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rookieclair · 9 months ago

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ANYTIME YOU WANT (JUMP BACK TO ME ANYTIME)

husband!leon kennedy x reader

tags: established relationship. you guys are beefing ngl. masturbation (brief reference, m receiving). leon loves his wife a lot. title from eve 6 anytime.

Your therapist takes in the way you both sit on her couch over the rims of her glasses. Your legs and arms are crossed and you don’t dare look in his direction, lest he thinks he’s not in the doghouse. The first fifteen minutes of this session have been an awkward, stilted silence.

Leon’s legs are spread, his arms folded as he sneaks glances at you from the corners of his eyes. His mouth is downturned at the corners, contrasting the thin line yours is pressed into.

Not to stereotype or anything, but she can definitely see which one dragged the other to marriage therapy. She’s just surprised it’s the man wanting to fix something.

Okay. Since neither of you want to speak, she’ll go first. “Would either of you like to tell me why we’re here this week?” She asks, writing the date in the top left corner of the legal pad’s page.

11 - 18 - 24

She watches you scoff and shift where you sit, balancing your temple on two fingers. “You’re a marriage counselor, aren’t you?” You don’t even look at her as you speak, words ground out from your teeth. “Why else does a couple come to you?”

Alright, not a good start. She watches Leon reach over before he stops himself, a hand returning to his lap. Instead, he says your name softly, begging you to look over at him with those big blue eyes.

You don’t look over.

He changes tactics, head lifting. “Be nice.” He says softly, body shifting to face you as he looks over, drinking you in.

You don’t respond, staring angrily into a space over the therapist’s shoulder.

Leon sucks in a breath through his teeth as he leans back, his hand midway between you two on the ugly upholstery.

Your therapist clears her throat, eyes flicking between the two of you. “Why are you two here?”

Leon takes the lead, his eyes sliding over to you. “We’re having… problems.”

You scoff immediately. “Understatement.” You mutter under your breath, arms folding tightly again.

Leon’s mouth presses into a line as he restrains himself from giving into your baiting before he says, “I’ll lay my cards out on the table.”

You bristle, eyes flicking over at him. Your face is stonily neutral, the slight knot of your brows betraying your frustration.

Wife and husband in habit of needling one another.

“I drank. A lot.” Leon leans back, crossing an ankle over his opposite knee. “And she did a lot to try and keep our marriage afloat before I got my head out of my ass.”

Your therapist notes this on her legal pad. “How long ago was this?”

“Three-ish years.” Leon offers, lacing his fingers together. His wedding band glints in the light—yours is conspicuously absent. His eyes land on you, the second time he’s spoken directly to you. “And I’m forever grateful.”

“Mhm.” Therapist writes that husband is apologetic and open, attempting to bridge the gap. Wife is unreceptive. “And how long have you both been married?”

Shit. That’s a better question for you, you have the dates straight, somehow. Your first time, the date you two got married, the day you two met, your first daughter’s birthday, your first son’s birthday, your second daughter and son’s birthday.

He used to tease you about your calendar brain early on. You’d look a little sheepish and he’d kiss it right off you.

Leon sneaks a glance at you like a drowning man looks at a float. “Um…” He can feel his face warming up, a pretty flush spreading across his cheeks.

You shift, sighing through your nose and picking at the seam of your jeans. “Sixteen years.”

Right. Wife seems to defrost when asked how long they’ve been together—sixteen years.

“And how did you meet?” Just so she has the dates straight.

“College.” Your face heats the longer Leon stares holes into your cheek. Wife seems nostalgic of the early days of relationship. “I worked at the campus dining hall.”

A small, helpless smile spreads across Leon’s face. “I came over to the sandwich and pasta stations as much as I could.”

Husband holds affection for wife still.

You don’t look up at him and your therapist can watch the heartache bloom in his eyes before he looks away.

“What’s your perspective, Mrs. Kennedy?” The therapist asks you, crossing her legs.

You stay silent for so long that the therapist wonders whether you heard her before you say emotionlessly, “He did drink.” Your eyes fall to your fingers. “And mope, and feel bad for himself.”

“I went through a lot of things.” Leon says quietly. Your therapist opens her mouth to hush him, but you beat him to the punch.

“Nobody’s saying you didn’t.” You look up at him for the first time. “If you’d let me finish, you’d understand what I’m saying.”

Your therapist holds up her hands before this can devolve into a full-on argument. “Excuse me.” Two pairs of eyes settle on her. “Let’s not interrupt one another, please. And let’s keep the hostility to the minimum.”

“I’m not being hostile.” You retort, brows furrowing in the middle.

“You’re not exactly being gentle, either.” Leon mutters, raising a brow when you look at him with a frown on your face.

Husband and wife have habit of speaking over one another. “Please.” Your therapist says a little louder. “Mrs. Kennedy, continue.” Wife is on defense.

You take a steadying breath and let it out slowly. Wife employs self-soothing mechanisms. “I was going to say that the previous drinking isn’t the issue to me.” You uncross and recross your legs, bouncing the one on top. “The drinking, frankly, wasn’t a surprise.”

“Can you elaborate?”

Your lips part, eyes flicking over to Leon as you attempt to figure out the best way to talk without breaking his confidentiality.

Leon doesn’t look at you, head balanced on two fingers.

“I…” You take another deep breath. “It’s his job. It’s… it’s a tedious and stressful job. And he’d—“ you cut yourself off, glancing at him again.

“You can say it, it’s fine.” Leon says, sounding particularly weary.

You look particularly conflicted when he says that, mouth turning down at the corners. “He’d got the job from a big incident in ninety-eight. He wasn’t supposed to have this job.”

Wife employing vagaries to protect husband.

“Mhm.” Your therapist looks vaguely uneasy at the omission, but lets you go on.

“He hadn’t started drinking heavily until he was working for the President.” You chew on your cheek, eyes on your husband. “Then after that, he tried to go away to Colorado for a week, leaving me pregnant with three kids.”

Leon’s mouth pulls into a line. “So that’s what this is about.”

Husband and wife hold vague resentment for husband’s job.

Your therapist refrains from rolling her eyes, clearing her throat and waiting for you to go on.

“And then,” you say pointedly, eyebrows raising, “you didn’t have a vacation at all because your job called you in. That’s what I was getting at.”

“More like it found me, but close enough.” Leon replies flippantly, crossing his legs.

You squeeze your eyes shut, measuring your breaths. Your therapist is almost tempted to write that husband has a bad attitude, but holds back.

You look away, one hand moving to twiddle your wedding band out of habit before you register that your finger is empty. You pull your hand away. “He sobered up after the Colorado thing.” You say quietly.

Husband’s work takes him away from the wife and kids fairly often.

Your therapist nods, looking between you two. Wife was angry at beginning of session, now looks downcast, switching role with husband who was earlier downcast, now is irritated. “And how many children do you share with one another?”

“Four.” Leon fills in, hand twitching for his phone as if to show pictures. “Two boys, two girls.”

Four children, two boys and two girls.

“And how has this break—“ When she asks, Leon flinches and you look guilty. “in your relationship impacted your children?”

You glance at one another in tandem. Wife and husband still look for support in one another when asked questions pertaining to them as a family unit. Leon looks away first, cheeks turning red.

You sigh, reaching up and rubbing the back of your neck. “Our eldest girl started acting out in school. She’s defiant, she’s antisocial. She…”

Leon waits as you trail off, then picks up. “She’s an extrovert, like her mom. Which is why it raised alarm bells when her teachers told us that she’d been angry about having to do group work because she wanted to be left alone. She had to be taken home one day because she got in a physical fight with some kids who just wanted to play with her.”

“And your other children?” Her eyes flick between the two of you.

“Our youngest two aren’t in school yet.” You inform her, shifting a little and fiddling with your nails. “Our eldest boy—he’s six—had begun isolating himself from everyone. He wouldn’t even sit at his desk, he just wanted to sit in the library area and do his work—which is completely fine and I don’t see why the teacher threw a fit about it, frankly—but he’d also refused to play with other children. He would just watch other kids at recess—and he’s a very energetic kid.”

Your therapist nods slowly. “I see.”

Leon’s mouth pulls into a small smile at all the information you throw at the therapist. That’s his girl, always motormouthing and talking about anything and everything. Though, you could start an argument with your echo, so maybe there’s a drawback to your ability to talk about anything.

Parental relationship affecting children in household.

“Our youngest two don’t really understand why mommy and daddy are fighting.” Leon muses, watching you play with your fingers. He has half a mind to reach over and hold your hand so you stop fidgeting, but refrains.

“How old are your children?”

“Eight, six, four, and two.” You sneakily reference a tattoo on your forearm of the kid’s birthdates with their initials—he knew you were cheating when it came to remembering their birthdates.

Your therapist glances at her watch, jotting down a few more notes before she closes the legal pad, marking it as Mr. & Mrs. Kennedy. “I’m afraid that’s all the time we have this week. If you both are willing to come back, my receptionist out front will schedule you for another session next week.”

Leon watches his cum swirl down the drain miserably, leaning his forehead against the shower tile. What a waste.

That session last week could’ve gone worse, admittedly. It could’ve had you two throwing shit at one another and both of you getting arrested.

The silence during the drive home was excruciating. In the early days, you could fill up the whole fucking car just talking about anything: your coursework, which kid in your class you think is autistic, this new show you watched, anything.

Leon’s a quiet guy, he doesn’t have the capacity to talk about nothing and everything for an hour and you’re his favorite little chatterbox in the world.

He turns off the faucet and shakes his hair out like a dog, raking the curtain aside and grabbing his towel, mopping his face and hair before he dries off his body.

He wraps the towel around himself and steps out of the shower, slicking his hair back and wiping a streak in the foggy mirror so he can somewhat see where he needs to shave.

For good measure, he opens the window and leans forward to the mirror, inspecting his face.

You knock on the door thrice. “Can I come in?”

He turns around, one hand on the knot holding his towel up and the other unlocking the door and pulling it open. You step inside without so much as a glance at him, pausing when you see the streak on the mirror. “I hate when you do that.” you mutter, pulling open the cabinet and rooting around for some disinfectant.

“You hate when I do anything.” Leon mutters back, retrieving the trimmer from the cabinet and being careful not to whack you in the head with it. He jams the plug in the wall, undoing his towel both to dab his cheeks and jaw dry with a corner of it, but also to see if he can get a reaction from you.

You give none, coming back with some rubbing alcohol and cotton pads from the cabinet. Somebody must’ve scraped their knee. You bonk the back of your head on the way out. “Motherfucker!”

Leon puts down the trimmer with a stifled laugh, leaning down and stroking the back of your head gently. “Jesus. You okay?”

You swat at his covered thigh, sitting down on the tile. “It’s not funny.”

“Did you hear me laugh?” Maybe you did. His bad, he should’ve been quieter. He strokes the back of your head one last time before pulling his hand away.

“No, but I know you want to.” You grouse, getting up from the floor and picking up the rubbing alcohol and the cotton pads. Safe, just like a guy stealing a base at the last second.

You walk away without anything further and Leon feels stupidly self-conscious as he watches your ass. Is it the hair? No, you said you liked the body hair. Is it the body? Is he out of shape? Well, he’s not far outside the realm of dad bod. Besides, you told him a couple years ago that you liked seeing the give to his tummy, means he’s eating well.

He shakes his head, leaning into the mirror and picking up the trimmer as he buzzes his stubble down a little more. Your four year old runs into the bathroom with a smile and he pauses, face half-shaven to give some love to one of his three girls, plopping her on the counter as she talks his ear off and he continues shaving.

After a while, he helps her down so she can go run around with her siblings and so he can get changed, hanging his towel up when she’s gone and changing into a pair of boxers. He comes into his bedroom and heads over to his dresser, pulling out a shirt and some sweatpants.

He comes downstairs fully dressed to utter chaos.

Your kids are too busy running around the living room and body slamming one another to listen to you. You stand there frustratedly as you try to configure a game plan, one temple aching. You don’t like raising your voice at them, your voice goes too high and at a certain point, kids tune it out.

“Hey!” Leon, on the other hand, has no qualms about raising his voice. He doesn’t have to do much, he has a lot of diaphragm support.

The kids pause, immediately looking guilty.

Wordlessly, he points out to the back door and they scramble away, shouting and ordering each other around and back to playing with one another.

Leon goes over and shuts the door with a sigh. “They get that energy from you, you know.” He muses, heading over to the kitchen to get himself a snack.

“I know.” You sit down on your humongous couch, rubbing a temple. In the corner is your pillow, your blanket hung over the back of the couch. Leon’s heart dully aches when he sees that setup, he’s not sure it ever won’t. God, he misses cuddling you and his babies.

Your therapist holds up a hand in the last ten minutes of your session after having found a good place to cut you off. “So.” She says after letting out a quiet sigh, looking over her notes.

11 - 25 - 24

Making some headway in conversations about the other’s intentions. Husband and wife very similar: hardheaded, hate to lose, want their voices to be heard. Neither want their children to be in a broken home.

Wife sleeps on couch, lacks wedding ring for second session in a row. Husband longing for connection with her but wants her to give the signal that she’s ready.

She looks up. “I’m going to give you both some homework.” She watches your eyebrow raise and Leon smirk. “First, no matter what either of you is doing, when you first see each other for the day, I want you to hug for at least twenty seconds.”

You frown, Leon’s expression lightening. Amateur advice, or so you think.

“Second, I want you both to start keeping journals of your fights.”

Nevermind.

“Journals of our fights?” You repeat, crossing your legs at the ankle.

“I’m not finished.” The therapist reprimands gently, watching you frown. Wife has issues with authority. “These journals should take place over a week’s time. I want you to write down what the fight was about, what was said, how you both reacted. At the end of every week—Sunday, we’ll say—you’ll exchange the journals and read from the other’s point of view.”

Damn, that’s actually really good.

“Third,” The therapist pins you in place with a look. “I want you to wear your wedding band again.“

She watches the embarrassment cross your face, eyes cutting over to Leon when he looks too smug. “Don’t look so smug, Mr. Kennedy. I want you to recite five things you like about her—“

“That’s easy.” Leon says, meaning every word.

She gives him a look. “When you’re in an argument. Mentally, not out loud. Speaking of, you both need a code word for when the argument is getting to be too much and you need to walk away from it.”

She stands up, putting the legal pad in the folder in the Kennedy file. “I’ll see you both next week.”

After the third session, you move right back into the bedroom, after waking up to Leon laying on top of you on the couch.

Leon’s brushing his teeth as you change into pajamas, leaning over and spitting into the sink before he brushes his tongue. He rinses the bristles and puts the brush back in the holder, coming out and helping you ready the bed before your six year old son comes in, saying his tummy’s upset.

“I’ve got it.” Leon comes over and presses a hand to his son’s forehead. Warm. Five out of the six of the Kennedys tend to run warm, which isn’t a worry. “Let’s get you some Pepto, buddy.”

He takes his son’s hand and leads him downstairs, giving him a dose and taking him back up, laying him back in his bed. “Goodnight. Mommy and daddy love you.” He whispers, going over and kissing his three other children goodnight.

He comes back to your room to find you in bed reading, lights dimmed. Instinctively, he comes over to your side and adjusts the lamp so you’re not straining your eyes to read. He comes back around to his side and turns off his light, lying on his right side and facing you.

When you decide it’s time to sleep, you lean over and turn off the light, putting your book on your nightstand and slipping beneath the covers.

It’s silent for a while before Leon whispers, “Sometimes, I wonder if we should have another baby.”

Your head snaps over to his. “What?”

“Not—“ He scoots a little closer, almost reaching out to take your hand. “not, like, a bandage baby or anything. I don’t think a baby can fix this.” A pause before he gestures in the dark. “Us, I mean.”

You snort despite yourself. “I hope not.”

Leon scoffs, coming a little closer. “You know me. That’s not fair to a little baby. And you said four’s your limit.”

Your heart warms. Maybe you shouldn’t be so surprised he remembered.

“I love you, you know.” Leon murmurs, hesitantly and loosely taking your hand. Even in the dark, you can see him coming.

Your chest aches. “I know.”

Another long pause.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” When your head turns, he’s there, inches from your face.

“That it took me so long to pull my head from my ass. You are… my anchor in this crazy-ass world.” He squeezes your hand, hoping you’ll let him hold it for a while longer. “And I hurt you. You’re the sweetest woman I’ve ever met, and I love you, and I hurt you.”

Your burning eyes scrunch shut as you press your forehead to his.

“I just hope you forgive me—I hope one day, that I’m good enough for you to forgive me.” He whispers, voice wavering. “I want this to work. I want you. God, I miss you.”

Maybe that’s what you needed, you needed to hear him render his heart open.

You come closer, pressing your front to his.

“And even my job—“ He curses, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then the spot between your eyebrows. “I’ll quit.” When you giggle, he huffs. “I’m serious. Give me the word and I’ll quit.”

The tension in his chest eases when you tuck your head beneath his chin. “God, no, don’t do that. At least one of us needs an income.” You mutter, throwing an arm around his waist.

Forgiveness never felt so sweet.

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rookieclair · 10 months ago

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Ice Cream Legacy Challenge 🍨 The Sims 4 BASE GAME Challenge.

Challenge created by ME (@becciisiim)

Follow me on Instagram: becciisiim

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rookieclair · 10 months ago

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THE SWEETEST BERRY LEGACY

created by clumsy.romantic (previously strawberrysim/strawberrysimyt)

hi, so yes you may have already seen this posted to my account, and you're probably wondering "why is she posting this again?" (unless you already saw the mistake)...

i do in fact have one and a half brain cells and it took a friend to point out the mistake to me to realize i had put the same aspiration for 3 generations... oh boy...

anyhooooo~ here is a new updated version of the sweetest berry legacy challenge! now, if there still any mistakes here, or maybe you cannot see or read these images, you'll probably have a better time reading the google doc i made for it here.

thank you to all who have continued to support me here and on instagram i love you all very much and i appreciate every like, comment and reblog/share! it truly warms my heart every time that you all like my challenge that i worked my butt off on (let's not talk about my other challenges because this is the challenge i created first and is honestly my baby <333)

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rookieclair · 10 months ago

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next heir🍠🍨

#sims 4 #just desserts legacy

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rookieclair · 1 year ago

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should not be getting so hot and bothered watching him do all this

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rookieclair · 1 year ago

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sooo i ranked ships from resident evil

#leon kennedy #resident evil #resident evil ship #ada wong #claire redfield #chris redfield #jill valentine #albert wesker #tier ranking

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rookieclair · 1 year ago

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YUM YUM YUM

my kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder

pairing: javi p x reader

cws/tags: angst, p in v, oral, idk? drinking? canon death mention? javi pov

summary: reader, a dea agent, arrives in medellin (season 2 time) and quickly forms a bond w javi. are they just friends or is it something more?

a/n: there is a part 2 which will give the full picture (hopefully)

wc: 8.6k

taglist:

@gothcsz @onlyasimp4-2dbitches

There was Helena, and then, Gabriela, before that, Vanessa, and certainly some others here and there, but with all of them, Javi had his expectations set upfront. Or at least, he thought he did, he tried to, but he'd be lying if he said Helena only came to mind when he was lonely in the middle of the night, naked and unable to sleep.

Elisa was a mistake, an unfair mistake that was dropped off at his doorstep before he could tell himself that this doesn't mean anything. There must've been some self-preservation instincts in him that held him back from begging her for more, from moping around after she left. He risked a lot for her, but he would've risked more if she'd let him.

Prostitutes and wanted communists are one thing, but you are something else. Javi can't quite put his finger on what that something else is yet, and it’s too late once he figures it out.

In the beginning, Javi was skeptical of you, mostly because you came to Medellin with Messina and crew, and he falsely assumed that being her subordinate meant you would take her side if there were ever to be conflict between her and Javi – and there was from their very first conversation.

More than skeptical, he was intrigued. Being sent to Colombia to participate in the fight against Escobar was usually reserved for higher-ups with a much longer tenure, or fresh meat for the front-lines. As a newcomer, that meant that you were either a highly-skilled agent in the field of investigation or you volunteered yourself – likely unknowingly – to be slaughtered. You might be a fast runner or a sharpshooter, but young girls aren’t known to fare well on the battlefield.

Once he’s determined that you’re not a threat, you’re a coworker. You keep to yourself. You don’t seem shy, just focused, and for that Javi is grateful. Considering the fact that he’s forced to work with the people he deems to be ‘RIP’ and a fuckton of bureaucracy, you make his life easier.

Obviously, you’re gorgeous. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder or whatever but he sees the way others look at you. He notices because he is also looking. You walk with confidence, but not arrogance. You traverse the halls with purpose, but not urgency. You rarely stop to mingle with Colleen and only exchange cordial glances with men who would melt if you gave them any more attention than that.

His first interaction with you aside from your initial greeting, begins with a headache. It’s the phone ringing, then the keys clicking on the typewriter, even the tick of the clock gets to him. He groans - somewhat dramatically - and puts his head in his hands.

“Agent Peña,” you pipe up from beside him. “Are you okay?”

“Just a headache. I’ll recover.”

“Do you want Advil? I have some in my purse.”

“Yes, please.”

You dig through a sizable bag until you find a small bottle. You carefully shake two caplets out and pour the excess back inside their container, closing the cap tightly before putting it back in your purse.

“Hold out your hand unless you want me to feed them to you,” you say jokingly.

He opens his palm and takes the offering, greedily swallowing the pills dry.

“You should really take those with water,” you say.

“Does coffee work?” He presents the near-empty mug on his desk to you, swirling the contents.

“Here,” you say, giving up your water bottle.

“You’re a fuckin’ angel, you know that?” he says, before taking a gulp of your water, tasting the chapstick on the rim. Cherry. It leaves a pink stain that matches the color of your nails.

When he returns the bottle to you, you seem oddly flustered. He meant angel as in miracle worker not as in divinely gorgeous woman, though both could be used to describe you. You should know that, he thinks.

“Not really,” you say with a breathy laugh. “I’m just prepared for any surprise Aunt Flo could bring me.”

“Huh?” Javi’s a man without sisters, daughters, or a wife, he’s never heard the expression.

“My period.”

Honestly, he’s impressed at how plainly you say it, shameless as you should be.

“Ah.”

“She makes me more of a demon than anything, but it means I’ve got a whole pharmacy in here.”

“Got anything fun?”

“Not unless you find enjoyment in a handful of tampons and a spare pair of underwear.”

Depends on the underwear, he thinks. They’re probably modest, but you’d look good in fuckin’ granny panties. By the end of the day, he’s imagined you in just about everything.

At the time, Javi's not interested in flirting with you. It's not a conscious effort not to get involved, he's just so caught up in everything else that there's little time to think about romancing you.

Even the night he and Steve first invite you for drinks, it's sheerly for the sake of camaraderie. In fact, it was Steve's idea, not his. Murphy thought you looked lonely – in retrospect, Javi thinks it might've been projection. Javi agreed to invite you out of pure interest in what you'd be like outside of the office.

Nice. That's the best way he could describe it. Likable.

You all get drunk. Javi watches your professional facade slip as you’re swaying in your seat to the rhythm of the current hits on the radio. Your skin, dewy with summer sweat, makes you glow like an angel in the dim light of the bar.

It takes Steve a drink and a half to bring up his marriage problems. Javi, stupidly, has forgotten that you're not privy to any of this, so you endure 25 minutes of conversation time before asking, "Who's Connie?"

"Steve's wife," Javi says.

"Where is she?"

"Miami."

"I've never heard you talk about her before."

"Because he's in hot water," Javi, again, is the one to answer.

"I can answer for myself, thank you." Steve insists.

And so Javi lets Steve talk - he's probably heard it all before - and he lets himself have a break. Just a little break, no one will notice if he lets his mind wander for a second. Really, he's mostly listening, he thinks.

"Javi." Murphy's voice from across the table is oddly stern.

"What?" Javi mirrors his tone.

"What do you think I should do?"

"About what?"

"Connie."

"I don't know."

"Were you even listening?"

"Yeah, of course."

It takes one long stare to get him to break. "Okay, fine. I was not listening. Tell me one more time."

You excuse yourself from the table to use the restroom, and it feels like you've fed him to the wolves – rightfully so.

"You like her." It's not a question. It's a statement, whispered as if Murphy cares about the confidentiality of Javi's love life or lack thereof.

"It's not like that." But Javi can't meet his eyes.

"I know sleeping around usually works for you, but I don't want you to fuck this up. Not right now when we're so close."

What he means is: do not fuck her. It should be simple – and to Steve's credit, he's right. But the thing is that Javi doesn't just want to fuck you. It's not like that.

"What do you think I am? An animal?" Javi asks.

Yes, he absolutely does. To him, Javi is a tiger, waiting to pounce on whatever prey he can get his hands on. Really, Javi's a mopey zoo lion if anything.

When he notices you making your way across the room, he changes the subject. "Anyway, I think you should call Connie, and tell her how you feel. Just be honest."

"That's what I said," you beam with pride, as if you've gotten the answer right.

Looking into Murphy’s bloodshot eyes, he adds, "But you've gotta sober up first."

"I agree," you say, and Javi only notices now how you slur your words.

He convinces you both to go home with the promise of a second hangout next week. It's an empty promise – he just needs to get you home safe. He assumes you won't remember in the morning. But come next Friday, you approach him, and ask if you're going to the same bar you went to the weekend prior.

It was an empty promise, but one he decides to keep.

It becomes a weekly thing. The three of you. You all get along perfectly well, but if this were any other circumstance, if you were any other beautiful woman, Javi would've pulled Steve to the side and told him to pound sand. But there is a mutual knowledge and acceptance that Steve is cock-blocking Javi. It's for everyone's benefit.

Your group hangouts typically begin and end at the same bar down the street.

The friend group arrangement works until it doesn't. Until Murphy has plans.

"How the fuck do you have plans? Your wife is in another country," Javi asks bitterly.

"Unlike you, my life isn't centered around women I want to sleep with," Steve says with less bite because he knows he's won the conversation.

Fuck Murphy. Javi was tired of hearing him bitch about Connie anyway. But you. He could never get tired of you.

"We can still go out, right, Javi?" you ask, and he's fairly sure it's the first time you've ever called him by his first name.

He doesn't have time to find an excuse to say no when he's pushing away every knee-jerk flirtation in his mind.

"Yeah," he says, "of course we can."

It takes only one word to seal his fate, but he gives you five.

That evening he sits across from you rather than next to you, so he can't put his arm around the back of your seat and you can't lean on him when you start to feel tipsy. Instead, he has to try to pay attention while you're looking him in the eyes, smiling at him and no one else.

When you decide to call it a night, and you stumble on your way out the door, Javi grabs hold of your arm, steadying you.

"I'm gonna walk you home," he says. Not an offer, a statement of fact.

"I got it," you say, patting him on the chest in thanks.

"No, you don't." He sighs as he leads you against your will, trying not to let your stupid grin get to him.

As you walk past the lit-up buildings filled with young singles dancing with their bodies pressed up against each other covered in sweat and spilled drinks – the nightlife of Medellin, a song escapes one nightclub that you recognize, and you begin to sing along. Your tune isn't bad, but your lyrics are far from correct.

Javi laughs heartily, unable to hold it in.

"What? You don't like it?"

"No, I love it – it's original. I love the way you've completely changed the lyrics."

"You're so mean, Javier!" You playfully shove him – or attempt to, but you end up falling into his arms.

He takes your hands in his, holding you upright.

“It’s ‘hold me closer, tiny dancer’, not ‘hold me closer, Tony Danza’,” he says.

“Okay, fine,” you say, hands still clasped in his, swaying a bit, coaxing him into dancing with you slowly.

Halfway through the song, he’s leading you, step-by-step, twirling you like a ballerina because he loves the way you laugh when he does it.

Though you’re the one that needs help standing, you keep him on his toes too. The words are no longer ‘Tony Danza’, nor ‘tiny dancer’ - it becomes ‘hold me closer, Javi Peña’.

For the rest of the walk, he keeps his hands – respectfully, protectively, friendly – on you. Just an arm around your shoulder, or your hand in his at most scandalous.

It takes you a moment to unlock your door as you fiddle with the keys – their clinking metal being the only sound echoing through the halls of the apartment building. Anticipatory silence. He won't come into your apartment, he knows that. You're too drunk to consent to anything. You leave him with a kiss on the cheek, and he hopes that it means less to you than it does to him.

“It’s kinda like Cheers when you think of it,” you note off-handedly.

“In what way?” Javi asks like he’s challenging you.

“Well, we’re always at the same bar.”

“Oh yeah? ‘Where everybody knows your name’? The bartender still calls you ‘señorita’.”

“He calls me ‘gringo’,” Steve mumbles into his glass.

As it turns out, the bartender does know your name, and just as Sam Malone would, he makes out with you in a room marked ‘employee’s only’.

Watching you get whisked away by the bartender, Javi sighs a little too loudly, prompting Murphy to inquire, “you jealous?”

“No. I’m gonna go… mingle,” he says, turning towards the area that has become a dancefloor over the course of the night.

“Okay, I’ll be here when you’re ready to talk about it.”

“Fuck off. We agreed that I’m not sleeping with her – I did not take a vow of celibacy.”

Murphy doesn’t stay to watch Javi find an eligible woman to suck him off in the women’s room. Instead, he closes his tab and asks the bartender – the one not making his way from second to third base with you - to relay a message to Javi when he inevitably comes looking.

“What do you want me to tell him?” The man – unamused, but bored enough to entertain him - asks.

“Tell him I left to fuck his wife.”

The bartender seems to think it’s funny enough, especially when he already harbors certain negative feelings towards Javi for reasons that may or may not be justifiable, depending on who you ask.

Javi learns of this later when he closes out his own tab, but before he does so, he has a mission to see through.

Barely concealed by a stall door that could use a new coat of paint and some WD-40 on the hinges, Javi is about to tell this woman - whose name he’s already forgotten - not to leave any marks above his collar, but then, he remembers you, and says nothing, only groans when her teeth scrape the skin on his neck.

He brushes this need to ‘conquer’ off as a typical rivalry between friends. When your friend exits the room to go hook up with someone, it’s your duty as a man to find a mate of equal social stature to theirs, and engage in at least some heavy petting by the end of the night. Or at least, that’s how it worked back in college – which, come to think of it, was about a lifetime ago for Javi. Looking back, he realizes that those nights taught him the infinitely valuable skill of bullshitting his way in and out of situations.

Though, he tells you the absolute truth of who, what, where, and how it all went down for him that night on your walk home. He only omits the why.

“Are we going back to the same place next week?”

“I thought we already established that we go there every week, just like they do in Cheers,” he says.

“Can we go somewhere else next time?”

“Why? It seemed like you were having a good time back there,” Javi teases.

“I guess…” you mumble, kicking gravel aimlessly down the sidewalk. “But he wants to see me again.”

Javi hums as if he understands.

“I just don’t wanna get caught up in anything serious, you know?”

“Oh, but I’m the asshole when I say I’m not good at commitment?”

“That was Steve, not me, and to his credit, you said you left someone at the altar. You committed and then you backed out. You broke a promise – that’s why you’re an asshole.”

“Then, she dodged a bullet by not marrying an asshole like me.”

The rest of the walk home is silent. Tense, and not the good kind.

This is not the climax of the movie where Javi pushes you up against the wall next to your apartment door, and you engage in the steamiest makeout session allowed on cable television – the kind where you pull away panting, take one look into each other’s eyes and realize you’ve been in love all along.

You keep your eyes pointed at your feet and he keeps his hands by his sides. It feels like you’re strangers who happen to be walking at the same pace, to the same destination. There’s nothing more to say.

Until you reach your apartment, and when the two of you part ways, you say to him, “I’m sorry I called you an asshole.”

“It’s okay.” I’m used to it, he thinks. “People have said a lot worse about me.”

With Connie and Olivia back in Miami, Steve has a spacious apartment to himself, which is where the three of you decide to congregate after your little hook-up with the bartender the week prior.

Buying a case of beer from the convenience store is much more cost-efficient, and Steve can easily talk to his wife on the phone when he gets a little too drunk and misses her, leaving you and Javi in his living room together.

Briefly, you both listen to him murmur into the handset, cradling it like a baby. If it were someone else, you might gossip, at least speculate, but there’s nothing salacious about it, and despite the fact that Steve will one day return home to his loving wife, beating all of the odds currently stacked against them, it’s not a tale of epic romance. Not that Javi knows anything about romance anyway.

You and Javi sit in the living room, chatting about nothing important, mostly bitching about work and how there’s never anything good on TV anymore. But then, out of nowhere, as if it’s nothing special, you mention a man – a colleague, but the DEA is a large organization, so Javi is unfamiliar with him.

“He asked me out.”

“Did you accept?”

“Yeah, I figured, why not? You know? I feel like I should get to know more people. I really only hang out with you and Murphy.”

“Oh, so we’re not good enough for you? I’m offended,” Javi says, sarcastically, but there’s a grain of truth deep down.

“You know you’ll always be my favorite, Javi.” You lean your head on him and he hadn’t realized how close you were sitting until now.

“Yeah, yeah.” Javi nudges you with his elbow, pushing you away despite himself. “Now, tell me about this guy you’re going out with.”

“He’s really sweet, and like super polite… a gentleman,” you decide.

“Oh, so you like a ‘nice guy’? Someone you can bring home, someone who holds the door open for you…”

“I guess. He’s pretty handsome, too. He’s got brown hair, and pretty brown eyes – kinda like yours.”

You smile, so he smiles. But, how can you say that with such levity?

Because he’s just a friend to you.

You've truly formed a bond with Javi by the time you step into the dating scene in Colombia. So much so that you ask Javi for his opinions on what you should wear for your third date – just as you did for your first and second.

"Either you're great with fashion advice or you're my good luck charm," you say. "So, I need you to tell me which looks best."

"Okay. Go put on outfit number one before I get bored and fall asleep on your couch."

"I'll be quick, I'll be quick. You can pour yourself a drink if it'll keep you awake."

He's never been one to turn down a drink, but what keeps him awake is your 'fashion show'.

"This is outfit number one," you say, smiling in your classic little black dress.

"Beautiful," he says honestly.

"And then," you say as you begin to unzip your dress.

"Whoa-"

"What?"

"Why are you getting undressed?"

For the first time, he's nervous to see a woman naked.

"Each outfit has a matching set of lingerie, so you have to see that too in order to accurately judge."

He gestures for you to continue and tries to keep his expression neutral. And his dick soft.

It's torturous to see you stress so much when he knows the guy doesn't deserve the sight of you like this. Neither does he, for that matter.

"You really like him?" He asks.

"I mean, yeah sure, he's nice, and he's good-looking"

"But you're not over the moon about him." He can hear it in your voice. You don't deserve to settle.

"No, but you can have sex with someone you're not over the moon about - you, especially would know that, Peña."

"Yeah, but I don't dress up all fancy just to have sex."

He has the tendency to get attached even in the most casual of situations, so he’d never dare make an occasion out of sex.

You sigh. "I guess I do, or else I wasted a shit ton of money on lingerie."

"Fuck the money. Do you actually wanna fuck this guy? 'Cause you know you don't have to. It's not a written rule."

Javi surprises himself with how much of his dedication to making sure you're making the right decision is out of genuine platonic care for you and not jealousy for the man who might get the chance to sleep with you.

"I know I don't have to, but I want to, and I want to look good for him because I want to make a good impression."

He shrugs, dissatisfied. You don't get it, you'll make a good impression no matter what you wear. Any guy would be lucky to get the opportunity to sleep with you, he could say, but it would come off wrong.

His silence allows you time for thought, for worry. Seemingly, apropos of nothing, you ask him if he's ever had sex with a woman who was 'bad in bed'.

"Sort of, not really. Nothing really bad, but I've had times where we're both pretty drunk and it's just… not great. One time I hit my head on the wall." He smiles at the stupidity and you laugh.

"Sorry. I'm sure it hurt."

"It hurt like hell, but it wasn't totally her fault. Another time, a girl's phone would not stop ringing, and she eventually picked it up and it was her mom telling her that her grandma died."

"Did she kick you out or did you stay to comfort her?"

"Depends on what you mean by 'comfort'."

"You did not continue fucking her."

"I did. But, as you can imagine, the mood was kind of ruined."

"Luckily both of my grandmas are already dead, so that won't be an issue."

"See? There you go. Just don't drink too much, make sure he doesn't hit his head and maybe take your phone off the hook."

But you continue to spiral through worries, telling Javi each and every one of them while he sits at the foot of your bed.

Will you bring your date back here? Is the only worry in his own mind.

Eventually, he asks you, "do you like him? Yes or no. And I mean really like."

"Yes."

"Do you trust him?"

"I don't not trust him."

"That's not the question I asked."

"It's hard to make a blanket statement saying that I trust someone. Trust him with what? To save my place in line, a briefcase holding a million dollars, my life?"

"Let me ask you this way then, who do you trust?"

"My mom, my sister, Murphy, you…"

"When you say you trust me, what does that mean for you?"

"I've trusted you with my life many times before and I'd do it again. But in our jobs we have to put our lives on the line."

"If he had my job would you trust him like you trust me?"

"Not as much as I trust you."

And somehow Javi is stupid enough to think that this means you'll skip the date, maybe even schedule one with him, but you go as you planned to – if he were able to look at you dressed in lingerie and keep his opinions completely detached and as objective as possible, he would say you should go with the red set because it looked the best. But he hopes, selfishly, that you saved it for his eyes only.

As most relationships do, that one ends. The man - whose name Javi rid his mind of - breaks up with you. You lament over it for about a week and then move on.

Javi lets you cry it out with your face buried in his t-shirt, staining the fabric with mascara tears. It was his favorite, but he rubs your back and holds you closer instead of telling you to stop using him as a tissue.

“It’s his loss,” he says along with all the typical phrases one expects to hear after a devastating breakup.

But what makes you feel better is when Javi suggests you watch the episode of Cheers he’d taped earlier that week.

“Can I lie down while we watch?” you ask.

“Yeah. How do you want me?” he asks because the couch is the only piece of furniture facing the TV, which means you’ll have to share it.

“You wanna lie down behind me? You could be the big spoon.”

He nods, lying down on his side, leaving space for you to curl up beside him.

He wraps his arm around you lazily, resisting the urge to run his hands down the side of your body, to touch you everywhere.

“Can you see from back there?” you ask.

“Mm-hmm,” he lies. He’s already seen the episode, he’d much rather fall asleep with his body pressed up against yours. It’s the closest he’s ever been to you.

Javi has practiced the art of keeping himself hidden. It's a useful trait as both an agent and a reluctant hopeless romantic. He never gets too drunk, not like you and Steve. He never reveals what lies below the facade of a grouchy, sometimes disobedient but wholly dedicated agent on your Friday night hangouts. He disguises himself as a womanizer, an asshole, until he can't anymore.

You find him in desperation. Post-tragedy, a traumatic incident that he can't quite shake. It makes him vulnerable. He does the right thing the first time – he calls up Gabriela and fucks her like he hates her, tips her real well afterwards. The second time is when he makes the mistake of seeing you, not just looking at you when you cross paths, but seeing you.

He knew things were bad after seeing Murphy teary-eyed for the first time. It brought the first incident to the forefront of his mind again. A cigarette and some fresh air would help, he thought. But when he steps outside, he finds you.

"It's late," he says.

"Why are you out here?"

"I can't sleep."

"Me neither."

You won't look at him. Why won't you look at him?

"I heard what happened today."

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"I'm not asking you to talk about it. What I'm saying is, I know what you're feeling."

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do, and you know it. We were both there when-"

"I don't wanna talk about that either."

"Good. I don't either. We should go inside. It's not safe for you to be out here right now."

"I'm not a fucking baby."

"You know what I mean. I'm trying to help you, okay?"

You ask him to stay with you – that's what will help, you say. He shouldn't, but he's too weak to say 'no'. You make him weaker.

"I need to forget," you tell him, and he knows exactly what that means.

It means sex. It means throwing away the future he could've had with you. Not the romantic kind – that was already gone, that's been gone since before you came into his life. He won't have a white-picket-fence-two-and-a-half-kids-in-the-suburbs kind of future with anyone. But he could've had a friendship, he could've gotten the gift of existing near you without any tension, something light and untouched even if it meant keeping himself at a distance.

But, you need this. You're begging him to fuck you, and if he chooses not to, it'll only make things worse – you'd withdraw from him entirely in embarrassment from his rejection because there's no way he can tell you that it's not because he doesn't want to have sex with you. God, no – he wants to have sex with you. In his ideal scenario, you get drunk once – on a business trip, at Steve and Connie's house, at the celebration of Escobar's demise – and you make the "stupid mistake" of sleeping with each other, and it becomes an inside joke between the two of you.

In his dreams, you get married on the beach or at city hall or even at a church if that's what you wanted. But dreams are dreams for a reason. They're distinctly different from reality. They don't come true.

In reality, Javi says the best thing he can, which is "okay", and he lets his lips collide with yours.

When your frantic hands begin to strip him of his clothes, he wants to tell you "it's okay, we have all night" because he wants to take it slow. He knows he won't last long when he gets inside you.

He tries to balance eagerness with gentleness when he takes off your clothes. He wants to be close to you.

"Let's go to your bedroom," he mumbles into the crook of your neck.

You don't bother to pick up your clothes, which are strewn near the doorway, so Javi doesn't either. He can tell you're impressed when he undoes your bra with one hand, and it makes him laugh, a little proud too, despite the fact that it's no more than a party trick (if you consider sex a party).

But his need to be the best you've ever had has him dropping to his knees in the hallway, and it's milliseconds before his hands are gripping your thighs and his nose meets the fabric of your panties.

He looks up, and asks, "can I take these off?"

"Yeah," you say, assisting him by slipping them down your own thighs.

With how quiet you are in the office, he expected you to be the same in the bedroom but you're not. The moan you let out when his tongue meets your clit is loud and unashamed – his favorite kind. It spurs him on.

"Javi, Javi, Javi - wait - I'm - hold on-"

So, he stops. "What's wrong?" He massages your thighs while he speaks, soft and sweet.

"I'm gonna cum."

"I know. That's the goal."

"But I'm gonna fall over."

"You're not, baby. I'm gonna hold onto you. But, if you want, we can finish this in bed." He doesn't wait for an answer before lifting you over his shoulder.

It makes you gasp, just like his lips did moments ago, but this time it makes him laugh. Only you could make him smile on a night like this one.

He doesn't tease you, he dives back in, lapping at your folds, more desperate for your orgasm than you are. If Javi is one thing, it's dedicated, and the bedroom is no exception.

You're still panting when you ask him to fuck you. It might be the first time you've said 'fuck' in front of him. "Fuck me" is Javi's line.

Utterly captivated by the sight of you disheveled beneath him, he agrees.

The second time you say 'fuck' is when Javi tells you he'll go grab a condom from his wallet – which is in his jeans, which are somewhere near the front door – and you say 'fuck it'.

And, utterly captivated by the sight of you, he agrees.

"How do you want me?" he asks.

"Rough," you say. "Make me forget."

You say it with such conviction that he sighs and says, "Okay. Turn over."

He buries himself to the hilt in a single thrust and since Javi can't see your face, he can't tell if the moan you let out is pleasure or pain, so he leans in and whispers into your ear, "Tell me if I'm hurting you."

"I want you to hurt me."

I don't want to hurt you.

Something holds him back from saying it. He's not one to disappoint, especially in this facet of life. So, he saves the kiss he wants to place on your cheek for later. Instead, he drags his teeth along your soft skin and bites the flesh.

He fucks you hard, the way you want him to – holding onto the headboard, hips slamming into yours from the back at a merciless pace, and maybe if you weren't you, he'd feel different about this. But, instead of staring into your eyes and trying to cover up the immense fondness he feels for you, he looks at the pictures that hang on your wall, held up by clothespins on a string–you're smiling with your friends, blowing out birthday candles, laying on a beach towel in a bikini. He is in none of these photos. Why would he be? You've never taken a photo together. He's not a part of your life like that.

All the while, he keeps an iron grip on your hips and keeps a steady rhythm. Your moans turn into sobs, and he doesn't know how much longer he can take. Both because hearing your cries makes him feel conflicted about everything and because your walls are so tight around him, you're soaking wet and your legs are trembling. It's not long before he feels your pussy spasms and your whole body jolts – you have the sense to scream into your pillow, but he can still hear it.

Finally, he pulls out and jerks himself off, letting his release spill onto your ass, and once he's let go of you, you promptly flop down fully onto the mattress.

With the room finally quieter, you hear banging on the front door. You're about to get up but Javi stops you. "Stay there. I'll deal with it."

He slips on his boxers and flings open the door, and it's the person he least wants to see. Steve. Not because he hates Steve, but because Steve will bring this up.

He doesn't even have to say anything.

"Sorry. We'll keep it down," Javi says.

"Good" is the only word he says, though it's clearly not 'good' because Steve looks more pissed off than he's ever seen him.

He tells you it was a neighbor, but doesn't specify which one. He cleans you up, and prepares himself to leave. That's how this goes, right?

"Stay," you say, tugging him by the hand, so he falls back into bed.

He falls asleep with his bare skin flush against yours but this time it's gentle. He gives you a kiss on the temple before you turn out the light. You're silent but you smile.

The hurt comes the next morning. For you, it's physical, but can you really complain? For him, it's deeper than that. You're deeper inside him than he ever was inside you.

He wakes up beside you, feeling hungover despite not having any alcohol the night before. It's the vague sense of guilt and confusion, the way he feels more awake than the night before but less awake than he should after a full night's rest.

He retracts his hand from your body, hoping he can slip away before you notice but you turn to him, fully-awake.

If life were different – kinder, he would smile at you and you would try to kiss him.

"Mm-mm. I have morning breath," he'd say.

"I don't care," you'd say, grabbing his cheeks and pulling him towards you.

He'd pull back, just to argue because he likes the way you pout and the way he falls for it every time. You'd settle for a kiss on the forehead with the promise for something more after Javi brushes his teeth.

The quest for better breath would all be for nothing since he'd have coffee and a cigarette for breakfast (you'd tell him to eat more, of course), but you'd kiss him anyway.

His eyes linger on you for too long while he fantasizes, long enough for you to notice – for you to begin to see him for who he is.

Murphy brings it up at work when you're out of the room. Javi can see it in his eyes before he says anything.

"Sorry for keeping you up," Javi mutters, straight-faced and honest.

"Nothin' else to say?" Murphy probes. He seems more curious than angry.

"Nope. Is there something you think I should say?"

"You fucked her," he whispers.

"Yes," Javi whispers back.

"How? Did it just happen? Or have you guys been a thing for awhile now and I just haven't noticed?"

"We're not a thing."

"You're not not a thing."

Javi doesn't have to admit to Steve that he's right because you walk into the room.

He is forced to silently admit what you are to him when he fails to hold back a rare smile upon seeing your face.

He sees Gabriela again, and though he's slept with her more times than he's slept with you, it still feels like he's cheating.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks while he stands by the window with a cigarette hanging from his lips.

"Work."

"Bullshit." She exhales a breathy laugh.

"Yeah."

"It's not something, it's someone. Isn't it?"

He turns, silently.

"I could tell you were thinking about her when you were fucking me - I thought it was just a sexual fantasy, but you're still fantasizing… and we're not fucking anymore."

"You'd be a great shrink, you know? In case this doesn't work out for you."

"It's working out fine." She flashes him the wad of cash he handed her before they got in bed together.

"Right."

"Maybe I'm supposed to be offended, but you were sweet this time - gentle. If you keep fucking me like that, I don't give a fuck who're you're thinking about."

"You liked it?" He asks with a flirtatious glint in his eye, opting for indulgence as distraction.

"I did. In fact, I think you could get a second round. On the house."

His cock springs to life and he slips out of his jeans. He fucks her slow, pressing kisses down her spine. She cums twice and he feels like a god.

But not like a lover, not like her lover.

You sleep together again, but you don't have sex. You're tipsy off whiskey in his apartment one night, trying to shake off the past week.

The DEA, being of the USA, only knows violence as conflict resolution, so you and Javi aren't trained to solve any problem that comes after the fighting is over. Distraction is the best you can do and alcohol is often one of the greatest methods.

"I wish we had something stronger than whiskey," Javi remarks.

"When in Medellin…" you say, swiping a finger under your nose.

"I think the amount of coffee I've had today is probably equal to a gram."

Doubtful, considering Javi is dozing off in his chair.

"Javi," you say, snapping your fingers to get his attention.

Startled, his body jolts awake. "What?" he asks, frantically.

"Nothing. You're just falling asleep."

"Sorry. I didn't sleep well last night."

"I figured. Everyday for the past week, you've looked like you're going to keel over. Are you okay?"

He takes a deep breath. Shakes the magic eight ball in his mind. Try again later. "I've just been having a lot of nightmares recently. It hasn't been like this since I was a kid."

"Well, how'd you get them to stop back then?"

"My mom used to sleep in my room with me."

He smiles at the thought of his mother. He doesn't often think of her because the funeral comes to mind. But sometimes, when he's lucky, she'll come back to him in memory - now, he sees her through a childlike lens, her face bright despite the bags under her eyes. The love he felt for her was so simple and pure.

His love for you is the most complicated kind.

"I'm not your mom, but if you want, I can sleep over."

"You'd do that for me?"

"Of course. I'd do anything for you."

You say it so flippantly that Javi barely has time to process it. It's better that way.

Finally, he gets a good night's sleep. But that only makes him need you more.

You both go on pretending things are the same until Carrillo dies. He was always the catalyst.

"I don't do funerals," Javi tells you.

You nod, pursed lips, accepting his decision. Giving in easily, which is unlike you.

"I'm thinking about leaving," you announce abruptly.

"You should go home, get some rest, especially if you're going tomorrow." To the funeral. Javi can't stand the word either.

"No, I'm thinking about leaving."

"Leaving where?" He already knows.

"Colombia."

"Are they reassigning you?"

"No, I'm quitting."

"Have you told Messina?"

"No. You're the first person I've told."

He nods and takes a deep breath. "Is that what you want to do? Quit?"

"I don't know. I wanted your advice."

"It's your choice, not mine." I'll miss you.

"I just can't do it anymore." You reveal yourself. You shatter.

"Hey." He places a hand on your shoulder, but you fall into his arms. "That's not true. You're strong. You know that you're strong."

I need you, he means.

So, you stay.

There is something about the grief that fuels you both to fight harder. You're no longer just fighting for justice, you're fighting for vengeance. It makes you both colder, more numb to the cruelty.

But physically, neither of you are much stronger. You overestimate yourselves, run through the streets with handguns after blood-hungry sicarios.

In his pursuit of one of the men, Javi fails to see a shooter on the roof with a gun aimed right at him. You see it, and shove Javi out of the way.

The bullet only grazes you, and Javi leaves with a few scrapes and dirty clothes. And guilt.

A shopkeeper who seems all too used to crisis situations grabs a first aid kit while Javi sits with you.

"You're not gonna call for backup?" you ask.

"No use. They got away. Let's just focus on this right now, okay?"

"This" means the wound on your side.

"It's not a big deal," you say, though you're clearly on the verge of tears.

"You got shot. The number one priority is making sure you're safe."

"Didn't you say that we can't focus on the casualties? That Escobar wins if we waste time mourning our dead?"

"Neither of us are dead."

You'll need more than the basic first aid that Javi can give you, nevertheless, he uses an antiseptic to clean the wound.

You break down in tears at the burning sensation.

"You're doing so well," he tells you, "I'll be done in just a moment."

When the ambulance arrives, he insists on accompanying you to the hospital.

They ask him who he is and he flashes his DEA badge, knowing that "friend" doesn't mean anything in this case.

Friend isn't enough.

You don't need surgery, just stitches – and some pretty decent pain pills. The kind that makes you sleepy.

Once the two of you are alone, after the doctors have finished with you, Javi tells you - finally, "Thank you, by the way, for saving my life."

"Who's to say it would've been a fatal shot?"

"Still." He leans down and kisses you on the cheek in lieu of saying anything else, knowing how badly he could fuck this up if he lets himself say everything he's really thinking – if there are even words for his feelings.

Luckily, there might not be.

"Javi," you whisper.

"Yes, hermosa?"

He rarely calls you nicknames, so it seems to fluster you a bit.

"Can you kiss me for real?"

"How much of those drugs did they give you?"

You look like you're holding back a batch of giggles and Javi can't help his stupid grin.

Before his cheeks hurt from smiling the most he has in a while, he leans in and kisses you – for real.

Breathless, you pull back and ask him, "do you think we could get away with doing it here?"

"Are you serious?" There's no way you are, he thinks, and yet he considers the option. "No, cariño, we shouldn't risk it."

He does take you home with him, but again, you don't have sex.

In the morning, you tell him confidently, "I'm leaving."

And he knows you don't just mean his apartment.

"I just can't do this anymore – the constant fear of dying was bad enough, but now…" you point to the bandages covering your stitches.

"I know." It doesn't matter what he says. You're going to leave anyway.

And, he feels guilty for convincing you to stay anyway. You should've left before this, but he was selfish and wanted to keep you a little longer.

He doesn't say goodbye in the way he wants to. He lets you go with a kiss on the forehead after waiting with you until you're called to board.

"Goodbye, Javier," you say.

He can't say anything back or he'll cry. The kiss is all he can give.

You call periodically at first, but the calls get more sporadic until they disappear entirely.

Javier is used to falling in love. So much so that he expects to feel the same way about the next woman he sleeps with. He gets attached to one woman, and then moves onto the next, loving her the same way as the last. The process of forgetting involves ending up in the same mess, feeling the same thing for someone who is blonde instead of brunette, or brown-eyed instead of blue, maybe a cup size larger in the bust. Something old, something new. There is more to the phrase, but the idea of commitment began and ended with Lorraine back in Texas.

Texas. After all is said and done in Colombia, he goes home. Like you, he can't do it anymore. His mind is already rattled with nightmares and his body is worn out.

There's an airport in Laredo, but he can't get a flight there until Monday, so he decides San Antonio is close enough.

The airport bars tend to be filled with people waiting to depart, not passengers who have already arrived. But, Javi decides to have a drink before calling a cab. There isn't any rhyme or reason to it. His feet lead him there, not his brain.

There are two open barstools, one on each side of a woman he can only see from the back. He chooses the one to her right. She looks like you, he thinks, just a slightly different haircut.

He barely glances at you before trying to wave down the bartender.

"Javier?" It's your voice from next to him.

He turns his head so quickly he swears he might've given himself whiplash. He's speechless, but smiling.

"What are you doing here?"

"On my way home. To Laredo."

"You left Colombia?"

"Yeah, I quit."

"And you didn't tell me?"

"I didn't know you wanted me to."

It's been years since we talked, he thinks. The last conversation was about you leaving.

"Are you on your way home or…?"

"Yeah, I will be, once my boyfriend gets our bags."

Boyfriend. Boyfriend who gets her bags. Boyfriend who sits next to her on the plane. Boyfriend whose spot is beside her.

"Oh."

"I feel like I've been sitting here forever."

"It's hectic down at baggage claim."

"Yeah, there's a million suitcases and none of them are mine. I really hope it's not lost. My favorite necklace was in there."

"The gold one… with the pearl?"

"Yeah, that one." You grin, excited yet surprised. "You remember that?"

I remember seeing it on your bedside table. I remember you taking it off with everything else. The one thing you didn't tear off, the one moment you slowed down.

"Yeah, you wore it all the time."

"And you stared at my tits a lot, so…" You wink, sipping your drink.

"I did not… not all the time."

A man walks up behind you, lugging two suitcases.

"Hey, babe," he says, kissing your cheek.

"Oh!" You beam at him. "This is Javier. My coworker from back when I worked at the DEA."

Coworker. Not even friend.

'Eric' – as he introduces himself, extends his hand to shake Javi's, and it feels like he's making a deal with the devil. Promising your love – something he doesn't even have – to this man for nothing in exchange.

"I'll see you around," you say.

And he thinks it's just politeness, an everyday lie, but you call.

You invite him to your housewarming party.

“Eric and I just got our own place,” you tell him.

Javi congratulates you, and it’s an empty platitude. He says it because he has to – why else would he be here if not to celebrate you and your new home? He knows why.

He shouldn’t have come at all, but he had no excuse that he could give you. The reason why wants to see you and the reason why he shouldn’t see you coincide, but after years of knowing you, and years being apart, he still can’t admit that reason.

You were right to call him a coworker – it’s an undeniable truth. You might have been friends too at some point back in Colombia. To make the best out of the situation, Javi brings a bottle of wine – that’s what a friend would do. It’s a nice red blend, something too expensive for Javi to buy for himself. He managed to save money by not buying you a bouquet of roses. It’d be too romantic a gesture coming from a friend, let alone a coworker.

The party is an intimate affair. Everyone he speaks to is friendly, even your boyfriend, and while he wants to be happy for you, he can’t help the fact that it irritates him more than anything else. He is no better than this man – in fact, he’s worse.

Over the course of the evening, he meets coworkers and friends of yours. “I love you all,” you tell them, “but Javi’s my favorite.”

Everyone tells him he’s a hero for taking down Escobar, including you. He feels like a fraud, but accepts their thanks humbly because it’s easier not to talk about it.

He’s happy when the attention is taken off of him. Eric makes a toast. It’s to you, to your future.

A wave of nausea hits Javi as he watches your boyfriend become your fiance.

He shouldn’t drink anymore, so he goes outside for a cigarette. You appear by his side and the sweetness of your voice pains him.

“I thought I lost you,” you say.

“You could never lose me,” he lies.

When you show him the ring, he takes your hand in his, gently, pretending to care deeply about the shiny new diamond, but it’s just a rock, an obstruction, something hard covering your soft skin.

It’s beautiful, it suits you.

You linger on the balcony with him. You show him the ring, you let him touch it.

You must know that the goodbye hug you give him will be the last time you’ll touch him.

Despite the ring on your finger, you kiss Javi on the cheek one final time. Your fiance won’t mind. Because it doesn’t mean anything.

Javi doesn’t kiss you on the cheek. Because kissing you would mean something. It always has.

#best fanfiction writer strikes again #i need him so bad

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rookieclair · 1 year ago

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i kinda wanna start writing some fanfiction on here for resident evil/jjk enjoyers but WHERE do you even start? how do you grow your account? how do you make those cute posts? and how are you supposed to make moots on here😦

#fanfiction #leon kennedy #resident evil #jjk #jjk x reader

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rookieclair · 1 year ago

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OFFICE ESCAPADES WITH NANAMI

Synopsis: Ever since Nanami hired you you’ve done nothing but stress him out. You’re infuriating… And he just can’t seem to get enough of you.

⚝a/n: I don’t usually write smut so I decided to give it a shot.

⚝tags: Porn with plot, Nsfw, Companyman! Nanami, Semi-Public Sex, Enemies to Lovers

⚝wc: 2.4k

Nanami was a gentleman, arguably the perfect one. He shows up to work on time, early even. His hair was neatly combed, his dress shirt pressed, leather shoes shined. He was the pinnacle of discipline and control.

However, every time he was in your presence. That control would slip, little by little.

He hired you fresh out of college. Top of your class, all of the firms in the area had given their offers; but Nanami snatched you away.

He soon began to think that maybe you were more trouble than you were worth..

You were brilliant, there wasn’t any denying that. You were gorgeous, couldn’t deny that either. But that damn mouth of yours.. was going to be the death of him and you…

You strutted into the older man’s office, ‘he’s told you multiple times to knock first…’ Nanami peels his eyes away from his laptop to look at the woman standing in front of his desk. His eyebrow quirks up as he notices her visibly pissed-off vibe.

“Something wrong?”

You scoff in annoyance “You denied my contract?”

He looks back at his laptop, stealing glances at you.

“Did you even read over it before you sent it to me?”

“Excuse me-”

“The terms in this contract… Do you have any idea what kind of position it’ll put us in?”

“Are you suggesting I don’t know how to do my job?”

Nanami shoots you a sidelong glance, a hint of irritation flashing across his face.

“I’m not suggesting I’m telling you. Maybe I shouldn’t have given you this big a project so soon.”

You huff in annoyance. Your boss knew just what to say to push your buttons. You slam the papers you were holding onto his mahogany desk. Looking down at your senior… he was so.. So.. infuriating. Nanami leans back in his chair, hands folded against his chest as he looks up at you.

“You arrogant-”

“Arrogant?” He laughs, his voice laced with annoyance.

“You come in here with a horrendous contract, even worse attitude, and think you’re in the right?” He rises from his desk, striding over to you. You never noticed how much Nanami towered over you, and now he was inches away from you. He smelled like… Vanilla and cedarwood, his cologne making you dizzy. But no, you needed desperately to try to control yourself. Make it seem like he wasn’t having such an effect on you.

“That contract is getting sent out.” You inch in closer looking up at him, failing at being intimidating.

“No, it's not.” Nanami says firmly, his eyes locked onto yours. An intense, almost magnetic pull between the two of you. He continues to invade your space.

“You’re not sending anything out until I’ve reviewed and approved it. Understand?” He pushes his glasses up his bridge.

Being this close, you can feel his breath on your skin, the heat radiating off his body.

Nanami takes a deep breath stepping back just enough to create some distance, he takes the papers you previously slammed on his desk and shoves them into your hand.

“Come back when you’ve made the changes I highlighted.”

You roll your eyes before bowing, your formal gesture cannot hide how much you want to ring his neck right now-

“Yes. Sir.” You turn on your heels, leaving his office. Slamming the door on your way out.

Nanami lets out a deep, shaky breath.

“Fuck… She’s gonna be the death of me.”

He runs his hand through his golden locks, trying to compose himself. Why did you have to be so irritating? He would love to just put her in her place. Shut that pretty little mouth of hers… Have her on her knees taking his-

Wait.. What?

Nanami shakes his head, trying to reign in his desire. ‘She’s a coworker’ he tells himself. ‘It would be highly unethical’

And yet you plague his mind, every waking moment. How it would feel to have you underneath him, begging for mercy.

His hands move lower, palming his semi-hard erection through his cotton twill dress pants. The otherwise put-together businessman groaned at the friction delivered from his hand… Imagining it was you, splayed out on his mahogany desk..

He unzips his pants, loosening his yellow tie…

Your blouse discarded and pencil skirt… that damn pencil skirt-- He always warned you it was just a little too short.

His length springs free, slit already leaking. He wraps one hand around it, pumping slowly.

“S-shit… (Y/N).” He lets out a shaky breath. He shouldn’t be doing this, it's shameful to even be thinking about you in that way. He’s your boss.

He tightens his grip, hips bucking into his hand. Nanami’s head falls back to his office chair, this is so wrong.. This is so wrong…

“Ff-fuuuck…”

He hisses through clenched teeth, you’re just on the other side of his office door. If you only knew how he really felt about you. That during all your arguments he’d want nothing more than to bend you over his desk and fuck you until you couldn’t remember your name.

He pumps faster, wanting desperately to release the pent-up frustration. He’s close. His breath quickens, his cum spills out, hot sticky ropes flowing down his hand.

Fuck.

He grabs some tissues cleaning up the evidence of his transgression. Straightening his tie and zipping up his pants, Nanami clears his throat trying to regain some semblance of control. Guilt washes over him.

His work… yes maybe if he focused on that-

But nothing seems to work, he’s bewitched. Intoxicated by you, in all his years working for this company no one had ever challenged him. Questioned his authority, called him a “self-centered bastard” but you… you did all those things. He wanted more, he needed more.

Suddenly the doorknob turns

Nanami sits up in his leather chair, pretending to type away at his computer.

You enter the room, holding another stack of papers. Nanami sighs.

“I’ve told you countless times to knock-”

The stack of papers drops to his desk with a loud

THUMP.

“I revised the contract” You reply placing your hands on the desk, flashing him the fakest smile. He looks up at you, leaning down over the desk his eye flicks down to your slightly exposed cleavage.. A peak of your lace bra showing from under your satin blouse.

Black lace underwear huh?

He clears his throat… Looking back up at you. He pulls the stack of papers towards him, rifling through the pages. Desperately trying to ignore your luring figure looming over him. It’s a marked improvement from the last draft, but where’s the fun in praising you?

“Its… passable” He looks up at you, smirking.

“Bullshit!” You snap, that was it. It was one thing if you made a mistake, but that revision was flawless. Just what exactly was his problem?!

Nanami’s eyebrow quirks up, amused at your outburst. “Did you expect a gold star for doing your job?” He slowly rises from his chair, his hands now also on the desk. Looming over you.

“I don’t need a gold star” You scoff “Especially not from you.”

Every snarky remark, every biting word from your lips ignites something in him. Primitive, possessive, a pull that he can’t seem to escape. He leans in closer, both of your bodies still separated by his desk.

“You clearly need something to adjust that attitude of yours.”

Your heart is running a marathon right now, your arguments were always heated but this… this felt different. You decide to take a chance, your knee comes up to lean on the desk, and your other stiletto-clad leg now dangling off the edge. Your face mere inches from your boss’.

“Oh yeah? And what would that be?” You stare into his honey-colored eyes, filled with fire.

And right there, months of profanity-filled disagreements, heated screaming matches.. It all boiled down to this-

Nanami grabs you by the neck, pulling you into a bruising kiss. His tongue greedily entering your mouth, tasting every corner. He bites at your bottom lip roughly, your eyes flutter shut melting into his firm grasp. Time stops, but starts again when he pulls away, forehead resting against yours. Your mind is an infinite void, millions of thoughts run through it but no words can come out. Did he just? Did you just? Then he speaks.

“You’ve been nothing but a pain in my ass since you started here.” He manages to get out through labored breaths. His attention moves to your neck, he pulls your head up exposing more of your skin to him, he trails hot open-mouth kisses up and down your throat. Your breath hitches.

“And what about you? You think ahh you’ve been a box of daisies?” He grabs your legs, pulling you to sit on the other side of the desk, the papers and pens once occupying the surface now hit the floor, your legs now on either side of the tall blond. Damn, he's strong-

He lets out a dark chuckle, gripping your hips tight, trimmed nails digging into your skirt.

“You’ve made it almost impossible for me to get any work done.” He continues his attack on your neck, trailing down to your collarbone. He kisses and sucks lightly on the delicate skin.

“You’re always so uptight Kento~ I was wondering if it was because you haven’t gotten laid.” You smirk, proud you were still able to quip back despite the growing heat between your legs.

His lips leave your chest and move to your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine.

“Careful sweetheart, unless you want me to find a use for that filthy mouth of yours.”

Nanami licks the shell of your ear, grabbing your wrists and roughly pulling you up off of the desk. Body now flush against his. One large hand grips your hip while the other reaches under your satin blouse, cupping your breast through the lacy material of your bra. His fingers ghost over your hardened bud.

“You’re the only one reduce me to… this, have me fuckk misbehaving at work” Your hips roll into his, feeling his growing arousal.

“Is that what you tell all your girls?”

He growls at this, craning his neck back down to your chest, biting and sucking at your clavicle. Your hands rake through his hair, tugging, manicured nails scratching at his scalp. He lifts his head just enough to say

“There are no ‘other’ girls” Before continuing his assault on your skin. He lifts your blouse over your head, discarding the lace bra. He groans at the new skin exposed to him, capturing your bud in his mouth.

“Oh? Not even that cute receptionist?” You moan as his tongue swirls around your nipple “I’ve seen the way she looks ahhh at you ”

Nanami rolls his eyes at this, he knows exactly who you’re talking about. Sure she was cute, always making sure to tell him “Good Morning” and “Good Night” Begging to hear about his day, boring him with office gossip. Looking up at him with innocent puppy dog eyes…

He never was a dog person…

He releases your bud from his mouth, looking up at you through his hazel half-lidded eyes.

“I don’t need a pushover. I prefer a woman with a little fight in her” He moves to give your other bud the same treatment “Someone.. who’s going to challenge me.” He mumbles in between kisses.

His large hand gropes the other breast as his mouth works, thumb flicking over the sensitive spot. He leans back up, back to towering over you. He takes in the sight before him, you struggle to catch your breath, glossy lips parted, your pupils blown with desire. He wishes he could replay this image in his mind for the rest of eternity.

“Get on your knees.” He says flatly.

Your eyebrow quirks up in challenge. “Excuse me?”

“Told you… I want to find a use for that mouth of yours.” He looks down at you, his eyes dark.

You slowly sink to your knees, not breaking eye contact with him. His breath catches in his throat, he fiddles with his belt buckle. The sound of the zipper filling the otherwise quiet office. The tent in his briefs now on full display in front of you. He looks at you expectantly.

You tug at his waistband his cock springing free from its confines. You see your boss in all his glory, his blushing pink tip, heavy balls and his perfect curve upwards. It was a masterpiece.

You loll your tongue out, swiping at the precum leaking from his mushroom tip. The salty sweet taste making you moan softly. Nanami shudders at the sensation, moving his hands to the back of your head, fingers tangled into your hair.

You slowly take his length into your mouth, tongue swirling around the head. Your hand wraps around the base as you incorporate more and more of his swollen cock past your bruised lips.

Nanami subconsciously spreads his legs, hips twitching as you bob your head at a steady rhythm.

Nanami’s grunts and moans mixed with your obscene gags fill the soundscape of the office.

He roughly grips your hair, taking control of your pace. Oh if you only knew how sinful you looked right now.

Your hollowed cheeks, expensive mascara pooling at the corner of your eyes as tears welled up. It’s all too much.. too fucking much.

Fuck.

Nanami feels a familiar pressure building up in his lower abdomen.

“I-if you keep going like that s-shit I’m going to“ He looks down at you, half desire half concern on his face.

You only encourage him by picking up the pace, spit dripping down your chin as you pump his base and suck his length.

The rubber band finally snaps, Nanami bucks his hips into your face, his strong hand pressing your head flush against his pelvis.

You choke as his seed hits the back of your throat, eyes fluttering shut. If you died right now there would be no complaints on your end.

His breath slows, releasing your head. You come up for air, coughing and wiping the excess drool and cum from the corner of your mouth.

His hand reaches to cup your cheek, stroking it gently, a silent thank you in his mind.

He picks you up with a gentleness previously unknown and sets you right onto his desk,

The roles now reversed with Nanami positioning himself between your legs. Kneeling down, ready to worship you.

He hooks a finger around your underwear, pulling it to the side, humming in satisfaction as he takes in the sight of your sopping wet cunt. Your boss tears his eyes away for a second looking up at you and smirking.

“You did such a good job, it’s only fair I reward you.”

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