Colorblind [Friday Night Lights]
Title: Colorblind
Characters/Pairing: Tim/Lyla
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Language. Sex.
Prompt: Porn Battle. Prompts: green; boots, drunk, phone-sex (sorta?), wrong.
Summary: He's always liked that color on her.
A/N Basically 10% for the porn battle and 90% for stainofmylove because she's my partner in Tim/Lyla crime and wrote me an awesome story so yeah. Unbeta'd, all fail is miiiine.
Colorblind
Tim is twelve years old when he actually meets Lyla Garrity, instead of just staring at her from across the classroom. She’s real pretty, and he doesn’t know what to say, so he asks what her favorite color is.
She tells him it’s green. He tells her that’s his favorite, too.
(Actually up until that moment it had been bright Panther blue, but everyone’s entitled to changing their mind, now aren’t they?)
**
The first time they kiss is not on the side of the road, rain slicked and guilt ridden.
No, the first time he kisses her is on an otherwise uneventful summer day. Jay is out of town with his family, so he asks Lyla to go with him to the pool. It’s so damn hot she really can’t say no.
They walk home afterwards, and she tells some stupid joke and nudges his shoulder as she does, making sure he laughs. He looks down at her, and she’s got this pretty green suit on and a towel slung low on her hips and he just can’t help himself.
He kisses her. Doesn’t know why (though he has always liked her in that color).
She pulls away eventually, but he swears she kissed him back. Just a little. He apologizes though, lies and says he doesn’t know where that came from, and she just shrugs her shoulders stiffly and says for him not to worry about it, her cheeks flushed and her words quiet.
“Please don’t say anything to Jay,” he pleads. She asks the same of him.
That night he tries to sleep, but ends up spending most of the night convincing himself that today was, in fact, a bad idea. Jay is his best friend. Lyla is his girl. That’s that.
His brain gets it. The rest of him, not so much.
**
It’s the first varsity Panther party of his sophomore year, the campfire is blazing in front of him, and he’s staring at it like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.
It’s not. It’s just that if he’s staring at the fire, he’s not staring at Lyla Garrity.
He loves Jay, he really does. Wants him to be happy, because he’s a good person (the best person, actually) and pretty much deserves more than the world is ever going to be able to give him. So when he gets jealous seeing Jay stroke Lyla’s arm, or kiss her, or play with the hair at the nape of her neck, he feels rotten. Like he really is the bad person everyone already says he is.
So he just looks elsewhere. First looks at the fire, then eventually at all the rally girl skin floating around. Ends up picking up a pretty enough brunette and fucks her from behind so all he can see is her back and her long brown hair, and when he comes he has to bite his tongue so not to say the wrong name.
**
Sappy as it sounds, he wanted when they finally fucked to be anything but just fucking. But that’s what it is; there’s no love (at least not from her), just raw animal need, and he’s not going to try and fool himself into thinking it’s anything else.
The gas station they end up parking behind has been closed for years and stands there like a skeleton, but it’s close by and it’s desolate. There’s a streetlight next to them, its light filtered through a very broken sign, and the colors from it move across them like a kaleidoscope as they grab and pull at each other’s clothing.
He pushes her skirt up and pulls her underwear down so she can kick it off onto the floor, then thrusts a finger into her. She gasps, surprised, and grabs at his shoulders. He adds another finger and she doesn’t protest, just presses against him for more friction. He expected as much; he knows she’s not a virgin. Jay is his best friend, after all.
No. No thinking about Jay, not now. This isn’t about him. This is about Lyla and her little whimpers and sighs with his name woven into them. Nothing else.
He wants to go slow, really savor this moment he’s pretty sure isn’t going to happen again. Wants more than anything to make (and watch) her come, wants to lean in and kiss her slow so he can memorize the feel of her lips once again.
But she doesn’t want any of that.
It’s this night that Tim finds out that sweet, soft spoken Lyla Garrity fucks rough; bites at his neck and lips and bucks hard against him, desperate and aggressive; asks him to grip her arms harder (please, harder) and pull at her hair. He wonders if she’s always like this, or if it’s just that maybe she wants to hurt as much on the outside as she does on the inside.
Her lips taste like mint when he kisses her and she puts her hands in his still wet hair and grabs at it, little droplets slivering down her hands and arms. She grinds against him a little longer before she comes, her hands gripping his arms hard as she does. Her eyes slam shut but his are wide open, watching her pant and groan as she rides it out and thinking that it’s probably the most beautiful thing he’s seen in his life.
It doesn’t take long before he comes too, and when he does he grabs the sides of her face and makes her kiss him for longer than just a few seconds. She resists, tries to pull away, but he’s not having any of that and soon enough she collapses into his lips, deflated and wilted in his arms.
Then she starts crying; gasping, heaving sobs, and beats her fists against his chest. In between all of this she yells, “I hate you,” and even though he knows she doesn’t really mean it, it still hurts coming from her. Really, she’s probably talking to herself more than she’s talking to him, a thought that doesn’t make him feel any better, either.
Pulling back, he looks her in the eyes and she returns it, tears trickling down her cheeks. The light from outside dances across her face, pretty blues and greens, and he kisses a tiny flickering spot on her cheek. Tells her it’s gonna be all right, everything is gonna be all right.
She just sobs harder.
**
The only person who could ever wake him up at 6am on a Sunday morning and not incur some kind of wrath is fortunately the person that does.
He’s got a wicked hangover, but nothing unmanageable; he’s had worse, and when he opens the door and sees Lyla standing there it suddenly doesn’t seem so bad anymore.
“Don’t come to my church anymore, Tim,” she says directly and professionally, and he steels himself so he doesn’t give anything away, such as the fact that he’s pretty sure today is going be the day his heart splits in two. She hesitantly adds, “It’s not necessary.”
“I told you I’m gonna go as long as it takes,” he says simply and finitely, like there’s no room for negotiation, though he knows that if she made that face and told him really, please, don’t do this, he probably would stop.
She steps a little closer, into the house, and he lets her in and closes the door behind her. Her hands are delicately clasped behind her back and she’s looking at her feet, her face furrowed like she’s having trouble saying what she wants to get out.
Then she bites her lip and lifts her eyes to look right at him. Right through him. “Is your brother home?”
His stomach leaps into his throat. “No,” he answers slowly, like he’s afraid he might scare her off.
“Oh.” She nods pensively, and steps a little closer to him. Lets her hand drop and graze his just slightly, and he’s pretty sure this what a heart attack feels like.
If football has taught him anything, it’s that you gotta learn how to read the other players. Or maybe that’s poker - in any case, he thinks he’s readin’ her pretty well, so he grabs her hand and pulls her toward him, kissing her before she has a chance to correct him. Thankfully she doesn’t, ever, so he walks her back so she’s pinned between him and the door, and she lets out the sexiest of whimpers when he pushes a knee between her legs and up against her.
It feels good, this thing they’re falling back into. Comfortable and easy, like they were never not like this. She’s doesn’t wanna seem to talk about the whys and the hows, and frankly he’s not terribly worried about hearing them.
“I like this dress,” he says absentmindedly, running his hands up her thighs to grab her hips and pull them towards him. “I’ve always liked you in green.”
She gives him simultaneously the warmest and dirtiest smile he’s ever seen in his life. Runs her hands down his chest and stomach, stalling at the top of his waistband. “I know.”
**
When Lyla stumbles into his room after her late night of playing video games with Billy and Mindy, she doesn’t quite make it to the bed. Instead she just kind of shuts the door behind her and then crumbles to the floor, laughing. “I won. All of the races.” A pause. “Well, most of them.”
He slides his arms under around her and plops her down in the bed. “I’m glad,” he replies groggily, and she giggles some more.
She’s obviously had a lot to drink, and when he sits down on the bed and it bounces, she makes a pained sound and looks a little sick. So he lies down beside her and rolls her so she’s facing him, and rubs her back until she lets out a little sigh and settles down comfortably.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he replies, and settles down back into his pillow. “Now get some sleep, speed racer.”
She smiles and nods. “Okay. I love you,” she murmurs into his chest, her voice half asleep, and right after she says it he’s got these parallel feelings of unbridled fucking joy and disappointment, ‘cause he figures she’s not going to remember saying it in the morning anyway.
But he tells her he loves her back all the same, as if it’s something that she doesn’t know already. As if it isn’t something that bleeds out his pores every time he sees her.
**
Tim comes home to his backyard trailer to find Lyla lying on his bed, reading a girly magazine with her feet in the air. When he comes in and sits down on the side of the bed she rolls over with the magazine still in her hands, titles proclaiming hundreds of sex tips splattered across the cover.
He slides next to her before rolling over and pushing her legs apart, settling between them. “Learn anything?”
She drops the magazine off the side of the bed with a self-satisfied smile. “Maybe.”
They make quick work of his pants and shirt, and he makes equally quick work of her underwear, but when she goes to take off her boots and dress (that dress, his favorite one in his favorite color, wrapping her up like she’s a goddamn present), he stalls her. “Leave ‘em.”
Her grin is curious, and she bites her lip in pleasure when his hand grazes against her collarbone and neck, slipping the straps of the dress off her shoulders so he can push it down to expose her breasts. He kisses between them and takes a kind of satisfaction in the way she reacts, pushing her chest up to meet him and running her hands through his hair.
It’s not just fucking, not anymore. Well, it is and it isn’t - Tim has always subscribed to the “walks like a duck” theory, and he knows that when he thrusts into her hard and she digs her boot heels into his thighs for leverage, scratching his back and leaving half moon welts in his shoulders, it looks like fucking.
But when she twists herself to get more friction, and he can see beaded sweat and a soft flush on her skin, he knows exactly what she wants; can read her well, so when she starts pleading with him to go faster he’s already one step ahead of her. Soon enough she breaks into pieces around him as she comes, her eyes slamming shut and her back arching while a steady stream of both his name and god’s name comes from her mouth like she’s got no control over it, and he feels like his heart is about to explode out of his chest at the sight of it.
No, it stopped being just fucking a long time ago. Once upon a time, that’s exactly what he wanted to happen. Wanted that fairytale love story with her. Now he’s not so sure he wants that; doesn’t wanna live his life with his heart locked in a prison.
When she finally comes down, each breath laced with a tiny whimper, he leans down and kisses her messily. Runs his hands through her hair and feels himself lose it as he thrusts once, twice more, pushing into her hard and deep as he comes. Despite himself, desperately wants to beg and plead for her not to go.
She reaches out and touches him blindly, pushing him down closer against her so she can feel his skin against hers. Opens her eyes and looks at him like she’s falling for him all over again.
Hell, who is he kidding? He’ll love her (will want to love her) until he’s dead as dirt.
**
When Tim gets out of prison, he calls her. Not because he’s expecting her to have waited for him or anything like that. Just wants to hear her voice and maybe see her to say hi or something, that’s all. Innocent.
It rings four times. She doesn’t answer.
Hi, this is Lyla, leave me a message and I’ll call you back!
He puts the phone down for a minute, then clumsily dials the number one more time. Imagines that she’s wearing that pretty green dress with the cowboy boots and staring at her phone like it’s a bomb. This time it only rings once.
Hi, this is Lyla, leave me a message and I’ll call you back!
That night he jerks off to the sound of her voice playing over and over in his head; comes all over his hands when he imagines they’re hers instead.
**
The only person he wants to see right now is exactly the person that knocks on his door.
He practically swallows his tongue when he sees Lyla Garrity standing there, arms wrapped around herself and her gaze hesitant. Her hair is a little shorter and her skin a little paler, but otherwise it’s like stepping back in time.
“I’m sorry?” she finally says. Doesn’t have to explain why. But also doesn’t have any reason to be; maybe that’s why she can’t help but say it like a question.
He just shakes his head. He’s not mad, couldn’t possibly be mad with her standing here like this. He just grabs her arm and pulls her in for a hug, and she settles into it, pressing her cheek against his chest.
Comfortable. Easy.
When she pulls away he looks at her again, really looks at her. She’s so beautiful still, all dark eyes and soft lips, and he doesn’t know what to say. The best he can come up with is, “You look nice.”
She pulls nervously at the fire engine fabric of her dress. “Thought you liked the green one.”
Sure, he likes her in green. But he’s not really looking at the dress.
“Red’s just fine.”
Characters/Pairing: Tim/Lyla
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Language. Sex.
Prompt: Porn Battle. Prompts: green; boots, drunk, phone-sex (sorta?), wrong.
Summary: He's always liked that color on her.
A/N Basically 10% for the porn battle and 90% for stainofmylove because she's my partner in Tim/Lyla crime and wrote me an awesome story so yeah. Unbeta'd, all fail is miiiine.
Colorblind
Tim is twelve years old when he actually meets Lyla Garrity, instead of just staring at her from across the classroom. She’s real pretty, and he doesn’t know what to say, so he asks what her favorite color is.
She tells him it’s green. He tells her that’s his favorite, too.
(Actually up until that moment it had been bright Panther blue, but everyone’s entitled to changing their mind, now aren’t they?)
**
The first time they kiss is not on the side of the road, rain slicked and guilt ridden.
No, the first time he kisses her is on an otherwise uneventful summer day. Jay is out of town with his family, so he asks Lyla to go with him to the pool. It’s so damn hot she really can’t say no.
They walk home afterwards, and she tells some stupid joke and nudges his shoulder as she does, making sure he laughs. He looks down at her, and she’s got this pretty green suit on and a towel slung low on her hips and he just can’t help himself.
He kisses her. Doesn’t know why (though he has always liked her in that color).
She pulls away eventually, but he swears she kissed him back. Just a little. He apologizes though, lies and says he doesn’t know where that came from, and she just shrugs her shoulders stiffly and says for him not to worry about it, her cheeks flushed and her words quiet.
“Please don’t say anything to Jay,” he pleads. She asks the same of him.
That night he tries to sleep, but ends up spending most of the night convincing himself that today was, in fact, a bad idea. Jay is his best friend. Lyla is his girl. That’s that.
His brain gets it. The rest of him, not so much.
**
It’s the first varsity Panther party of his sophomore year, the campfire is blazing in front of him, and he’s staring at it like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.
It’s not. It’s just that if he’s staring at the fire, he’s not staring at Lyla Garrity.
He loves Jay, he really does. Wants him to be happy, because he’s a good person (the best person, actually) and pretty much deserves more than the world is ever going to be able to give him. So when he gets jealous seeing Jay stroke Lyla’s arm, or kiss her, or play with the hair at the nape of her neck, he feels rotten. Like he really is the bad person everyone already says he is.
So he just looks elsewhere. First looks at the fire, then eventually at all the rally girl skin floating around. Ends up picking up a pretty enough brunette and fucks her from behind so all he can see is her back and her long brown hair, and when he comes he has to bite his tongue so not to say the wrong name.
**
Sappy as it sounds, he wanted when they finally fucked to be anything but just fucking. But that’s what it is; there’s no love (at least not from her), just raw animal need, and he’s not going to try and fool himself into thinking it’s anything else.
The gas station they end up parking behind has been closed for years and stands there like a skeleton, but it’s close by and it’s desolate. There’s a streetlight next to them, its light filtered through a very broken sign, and the colors from it move across them like a kaleidoscope as they grab and pull at each other’s clothing.
He pushes her skirt up and pulls her underwear down so she can kick it off onto the floor, then thrusts a finger into her. She gasps, surprised, and grabs at his shoulders. He adds another finger and she doesn’t protest, just presses against him for more friction. He expected as much; he knows she’s not a virgin. Jay is his best friend, after all.
No. No thinking about Jay, not now. This isn’t about him. This is about Lyla and her little whimpers and sighs with his name woven into them. Nothing else.
He wants to go slow, really savor this moment he’s pretty sure isn’t going to happen again. Wants more than anything to make (and watch) her come, wants to lean in and kiss her slow so he can memorize the feel of her lips once again.
But she doesn’t want any of that.
It’s this night that Tim finds out that sweet, soft spoken Lyla Garrity fucks rough; bites at his neck and lips and bucks hard against him, desperate and aggressive; asks him to grip her arms harder (please, harder) and pull at her hair. He wonders if she’s always like this, or if it’s just that maybe she wants to hurt as much on the outside as she does on the inside.
Her lips taste like mint when he kisses her and she puts her hands in his still wet hair and grabs at it, little droplets slivering down her hands and arms. She grinds against him a little longer before she comes, her hands gripping his arms hard as she does. Her eyes slam shut but his are wide open, watching her pant and groan as she rides it out and thinking that it’s probably the most beautiful thing he’s seen in his life.
It doesn’t take long before he comes too, and when he does he grabs the sides of her face and makes her kiss him for longer than just a few seconds. She resists, tries to pull away, but he’s not having any of that and soon enough she collapses into his lips, deflated and wilted in his arms.
Then she starts crying; gasping, heaving sobs, and beats her fists against his chest. In between all of this she yells, “I hate you,” and even though he knows she doesn’t really mean it, it still hurts coming from her. Really, she’s probably talking to herself more than she’s talking to him, a thought that doesn’t make him feel any better, either.
Pulling back, he looks her in the eyes and she returns it, tears trickling down her cheeks. The light from outside dances across her face, pretty blues and greens, and he kisses a tiny flickering spot on her cheek. Tells her it’s gonna be all right, everything is gonna be all right.
She just sobs harder.
**
The only person who could ever wake him up at 6am on a Sunday morning and not incur some kind of wrath is fortunately the person that does.
He’s got a wicked hangover, but nothing unmanageable; he’s had worse, and when he opens the door and sees Lyla standing there it suddenly doesn’t seem so bad anymore.
“Don’t come to my church anymore, Tim,” she says directly and professionally, and he steels himself so he doesn’t give anything away, such as the fact that he’s pretty sure today is going be the day his heart splits in two. She hesitantly adds, “It’s not necessary.”
“I told you I’m gonna go as long as it takes,” he says simply and finitely, like there’s no room for negotiation, though he knows that if she made that face and told him really, please, don’t do this, he probably would stop.
She steps a little closer, into the house, and he lets her in and closes the door behind her. Her hands are delicately clasped behind her back and she’s looking at her feet, her face furrowed like she’s having trouble saying what she wants to get out.
Then she bites her lip and lifts her eyes to look right at him. Right through him. “Is your brother home?”
His stomach leaps into his throat. “No,” he answers slowly, like he’s afraid he might scare her off.
“Oh.” She nods pensively, and steps a little closer to him. Lets her hand drop and graze his just slightly, and he’s pretty sure this what a heart attack feels like.
If football has taught him anything, it’s that you gotta learn how to read the other players. Or maybe that’s poker - in any case, he thinks he’s readin’ her pretty well, so he grabs her hand and pulls her toward him, kissing her before she has a chance to correct him. Thankfully she doesn’t, ever, so he walks her back so she’s pinned between him and the door, and she lets out the sexiest of whimpers when he pushes a knee between her legs and up against her.
It feels good, this thing they’re falling back into. Comfortable and easy, like they were never not like this. She’s doesn’t wanna seem to talk about the whys and the hows, and frankly he’s not terribly worried about hearing them.
“I like this dress,” he says absentmindedly, running his hands up her thighs to grab her hips and pull them towards him. “I’ve always liked you in green.”
She gives him simultaneously the warmest and dirtiest smile he’s ever seen in his life. Runs her hands down his chest and stomach, stalling at the top of his waistband. “I know.”
**
When Lyla stumbles into his room after her late night of playing video games with Billy and Mindy, she doesn’t quite make it to the bed. Instead she just kind of shuts the door behind her and then crumbles to the floor, laughing. “I won. All of the races.” A pause. “Well, most of them.”
He slides his arms under around her and plops her down in the bed. “I’m glad,” he replies groggily, and she giggles some more.
She’s obviously had a lot to drink, and when he sits down on the bed and it bounces, she makes a pained sound and looks a little sick. So he lies down beside her and rolls her so she’s facing him, and rubs her back until she lets out a little sigh and settles down comfortably.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he replies, and settles down back into his pillow. “Now get some sleep, speed racer.”
She smiles and nods. “Okay. I love you,” she murmurs into his chest, her voice half asleep, and right after she says it he’s got these parallel feelings of unbridled fucking joy and disappointment, ‘cause he figures she’s not going to remember saying it in the morning anyway.
But he tells her he loves her back all the same, as if it’s something that she doesn’t know already. As if it isn’t something that bleeds out his pores every time he sees her.
**
Tim comes home to his backyard trailer to find Lyla lying on his bed, reading a girly magazine with her feet in the air. When he comes in and sits down on the side of the bed she rolls over with the magazine still in her hands, titles proclaiming hundreds of sex tips splattered across the cover.
He slides next to her before rolling over and pushing her legs apart, settling between them. “Learn anything?”
She drops the magazine off the side of the bed with a self-satisfied smile. “Maybe.”
They make quick work of his pants and shirt, and he makes equally quick work of her underwear, but when she goes to take off her boots and dress (that dress, his favorite one in his favorite color, wrapping her up like she’s a goddamn present), he stalls her. “Leave ‘em.”
Her grin is curious, and she bites her lip in pleasure when his hand grazes against her collarbone and neck, slipping the straps of the dress off her shoulders so he can push it down to expose her breasts. He kisses between them and takes a kind of satisfaction in the way she reacts, pushing her chest up to meet him and running her hands through his hair.
It’s not just fucking, not anymore. Well, it is and it isn’t - Tim has always subscribed to the “walks like a duck” theory, and he knows that when he thrusts into her hard and she digs her boot heels into his thighs for leverage, scratching his back and leaving half moon welts in his shoulders, it looks like fucking.
But when she twists herself to get more friction, and he can see beaded sweat and a soft flush on her skin, he knows exactly what she wants; can read her well, so when she starts pleading with him to go faster he’s already one step ahead of her. Soon enough she breaks into pieces around him as she comes, her eyes slamming shut and her back arching while a steady stream of both his name and god’s name comes from her mouth like she’s got no control over it, and he feels like his heart is about to explode out of his chest at the sight of it.
No, it stopped being just fucking a long time ago. Once upon a time, that’s exactly what he wanted to happen. Wanted that fairytale love story with her. Now he’s not so sure he wants that; doesn’t wanna live his life with his heart locked in a prison.
When she finally comes down, each breath laced with a tiny whimper, he leans down and kisses her messily. Runs his hands through her hair and feels himself lose it as he thrusts once, twice more, pushing into her hard and deep as he comes. Despite himself, desperately wants to beg and plead for her not to go.
She reaches out and touches him blindly, pushing him down closer against her so she can feel his skin against hers. Opens her eyes and looks at him like she’s falling for him all over again.
Hell, who is he kidding? He’ll love her (will want to love her) until he’s dead as dirt.
**
When Tim gets out of prison, he calls her. Not because he’s expecting her to have waited for him or anything like that. Just wants to hear her voice and maybe see her to say hi or something, that’s all. Innocent.
It rings four times. She doesn’t answer.
Hi, this is Lyla, leave me a message and I’ll call you back!
He puts the phone down for a minute, then clumsily dials the number one more time. Imagines that she’s wearing that pretty green dress with the cowboy boots and staring at her phone like it’s a bomb. This time it only rings once.
Hi, this is Lyla, leave me a message and I’ll call you back!
That night he jerks off to the sound of her voice playing over and over in his head; comes all over his hands when he imagines they’re hers instead.
**
The only person he wants to see right now is exactly the person that knocks on his door.
He practically swallows his tongue when he sees Lyla Garrity standing there, arms wrapped around herself and her gaze hesitant. Her hair is a little shorter and her skin a little paler, but otherwise it’s like stepping back in time.
“I’m sorry?” she finally says. Doesn’t have to explain why. But also doesn’t have any reason to be; maybe that’s why she can’t help but say it like a question.
He just shakes his head. He’s not mad, couldn’t possibly be mad with her standing here like this. He just grabs her arm and pulls her in for a hug, and she settles into it, pressing her cheek against his chest.
Comfortable. Easy.
When she pulls away he looks at her again, really looks at her. She’s so beautiful still, all dark eyes and soft lips, and he doesn’t know what to say. The best he can come up with is, “You look nice.”
She pulls nervously at the fire engine fabric of her dress. “Thought you liked the green one.”
Sure, he likes her in green. But he’s not really looking at the dress.
“Red’s just fine.”