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perpetually-sad-but-its-fine · 2 months

Text

fruit loops (v.r.)

Word Count: 1.2k

Warning(s): little bit of angst, mentioning of a shooting (brief), guilt, talk of self-sacrificing (brief), possible bad writing, errors that i missed, lmk if i should add anything else.

Summary/Plot: A tough day at work leaves Vanessa spiralling. She gets home and she damn closing to loosing her grip on reality. Luckily, her amazing girlfriend comes to the rescue, helping her unwind and relax, reminding her that everything was going to be okay.

Additional: it’s been sitting in my drafts forever and i started writing it one way and it ended up like this... enjoy?

She was stressed.

That much was obvious to you. It was obvious to anyone who cared to observe her for more than two seconds. You could tell in the way she stomped her feet and clenched her fist. The way she shut her eyes tight, let out a heavy sigh, and nearly ripped out her hair. She was losing it. Slowly but surely, she was definitely losing it.

"Everything okay?"

Vanessa looked up at you and let out a sigh of relief. Before you could repeat your question, she threw her bag, keys, phone, and other materials down on the couch and ran into your arms. While she was in your arms, you quickly learned that a simple hug wouldn't be enough. You held her even tighter and pulled her up slightly. She read the underlying message, jumped, and wrapped her legs around your waist.

With her legs around your waist, arms around your neck, and faced pressed into the dip of your shoulder, you did your best not to melt at the feeling. Moving towards the couch and laying down on your back, you stroked her hair and hummed a song, not saying anything. You knew that when she was ready, she'd come and tell you.

Her breathing, once erratic and uneven, slowed and evened out at your motions. She relaxed into you and allowed herself to unwind in your arms, all the tension leaving her body. Nuzzling her nose deeper into your neck, you did your best not to showcase your concerns. She didn't need you to worry, she needed you to be there for her, to be patient and to be strong. So that's what you did.

You laid there with her on top of you for about an hour before either of you said anything, "You wanna tell me what happened, Nessa?"

"Bad day," she mumbled into your skin.

You hummed as you stroked her hair, "Yeah, I can tell. Is everyone okay? Are you okay? Physically, at least?"

Vanessa nodded and clung to you even tighter, "Yeah. Everyone is fine. I'm fine. But..."

Her breathe stuttered and you could tell that she was close to crying. "But?" You asked gently.

"Ruz got shot at," she whispered. "I was there and... and i-it was s-so close."

"Nessa," You whispered lowly but she kept talking.

"I was right there." She breathed out, "I could've done something, I could've--!"

"Taken the bullet yourself?" You demanded as you cut her off. You forced her to pull away and look down at you, "You did what you could, baby. I promise you, you did what you could and no one, and I mean no one, would have wanted you sacrifice yourself."

"He almost died!"

"And you did what you could." "Honey--"

"Vanessa Rojas," You gathered her face in your hands, "listen to me. You are an amazing human being and you did what you could. I know you did, Ruzek knows you did, Voight knows you did, everybody knows it. I just need you to believe it."

Her eyes filled with tears and she shut them tightly, "I keep replaying it in my head." She whispered brokenly, "It was so close."

You pulled her back and hugged her so tight it was almost like a straight jacket, "I know, baby." You murmured, "It sucks, I know." You didn't say anything else, knowing that your words of comfort would just be disregarded.

She hummed in agreement and melted under your touch, "Can you distract me?" Vanessa asked quietly, "I wanna think about something else for a bit."

"Of course I can, sweetie." You readjusted yourself to be more comfortable, "Did I ever tell you about that one time Otis and Cruz covered Boden's office floor with cereal."

"Cereal?"

"Mhm."

"...I'm a little afraid to ask what Boden's reaction was."

"Oh, that's not even all of it."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, before they covered the floor with Fruit Loops --and it was Fruit Loops by the way, they decided, quote 'the fruitiness was fitting' for whatever reason-- but before they did that, they moved half of the stuff in his room three inches to the left and the other half two inches to the right. And--"

Vanessa interrupted and you could feel her frown into your neck, "Why three inches to the left and two inches to the right?"

You snorted and shrugged, "The hell if I know. I'm not gonna question it."

"Fair enough."

"Anyways, they also--"

"But that makes no sense," Vanessa interrupted again and you rolled your eyes to the ceiling, grateful she couldn't see your reaction. "How did Boden not notice? Fruit Loops are brightly coloured cereal. That's their whole thing. How did he not see that the moment he walked in?"

"I don't know, baby," Sighing, you traced patterns on her back. "He just didn't."

Again, you can feel her frown, "As the chief of a firehouse, isn't his job to be aware of what's happening around him?"

Exhausted, you begin to tickle her for the interruption. Vanessa started squealing and you playfully hissed out, "Enough. Questions."

"Okay, okay! I'm sorry," She giggled and you could tell that she was feeling considerably better than when she got here. "I'm sorry, I done, I promise!"

Vanessa tried to grab your hands you pried them away from her, "You better be," you threaten jokingly. "Anyways, after Boden notices he decides that Otis and Cruz--"

"Wait did he track rainbow coloured fruit loops all around the firehouse?!"

"Alright," you announced and gently pushed her off of you, "that's it!"

You grabbed a pillow and immediately started hitting her in the face. Vanessa screeched and leaped off of the couch to find cover but nowhere was safe from you. As she sprinted around the apartment, you followed and repeatedly walked her on the head like something out of a Tom & Jerry episode. You managed to prevent her from getting a weapon of her own but she quickly changed tactics after running herself tired.

"Okay," She panted hoarsely, standing in one corner and holding a hand out in front of her. "Okay, I give up! I give up, you win!"

You --being the naive, blind fool that you are, believed her-- smiled at her declaration of loss, "Good. Now. Do you want me to tell you what punishment Boden gave Cruz and Otis."

"Yes," She breathed out, pretending to still be out of breath. "I wanna hear it."

She put down her hand and walked towards you and you, so caught up in her beauty (like a fool!) you didn't even watch her hands as she attacked your midsection. You screeched louder than a banshee and before you could run, Vanessa had you pinned to the floor and was tickling you with a ferocity never seen before. "You like it now, baby?" She asked cutely as she continued tormenting you.

"Get. Off." You heaved between laughing breaths.

"Nope."

She continued to playfully harass you for another seven minutes until you physically couldn't breathe and she decided to grant you a bit of mercy. As you inhaled and exhaled, you made eye contact with her and smiled, "Feeling better now, Nessa?"

She gave you an adorable smile in return and leaned down to kiss you softly, "Absolutely." Vanessa whispered against your lips, "Thank you so much, honey."

You hummed into the kiss and threaded your fingers into her hair, hoping that you would be granted the blessing of loving her for the rest of your lives together.

#vanessa rojas #kevin atwter #hailey upton #jay halstead #erin lindsay #adam ruzek #kim burgess #Chicago PD #chicago med #Chicago #chicago fire #vanessa rojas x reader #Vanessa Rojas one shots #Vanessa rojas fanfics #chicago pd fanfics #chicago med fanfics #chicago fire fanfics #one chicago #vanessa rojas' whore

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perpetually-sad-but-its-fine · 7 months

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more than you know (l.e-f.)

Word Count: 3.9k

Warning(s): angsty angst. im so sorry. tears. one sided love. unrequited pining. somewhat kinda sexual in like two places. just pain. im so sorry. possible errors, possible bad writing, lmk if i should add anything

Plot/Summary: There’s this girl. She’s cute and she’s funny and she’s so so smart. The two of you spend almost all of your time together and you couldn’t be happier about it. You build up the courage to tell her how you feel, to start a new relationship but... but she only sees you as a friend.

Additional: sorry.

The first time you saw her was in the cafe.

You were sitting at the counter, reading a book and fantasizing about living the life of the main character where you had the natural skill and ability to get through an ordinary day with out breaking down seven different times. It was five minutes before closing time and you were the only one left. Half of you was tempted to get up and turn the sign around just so you could go home. The other half was too lazy get up and just wanted to finish the chapter you were on.

You sat there, finished the chapter, and closed the book. Standing up and stretching with your eyes closed, just as you were about to walk towards the door to flip the sign from open to closed, the bell rang and someone stepped inside.

You gritted your teeth, letting out a sigh before opening your eyes, “I’m sorry but we’re clo--”

The next few words died in the back of your throat as you looked at the woman in front of you. The first thing you noticed about Layla was her hair. How it seemed to form a halo around her, how her bangs fell past her eyebrows and tickled her eyelashes. It was slightly wet, stuck to her face, to her cheekbones.

You didn’t even knew the girl and you wanted to walk up to her and brush her curls out of her face.

Her eyes were wide. They glowed with so much emotion and you had a feeling that when she was happy, she lit the entire room up. At the moment, her eyes looked at you apologetically and you did your best not to immediately reassure her for whatever it is she thought she did wrong.

You noticed everything about her. Her lips, her cheeks, her jaw line, her nose, that eyelash that had fallen off and landed on her cheekbone, and that particular drop of water that was tracing down a column of her throat and--

God, pull yourself together.

You closed your mouth after realizing she was now staring at you with a slightly concerned look on her face. Swallowing, you tried to collect enough spit to speak properly, “U-uh, h-ngh, mh-.”

She hiked her eyebrows and looked even more concerned, “A-are you okay?”

Her accent hit you like a cool breeze on a hot summer day, drying up your sweat and providing some solace in the desolate, depressive state. And yet, somehow, it was the warmth you feel after being out in the frigid, cold for hours on end, your skin practically ice and your nose feeling numb, she was the comfort that defrosted you after suffering for so long.

You snapped yourself out of your haze, “U-uh, yeah, I’m okay. Sorry.” You cleared your throat in an effort to get rid of the raspiness that was thick in your throat, “W-we’re closed. Sorry.” You repeated.

“Oh no it’s fine,” she said, seemingly relieved that you had awoken from your fog. “I didn’t mean to give you any trouble, it’s just that I just wanna escape from the rain.”

It was then that you noticed that it was pouring outside. You looked back at her, this time forcing yourself to have a normal conversation, “Oh, okay. I guess that explains why you’re so wet.”

What. The. Fuck?

You spent an entire two minutes describing her and her accent in a way that would’ve made Shakespeare proud and you just said that?!

Luckily, she either didn't notice or decided not to comment on your statement, “I was just wondering if it was okay for me to stay here for a while. At least until the rain calms down a bit?”

You barely let her finish her sentence before jumping at the chance to spend some time with her, “Of course!” You rushed to add something else to make sure that it didn’t sound to desperate, “You can stay as long as you need to.” You added softly.

You pressed your lips into a line and shuffled your feet, trying not to let your embarrassment show. But as she smiled slightly, that feeling vanished. In that moment, in that exact moment, you realised that you would do anything to get her to smile. Anything for her to smile at you.

“I’m Layla,” she said quietly, that cute little smile still on her face as she stuck her hand out.

You responded just as softly, “Y/N.”

Taking her hand, you relished in the way that it seemed to fit perfectly in yours. Warm and soft, you felt a smile appear on your face, “So, Layla,” you said, enjoying the way her name felt on your tongue, “since we’re gonna be stuck here a while, you want something to drink? On the house, of course.”

Her eyes glimmered and you were right; when she was happy, she really did light up the room, “I don’t see why not.”

That was the start of everything. Your initial attraction morphed into a full blown crush by the time she had left. The two of you talked for three hours before the rain died out and in those three hours you learned almost everything about her.

Originally from Cairo, came to New York as a third year transfer at the same college you were in, studying archeology, mostly interested in Egyptian history, artifacts, and culture, currently living with a friend’s cousin until she could find her own place, attending college on a full scholarship.

You also noticed things you probably shouldn’t have. The freckles that were splashed across her nose and cheeks, her fingers that never seemed to stay still, always tapping on something, the way she made that one facial expression just as she was about to say something funny, how --when she laughed really hard-- her chest heaved, how delicious her muscles looked when her thighs were crossed and your mind wandered to places that no amount of holy water could save you from.

You wanted to know what it was like to see the freckles on her face up close, what her fingers would feel like tangled in your hair, what facial expressions she’d make while you were on top of her or how you’d make her chest heave, what it would feel like to hold her thighs as you--

Stop, stop, stop, stop.

Immediate guilt rushed through your body and you knew that you had to end the conversation before you said or did something stupid. You tried to look for an out and noticed that the rain had finally stopped. As she finished her (third) cookie, you cleared your throat, “So, um, the rain finally stopped,” you pointed out feebly.

She looked behind her and out the window and perked up in her seat, “Oh, yeah!” Looking back to you, a grateful smile was on her face and you practically melted, “Thank you so much for everything Y/N.”

Your heart did jumping jacks when you heard her say your name and you seriously considered whether you should call an ambulance or not, “It’s no problem. Uh,” you wanted to ask for her number but the words seemed to stick to the back of your throat, “d-do you want to take some cookies for the road?”

‘Cookies for the road’? It’s not like she’s going on a long, harrowing journey with no chance of return, dumbass. And you’re not an elderly grandmother.

She let out a breathless laugh, “I'm good, thanks.”

Collecting her stuff, Layla looked as though she wanted to say something and you felt a bird of hope in your chest, fighting to break free.

Is she gonna ask me out? Oh God, please. Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease.

“I was wondering,” she said slowly and the bird of hope pecked at the inside of its cage, “if maybe I could get your number? It would be good to have someone to talk to, y’know?”

“Yeah, no, of course!” You exclaimed immediately, any bit of shame or dignity you had evaporating in that moment, “I’ll give you my phone, you can put in your number.” You unlocked your phone and handed it to her, immediately stuffing your hands into your pockets.

It seemed like an eternity before she handed it back to you, “Uh, I’ll just call you so that you can have my number too,” you said and she nodded.

As you pressed the call icon, you couldn’t help but notice that she had named herself ‘Layla <3′ in your phone. Your face felt like it was crawling with fire ants and you bit the inside of your lip while the phone rang. She held it up for you to confirm the number as your own and you bobbed your head in response, verifying it.

She ended the call and saved your contact. You wanted to peek at her phone to see what she had saved your phone number as but you failed at your subtly. Catching you in the failed act of staring, she tilted her phone so you could see it properly. Your contact in her phone was ‘<3 Y/N <3’. It was more or less the same as her contact was in your phone but you couldn’t help the giddy smile that appeared on your face. “Cute,” you mused. “We’re almost matching.”

Giggling, she put her phone away and grabbed all her things, “Thanks for letting me stay here Y/N.”

You waved her off, “It wasn't a big deal.”

She hummed in response with her hand on the doorknob. Turning back to look at you, a twinkle in her eyes, “It was nice meeting you. Text me, we’ll meet up sometime.” Pausing, she added, “It'll be nice to have someone.”

Nodding, you just watched as she walked out of the cafe, frozen to your place, wondering what the hell had just happened and why the hell you hadn't made a fucking move.

“Next time,” you muttered, promising yourself. “I’m gonna ask her out the next time I see her.”

You didn’t ask her out the next time you saw her.

Or the time after that. Or the time after that or after that.

Four months had gone by and all you had done was successfully land yourself into the friend-zone. No, even worse than that; you were now her wingwoman. She caught sight of a friend of yours, Marc, and immediately decided that she liked him.

You didn’t have anything against Marc, he was like a brother, but the fact that you had to pretend like you weren’t falling in love with this girl was killing you.

Oh, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, she was now your roommate!

A month after the two of you guys became friends, you asked her to move in with you and she agreed, acknowledging that she had probably overstayed her welcome in her friend’s cousin’s place.

The connection made between the two of you was quick and real. You guys were practically inseparable and if it weren’t for the fact that you wanted more, you would have been happy with what you had.

But of course, you had to get greedy.

You had to imagine what it would be like to kiss her plump lips. You had to imagine what it would be like to trace patterns in her hair and sing into her ear. You just had to imagine what it would be like if she held you; your head to her chest, legs around her waist, your arms wrapped around her torso, heartbeats in sync, breaths mingling with each other.

Possibly naked.

God, it’s what kept you awake at night. It’s what kept you desperately wanting for her, desperately needing for her.

It’s what kept you so desperately, chronically, single.

Truth be told, you stopped going on dates right after you met Layla. You actually had a date scheduled for the next day after you met with someone --fantastic person that you have absolutely nothing against-- but after your three hour conversation with her, you couldn’t go through with it.

So now, because of Layla, you would turn away anyone who approached you for a date and you never asked anyone you thought interesting out on a date.

Because of Layla fucking El-Faouly.

You had never been this lost before.

Alright, you may have been this lost when it came to filing taxes or canceling a subscription for a cooking website that you never even remember opening much less subscribing to but the point still stands.

Layla El-Faouly came into your life and destroyed almost everything in the best way possible. You were her willing prisoner and she could do whatever the hell she wanted to you.

Including but not limited to --completely unknowingly-- tearing your heart out and stomping all over it. And you had no fucking problem with that.

As long as she was in your life, she could tear open your chest and stab you in the heart as many times as she wanted to. As many times as she pleased. As many times as she needed to until she was satisfied with her artwork.

Jesus fuck.

You had it so fucking bad for this girl. So fucking bad.

And you couldn’t even attempt to tell her. Not when she was head over heels for Marc. Not when her friendship was, quite possibly, the best thing that ever happened to you.

So you pined in pain for four months. You listened to her talk for three hours over the three second eye contact they had shared.

And never once did you try to sabotage Marc. Never once did you even attempt to tell her how you felt.

So what happened next... well... it wasn’t exactly surprising.

“It’ll be fun,” you muttered under your breath while viciously scrubbing your shirt to get the paint off, “I see her, I’m gonna kill her.”

You figured that this was the universe’s sign to stick to what you’re good at and leave the artsy things for the artsy people. That way you wouldn’t be ruining your good luck shirt.

And Lord knows that asking Layla out would require a shit-ton of good luck.

Sharon, a friend of yours for several years now, had suggested that --maybe-- stepping out of your comfort zone and doing a project that would benefit a community would be good for you.

So you let Sharon convince you into help re-painting a local library with brighter colors that would attract more children. When you finally agreed to sacrificing your Saturday (not that you were complaining too much, it was for a good cause after all) you begged Layla to go with you. Her initial plans for Saturday had been to sleep in but after a bit of persuading, you managed to convince her to come with.

Part of you thought of this as a bonding experience that would bring you two closer together while the other part of you thought of what could happen if this was a romance novel.

It would be a full day of the two of you working together, side by side. At the end of the day, both of you would volunteer to stay back and clean up the mess but somehow it would turn into a paint fight and at one point, you would be pinned underneath her. You would stare at each other almost lustfully and she would lean down and you would lean up and your lips would meet and somehow, miraculously, there wouldn’t be any paint on either of your guys’ lips and it would be considered the unofficial first date and you would tell this story to your future children and grandchildren.

Needless to say, none of that happened.

From the moment the two of you set foot onto the site, you were immediately separated. You were lumped into a group of high-school students who were only there to fill up their community service hours while Layla was in a group with Marc.

While you ended up doing all the work for your side of the project, Layla and Marc worked side by side (literally, their shoulders were touching) and worked on their part of the project. Every once in a while, you would hear Layla’s giggles and Marc’s chortling and you’d look over and they would always be touching each other.

You weren’t jealous though. You were just sad.

But whatever. There wasn’t much you could do about it so you decided to dedicate all of your energy into making this the brightest, happiest, prettiest goddamnded wall of a library in all of New York.

And that went great until two of the high schoolers got into a fight, threw around paint and paintbrushes until they eventually, inevitably, fell on you. Your entire shirt was covered in neon orange paint and so was part of your face. The high schoolers immediately started to apologise but you just cut them off.

At that point Sharon had seen what had happened and had made her way towards you. Nearly chewing out the high schoolers, she managed to rein herself in at the last minute and guide you to the bathroom.

And that’s what brought you here.

Standing in your bra and cargo pants, your paint drenched shirt underneath the running water, cursing Sharon out under your breath while she went to go find another shirt for you. There was no hope of salvaging the shirt. None. But the very least you could do is at least try to get rid of the paint. At the very least you could use it for some DIY project or the other.

As you’re wringing the shirt out, you’re trying to convince yourself that after you head back out, nothing else will go wrong and that this will just be a funny story to tell at bars.

Oh how wrong you were.

As you were squeezing the last bit of paint that would fall out, you heard footsteps coming your way. You were about to call out and let the people who were coming know that you were shirtless (not really wanting to put the wet, paint-stained shirt back on) but you heard giggling and your protests died in your mouth.

You knew that giggle.

It was Layla.

It’s depressingly funny how your mind immediately went to ‘oh she’s here with Sharon’ before you heard the other voice that was giggling along with her.

Marc.

Your heart tried to break free of your ribcage and suddenly, you couldn’t feel the cold water hitting your hands. It was kind of like watching a horror movie. The camera focuses on one person for far too long, the music quiets down suddenly for a build up, the flashlight sputters out before the characters are completely emerged in the dark and the audience just knows what’s about to happen and tries to warn the main characters about what’s going to happen but to no avail.

The main characters still get murdered.

You still get your heartbroken.

The jump-scare still happens.

And Layla still walks hand in hand with Marc.

The pair don’t even notice you at first, their eyes locked in on each other with dopey looks of love on their faces. Walking side by side with their foreheads touching and the tips of their noses bumping into each other, it was almost as if you could see the cartoony heart shapes floating around them. A lump formed in your throat and you grit your teeth at how sickeningly sweet it was.

And had you not been absolutely heartbroken, you would’ve been ecstatic over the fact that the two of them finally got together. Truthfully speaking, you knew this was a long time coming but the smaller, more delusional, part of you was hoping that maybe, just maybe, her feeling for Marc were just a front and she was really just trying to hide her feelings from you.

Obviously that was wrong.

“Oh!” Layla’s eyes had left Marc’s and found you. Shirtless. With your shirt in the sink. Neon orange paint stained to your hands. Yep. This was going great, “Y/N! What’re you doing here?”

Raising your eyebrows, you wordlessly gestured to the shirt in the stink, still coated in pain and Layla’s face flushed. You hated how your heart skipped a beat after realising that you were the reason her face turned red, “Right, sorry! I meant to check up on you after the whole incident but Sharon--”

“Don’t worry about it,” you said, cutting her off. “There was no point in you coming anyways, nothing you could have done.”

Your words came out as somewhat robotic and Layla noticed. She opened her mouth to question you but before she could, you cut her off and diverted the topic, “So... you finally told him, huh?”

It’s what any good friend would have done. And despite the fact your heart had shattered and was now piercing the inside of your body, you decided to be a good friend.

The effect was instantaneous and Marc raised an eyebrow, “Finally, huh? How long have you been hiding this from me, sweetheart?”

You visibly tensed at the use of the nickname but neither of them noticed. Layla somehow blushed even harder, “Shut up both of you! That’s not the topic up for discussion right now!”

“You’re right it’s not,” you said smoothly. “It’s a topic for later. Preferably over dinner. Where Marc and I can make fun of you with free food. Since you’ll be paying, of course.”

Marc made noises of agreement while Layla just narrowed her eyes at you, “That’s just cruel L/N.”

You shrugged nonchalantly and almost laughed at how natural you were acting in the given circumstance, “You knew what you were signing up for when you became my friend El-Faouly.”

“She’s got a point baby,” Marc but in and at that exact moment, you knew you had to get them out of there. If you had to hear Marc call Layla some sickeningly sweet nickname or look at Layla look at Marc with that playfully outrageous glare one more time, you would outright burst into tears.

You had zoned out and they were now cutely bickering but you couldn’t take it any longer, “Not that I don’t love seeing the love story evolve,” you started off while Marc looked smug and Layla looked somewhat scandalised at your words, “but could you two maybe pick another restroom to make out in? This one is currently occupied.”

“We weren’t going to make out--” Layla protested but Marc cut her off.

“Yes we were.” She glared at him again but he simply shrugged and turned to look at you, “Don’t worry. We’ll find another restroom. Sorry about intruding.”

You muttered out some half-assed protest about how they weren’t intruding but before you could even finish, Marc had dragged her out and they were giggling again. As they were leaving, you heard Layla call out, “You’re the best Y/N!”

“I know!” You called back in response but the tears that you had suppressed for so long were now freely flowing down your cheeks.

You let go of the shirt that was in the sink, hunched over, and brought your hands to your forehead. As much you wanted to hold back your tears, you couldn’t. You were outright sobbing by the time Sharon finally came back.

She took one look at you and hugged you without a single question. It was a couple more minutes before you could finally speak again, the pain in your chest making it hard to breathe.

Having seen Marc and Layla walk together hand in hand and the way that you had looked at Layla when you thought nobody was looking, she put two and two together.

“You loved her a lot, huh?” Sharon asked softly. The two of you were seated on the floor and you were between her legs, your head on her shoulder.

When you spoke, your voice was high and scratchy, your tight throat making it nearly impossible to speak, “More than you know.”

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