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im in love w javi again i fear 🤧

Girl Next Door

Summary: Javi and his roommate. That's it.

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ only please)

Warnings: explicit sexual content, brief mention of blood/injuries resulting from a physical altercation, brief mentions of violence

Word Count: 7.4K

Author's Note: Thanks to @undercoverpena for feverishly brainstorming with me one afternoon and then generously handing over all the ideas, and another thanks to @legendary-pink-dot for teaching me what a granadilla is.

The coffee pot isn’t quite done brewing but Javi’s tired of waiting. He grabs the carafe and pours his cup to brimming, ignoring the bitter-scented sizzling of the last few drips hitting the burner. He’s barely had one sip before the shirtless man waltzes into the kitchen.

Tall. Lean. Prettier than he would have expected.  Javi squints at him over the rim of his coffee cup.

“Morning.” The man smiles affably until he meets Javi’s narrowed eyes. He swallows the wide grin and points at the cabinets. “She said to grab her coffee?”

“Cups are there.” Javi angles his chin towards the cabinet by the sink and watches the man extract a chunky blue ceramic mug. You hate that one, but Javi’s not in the mood to help out Pretty Boy, especially now that he can see the fine lines scratched down the man’s back.

You like to leave a mark.

“So –” the man replaces the carafe and lifts the mug, trying another tentative smile in Javi’s direction – “you her roommate?”

“Husband.” Javi tips the rest of his coffee into the sink and leaves the cup on the counter, letting himself enjoy one brief glance at the man’s shocked face before he turns toward the door. “Tell her we leave in twenty.”

“Javier Peña is a fucking comedian.” You slide into the passenger seat of Javi’s car, fingers flying over the buttons of your blouse. “He believed you.”

Javi smirks, pulling away from the curb as you buckle your seatbelt. “Stop sending your boytoys out to the kitchen for your coffee and I’ll stop fucking with them.”

“Stop lurking in the kitchen every morning.”

“It’s my fucking kitchen.”

“Our fucking kitchen.”

Javi had thought the two-bedroom apartment had been a stroke of luck when he’d been assigned it – well, luck or an oversight. But either way, for two years, he’d savored the extra space and the privacy. That is, until you showed up – the new Intelligence Research Specialist, on a three-month detail – and McClintock in Mission Support decided that Javier Peña’s second bedroom was just the place to temporarily house you.

Which would have been tolerable, if that three-month detail hadn’t been extended twice already. You’d been living with him for ten months, and neither of you pretended the arrangement wasn’t indefinite now.

“And I need my coffee, Jav.” You grin at him, pushing your hair away from your forehead and securing it with a bobby pin you fish from the cupholder. “I had a late night.”

“I heard.” He always hears. The walls in the apartment must be fucking cardboard. He swears he can hear every breath you take, every murmured word, every goddamned moan.

You flip down the visor and smooth on lipstick – a flushed deep pink. Javi can’t help but glance at you – the widened eyes, the mouth parted in an O – and he wishes he couldn’t still hear your last-night sounds echoing through his head.

“You know –” you snap the cap back on the tube with a decisive click – “if they bother you, you could always just have your coffee at the office.”

He flashes you a dirty look, and you laugh, shrugging. “I’m just saying, Javi: it’s a choice.”

---

“A choice.” Javi rubs the heel of his hand against his forehead as he takes a long draw on his cigarette. “Says it’s a fuckin’ choice.”

“What’s a choice?” Steve looks up from the desk across from Javi’s, his eyebrows lifted.

Javi shakes his head at his partner, hearing the click-click of your heels coming across the tiled floor.

“I told him it’s a choice to hover around our kitchen every morning and harass my company.” You drop a file on Steve’s desk, flipping it open to a blank form. “You and Grumpy have to fill this out. I need it back this afternoon.”

You sashay away, the scent of your coconut shampoo lingering in the air despite Javi’s haze of smoke.

“Trouble in paradise?” Steve lifts the paper from the file, grinning broadly.

“Give me the fuckin’ form.”

---

“First dibs on the shower.” You hurry past Javi as he unlocks the door of the apartment, lightly shouldering him into the door frame.

You dump your bag and coat on the couch, kick off your shoes as you cross the living room, and he hears your skirt hit the floor in the hallway.

“It’s not a fuckin’ race,” he calls out after you, but the only answer is the slam of the bathroom door.

He closes the front door, locking the deadbolt, but it’s just clicked into place when a tentative knock rattles it. He twists the lock and jerks the door open.

“Yeah?” Shit. It’s the delivery kid from his laundry service. The startled boy thrusts the bag and an armful of pressed shirts at Javi with a look of terror widening his eyes.

“Lo siento, Matias.” Javi takes the bag and digs into his front pocket, extracting a few folded bills. “Gracias.”

The teenager takes the money with a quick nod and bolts down the hallway, and Javi locks the door a second time. He carries the laundry to his bedroom. The bathroom door is right across the hall from his door and he can hear you singing as he hangs the shirts up in his closet. His jeans are folded in neat stacks at the top of the laundry bag; he puts those away next, then tips out the jumble of socks and underclothes.

“Fucking hell.”

Amidst his undershirts and a handful of boxers are tiny scraps of lace and silk and cotton – barely enough fabric to cover anything. Every color of the rainbow in solids and flowers and polka dots – there must be a dozen pairs of panties here. This isn’t the first time you’ve snuck your laundry into his, but usually it’s a few blouses or a couple of skirts – not this. He gathers them in his hands – tries not to think about how soft they are or how seeing them on his bed is making his jeans feel tighter – and carries them to your room. It’s just next to his – practically identical, except yours looks somehow messier and more inviting at the same time. Bottles of perfume vie for space with jewelry on your dresser top; your perpetually-open closet spills out a dozen pairs of the high-heeled pumps you seem to love. And your bed is never made. When he mentions it, you always laugh.

“I’m just going to use it again tonight, Jav.”

He dumps the panties into a heap on the center of your rumpled coverlet and stalks out. He’s just finished putting his laundry away when he hears the shower turn off – finally his turn.

He lurks in the hallway, and at last the bathroom door opens. You’re wrapped in a dark blue towel that barely overlaps and just grazes the tops of your thighs. You’re scrunching another against your hair, head tilted to the side. Drops of water still sparkle along the tops of your shoulders and in the hollow of your throat, and the thick cloud of coconut- scented steam that rolls out behind you is sweet and familiar.

“You leave me any hot water?” He tries to scowl, but you squeeze past him, your damp, warm skin brushing his arm, and he can’t. Fuck, you smell good.

You disappear into your room, but your voice carries out to him. “If you want hot water, you’ve gotta move faster or join me.”

He thinks about that the whole time he’s showering – thinks about you, here moments ago, your body bare and sleek and wet. Your razor is perched on the edge of the tub, a smear of shaving cream still on the handle. Just looking at it makes him hard. He’s picturing his hands on you finding everywhere you’re silky-smooth when he comes, his face tilted into the barely-tepid spray.

---

Javi downs the last swig of his coffee and drops the cup on the kitchen table, then grabs his jacket from the back of the chair. It feels heavy as he slides it on, the pocket landing on his hip with a weighted thud. He digs his hand in – extracts a bright orange fruit.

“Jav!” For once you’ve beaten him to the front door. “C’mon!”

He strides to the entryway, holding up the granadilla with two fingers and a thumb. “The fuck is this?”

“It’s called food, Peña.” You grin and pull the door wide. “You should try it some time.”

---

Javi’s on his second glass of whiskey and a fourth cigarette; the air is turning faintly blue with the hazy smoke as he rests his still-booted feet on the coffee table.

“Good God, Javi.” You wave your hands in front of your face as you walk into the room, adding a few coughs for dramatic effect. “Open a window.”

He tips back the whiskey and lets the last mouthful burn its way down his throat, then stands up. He crosses the room and yanks open one of the windows. The humid breeze stirs the curtains, carrying with it the noise of Medellín after dark. “New dress?”

You lean into one hand on the wall, your fingers buckling the strap of your high-heeled sandal around your ankle. “Why? You wanna borrow it? Not your size.”

He feels wobbly for a minute when you begin to slide on the next shoe. Must be the whiskey on an empty stomach. That’s what he tells himself at least, even as his eyes stay locked on the supple weight of your breasts straining against the fabric as you bend over to fasten the tiny buckle.

You narrow your eyes at him. “You have dinner?”

He takes a drag on his cigarette by way of an answer.

Your head shake is reproachful. “Those are going to kill you.”

There’s a knock at the door and he watches you grab your small clutch off the table. He allows himself the fleeting thought: he doesn’t want you to leave. But you’re already halfway to the door.

“You coming back tonight?”

You glance back at him, the expression on your face curious. “Why?”

He points to the array of deadbolts and chains that line the edge of the door – the only things that let him close his eyes at night. “Don’t wanna lock you out.”

“Oh.” Your fingers brush the slide chain; its cheerful musical jangle belies how much the two of you depend it. “No, go ahead and lock up. I’ll see you tomorrow. I mean, it’s the weekend, right?”

Javi wants to retort that it must be nice to get a weekend, but you’re already sliding your arm through the elbow of the man on the other side of the door, your voice pitching low and sweet to him.

 The man laughs, then startles briefly when he catches Javi’s glare turned on him. “‘Night, Peña.”

Javi thinks he might recognize the man from the Embassy but couldn’t even guess his name. So he just gives a tight nod and closes the door a little harder than he means to. He moves through the locks one by one, trying not to hear the sound of your heels moving away.

---

He’d only meant to spend his Saturday morning catching up on paperwork, but by the time he fields nine phone calls and a thick file marked ‘Official’, it’s nearly four in the afternoon. He stops at the little market on the corner – picks up two packs of cigarettes – then hoofs it up the stairs to the apartment, already thinking of the hot shower he’s going to take. Before he even reaches the landing, he hears it: the thumping drums and swinging trumpets of the porro music you love. He isn’t surprised you don’t hear the door open over the cacophony, but he’s glad of it. It means he gets to stand there in the doorway, the tension of his day ebbing away as he watches you.

You’re stretching high in front of the window, a spray bottle in one hand and a rag in the other, wiping the glass to a brilliant shine, but he only sees the way your hips swing from side to side, only sees the flex of your calves as you lift onto your toes to reach even higher.

“Looks good.” His voice startles you and you spin, a grin breaking over your face.

“I cleaned.”

He doesn’t tell you he didn’t mean the windows, because at that moment he realizes you’re wearing one of his undershirts over a pair of cutoff jean shorts; the nearly-sheer ribbed fabric clings to you, makes his tongue feel too thick to speak. He swallows hard. “What can I do to help?”

Your smile gets wider. “Stop being so messy.”

He rolls his eyes at you and you laugh. Most mornings he has to dodge at least 4 pairs of your shoes to even make it to the front door; there is one messy person in this apartment and it isn’t him.

“Smells good in here.” The air is lemon-bright; a handful of pretty flowers stand tall in a water glass on the coffee table. “But why?”

You put down your spray bottle, and half-flop onto the couch, your arms stretching over your head as you sigh. You cut your eyes sideways. “Maybe I want to be a better roommate.”

“Couldn’t be worse.”

You laugh and toss the cleaning cloth at him. It bounces off his chest and lands on the floor with soft thump. “Fuck you.”

He bends to pick up the wadded fabric and drops it on the table, then falls back onto the sofa. He’s not next to you – there is a full cushion between you, a no-man’s-land of Naugahyde – but the intimacy of sitting here with you isn’t lost on him. Most of the time you two only pass through rooms, circling at a distance. This feels different. Feels nice.

He stretches his arm along the back of the couch, then wrinkles his forehead. “Where’s my afghan?”

You frown. “That was yours? It didn’t come with the place?”

He shakes his head. “Where is it?”

Your eyes are wide and worried. “It was so itchy, Javi. And it smelled like old goats. I threw it out.”

“My abuela made that.”

“Oh, fuck.” Your hands fly to your mouth. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry.”

“Can’t believe you threw it away.” He makes his face sorrowful, keeps the corners of his mouth still to not give anything away.

“Shit.” You fly off the couch and down the hallway. He can hear you in your room – the frantic slamming of drawers, the creak of your closet door being yanked wide open. You’re back in a moment, holding out a fuzzy heap of fluffy pink. “Here.”

He takes the blanket – it’s silky-soft, a thousand times nicer than that cheap acrylic throw he’d picked up at a market his first month in town.

You reach a hand out to pet it fondly. “I know it’s not the same, but it’s really nice and it’ll make me feel better if you just take it. I’m so sorry, Javi.”

He can’t stand how worried you look. “I’m fucking with you. That afghan was a piece of shit.”

“Oh, thank God.” You try to yank the blanket away as you grin, relief easing the creases around your eyes. “‘Cause I really didn’t want to give you my blanket.”

He doesn’t let go – holds the soft fabric in his hands and tugs it until you are forced to step closer, practically into the space between his legs. He looks up at you, letting his voice drop low. “But what if I get cold?”

You catch your lip between your teeth, then give the blanket a firm pull until he finally releases it. You lean past him, over him, your arms stretching along his shoulder, your body so close he can smell the heat of your skin. Slowly, you drape the blanket over the back of the couch: smoothing it with deliberate fingers. Taking all the time in the world.

Letting him breathe you in.

“We’ll share it.” You stroke the fabric one more time, then straighten. He watches a little shiver roll through you, and then you take a deep breath and step back. “Since I cleaned, you order dinner. How about that place off the plaza?”

---

You sidle up next to Javi at the bar, signaling the bartender for another drink. “If you don’t go home with her, I will.”

Javi glances towards the pretty brunette he’d been talking to. She said she just needed to tell her friends she was going to stay for another drink; he’d done this enough to know what that meant.

“Thought you’d already found your company for tonight?” Javi looks past you to the man who is watching you with an expression of bewildered good fortune. “Harrison? Again?”

“Some performances deserve an encore.”

He rolls his eyes and you smile, your eyebrows lifting. “Have fun with your girl. Don’t come home tonight.”

---

Javi’s still waiting for sleep to come when he hears your key in the front door and the dulcet lilt of your voice echoed by the deeper tones of a man’s. His ears track the two of you as you move through the dark apartment; he hears the click of your bedroom door closing.

He’d kissed the pretty brunette against his car outside the bar, but he couldn’t muster up the energy the rest of the night would take. He’d driven her home, made up some bullshit about an early morning, and then had come back here to this fucking empty apartment and tried to sleep. But he realizes now why he couldn’t. He’d been waiting for this: for you coming home with fucking Harrison from the ambassador’s office.

Music creeps through the wall, tinny and up tempo, guitar and percussion and harmonizing voices. He’s glad. The sound gives him something to focus on: something other than the hum of you and Harrison, your low conversation punctuated by the sparkle of your laughter.

Time passes. Javi pulls his extra pillow over his head, and squeezes his eyes shut, and thinks maybe – maybe – he can sleep like this. At least until the door creaks open and small bare feet shuffle across the wooden floor. He can see you silhouetted in the darkness – stays still and watches you slide open his nightstand. Your hand rifles around inside and he hears the crinkle of the condom as you slip one from the box.

“The fuck you doin’?” He snaps on the bedside light and almost smiles when you jump back with a startled squeak. Eyes wide, hair mussed, lipstick kiss-faded – you clutch the crisp gray dress shirt closed with your free hand, pulling it tight into your body.

He watches the look on your face shift from shock to annoyance. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“In my bed?”

You push the drawer shut with a definitive thud, the silver condom wrapper bright between your fingers. “Here. Don’t tell me she turned you down.”

Javi pushes himself up in the bed to lean against the headboard with a smirk. The sheet is barely at his waist, the washed-soft cotton molding to his cock – which is getting harder by the second as he lets his eyes move up your bare thighs. This sheet and Harrison’s fucking shirt: that’s all that stands between your skin and his.

Your eyes drift from his face to the expanse of his chest, and then lower – the fine edges of your teeth settle into the plump of your lip.

“You always steal from me?” He taps the top of the nightstand and you jerk your gaze back to his face, eyes wide and a little wild.

“Borrowing.”

“Don’t want it back.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I don’t.”

“Okay, then.” You stand up straighter. “Thanks.”

He watches you turn – you nearly reach the door before you spin on your heel and march back towards him. You drop the condom on his nightstand.

“You ruined the mood, Grumpy.” You lift your chin, your expression dismissive, but he can see your pulse racing in the side of your throat. “I’d just be over there thinking about you in here. Listening.”

“If you’re in there thinking about me –” Javi flits his tongue over his lip, his eyes never leaving yours – “then he’s not doing his job.”

The air sparks for a moment. You tilt your head, start to speak. But then a huffed exhale and you’re gone, slipping back out his door and closing it soundly behind you. He can hear the rumble of conversation through the wall, but not the words. It’s not hard to figure out, though, when the heavy tread of a man’s dress shoes follow your bare feet to the front door. There are a few more words and then the sounds of the locks clicking back into place.

He hears you pass his room – wonders for a moment what would happen if he met you there in the hallway, wonders what you might be wearing now that Harrison and his shirt were gone. But he stays in his bed and listens – the hushed thump of your door, the creak of your bed, the sudden quiet of the radio snapping off.

It’s silent then. Until it’s not.

At first he thinks he’s imagining it and he holds his breath, straining to hear. Fuck. He’s definitely not imagining it. It’s a moan, breathy and high, and he fucking knows: it’s for him. It has to be, after what you’d just said about thinking of him in here. About thinking of him listening.

His hand is already on his cock – he smears the leaking precum over the head with the palm of his hand, then wraps his fist around the length, but the rest of him stays still. He doesn’t want to miss a single sound that’s passing through the wall. He squeezes his eyes shut – lets the whimpers and whines surround him, listens to them shift to louder, faster, needier.

He knows when you come. He’s heard it before. But this time is different: this time you’re coming for him. When he hears your hoarse cry – hears it twist into a throaty moan – he tries to picture what you look like. He can just see it: legs spread, fingers buried in your pussy, pretty mouth open wide. It’s enough: he comes then, too, spilling onto his hand and stomach. And he lets you hear him – hear the groan that almost becomes your name.

You’re quiet after. He is, too. He falls asleep wondering: what would have happened if he had knocked on your door?

In the morning he finds a note by the coffee pot: ‘Early start. Caught a ride in with Williams. Don’t worry about me after. Have plans.’

The coffee pot is full. His favorite cup is next to it. He leaves without touching either.

---

By the time he makes it home, you’ve come and gone, though the scent of your perfume hangs sweet in the air. Javi sags onto the couch, his fingers already rolling the spark wheel of his lighter as he holds it to the cigarette between his lips. While he smokes it and a second one, he absent-mindedly strokes the throw blanket on the back of the couch.

It still smells like you.

---

Four days of avoiding each other must be enough. When he walks into the kitchen before work, you’re finally there – no early starts, no tiptoeing in after he’s gone to bed. He’d barely even seen you at the office – just your back, shoulders set, always moving away. But at last: here you are, smiling at him.

“What’s that?” Javi narrows his eyes at the small paper sack you’re holding out to him. The top is folded down and he can just make out your scrawl across the brown paper: ‘Grumpy.’

“Lunch.” You shake the bag at him until he takes it, then turn and pick up an identical one from the counter.

“You made me lunch?” He’s surprised. More than surprised, he realizes – pleased.

“You need to eat more.” You reach out a hand. Two fingers brush the buckle of his belt, and the intimacy of the gesture freezes him. “Last hole on this belt, Jav. Can’t just live on cigarettes and fury.”

Even after you withdraw your hand, he can feel the pressure of those slender fingertips. “I can try.”

You laugh. He likes that, making you laugh – likes it more than he should. You walk past him, your shoulder just brushing his. “C’mon. Can’t be late.”

At the office, Javi drops the bag on his desk and picks up a file, pointedly ignoring Steve’s smirk.

His partner persists. “How’d you convince her to do that?”

Javi doesn’t respond, his eyes trained on the report in front of him.

Steve snorts and slides another file across the space between them. “Better tell the little lady she’ll need a ride home tonight. We got a lead.”

---

You must have heard his key in the lock.

Because somehow you’re already there, your fingers turning the doorknob from the other side, and when he sees your face – all worried lines and shadows – he’s momentarily confused.

But then he remembers: because of your job, you always know what’s coming, even before he does. You knew what tonight might turn into.

“You’re okay.” You say it once. Then again, lifting it into a question. “You’re okay?”

He nods. The lead had felt like nothing – just another fucking goose chase in eighteen months of goose chases. But on the darkened street the energy had suddenly shifted: the radios crackled to life with warnings made useless by the fact the bullets arrived first. He still isn’t sure what it was exactly. Maybe they were set up. Maybe they were spotted. But the night ended with three bodies turning cold on the sidewalk and all Javi could feel was relief that it wasn’t him or Murphy.

“Come on.” Your fingers are feather-light on his shoulder as you guide him past you, locking the door behind him. You keep your hand on him, pushing him ahead of you into the living room. “Do you need a drink?”

He shakes his head. “Need a shower.”

His shirt is stuck to his skin: wet with sweat from the hot Colombian night, sharp with adrenaline and fear. He can smell it, can still feel it pulsing in his veins. He needs it gone.

“Okay.” You keep guiding him, palms flat to his shoulder blades, to the small bathroom. The smile you give him is careful. Soft. “Saved the hot water for you. Thought you might need it tonight.”

You reach past him, pushing open the shower curtain and turning the taps. The sleeve of your robe – a short silky thing, all bright flowers and lush leaves – grazes his arm and he closes his eyes for a moment. He lets the cool slip of it pull him back from that hazy, choking street and into this bright, clean room.

Javi lifts his hands to the buttons of his shirt and you wince. His knuckles are scraped, bleeding a little – there had been scrabbling, punches thrown when everyone collided in the humid darkness – and you bring your gentle fingertips to hover over the backs of his hands.

“Let me.” Your whisper is mostly breath as your fingers move to his buttons. You work them open, top to bottom, slipping his shirt hem free of his waistband. The buttons undone, you push the shirt off his shoulders and down his arms, gathering it into a neat bundle you place on the counter.

There is a bruise darkening his shoulder – he remembers the thud of his body hitting the side of the car as he dove towards it at the pop-pop of gunfire. Your bottom lip is caught between your teeth as you frown at it. “That doesn’t look good.”

He manages a half-smile. “Not what I want to hear when my shirt comes off.”

Your eyes flash back to his face, relief lifting at your cheeks. “There he is.” You raise your hand, the curve of your palm shaping itself to his shoulder. The heat of your skin radiates against the bruise, soothes the ache. “Does it hurt?”

“Not much.”

“Good.” You glance at the shower, where steam is starting to thicken and twist, then flick your eyes towards his belt. “I think it’s hot now.”

He reaches for his buckle just as you do, and your eyes go wide and flustered as you stammer. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have –”

“I got it.” He watches you turn, your back to him now. In the mirror he sees your lashes resting against your cheeks, your eyes cast down. He toes off his boots and kicks them to the corner, then pushes his jeans to the floor. Your gaze flicks up for a moment at the sound of his belt buckle hitting the tile, almost meeting his in the mirror before sliding away again.

He runs his hand under the cascade of droplets – just hot enough – and steps into the shower, pulling the curtain almost closed behind him. He tips his face into the spray.

Waits.

It’s not long.

“Javi.” The shadowed silhouette of you on the shower curtain is close enough to touch. “Javi, can I…”

He doesn’t need you to finish that sentence. “Yes.”

There’s the silken swish of your robe falling and then here you are: warm skin along the length of his back, your hands moving over his ribs to rest on his chest. Your cheek is on his shoulder, and he feels your lips move as you speak. “I was worried.”

He brings his hands to cover yours – lets his body lean into you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I was afraid…” You let your words trail off, your arms tightening around him. He feels your inhale, then the rush of words. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come back. And I needed you to come back.”

He wants to turn around – wants to slide his hands up your arms and cradle your face between them and kiss you – but he’s afraid the spell of this will be broken if he moves. So he just glides his fingers over yours, tracing the edges of them where they rest against his chest. He feels your breath rock him gently, the swells of your breasts pressed into his skin, the heat of you reminding him: he is here. He is alive.

And you needed him to come back.

“Javi.” Your mouth shapes his name in the water coursing over his shoulders. “I think I’m going to kiss you now.”

He lets you turn him in the small shower. Your hands move slowly up his arms, over the tops of his shoulders, to his throat. Your fingertips skate along his jaw; your thumbs sweep droplets of water from his eyebrows, his lashes, his mustache, before you cradle the point of his chin and tilt his mouth to yours.

The spark of it: it feels like electricity firing through his nerve endings, waking him out of his stupor. In barely a breath he’s kissing you back, his hands spread wide on your hips to pull you tight into him. You exhale fills his mouth as you mold yourself into his body, fitting like a perfect puzzle piece. Your tongue parts his lips, seeking his; he groans at how sweet you taste.

He hadn’t let himself think how much he wanted this. How much he wanted you. But now that you’re here in his arms – he squeezes you tighter, lets his teeth find the tender point of your tongue – he can’t imagine letting you go.

“Javi, can we –” You swallow your words, eyes wide as you seek his. Your hands are moving again: down the plane of his chest, along the ridges of his ribs, skating back up his back to finally tangle your fingers into his wet hair. You try again. “Come to my room. Will you? Come with me?”

He nods. He doesn’t trust himself to speak right now, doesn’t trust that the truth of how he feels about you won’t tumble out in a wild rush. So instead he simply lets you lead him. From the shower – a quick haphazard swipe with a towel – to your room, both of you leaving wet footprints amid scattered drops that look like rain.

Your room is dark, curtains drawn. When you peel yourself away from him to click on the dim lamp in the corner, he finally sees you: all of you, bare and still wet and here for him. You turn to face him – the lamplight throws shadows along the edges of your curves, and his eyes devour you. The set of your shoulders, the lush weight of your breasts. The slope of your belly, the flare of your hips. And your face: chin lifted, eyes flashing and dark, looking at him like you’ve never wanted anything more.

You’re fucking beautiful.

“Baby.” He didn’t mean to say that as he moves towards you. You didn’t expect it either – he sees that in the way your eyes go wide – but then you smile. No, you fucking glow, lifting your arms to slide them around his neck, face tilted up, letting him walk you back to the bed. He eases you down, and bends over you: presses his face into the softness of your stomach, and says it again. “Wanted this, baby.”

You arch into him, your nails scratching against his scalp as he kisses a meandering path across your belly. “I wanted this, too, Javi. For so long.”

He groans into your skin, stretching over you. Cradling your tits in his hands, he moves his mouth up, up, up, until he finds your nipple – sweeps his tongue against the pebbled tip, sucks it against the edges of his teeth. Goosebumps chatter over your skin, still shower-damp, and you whimper, writhing beneath him on the wrinkled sheets.

“Sweet.” He drags his tongue across the shallow valley of your chest to capture your other nipple. “Taste so sweet.”

You bend your knee, sliding it from beneath his body, hooking your calf around his hips. Then your other leg shifts, too, moving until he is secured in the space between your thighs. He chokes back a grunt when he feels his cock brush against the velvet of your inner thigh, but then you wiggle – a gasp falls from you as the length of him settles against your soaked pussy.

“Oh, fuck.” You rock your hips, sliding slick and hot along the underside of his cock, and he has to squint his eyes shut against how the sensation pulls at him. “Need you to fuck me, Javi.”

“Let me taste you, baby.” He tries to stay in control, but he can’t help letting his hips press you down into the mattress, pushing you open even wider beneath him. “Know you taste so fucking good.”

Your response is all breath. “You don’t have to.”

He jerks his face up to look at you – your lip is caught between your teeth again – and you repeat it. “It’s okay. You don’t have to.”

He narrows his eyes at you and lets go of your breast to slide his hand down the smooth curve of your belly and push it between your bodies. The scattering of hair over your mound is soft and then his fingers are sliding into your folds: so goddamned wet it nearly makes his eyes roll. “Don’t have to, baby. Want to.” Your hand flies to your mouth, your teeth settling into the back of it, when he gently nudges the tip of his finger into your opening. “Can I?”

Your nod is quick.

“Tell me, baby.” He pushes the finger deeper – watches your head rock back on your pillow as your brows knit together with a whine. “Tell me.”

“You can.” Your hand still muffles your mouth, but your voice is certain. “Please.”

He smiles at you, easing down your body, letting his finger slip from the heat of you. He slides his hands down the backs of your thighs then pushes them beneath your hips, tugging you towards the end of the bed. Satisfied he has you where he wants you, he drops to his knees. You spread out before him like this, him kneeling in front of you: it feels like worship.

He wants to look at you: pretty and swollen and slick, blooming like a flower. But you smell so goddamned good. He leans in and kisses your inner thigh – lets the stubble of his jaw scrape you and feels the shiver race through your body. Another kiss, another shiver, and then he lets his tongue map the terrain of you: slide slow through your folds, sweep soft against your bundle of nerves, then lower, to dip into your entrance. You whine, your hips rocking toward his mouth.

“Knew it, baby.” He eases two fingers into you then – feels you clutch them, all silken heat. “Knew you’d taste good.”

And you do. Sweet and tangy – he feels drunk on you, his mouth open wide, his groans muted by your wet warmth. His cock is aching, leaking, and he wants so badly to feel you around him, but the sounds falling from your lips keep him hungry for you. His tongue circles your clit as your slick gathers thick at the base of his fingers where he’s fucking them deep inside you.

“Oh.” The word sounds dragged from your throat, etched with need. “Just like that.”

He isn’t sure which feels better when you come – the way you clench down on his fingers or how you flood his mouth – but he knows what he’ll always remember: his name, again and again, carried on the wave of your moans.

“So perfect, baby.” His lips are wet with you – chin and nose, too, but he likes it, likes being covered in you. “So good for me.”

Your fingers are pulling at his hair, seeking the edge of his jaw, and you’re halfway sitting up as you try to drag him onto the bed with you.

“Javi, please.” Your eyes are wild and unfocused as you tug at him. “Please.”

He rises from his knees and stretches over you, but your hands flatten on his chest and push him down onto the mattress next to you. “Stay.”

You bolt from the room, feet thudding on the floor and he hears you next door: hears his nightstand drawer opening and then slamming shut. Then you’re back, with a smile approaching bashful as you hold up one of his condoms. “Borrowing again.”

He returns your smile. “Anytime for this, baby.”

Javi takes it from your fingers as you climb onto the bed, tearing the foil wrapper as your mouth slides against his throat. He moves quickly, unrolling it down his length. He starts to shift onto his side to ease on top of you, but your hand is on his chest again, holding him down.

“Let me.” You straddle him, and he holds his breath as you move your hand down his stomach to grip his cock. You lift your hips, dragging the tip of him through you until he’s slick and wet, and then you angle him just right: a tiny wriggle of your hips, your hands flat on his chest, and then you’re slipping down him, down, down, down, until he’s buried inside you.

“Fuck, baby.” He grits his teeth, his head spinning at how tight you are around him. “Hold still a minute.”

You do. Or you try, but your brow is furrowed as you barely rock against him – little shifts that clutch and squeeze. “Feels so good. Feels so good, Javi.”

“I know, baby.” His eyes move fast between your face, mouth parted and eyes half-closed, and the spread of your legs across his hips. “Look so pretty like this.”

His words loosen a smile from you, your sly eyes dropping to meet his.  “You like how I look fucking you? So surprised.”

He smiles back. “Yeah. Wanna see it a lot more.”

You start to move then, rising and falling on him, your face tilting down to watch his cock disappear inside you over and over. “So do I.”

He watches, too – watches how you stretch around him, watches the flex of your thighs as you lift yourself, watches your tits sway, watches sweat gather on your skin as you ride him. Your hand slides down your stomach and he feels your fingers split around him, capturing the slick that is soaking you both.

He watches you settle those fingers against your clit and nearly groans at the sight. “Gonna make yourself come on me, baby? Gonna let me feel it?”

You nod, hips moving faster over him. “Uh-huh.”

He plants his feet and bends his knees, fucking up into you now, the rhythmic slap of your bodies barely audible over your moans. Those goddamned moans – he’s heard you so many times, but Jesus Christ, it’s nothing compared to seeing you. He reaches to palm your tit – lets it spill through his fingers, pinches your nipple between his thumb and pointer. You whine, your fingers moving faster against your clit.

“You’re gonna make me come, baby.” He forces the words through his clenched jaw, fighting to keep control. He doesn’t want to come before you. He needs to feel you first.

“Oh, fuck.” Your eyes squint and your head falls back – he can see your pulse racing in the hollow of your throat. “Right there. Right there, Javi.”

He keeps fucking you, just the same, trying to give you what you need, and then you cry out: a wordless sound that shatters around him. And he fucking feels you then, squeezing him, making you so tight he can barely move inside you.

“Fuck, baby.” He is right behind you – two more thrusts as deep as he can, and then a third, holding himself buried inside you as he comes, his hips lifted flush against you. “Goddamnit.”

Your breath is panting, fast and shallow, and you collapse into his chest, your face nuzzling into his neck. You kiss him there – the hollow beneath his ear, the thrum of his pulse, the line of corded tension that is easing now. He wraps his arms around you, his hands smoothing over the damp skin of your back. He feels your heartbeat slow down. Feels it rein in his.

“I better—” he doesn’t want to leave you yet, but his cock is softening inside you – “get rid of this.” He grips the base of the condom and gently slips from your heat, then eases you onto your side. He pushes himself off the bed, uncertain what is next.

You bend your arm, tucking it beneath your head, and give him a careful smile. “Come back. If you want.”

He nods, moving quickly to the bathroom, and then just as quickly back. Your smile widens and you pat the bed. He stretches out next to you, and you fit yourself into his side, your fingers moving gingerly over his tender knuckles.

“I didn’t mean to—" You stop, then take a breath and try again. “This wasn’t because of tonight.”

He glances down at you. “Wasn’t?”

“No.” Your voice is soft. “I think tonight just…gave me a reason.”

He strokes his fingertips down the valley of your spine. “Didn’t mean to make you think you needed a reason.”

You laugh. He feels it in his chest. “Wish I’d known that before.”

“How long before?”

You press a kiss to his shoulder – a loud smack – and then grin up at him. “Months, Javi. Months and months and months.”

He rests his lips against the top of your head. “Fucking glad to know now.”

You sigh and slip your arm across his body to tuck your fingers beneath his ribs. “I think you should sleep in here.”

“Yeah, baby.” He lets his eyes ease closed – lets the warmth of your body pull him toward rest. “I think I should, too.”

Fanon perception:

The actual text of the show:

guys the huge difference is actually really funny when I’m not actively crying about it

Opened up to you and accepted you, including your demons. As soon as you saw mine however, you left in such a hurry and it's hard to sit with but I don't blame you. It's just that I long to have been someone you would've rather gravitated towards....I usually don't but with this experience, I found myself missing the me that wasn't tainted, the me back then, maybe you would've liked her better.

Postknight fanart of Aldor's Alchemist, Fleur! I got inspired to draw my favorite Postknight LI back from the first game after reading a friend's fanfic that you can read here. At first, I wanted to try lineless art, but it ended up rather hideous, but hey! The second try, I manage to draw Fleur better 😂

Fleur concept art:

guys i’ve been shy for too long and i’ve finally built up the courage so i’m gonna come out and say it: i love stalia more than stydia. yes u heard me right. i like the idea of stydia but i cant get over how lydia acted in season one and how them being endgame was just a fan service !! though i feel like both ships didn’t really have a proper buildup (stalia litterally hooked up in an episode + stydia didn’t have enough moments and stuff) i think stalia is just way better imo

⭐️ for the director's cut?

Oh man, this is kind of a challenge. I haven’t written much in the past couple years and after getting brain damage last year I don’t remember what’s posted and what’s not without being prompted about a specific piece. XD The last fandom I was writing a lot for was Metalocalypse and all I remember from that is that I wrote some good stuff and currently thinking about the fandom/show just makes me sad.

Uuuuhhhh.... Despite how disconnected things seemed in my MTL series I did have some pretty epic ideas for both. “Florida” was a prequel/sequel (yes both!) to “Sense Memories” and was going to set up a reset of the world where the band gets kind of a “do over” only their reward for saving everyone is that they get a shot at being happy. They don’t reform Dethklok because it’s no longer needed. Nathan and Skwisgaar were going to kind of hook up in the third story and there was a thing where everyone would rush to be there for Murderface when he re-remembered his mom was dead. It was sweet but I wandered away from it, got distracted by like three other rifs on MTL “what ifs” and have since left the fandom, as one does.

Now let me tell you about Homestuck... :D

STILL WAKES THE DEEP - [2/?]

we only get snippets of what iroh was like “back when he was a different man.” we know that he joked about burning ba sing se to the ground in a goodnatured manner; that azula referred to him as “his royal tea-loving kookiness” before his change of heart; that he learned from the dragons and respected the sun warriors, but lied about it to protect them as well as his own image. we know that he was azulon’s uncontested favorite, that ozai resented him for it, that he was once a mighty general, but still a charming tea-enthusiast who kept a level head.

before the death of his son, he viewed war as a game to be won—like pai sho—rather than recognizing the brutal reality, the senseless violence and devastation war truly is. he had a reputation—as a mighty general, a fearsome firebender, the dragon of the west, next in line for the throne, a charming, affable, tea-loving ladies’ man.

we don’t see lu ten, but we can vaguely infer snippets of what he was like from the way iroh attempts to raise zuko as his surrogate son. he is endlessly supportive and yet he still makes assumptions about what zuko would want and would like, and perhaps this is based on both his own proclivities as well as those of his first son. lu ten was a soldier. he was the heroic older cousin of zuko and azula. he was raised by a loving father as a doted-on only child, destined to someday take the throne in a peaceful exchange of power and continue to promote the fire nation’s conquest, their greatness.

iroh, and by extension, lu ten, do not wholly align with the typical image of the fire nation disposition that we are shown as embodied by ozai. yes, iroh conforms perfectly to standards of fire nation masculinity. he is a powerful firebender. he is a confident chauvinist. but despite his imperialist outlook, he does not view his family as mere pawns in his game. he is so self-assured in his position that he could never be so insecure as to not love his family. he cares about his son, his nephew and niece (despite not actually being around enough to truly understand them), his father. azulon might be a powerful, intimidating figure, but he clearly cares for iroh, and iroh cheerfully conforms to his standards and expectations without breaking a sweat.

what must it have been like for the great dragon of the west to knock down your gates and raze your village to the ground with a calm yet mischievous twinkle in his eye, pouring himself a cup of ginseng tea while he oversees the abject destruction of your life, your family, your people? he laughs merrily as he summons lightning effortlessly. he is just doing his job. this is fun for him, just another game at which he excels.

ozai is heartless, power-hungry, and deeply insecure. he has something to prove, and he cares about nobody but himself. he is exceedingly easy to hate. but what about general iroh, the dragon of the west, who is completely confident in his position, who genuinely loves his family, who cultivates hobbies, who charms, who takes an interest in the arts, who approaches every conquest with a carefree cheer that chills you to the bone? what then?

uhhhh here *offers you this*

oh wait. chewing chewing chewing. none of this might make sense to you and I'm sorry but it makes sense to me. mmm. dean on the back porch. he's drinking coffee i think..his brother won't let him spike it. he's inside and he's talking to someone about something. there's a lot of words that have everything to do with what dean's been doing to himself over the past few months, and sam tries to talk quiet and fast, but dean hears him anyway because he's keyed up and also because he's attuned to Sam's movements like that, can't help it. anyway. he's sitting. on the back porch. and his brother won't let him spike his coffee. the view from the backyard is not anything to write home about. the house is in the middle of nowhere and the lawn slopes down a little into woods that crowd the edge of the property. he likes it here, even tho it's landlocked, and nothing like the house he dreams about with a lake and a pier and a little dinghy tied to it and a town not half a hand away, and friends and. well. it's still nice, tho. he's looking at the trees. it's almost time for sunset and they are tall, still things, old things, and it's comforting being around them.

but then the sky splits open.

and there's cas. (and jack. also. obviously.)

but there's cas! is the thing!

he doesn't know what it is, if he's fallen into a stupor of some kind, if he did manage to spike his coffee somehow and he's just forgotten, and considering how his life's been lately, he wouldn't be surprised if that really did happen.

still, his body moves before his mind stops spinning and he pulls cas into his arms. somewhere behind him, he's aware of the house and his brother and the coffee sinking into the porch steps that he'd rebuilt not a week ago. he thinks god, thank god, thank god. says, baby, sweetheart, I'm sorry. says, I didn't think I'd see you again. I don't know what the fuck happened, but I'll — I'll fix it all. I'll fix everything. I'll make it up to you.

he cups cas' cheek and thinks, here, this here is my second shot at this. I won't get out. i won't rock the boat this time. I won't let anything ruin this.

but then cas looks at him like he doesn't understand, like he's a little scared, and his eyes go round and glassy and he says dean? the way he's never said it before, not even in dean's head.

yeah? he says, and his mouth is dry, and there's a moment when cas tilts his head and frowns and dean swears he sees a star light up behind those ridiculous eyes.

oh, cas says, mouth parting in a sigh. and dean's gotta be going crazy because he's back where he's wanted to go ever since sam came to him, but everything feels wrong and his skin itches and the forest is still there, although dean is wishing the lake back with everything in him, and cas is stepping back from him. he's digging his fingers into dean's arms. he's shaking him, and dean feels it in his teeth, weak that he is in this body.

what did you do?! and cas sounds hysterical in a way that should not have been familiar to him, but is, because he's wretched, and he doesn't know how to not destroy the things he loves.

i — he says, and what excuse does he have really, for anything. i —

the door at his back clicks open, and the world comes back to dean, all in a breath.

this is not a dream and this really is cas and dean's touching him like he's allowed to. behind him, footsteps rushing, and the catch of breath.

christ, said in wonder. fucking christ. is it really you?

dean pulls his hands back like he's burned and steps away from the only person that's ever wanted him the way he's wanted them. he stumbles as he slips out of cas' grasp, disbelief, and terror, and worst of all, hope, making his skin buzz.

this is real, he says to himself. (but it couldn't be, could it? maybe he's lost sense of it, whatever real is supposed to he..and now. now cas is here. and he's...empty.) he turns his gaze to his hands, his hands, shaking, but his. they have to be his.

he hears more than feels the scrape of his brother's palm against his shirt.

hey, he says, and he's using that voice on him, the one he uses when he's talking to victims and widows and children that have too much fight in them for their own good. hey, dean, come on. hey.

from far away, he hears, what did he do? and let's just. let's just go inside, alright? we'll talk about it and oh, dean. and that's why I couldn't find you and dean's ears are ringing now, because what the fuck..

what the fuck.

someone leads him back up the wooden steps by his arm, and he kicks the fallen mug onto the grass. he looks behind him and sees the trenchcoat, and backwards tie, and windswept hair and tired, tired eyes and behind him, another face, one dean's tried to erase from his mind like a coward, now pinched and pitying, and dean cannot take it, feels like he's going to explode. (like a ripe melon on the sun.)

he frees himself of his brother's grip. turns to face cas again. it's me, cas says, before he can say anything. really me. and dean says, do you remember? was it you in there, too? and cas says, not all of it. not really. it's complicated. and dean looks at the face, and thinks about him the last time they were this close, and alone, and running from death and God, the way tears pooled in his eyes.

i hurt you, he says and cas presses his lips together. swallows. says, yes.

and dean says, and it was you.

and cas says, yes.

and dean steps back, breathing hard. says, god. god. says, I'm sorry. and cas' lips turn up on a corner, a small smile that is all sadness, like forgiveness sits in his lungs, all the time, like it is easy as breath. dean can't take that either. dean wishes cas would get mad, for once. wishes he would raise his fists like he used to, wishes he'd stick the right end of hsi blade in his heart, and let him sink into his lap.

but cas is cas, and cas is good, and dean cannot — should not — be here.

I'm sorry, he says again. turns on his heels and takes off.

~

he drives for a day and change, sleeps in his car under an overpass, until he ends up somewhere cold and by the ocean (idk where!!!) and he climbs up one of those cliffs and sits there watching the water like silk in the night, and letting the wind slice his skin, and trying not to let thought take form in his mind.

dean thinks he's barely calmed down when he hears the snap crackle of electricity and the beating of wings and cas appears at his side, his sleeves rolled up and his trenchcoat open and his knees under his chin.

dean doesn't know what to say to him. so he says nothing. an eternity later:

it isn't like that, cas says. i don't remember everything. i don't *know* everything. just...images. snippets. feelings.

dean clenches his eyes shut. then, broken, and wet, I couldn't stand it. I couldn't live with myself. I didn't know how to do it. without you.

and cas is silent. when he speaks, his voice is deeper, and cracking just a little, I didn't think. i didn't think you would care. so much.

and dean laughs, because why would he have thought that. what reason did dean give him to think that.

yeah, he says. yeah. no. I know.

cas' hand trembles when it lands on dean's shoulder. the same one that he's marred twice now.

tell me about it, cas says. the good stuff. the — the breakfasts and. and the holidays. the boat. fishing. he breathes, even though he's never needed to. leans towards dean, like he can't quite bear the weight of his own body. please. dean. tell me —

I loved you, dean says, abrupt. twists his torso, and cas is so close, he's practically breathing into his mouth. it comes out harsh, and strange and not at all like the soft thing that dean had been chasing through everything. he shakes his head. lifts a finger to touch cas' cheek. it feels real, so real. skin and stubble and warmth. he tries again, pressing his voice into the shape of his feelings. I loved you. and you loved me. that — that was it. for a while. that was the good part.

cas says nothing, and dean takes the moment to finally let his eyes wander up to his face. to finally look. the moonlight paints him in shadows, and dean folds his index finger under his thumb, lets himself trace the cut of his cheek with it. in the night, Cas' eyes are grey and blue and bright, and they sinks into his skin, rippling into soft folds. precious things, cushioned in lines and laughter and time.

cas' lips tremble. I forgive you, he says. for the bad part. for all the — for everything else.

dean can't help himself. he leans his forehead against Cas' presses his crooked nose into his cheek. lets his hand slip to the back of his neck.

you shouldn't.

is that what you want? cas asks. for me to be angry?

.

.

.

[the muses are breaking up with me. also it's 2 am and I have work tomorrow.]

but basically. sth sth. cas saying something along the lines of. im angry. im so angry. but it's like he's angry at dean for doing the things he was doing and he's angry that dean never told him how much he was keeping inside and he's angry that he's home and dean fled from him (godbless this man he's so stupid <3 he really said torture what) and he's like and i will be angry for the rest of my life if that's what you want but please. please come home with me.

and dean says. okay. and cas says okay?

and dean says okay.

love confession. kisses. etc.,

im crying,

GEM AND THE SCOTTS MY FAVORITE ALLIANCE THEY ARE SO CLOSE AND THE LOVE AND CARE THEY HAVE FOR EACHOTHER IS JUST SO-

Sorry if this is a bit weird but I really felt the need to say thank you. I love your art so much and it's helped me be happier through my daily life. I first stumbled across DailyIcarus before I knew he had a whole fanfiction, and I absolutely fell in love with his design. I saw many similarities between me and him and honestly I think Icarus is what truly allowed me to question my gender identity. I'm still questioning some things but if it weren't for you and your little Ultrakill OC, I don't think I'd be where I am now. I honestly think I can say you've changed my life, so thank you for that :)

Sorry to send this as an ask, I couldn't find a way to send anonymous dms

anon - god . this is so so sweet. genuinely made me tear up a bit

here. passing on a little message from icarus to you :']