? You freaks just trade eyes like around? That's the worst thing I've ever heard."

Although he wasn't happy with your newfound loss of sight, he wasn't one to label anything as a downside.

A setback? Sure. Negative? Never.

Hes overall very patient about it, even if in the moment he gets a little ahead of himself.

He's always forgetting that you're blind, so he'll ask you to look at things all the time.

"Hey, what's this?"

You just shrug. He may or may not bring your hand to the object to get a feel, but he mostly just gets embarrassed and drops it.

It honestly hadn't really dawned on him until he asked you to go train with him and you'd refused.

Sure, you could overtime work yourself up to be a shinobi again, but at this point in your life, that just wasn't the dream anymore.

Madara Uchiha

He thinks you're being stupid.

This world is all about power and you're choosing to be blind?

Idiotic.

You may be his wife, but he ignores you for quite some time after you make it clear there will be no eternal in your future.

It's an easy justification for him; he doesn't mingle with the weak.

Life gets pretty lonely after he decides to completely shut you out. Yeah, he sees Hashirama and makes his round through the compound, but it's not the same.

It isn't until he sees you in the village, going about life as you had months ago, that he starts to think maybe he was too hasty.

After all, he had married you for many reasons, and a big one was how skilled you were at adapting.

That night, when he finally returns home, he decides to sleep in your marital bed, not in the guest room.

The next day, he joins you for breakfast.

He came home early from his duties for the first time in a while.

He even started speaking to you once again.

You don't say anything right away. You know how he is about changing his mind, and you aren't willing to push your luck.

Things slowly get better over the span of a few weeks, and that's when you decide it's time to question him.

"I take it you've come to terms with my decision?"

"Of course not. I still think you're a fool."

Just the answer you'd expect.

"But I have missed you dearly."

You smile at him.

Hashirama Senju

The eternal was never something either of you had considered, so when your vision eventually dulled, it was fully expected.

Times were peaceful at the moment, so he had no need to worry for your safety.

You were almost always near someone willing to lay their life down for you- himself, Tobirama (reluctantly), or Madara - so there truly was no need to stress.

He helped as much as he could while also attending to his duties as Hokage.

Unlike Naruto, he had true patience. He happily held your hand every step of the way.

It wasn't long before your life was back on track, no longer burdened by the anxiety that came with cluelessness.

While Hashirama had preferred it never come to this in the first place, he was happy that things had worked out as best as they possibly could.

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basketonthedoorstepofthefbi · 2 days

Text

Shaking (Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: You have an anxiety attack in a public setting, but luckily, the doctor is there to help you through it.

Word Count: 2450

Warnings: Anxiety attack, mild cursing, mostly just ANGST and then comforting FLUFF

A/N: Wanted to write Spence comforting the reader during a panic attack. Fanfiction is better than therapy, right? At least, it’s cheaper! Also not my GIF

——

“You don’t want to just order it online?” Spencer asked as you walked beside him down the sidewalk. His longer legs would typically mean that he’d be several steps ahead of you, but he always slowed his pace so you wouldn’t have to strain to keep up with him. He also walked on the outside of the path because, let’s face it, he was a gentleman.

You shook your head. “No, I want the whole experience,” you said excitedly as you walked, your face lighting up in anticipation. You were on your way towards a local bookstore, where the third book in your favorite series was being released today. The bookstore was going to be packed, but you were so excited to be one of the first ones in the door, to get your hands on a physical copy. “I don’t ever do things like this, but it’ll be something I think about every time I look at the book sitting on my shelf.”

Spencer nodded, lifting his hand, his thumb and forefinger in an O-shape as he spoke. “Ah, the age-old concept of symbolic treasures. One of the main reasons why souvenirs are such a prevalent part of going on vacation. Did you know the tradition dates back to Ancient Egypt?”

You shook your head as you continued to walk with him. Your boyfriend carried on without fault. “As far back as 2200 B.C, Egyptian Prince Harkhuf traveled to what is now known as Sudan and returned with all sorts of objects to present to his father, the pharaoh,” Spencer explained. His words spat out quickly, compulsively, as though they had to exit his encyclopedic brain. “He brought back items such as incense, ivory, even the skins of leopards to show off to his father.”

“I had no idea,” you told Spencer as you neared the bookstore, smiling sideways at him. You loved it when he spouted off facts like that, like he had to get the information out or else he’d explode. He had confessed to you more than once before that most people found it weird or off-putting or even annoying, but not you. Rather, you loved learning new things. Whatever information he had to share with you was always relevant in one way or another, and it was just one of the reasons why you loved spending time with him - he made you a more knowledgeable, well-rounded person.

Before either of you could say much else, you’d reached the back of the line of the bookstore. You checked the time on your phone. The store would open in about fifteen minutes. The line stretched down at least a full block, from what you could see. Lots of people dressed like characters from the books, shuffling their feet in excited anticipation.

There were at least a hundred people in the line, and after a minute or two, a couple dozen more had filed in behind where you stood. You pursed your lips for a moment, scanning the crowd until your eyes met Spencer’s.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, inclining his head to the side.

You shook your head. “Nothing,” you said. “Just… lot of people.”

Spencer nodded understandingly, then reached down to take your hand. Your fingers twined with his and he squeezed his palm against yours. “I’m right here,” he reminded you. You didn’t love crowds. They always made you feel anxious, perhaps even a little claustrophobic. You and Spencer had gone to a fairly crowded French film festival a few months ago and there hadn’t been an organized line to enter; rather, it had been a cluster of people, all pressed together. And you had felt like you couldn’t breathe. Spencer’d had to pull you to a seat off to the side so you could catch your breath, and you’d missed getting a seat up front like you’d been hoping for.

Right now, you were okay, though. There were people in front of you and behind you, but they weren’t flush against you like they had been waiting for the film festival to open. And Spencer was holding your hand, and you were outside, with the cool, spring morning breeze hitting your face. It was fine. You were going to be fine. You inhaled deeply and exhaled, then nodded your head, feeling the anxiety dissipate. “I’m good,” you told Spencer, looking up at him.

Spencer nodded. He squeezed your hand once again before letting go, only so he could wrap his arm around your shoulders and tug you so you leaned against his chest. He kissed the top of your hair. “It’s going to be just fine,” he promised you, and you just smiled to yourself.

About ten minutes later, the store opened. You only knew that because the line started moving, and more quickly than you thought. You squealed in delight and matched the pace of the people in front of you, Spencer by your side with an amused grin on his face. He loved books just as much as you did, if not more, but this outing was definitely just for you. He’d read the other preceding books in this series (literally just because you asked him to and it took him an hour, tops), but he wasn’t a total geek for it like you were.

You finally made it inside the bookstore, a small business, a local place. You’d been inside several times before, but you hadn’t realized just how small the building actually was until you stepped in now. It was two stories, but everyone was tightly packed, with the people and the bookshelves crowding around you as you made it fully inside the store. There was even a line to go up to the second floor, like a queue at an amusement park.

There was little to no breathing room. Everyone was talking as they waited their turn to grab a copy of the new book, and the sound seemed to bounce off the walls and the ceiling and smack you right in the ear. The air felt thick despite the front door and handful of windows being opened, allowing the cool spring breeze to ruffle the pages of the paperbacks on display.

But it wasn’t refreshing. Rather, it was another stimulant that caused the neurons in your brain to fire even faster. You felt your palms get slick. You felt your heart start to pound, and your knees wobble as you shuffled forward in the line. What were you even waiting in line for? You momentarily forgot, blinking a few times before looking up at the man beside you. Spencer was engrossed in looking around the bookstore, the corners of his mouth quirking upward as he seemed to find something amusing. But when his eyes came full circle back to you, they were immediately filled with concern. “Y/N?” He asked softly, placing a hand on your shoulder.

You couldn’t even hear him. The sound of his voice just bounced off your brain, like you were trapped inside of cellophane. All you could think was trapped. I’m trapped. No way out. Stuck. Caged. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.

You felt your breathing go heavy, and your eyes fill up with tears. Your cheeks were red, bright red, judging from how hot you suddenly felt. “Leave,” you managed to choke out, your voice coming out from your throat. It felt like your throat was lined with thorns, like the words you wanted to say kept getting caught.

Spencer nodded. “Leave? Yeah. Yeah, baby, we can leave,” Spencer grabbed your hand, tugging you along behind him as he murmured “excuse me, pardon me,” to the other patrons, to get through the crowd. Moving against the crowd was so much worse than standing still. All those eyes on you, seeing your red face and the anxious tears trickling down your cheeks. It was so embarrassing, freaking out like this is such a public space. Everyone thinks I’m a freak, you thought. Your anxiety became not about the crowd, but about your anxiety, about how you were being perceived. Your breathing picked up, quickened, and by the time Spencer led you out into the morning sun, you were fully hyperventilating.

The thoughts in your head were racing at the speed of light. You hated feeling nervous like this, but moreover, you hated that Spencer had to take care of you because of it. You felt like you had ruined the day because your head wasn’t on straight, because you couldn’t stand in a crowd of people and hear the cacophony of voices and tamp down your panic.

Spencer led you down the block, about twenty feet from the store, away from the crowd, and your breath was still coming out staccato, unstable as you looked down at your shaking hands. You were crying and hyperventilating and the whole world felt like it was spinning. Spencer kept his hold on your hand and stood in front of you, squeezing his palm against yours. His eyes, those light brown irises with little flecks of green, stared into yours. “Hey, Y/N,” he said, bending his knees so his face was level with yours. “Breathe with me, okay?”

You shook your head, your eyes clamping shut. You were so mad at yourself in that moment. You didn’t want to have Spencer take care of you, to have to drag you out of a bookstore because you were having a panic attack. “Baby, you’re trembling,” you heard Spencer’s voice laced with concern. “Look at me. We’ll get through this together.”

You opened your eyes slowly, and that’s when you realized your entire body was shaking. You looked into Spencer’s eyes and he released your hand so he could cup your face. His fingers anchored under your jaw, his thumbs rested on your cheeks, and his eyes were wide, full of worry, but his voice managed to stay soothing and calm. “Follow my breath, Y/N. Do what I’m doing, okay? In for four, hold for four, out for four.”

He inhaled for 4 seconds, and you tried to follow his lead, but you just couldn’t control your lungs. “It’s okay,” he assured you as your brows furrowed, presenting frustration. “C’mon, try again.” He inhaled for 4 seconds, and you managed to match him this time. “Hold for four,” you held your breath while Spencer counted. “And out for four,” you exhaled deeply. “Good, okay, let’s do it again.”

Spencer guided your breath for a few minutes, until you finally felt like you could do it on your own. And when you finally felt yourself coming down from the rush of panic that had sent you into fight-or-flight, you wiped at your wet eyes. “I’m sorry,” you croaked, and Spencer just shook his head.

“No,” he insisted, taking your hand and placing it on his heart. You could feel it beating through his long-sleeved t-shirt. “No, you don’t have to be sorry.” You rubbed your hand against his chest, finding it comforting as you hung your head. “Baby, look at me,” he requested, and you met his eyes.

“Please don’t ever apologize for having an anxiety attack, okay? For one thing, it’s not your fault. You can’t control the chemicals and waves in your brain and how your body reacts to situations,” Spencer began, his hand on top of yours that rested on his chest. You nodded, using the heel of your free hand to wipe away your tears. The crying was over, you were fairly certain, but god, did this suck. “You also should never feel ashamed for having a panic attack, Y/N. It happened, and we’re working through it. It’s a lot like boiling a pot of water, isn’t it?”

You let out a garbled sounding laugh and your brows furrowed. “How so?” You stammered out.

“Well, you set the pot of water on the stove, right?” Spencer began, and you nodded. “And then when it starts to bubble, that’s your anxiety. Some sort of external stimulant - the stove, or, in your case, the overwhelming feeling of being in a crowd - is causing the water to bubble. And when the external stimulant increases in intensity, so too does your anxiety. And sometimes, yeah, the pot boils over.” Spencer shrugged like it was no big deal. “But then you just turn the stove off, grab a dishtowel, and clean up the mess. Problem solved.”

You cracked a half-hearted smile. “So in this metaphor, you’re a dishtowel?” You asked, curling your fingers around the fabric of his shirt.

“Technically, I think it’s a simile, but yes,” Spencer grinned as he looked in your eyes.

“But the book,” you sighed, looking back at the bookstore, which was still filtering people in and out slowly. The patrons leaving the store clutched their new copies of the book in their hands, grinning and taking pictures with their phones, laughing with their friends excitedly.

“Do you want to get back in line and try again?” Spencer asked, and you bit your cheek pensively.

“I don’t think so,” you said softly, defeatedly.

“That’s okay,” Spencer said. You loved that he wasn’t coddling you, he was just feeling it out, seeing what you were up for. “Do you want to get brunch somewhere and come back? Maybe the line will have died down by then?”

You nodded, your lips curling into a small smile. “Yeah,” you agreed. You realized your hand was still over his heart, rubbing at his chest. Your movement halted and you retracted your hand, but before your arm could fall completely at your side, Spencer scooped your hand up and kissed the back of your palm. “What if we come back and they’ve sold out of the book, though?” You asked as Spencer walked with you in the direction of one of your favorite brunch places, just a short walk from the bookstore.

“There are twenty-two independent bookstores in the D.C. metropolitan area alone,” Spencer rattled off. “If this one doesn’t have it, we’ll drive around until we find one that does.”

“What article did you read that told you how many bookstores were in D.C?” You asked. You often liked to challenge him by asking him to cite his sources.

“No article. I did a search on Google Maps last night,” Spencer explained.

“What, because you knew I’d freak out when we walked into this one?” You asked him.

Spencer shook his head. “No, just wanted to have a contingency plan in case our first stop sold out before we got there.”

“Always thinking ahead, huh, Boy Wonder?”

“Damn straight.” A smirk formed across Spencer’s lips.

You shook your head. “You’re the best dishtowel a girl could ask for.”

#spencer reid x fem!reader #criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #basketonthedoorstepofthefbi #criminal minds spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fanfics #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fluff

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belovedmusings · 6 months

Text

It’s just nerves.

Choso Kamo x You x Suguru Geto

Part one of the ‘Two + One’ story. Click for story masterlist.

Explicit Smut 18+ 🚫Minors DNI🚫

Guitarist! Choso Kamo is your boyfriend, and you’ve been together for a year. His previous band broke up and he’s been looking to join a new one ever since, so when he has an audition with a local up and coming one, you accompany him to give him support. That’s where you meet the band’s Bassist, Suguru Geto. The mutual attraction is immediate—but you love your boyfriend, and you resolve to keep your desires for Suguru suppressed, even as Choso is accepted into the band. The question is, can Suguru stay away from you?

Relevant tags: love triangle, sexual tension, slow burn, thoughts of infidelity, guilt, car sex, semi-public sex, accidental voyeurism, unprotected sex, creampie, PWP/Porn With Plot, shy and nervous Choso, Choso is a sweetheart as always, Suguru is a quiet yet confident flirt, Suguru has piercings and tattoos, you are addressed without the usage of “y/n”, AFAB reader with minimal usage of gendered language, reader has no defining characteristics for realism & inclusivity

Recommended songs to listen to while reading: You Right (Doja Cat, The Weeknd), nasty (Ariana Grande), West Coast (Lana Del Rey)

A/N: okay, hear me out. these two are an alt boy duo that i would not mind being tag-teamed by so…here tf we go. This was gonna be a one shot but I live for drama so there’ll be multiple parts.

Read below the cut:

Choso’s leg won’t stop bouncing up and down in the passenger seat as you drive towards the location of his audition.

He’s been looking for his place in a new band ever since his previous one broke up a few months ago, and he’d seen that the city’s most popular up-and-coming band Curse Manipulation posted an ad in need of a guitarist on their Instagram. The two of you like some of their music though you aren’t overly familiar with the band, so he figured it would be a no-brainer to audition.

You know he’s going to be accepted. Choso is an amazing guitarist, and he writes beautiful lyrics, too. Not to mention the haunting voice he can sing with.

You have complete faith in your boyfriend, and he is very aware of your support, and yet he’s still an endearing ball of nerves beside you.

“Hey,” you say softly, placing a hand on his thigh as you reach a red stoplight, easing onto the brake. You give him a reassuring smile. “You’re gonna do great, babe. I know it.”

He smiles half-convincingly at you, which in him is really just a twitch of the corner of his lips, and you can’t help but reach up and lovingly cup his chin between your thumb and index.

“I’ll be right there with you. So you don’t need to worry.”

He sighs, taking your hand in his and giving it a squeeze as the light turns green, allowing you to continue on your drive.

“Thanks,” his voice is quiet. “I just…really do like their sound. The more I think of it, the more I can see myself playing with them. I just hope they agree.”

“They will,” you say surely. “After it’s over, wanna get some McDonald’s? I think there’s a McFlurry with your name on it.”

He chuckles softly and nods. “Sure. That sounds good.”

You flash a grin as you turn onto the next street, entering a residential area with houses nicer than you were expecting. They aren’t mansions, but as you drive through, they’re definitely nicer than yours and Choso’s humble apartment.

“Huh. Didn’t know they made this much money already,” You think aloud, and he shifts beside you, also looking out of the window.

“I read about them a little,” Choso tells you, “Their bassist is a songwriter that’s pretty well-known in alternative music, apparently.”

“Yeah?” You ask, impressed. “So this guy’s a big shot?”

“Kinda,” Choso laughs breathily. “Honestly, I think that’s why I’m nervous.”

“You’re nervous that he’s a professional? A little intimidated?” You ask, and he shrugs.

“Could be,” he admits. “I mean, I know that I’m a good player, so that’s not it entirely. It’s just that if I do get put in the band, things’ll change. They’re gaining popularity, and with the experience he has, the band’s definitely going to get somewhere.”

You hum. “That sounds great. You’ve always wanted to do this as a career—and your stuff deserves to be heard, baby. Maybe you’re more excited than nervous.”

“Could be,” he shrugs, “It’s just a lot.”

“That’s understandable,” you reply, “It’s okay to be nervous. Auditions are scary as hell. But I’m telling you, it’s gonna be fine. We’re gonna get in there, you’re gonna play and blow them away, then we’ll get ourselves some delicious fast food and relax at home.”

He smiles softly at you, and you return it before looking back out of the windshield, seeing your destination approaching. You slow to a stop on the curb at the side of the house, shifting the car into park.

“All right,” You say. “We’re here. Ready?”

He takes a breath and nods. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

—-

A tall, pale man in a white muscle tank-top and baggy sweats greets the two of you at the door with a smile.

“Hi, you must be Choso,” He shakes hands with your boyfriend, “Suguru said you’d be coming. I’m Larue, the band’s drummer.”

“Hey,” greets Choso with his trademark small-smile, “I am. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Who’s this beauty you brought with you?” Larue asks, directing his attention to you.

You shake hands with Larue as you introduce yourself as Choso's significant other.

“Hi,” you greet, giving him your name. “I hope it’s okay I’m here.”

“Oh, of course,” Larue insists. “Come on in. The studio’s down the hall. Just leave your shoes by the door.”

He lets you two into the house, allowing you a chance to look around while you remove your shoes. It looks rather modern and minimal as a structure but the furniture has an eclectic, almost gothic feel to it, green plants livening up the space. It smells pleasant as well—like fresh juniper.

“This way,” Larue gestures to follow him, so you and your boyfriend do, your hand slipping into Choso’s to offer him comfort. He gives your hand a little pulse and you do one in reply as Larue leads you down the hallway, stopping at the door at the end. “Here we are.”

He pushes it open and enters, calling out to the occupants in the room. “Choso’s here for his audition!”

Choso enters first and you follow, entering the cozy studio, lit warmly with lamps, the floor covered in patchwork rugs, a sofa on one end across from a mixing board, and behind that, glass panes that lead to the sound booth, a room that houses the band’s instruments and equipment. Honestly, you’re impressed—you had no clue this band was so serious about their music. It makes your chest swirl with pride. This is the perfect chance for Choso’s talent to finally be recognized.

“Hey there, it’s nice to meet you in person,” a voice pulls you out of your appraisal and back towards the mixing board, where a man sits in a chair, smiling at your boyfriend. As soon as you look at him, his eyes meet yours, and you swear a little shock of electricity runs through you at that exact moment. His eyes flash with something indistinguishable. “I’m Suguru Geto. Bassist and frontman.”

Oh. He’s the singer, too? The bassist? That’s a little unusual, but it’s cool. He’s cool. He has gauges that are framed by long, dark hair, placid and gentle dark eyes, a pretty nose, smooth-looking lips with strong cheekbones and a sharp jawline to match. You can’t ignore the piercings he has on his face, one over his left eyebrow, thin silver hoops adorning his bottom lip in snake bites. Tattoos peak up from his collarbone under his black crew neck, and you trace your gaze down to his hands, fingers free of tattoos but the back of his hands themselves inked up, chunky silver rings making up for the empty room on his dexterous digits instead.

Your mouth goes dry. He’s gorgeous.

His eyes don’t leave you as he says, “who is this angel you brought with you?”

Choso’s hand on yours tightens, bringing you back to yourself. You manage a smile, trying to ignore your racing heart. You stutter as you answer him, cementing yourself as Choso's.

When you tell Suguru your name, and he repeats it, a smile stretches across his lips. “It’s very nice to meet you. Please, make yourself comfortable. Ah, and this is Miguel, our keyboards.”

He gestures to the man leaning against the wall in sunglasses, gold hoops handing from his ears. He smiles and waves. “Hey.”

“Hi,” replies Choso, “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

“Choso, you wanna set up with the amp over there?” Suguru points to the wall near the couch, and your boyfriend nods.

“Yeah, sure.”

You smile at him again, rubbing his arm gently before moving over to the sofa to sit beside Larue on the opposite end. Miguel takes a seat in the chair beside him as Choso sets about getting his guitar from its case, your eyes gravitating back towards the black hole in the room sitting at the mixing board.

You find his calculating eyes already on you, and instead of looking away at being caught, the corner of his mouth turns up. It makes you feel warm all over.

“So,” Larue speaks, cutting through the silence. “How long have you been playing, Choso?”

“I taught myself when I was thirteen,” He answers, taking the chord plugged into the amp and pushing the other end into his guitar. “I joined my band when I was fifteen, but it split because the others wanted to do their own things.”

“Ah,” Miguel chimes in, “That sucks. Everybody’s gotta be on the same page.”

“Yeah, but I really liked being in a band, so hopefully this goes well,” Choso smiles softly, standing up to sling the guitar strap over his shoulder. He checks to make sure the volume on the amp is down before switching it on, experimentally strumming at a few strings until the volume is at a good level.

“All set?” Asks Suguru, and Choso nods.

“Yeah. I really like ‘Love to the Strong’ so I’ll do that one.”

That was one of your favorites of Curse Manipulator. You and Choso listen to it a lot, and you’ve heard him play it before. He was able to figure it out just by listening, once again putting you in awe of him. You know he has this in the bag.

His black-painted nails form the first chord and he starts strumming, effortlessly switching to the next one and the next, starting to sing along like it’s second nature. You watch him with shimmering eyes. Whenever he plays, you can’t help but see him for the star he truly is. Everything about him is just so unique, so special. What had drawn you to him was his appearance, how unapologetically he expresses himself in what he wears, the spiky style he wears his hair up in, the tattoo across the bridge of his nose, the heavy eyeliner around his eyes…you even think about the tattoo of your name he’d gotten over his heart for your birthday in beautiful black lettering, one of many presents to you that day, and your heart flutters.

Wanting to read the room to see how the others are reacting, you look at Miguel first. He’s nodding his head along, brow furrowed with a smile on his lips. Good. He’s enjoying it. You look at Larue next, who is tapping along to the beat with his hand on his thigh quietly, dividing it even further with his foot.

Last, your eyes move to Suguru, who is moving in time with Choso’s playing, nodding with his chin in his hand. He seems to feel your eyes on his, because he meets your gaze in the next moment. That smirk finds its way on his face again, playful, and you feel your heart hammer hard against your rib cage involuntarily. Without looking away from you, he lets his index finger rest between his lips, tongue pushing against it just so you see the black ball of jewelry at the center of it.

Fuck. A tongue piercing.

A deluge of very lewd, very intrusive thoughts slam into you without your permission. What would his snake bites and tongue piercing feel like if you kissed him? Or if he tried sucking a hickey into your neck? How would his mouth feel around one of your nipples? Or, shit, how would it feel eating you out? Does he know how to use that little bead to his advantage? Would he use it to make you fall apart?

The song finishes and Larue’s enthusiastic cheers yank you from your wanton musings, dragging your eyes from Suguru’s poetic face back to your boyfriend.

Choso smiles at you, eyes searching for approval, for assurance that he did well, and you nod without thinking, a smile spreading over your face as you push the thoughts of Suguru down. You can compartmentalize them later—right now, you need to be a supportive partner. Relief washes over his face.

“That was great,” Suguru says, all business again, “I didn’t know you could sing. Would you be interested in doing toplines and backing vocals also?"

Choso nods. “Yeah, that sounds great. I uh, I write too. If you ever wanted to collaborate.”

“He’s really good,” you add, hoping the blush you feel when Suguru’s gaze finds yours again isn’t noticeable. He smiles at you and it makes you so warm, so nervous.

“That’s great,” He says, glancing back at your boyfriend. “Choso, I know it was a short audition, but I think we can all agree that you’re exactly what we’re looking for.”

You see Choso’s face light up, nuanced to most but so obvious to you, and you grin brightly. You knew it.

“Really?”

“Yep,” Miguel voices his agreement. “Welcome to the band.”

“Welcome!” is Larue’s input.

Suguru flits his eyes to you again. “Just what I’ve been looking for.”

Choso doesn’t see where he’s looking though, because he’s smiling at you, but you do see it, and you feel all sorts of emotions.

Suguru wants you. He’s made it obvious enough already, and that fact plays with your sanity levels a disturbing amount. You have Choso. You love Choso. You see yourself staying with him forever, because he makes you happy, and he makes you feel safe and taken care of. You trust him with your life and he’s never done anything to even waver that trust. You have never looked at another man like this the entire time you’ve been with Choso, either.

So why now all of a sudden is a simple glance from Suguru threatening to put you on your knees? What is going on with you?

“Thank you guys,” Choso speaks, oblivious to the turmoil inside of your head, “I’ll do my best.”

Suguru stands up and pats his shoulder. Oh fuck. He’s tall, shoulders wide—he’s intimidating. He looks like he could toss you around like a pillow. Choso’s build is nothing to sneeze at, but Suguru is just…huge. You silently beg for any god listening to take pity on you and force you to calm down.

“Come on, let’s all relax in the living room with some tea and get to know everyone better,” Suguru suggests, looking at you, “How does that sound?”

You have half a mind to run out of the house right now to prevent yourself from doing something stupid like jumping Suguru’s bones on the spot. Instead, you force a smile on your face.

“Sounds good.”

It’s an hour of soft torture on Suguru’s couch. You’re sandwiched between Choso and the arm of the blue velvet sofa, Larue on his other side. Miguel sits in a matching chair off to the right, and in the other one, directly to your left sits Suguru.

It’s obscene the way his legs are spread out, open like he has a third one in the middle and he needs room for it, and that thought keeps repeating in your head, contributing to the worst hurricane that’s ever ravished the shores of your mind.

His arms are no better, elbows perched on either of the chair’s arms, pelvis forward as he slinks lazily. He’d made tea for everyone when you went into the living room and when he handed you your mug, his fingertips brushed yours and it made you feel like a shy teenager with a crush.

You try really hard not to stare at him but your eyes keep gravitating. He’s leading the conversation, and a fair amount of questions have to do with you. You have no choice but to look at him. And fuck, you don’t mind, he’s sentient art. It should be punishable by law how sinfully his pierced lips wrap around the mug to sip at the tea. At one point while you’re talking about what you do for a living, Choso’s watching you as you talk. Since his eyes aren’t on Suguru, it gives the man a free-pass to test your patience. A drop of tea accidentally slides down the side of his mouth and he flicks his tongue out to lick it, stud glinting at you, and you fucking feel yourself start to get wet.

You tear your eyes away from him after stuttering, finishing your sentence and lifting the cup to your lips to give yourself something else to focus on.

Whenever he looks at you, you can just feel it. You feel it like when you stand too close to fire, heat just threatening to burn your skin, and you suddenly have the overwhelming urge to get fucked.

Wow, you think, real nice. You’re disappointed in yourself. You just met this man and he has this much control over your body? He hasn’t even really touched you.

Choso didn’t even have this effect on you. It was a pair assignment in a class you two had together that started it. He was quiet and frankly looked bored most of the time. He never spoke unless he was spoken to, or to ask you something about your assignments. When you were told you had to work with each other for the final, you two grew closer over meetings at cafes while you worked. You remember the first time you made him laugh. It was music to your ears, and it made your heart flutter. That’s when you started having feelings for him.

Everything he did after that was endearing. You started noticing that he would ask you more questions than necessary just to talk with you, you noticed he’d find reasons to prolong your meetings when you worked together, and he’d even pay for the food or drinks you’d order while working. He liked you, and you liked him back, and he was just so pure in his intentions, you fell even harder.

The night before the final was due, you were over at his place to practice. You’d been there a few times, as he’d been at yours too, and after polishing the project, you decided you two needed a break. You saw his guitar sitting against the wall and asked him to play something. He was hesitant, but ultimately couldn’t deny you, so he sat across from you and started strumming and singing a song you’d never heard before.

It was beautiful. The lyrics would put Hozier to shame. You suspected it was an original, too. You were probably biased, but hell, at that moment you knew he was someone you couldn’t let go of.

When he finished, he confirmed that he’d written it himself. You told him whoever he wrote it about was really lucky, and that if it was you, you’d fall in love with him immediately.

That was you opening the door, and he walked through it with earnest eyes and a hopeful smile.

He’s been your boyfriend since, and he’s made you so happy.

Remembering how you met Choso helps a lot to mitigate the damage Suguru is doing to your psyche, and to keep yourself strong, you don’t look at Suguru again. You fix your eyes on the mug, and a little after the tea is finished, you and Choso decide to go home.

Suguru sees you out after Larue takes care of your mugs, Miguel bidding you a farewell before he makes his way back to the studio. You get your shoes back on, hearing Choso express his gratitude again and agree to return tomorrow so that they can start rehearsing for their next gig.

“It was really nice to meet you.”

Suguru’s eyes are suddenly on yours again and it’s as if that flame that had been reduced to a steady, barely noticeable simmer roars back to life on high. He really is so fucking, damningly pretty.

“You too,” you manage with what you hope is a convincingly easy smile. He holds his palm out to shake hands, and your heart jumps in your ribcage. You fear touching him might rouse a beast within you that you previously had no knowledge of.

Out of courtesy and the obligation to uphold social cues, you lay your hand in his. His palm is warm. His fingers feel rough and firm, no doubt hardened due to his years playing bass. His skin looks nice against yours, you think intelligently, and before he lets go, he gives your hand a strong squeeze. Had you been any less of a person you would have buckled with your newly weakened knees. He has a strong grip.

What on you would he grab like that? Your thigh? Your ass? Your hips? Fuck, your neck?

Your smile tapers at the sheer indecency of your thoughts as he lets go, and you absentmindedly smile at him to try and save face, turning to follow your boyfriend out of the house and down the driveway.

“Get home safely!” Suguru calls behind you, and you hear Choso reply in kind. You can’t muster a response. Your whole body is buzzing. It feels like there are two wolves literally fighting for dominance inside of you. One of them is urging you to go home, to calm the hell down and maybe take out all of your newfound frustration on Choso.

The other one, however, is clawing at your back, trying to drag you back towards Suguru so that you can jump him and fuck him right in the front room of his house.

Obscene. Filthy. You need to get out of here. Who are you?

You make it to the car, but after Choso puts his guitar in the backseat, you hesitate before the driver’s seat.

“Babe?” You ask, and he looks over at you.

“Yeah?”

“Can you drive?”

“Of course,” he answers easily, moving around to meet you at the driver’s side of the car. You hand him the keys, but refuse to move. He tilts his head to the side. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you nod, unsure of who you’re trying to convince. You’re so torn right now. You feel so guilty for looking at another man the way you did tonight, but you’re also still so fucking horny and your angel of a boyfriend is standing right in front of you.

You decide to make a very lust-induced decision.

“Choso?”

“Yeah?” He puts his hand on your shoulder in concern. “What is it?”

He’s so fucking sweet. It warms your heart but you need something more, something crazy.

“I want you to fuck me.”

His eyes widen, and you can practically hear his heart stutter. He blinks, face reddening. “Well…when we get home, we can—”

“Right here, Choso.”

Another blink. He has no idea where this is coming from—you’ve never acted like this. Sex stays at home, in private.

“…right here? Right now?” He asks, looking around. It’s dark out now, the neighborhood lit up dimly by streetlights staggered up and down the sidewalks. “Outside?”

“In the car,” you say. That’s private enough, right? It should be. He swallows thickly.

“Are…are you sure? What if we get caught?”

You just want it so badly right now. You stretch the truth to get what you desire.

“I’m just so proud of you,” you say, heart feeling heavy. “You did so well today—you deserve it, baby.”

He smiles bashfully at the praise, scratching behind his neck. “I only did because you were here…I can wait until we get back. Don’t worry.”

It’s not working. God damn it.

You make a last-ditch effort.

“I know you can,” you say, getting in his space and touching his chest. Lowly, you add, “But I don’t think I can.”

His dark eyes widen again, an unsure smile twitching at his lips. “You want me that bad?”

It’s starting to work. “Yeah. Please, babe? Unless it makes you uncomfortable…”

“No,” he quickly shakes his head, “Let’s do it. Where do we…?”

You spring into action.

Your hand goes for the lever on the side of the driver’s seat, pulling it and reclining it all the way back.

“Sit, baby. I’ll ride you.”

He sucks in a breath and does as told, getting in the car and watching as you follow, shutting and locking the door behind yourself.

You straddle his legs and kiss him without a moment to waste, threading your hands in his hair. He reciprocates easily, sighing when he feels you pull the hair ties out to let his dark brown locks fall free. His hands find your waist as you start grinding on him to get him hard, relishing in the soft noises it starts to pull from him within minutes.

You think for a moment that this is crazy. You’re actually going to fuck Choso in a car. It is a little dangerous, but that excites you. You’re just so fucking turned on because of that infuriatingly gorgeous bassist…

Choso moans when you grind harder, his hand slipping up the leg of the denim shorts you’re wearing and past your underwear, finding you to be drenched.

“You really did want this,” he laughs breathily, and you feel another pang of guilt. He’s feeling the result of miniscule attention from Suguru. Sick. It’s sick.

You can’t do this to Choso. You need to focus on him. This is happening between the two of you and no one else.

“I did,” you choose to smile back. “Let me have it now, baby?”

He sucks in a slow breath and nods, pupils blown, reaching down to unzip his jeans. You help, popping the button and reaching down to free him from his boxers.

He’s hot and firm in your grasp and you can’t help but stroke him a few times, enjoying the groans it pulls from his throat.

Painfully aware of your own arousal, you decide not to tease him anymore and shift, lining him up with your entrance. Just like that, with all of your clothes still on, you slip him inside, moaning at the relief the pressure of his girth provides your needy walls.

His hands stay on your hips as you start bouncing on him, his brows furrowing, eyes fixed on your face.

“Fuck,” he breathes, breathing ragged and erratic. You hear the wet noises obscenely in the small space, covering his shaft with your essence, and you roll your hips, teasing his tip against the sensitive spot inside of you.

“Choso,” you hiss, aiming there. Recognizing you found it, he starts thrusting up to meet your movements, heightening your pleasure. You throw your head back, mouth falling open. “Oh god baby, yes…”

His eyes flutter shut and you start riding him faster, his jaw clenching as he bites down. A strained grunt escapes with his voice, neck veins protruding, and you move your hands before thinking, wrapping them around his neck.

He groans louder as you apply a tiny amount of pressure, voice switching and going higher. You’re thoroughly wrecking your boyfriend now and it’s making your mound practically weep over his cock, uncaring that the car is rocking with your movements.

Your eyes flit to the side out of the window, and what you see punches heat into your gut so hard you gasp.

Suguru is standing on the balcony of what must be his bedroom, looking right into the window of your car at you, and only you.

He’s holding something between his fingers that looks like a cigarette, smirking down at you as he leans his cheek against his palm. Keep going, his eyes say.

You don’t dare disobey him. The thought doesn’t even cross your mind. You ride Choso even harder, getting the head of his throbbing cock to hammer against the most sensitive part of your insides.

You chance a glance down at Choso, who is still lost in a world of his own, eyes squeezed shut, and you look back up at Suguru, who is taking a drag.

He blows out smoke and it makes you clench hard around Choso.

“Fuck,” moans your boyfriend, “M’close, so close…”

You are too. The cock inside of you is so good, the friction of your shorts on your pearl is starting to overwhelm you, and Suguru watching you with absolutely zero shame is twisting your instincts into knots.

He corrupts you with dirty thoughts just by looking at you.

If it were him, the moment you’d asked to fuck, he probably would have pushed you into the backseat. You’d have been on your hands and knees, or maybe laid out on your back as he railed you so disrespectfully you’d feel him trying to invade your ribs. He’d call you all sorts of names, degrade you for being a slut, for not being able to wait.

You moan louder, feeling so close you’re about to lose your mind. Choso mewls beneath you, voice becoming lost to the whimpers he gets only when he cums.

“Baby, baby,” his voice rings out, “Fuck, I’m cumming…”

You feel it spill inside of you and as soon as Suguru’s smirk deepens, his head tilting as if to say ‘go on’, you orgasm hard.

“Oh fuck!”

Choso grunts as you clamp down on his sensitive member, slowing his thrusts to a stop as you pant heavily. You see Suguru grin and straighten up, lingering his gaze for a moment longer before turning and leaving you alone with Choso once more.

Now without the object of your forbidden desires, you slump forward, laying over Choso’s chest. You kiss his sweaty neck lovingly, embracing him tightly as the post-coital clarity starts seeping back into your head.

“Thank you,” you breathe, “I love you, Choso.”

You do. You love him. Suguru is just a fantasy and he’s going to stay that way. You’re happy with Choso and that’s the end of the story. You’ll just have to avoid Suguru and everything will be fine.

“I love you too,” He replies softly, kissing the top of your head. “Always.”

You close your eyes, biting back a heavy sigh.

I’m so sorry, you want to say, but resolve to make it up to him by just being a better partner to him than you have been, though he’s never complained. You’re not going to let this new infatuation take root.

What you don’t know is that this is only the beginning.

---

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A/N: I'm not even gonna lie I'm so excited for this, I have so much hot drama planned you're gonna love it. Comment to be added to my taglist for when the next parts come out!

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