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fandomxpreferences · 1 year

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It's Me, I'm The April fool

Funny Story Universe

Pairing: Jake Seresin x Mitchell!Reader, Platonic!Bradley Bradshaw x female!reader

TW:mentions of pregnancy, brief mention of breeding kink I think thats it

Summary: Bradley really needs to learn to mind his own business.

Word Count:2.1k

"Well, fuck."

You and Jake stare down at the two pink lines in disbelief, thoughts coming and going at warp speed. Jake is borderline buzzing with happiness and excitement but waits to see your reaction before showing it.

He looks at the side of your face, trying to get a read on what you're feeling. Truth be told, you aren't sure. There's a mixture of glee and excitement, you know that much. You love Jake more than anything, and the idea of having a mini Seresin running around causes your heart to swell with love.

Overpowering all of that though, at the very forefront of your mind flashing in giant neon letters, is fear. Not fear of becoming a mother or of Jake running for the hills never to be seen again, but fear of your dad.

He specifically told you to be careful, yet here you are, staring parenthood in the face. It almost makes you laugh because you know exactly when you got pregnant. It happened the same night Mav found out and nearly had a heart attack just at the prospect of you dating Jake.

In your defense, you usually were careful. It's not your fault that your dad didn't learn his lesson about tempting you and Jake. It also doesn't help that Jake fucking Seresin has one massive breeding kink. You weren't exactly complaining at the time.

"Talk to me, baby. What's going on in that pretty head of yours?"

You're broken from your trance and turn to face your boyfriend.

"Dad is going to kill us."

Jake has the nerve to laugh, and you smack his arm with a scowl.

"It's not funny, Seresin!"

He manages to get his laughter under control, stifling tiny giggles as he tries to put on a serious face.

"He's not going to kill you. You're his only child and carrying his only grandchild. Me, on the other hand? Let's hope the only thing he finds worse than a grandchild out of wedlock is a bastard grandchild."

Jake can see you trying not to laugh at his antics, and his stomach flips when he manages to get a smile out of you.

"There's my pretty girl. We'll figure out Mav later, okay?"

You scoff and roll your eyes, settling back on the counter with your arms crossed.

"Yeah, because that worked out so well last time."

He pokes your sides and you almost hate how he manages to cheer you up even in the tensest situations. Almost.

"Well, now we know. I'll make sure to climb to a higher surface so he can't reach me." His face is completely deadpan, and you snort.

"You're fucking ridiculous."

Two weeks later, you've both fallen in love with the little bean, and you've had to physically drag Jake out of the baby section in every store you've set foot in.

You're just leaving the doctor's office, a small black and white sonogram tucked into Jake's back pocket. You're twelve weeks along, and Jake is riding a high only comparable to racing through the skies.

The two of you chat in the car on the way to the Hard Deck; you're supposed to meet the team for drinks. You are still figuring out how to get around that, seeing as no one knows about your little surprise.

"Do you think they'll have my eyes?" Jake asks, and love explodes in your chest.

"I hope so. Honestly, I think they'll be a carbon copy of you."

The thought makes his head swim, and he's consumed by images of a little blonde-haired boy or girl running around with his self-assured attitude. He knows they're going to be a handful, between his arrogance and your ability to charm anyone that looks your way. He can't wait.

You stroll into the bar, immediately sitting by the pool tables to watch a heated game between Rooster and Coyote. The next couple of hours is spent laughing and making bets on who will win.

It's not until Rooster orders a round of shots that you start to panic, and Jake can see the way your pupils widen as you try to think of an excuse. The tequila is set down in front of you, and you just stare at it.

Jake slams his back, and when he's sure no one is looking, he takes yours too. You give him a grateful smile and pray that this isn't a night of heavy drinking. If Jake is doing double, he's going to end up getting his stomach pumped.

Unbeknownst to you, Bradley does see the interaction and frowns but decides not to say anything. Maybe you're just not feeling well. He doesn't give it much more thought.

But then, when everyone is leaving and he's walking with you to Jake's truck, something happens. Jake drops something, and when he bends down to pick it up, he sees a little white square sticking out of his pocket.

He doesn't think twice as he plucks it out and looks at it, always too nosy for his own good.

You freeze when you see it in his hands, and Bradley's face is as white as a ghost. His eyes rake over the image for a solid minute as you and Jake watch, waiting for the impending explosion.

"What the fuck am I looking at?" Bradley whispers, and you gulp.

He peers down at you and takes in the way you're wringing your hands and shifting back and forth.

"Y/N, what the fuck am I looking at?"

His voice is almost too calm, and you think you broke him for a second. Jake glances between the two of you but remains silent. He's almost certain that if he dares to utter a single word right now, Bradley will be on him, and unlike Mav, he could do severe damage.

"Surprise?"

Bradley looks like he's about to faint and vaguely registers bile rising in his throat.

"No, nope. This is a prank, right? I know you're not dumb enough to get pregnant when Mav expressly told you not to. Maybe Hangman, but not my baby sister."

You chew on your lip, and Bradley has to fully walk away for a second before rounding back and halting in front of you.

"Are you fucking kidding me? Do you get off on pissing off Mav or something? You're going to be a single mom!"

He's practically yelling at this point, and you shush him harshly before yanking him closer to the truck, away from prying ears.

"No, I'm not, Bradley. Jake isn't going anywhere."

He gives you a bewildered look and throws his hands up in the air, doing a complete spin to try and process the new information.

"Maybe not by choice, but Mav is going to kill him! I don't mean get angry and yell. I mean full military service, casket in the ground kill him. He just told you three months ago not to get her pregnant out of wedlock."

He's facing Jake now, and you have to credit the blonde pilot for never wavering in the face of adversity.

"Well, I actually have a solution to that problem." He shrugs.

You and Bradley both look at him expectantly. If he has any ideas, you have yet to hear them.

"We could just elope."

Bradley barks out a disbelieving laugh, but you don't find the matter funny at all. Marry Jake? Usually, the thought of marrying a man you've been with for less than a year would send you sprinting in the opposite direction, but this isn't any man.

It's Jake, the man that makes you laugh when you're crying and always eats your mushrooms because you can't stand the texture. The man who was so over the moon at becoming a father that once he knew you were okay, fell to his knees and hasn't stopped talking to your non-existent belly since.

You're already attached to him for life, and the thought has crossed your mind. You don't hate it.

"Jake, don't marry me just because I got knocked up." You sigh, and he shakes his head.

"No, I've been thinking about this since that first night. Just seemed too crazy. It makes perfect sense, though, and Y/N Seresin has a nice ring to it.

You smile brightly at the sentiment and slowly nod your head.

"Okay, let's do it. Let's elope."

Bradley lets out a sound akin to a wounded animal, and you're suddenly reminded that he's there.

"This is the worst idea I've ever heard. Mav will think you're doing it out of obligation and try to stop it. You can't be serious."

You ponder for a few seconds, and Bradley can almost read your thoughts. He doesn't like the look on your face, the one you get right before you drag him into one of your harebrained schemes.

"So we won't tell him until after."

You say it as if it's the most simple thing in the world, and Bradley's knees almost give out. This is the worst deja vu he's ever had; how the fuck does he keep getting wrapped up in this shit?

"No, absolutely not. Last time you said that I aged ten years in six months. You're pregnant. You can't just hide this for months. How far along are you?"

You release an agitated sigh and lean up against Jake's hood.

"Twelve weeks."

Bradley's eyes widen, and you would almost feel bad if it didn't look so funny.

"Twelve wee- what did you get pregnant the night he told you not to?"

You know it's a rhetorical question but answer anyway.

"Yeah, actually. It's kind of funny when you think about it."

Bradley actually sits on the gravel this time, staring ahead into the abyss.

"It's actually not funny, and I wish I could think about literally anything else. Why am I always the one that has to keep a secret? I hate keeping secrets."

He's whining, and you stifle a laugh.

"Because you're always sticking your nose where it doesn't belong. You do this to yourself."

He shoots you a mean glare, and you nudge him with your knee.

"Cheer up. This means you get to be the witness."

His head snaps to look up at you, and his mouth falls open.

"Objection!"

Your eyebrows shoot up, and you choke on a laugh.

"You can't scream objection in a private conversation, Roos."

He leaps to his feet, and you adjust the angle of your head to stare up at him.

"Well, I just did. It's one thing to ask me to hide something like this. But you want me to witness your elopement and not tell anyone?"

Jake finally steps in and subtly nudges Bradley back a few inches; he's gotten a little too close for his liking.

"Well, you're the only one who knows. Besides, it should be someone important to us. We'll have the big wedding after all this is said and done."

Bradley stares him down for a second and ponders the idea.

"You think I'm important?"

Jake scoffs and throws his arm around your shoulder, pulling you into him.

"That's what you took away from that?"

Bradley nods, and Jake closes his eyes, already regretting his next words.

"If I say yes, then will you do it?"

You look on with amusement and give Bradley your best puppy dog eyes.

"Guess you'll have to find out."

Jake pinches the bridge of his nose and tilts his head back to look at the sky.

"Fine. Yes, you are important to both of us, and we would love it if you were the one to be there."

The words are almost like acid on his tongue, and he'll never forgive the grinning pilot for making him say it.

"Okay, I'll do it. But you have to tell Mav soon!" He points his finger at you, and you recoil.

"Don't point that thing at me, Bradshaw."

He lowers his hand, and you clap, giddy at the impending nuptials.

"Okay, we'll put it together and let you know. Right now, I want nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep. This kid is sucking the life out of me."

Bradley snorts and tilts his head to the side.

"Yeah, I would imagine a Seresin will do that to you." He mutters, and you kick him in his knee.

"Ow!" He yelps, reaching down to grab the area while hopping on the opposite leg.

"Watch it. They're half Mitchell too, you know."

Bradley scowls when Jake coughs to cover a laugh, and you turn to hop in the truck. Jake opens the door before giving his friend a nod and driving you home. This should be very interesting.

#jake seresin #top gun maverick #bradley bradshaw #top gun imagine #hangman top gun #jake seresin imagine #jake seresin top gun #jake seresin fic #jake seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin

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kiwisbell · 8 months

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Security Details: Chapter 2 [frankie morales]

Frankie’s long-time friend enlists his help. He's more than eager to accept the job. The problem is that he's in love with her.

chapter 1 | chapter 2

pairing: francisco "catfish" morales x f!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni)

tags and warnings for entire fic: abusive relationship (not between frankie and reader), murder, violence, BAMF frankie, protective frankie, possessive frankie, soft frankie, mutual pining, yearning, reader is not named but has a call sign (fox), frankie is dumb but he's got the spirit, angst, smut, fluff, partners to friends to lovers, happy ending, frankie spends most of this fic in his feelings, telltale signs of a fic written by a hopeless romantic, unprotected piv, breeding kink, creampie, oral sex, consensual somnophilia, english and spanish dirty talk, frankie going feral to keep his girl safe, possessive sex, blood and injury, undefined age gap

tags and warnings for this chapter: unrequited love becomes requited, unprotected piv (don't follow my lead), oral sex, frankie eating pussy like a king, blood and violence, frankie is unhinged, protective frankie, possessive sex, consensual somno, creampie, breeding kink, frankie morales fucks

word count: ~ 9k

chapter 2: oh, but i'm singing like a bird about it now

It takes him two hours to tell the entire story of what happened in Peru. It happens over dinner: the most disgusting canned ravioli he’s ever eaten and the most tolerable canned green beans. They sit opposite one another at the tiny two-person dining table, basking in slats of orange sunlight that filter through the closed blinds. He can’t risk anyone seeing her here now that she suspects someone is following her.

“That’s…” She blows out a breath, poking some beans with her fork. “Jesus, Frankie. I’m sorry. That sounds like a really shitty few weeks.”

Sorry? All the shit he’s just confessed to doing for some pathetic fucking bags of money, and she’s sympathising? He must look bewildered enough to make her giggle, if a bit hysterically. “It’s just…” She drops her chin into her palm. “Two hundred and fifty million.”

He stares at her for a moment. The golden light on her face and the way her eyes glimmer. “Yeah.”

“And you got on the boat with five.”

He’s beginning to understand. “Yeah.”

“And…” She bites down on her lip. “You signed away your earnings.”

He doesn’t think either of them are able to pinpoint what causes the laughter, but soon they’re both in tears, choking and wheezing over something that is probably not funny at all. Tears are streaking down their faces and the tiny home is filled with the sound of cutlery clanging as they shake uncontrollably. Their minds are not their own, and when the laughter ebbs, they are left smiling at one another. It feels like it did before, for a wink.

“What would you have done with it?” she asks.

He sips his beer—the fridge is still stocked from his last stay here. “Two years ago, it would have been an Aston Martin or a lifetime’s supply of cowboy boots.”

“And now?” She’s drinking, too, but she dug around the stores for a bottle of red wine and poured some into a mostly-clean mason jar.

“Now…” Frankie sighs. “Lifetime’s supply of diapers and baby food.”

“I don’t know, Frankie. I like your cowboy boots.”

“Nah, see, now I know you're lying.”

“What the fuck are those?”

“What?” Frankie looked down at his boots. “You don't like ‘em?”

She covered her mouth with her hand, but it didn't shroud the shaking of her shoulders. “No. No, Frank, I don’t.” She touched her hand to her heart. “I looove them.”

“Don't be mean, Foxy,” piped up Santiago from the back. “Those bastards were paid for with blood money.”

She gasped. “Don't tell me…”

Santiago hoisted Frankie’s arm into the air and whooped. “Divorce does wonders, folks!”

Frankie flushed hot while Fox bit down on her lip. He felt dirty—wrong—for being glad about the split, for wanting the woman in front of him for far longer than he ever wanted Lisa. He felt like a cheater. “Cálmate,” he grumbled to Pope.

She just laughed, rubbing a knot out of his shoulder. “If we're going to set a good example for your daughter, we have to teach her honesty. I think your boots are hideous. And yet”—she swigged her beer and kissed him on the cheek—“you somehow pull them off. You must teach me your ways.”

Frankie watches a car speed by through the blinds and makes sure it disappears from sight. “You ever notice him acting strangely?”

“He would miss dinner or come to bed late,” she says, “but I assumed he was working late, like he told me. Or cheating.”

Frankie frowns. “You wouldn't have cared?”

She scoffs. “Please, Frank. Of course I would care. It’s not like he would let me leave. I knew he was a recreational user, but I started to notice calls on the phone logs and missing links in email chains to and from a man named St. John—Matt said he was a higher-up at his company, but I think it's an alias. Started to feel like he was hiding something more than just another woman.” She rubs her brow. “Had a lot of thinking to do while I was… away. And things add up.”

“He got put away,” says Frankie. He only speaks to remind himself of the truth. He won't hurt her again.

“Only because of this.” She points to her face. “I know it sounds paranoid—”

“I believe you,” says Frankie. “Like you said, you've never steered me wrong.”

She smiles. “We should sleep. You drove all day, and I had to listen to your music all day.”

“Hey.” Frankie points at her. “Driver picks music, Foxy. Don't insult Metallica.”

“Go to sleep,” she says again, disappearing back into the hallway where she'll stretch out in that twin bed. He putters around in the kitchen, scrubbing their plates a little too hard, arranging the cushions and blankets on the couch with a little too much force. Lying with his eyes fixed on the yellowed popcorn ceiling, the old ache in his back throbbing up his spine, Frankie loathes this house. He detests the colour of the walls and the way the floors would creak under your weight even if you weighed eighty pounds. He hates the uncomfortable furniture.

He hates that she has to be here.

He hates himself for letting his head get stuck so far up his own ass he never mustered up the courage to tell her how he loved her: that her smile makes him ache, that he craves her presence the way he used to crave nicotine, that she's it for him. He hates that she's been wasting her time with assholes who only hurt her while he's been wasting his time yearning but not acting. If he's too much of a coward to tell her, he'll show her.

He’ll show her exactly how worth it she is. He’ll make sure she knows that he'd die for her the way she nearly did the day she took that bullet.

They're used to waiting in a profession like theirs. She's accustomed to hours and days upon rooftops and inside inconspicuous vans. She's used to the way it makes her joints creak with disuse and her eyes sore from rarely blinking. They've been in this safe house for a week, and they're out of food.

“No.”

“Frank—”

“No, Fox.” He’s frowning in frustration. It's a different frown than his concentration frown, which is altogether different from his needy frown—the one he gets when he's neglected. Her favourite grumpy dog. “It's too risky.”

Her bruises have mostly healed, along with the cut on her lip. But he'll never forget them. He’ll never forget seeing her walk into the kitchen in Santiago’s home, the terror that flooded him.

“Everything’s risky if I’m being stalked,” she reasons. “I can't hide forever, Frankie. Especially not if we don't have any leads.”

His nostrils flare, and she knows she's in for more arguing. “I can go. You should stay here.”

“I know you can, Frank.” She gestures toward the windows. “Has anyone followed us here?”

“Not that I’ve seen,” he begins, “but—”

“I’m getting cabin fever.” She folds her arms over her chest. “I know you are, too. That's why we're arguing.”

He huffs. “We’re not… arguing.”

She smiles. “Good. Isn’t it better that we don't split up, anyway?”

He gets pissed off when his friends are right, sometimes. Whenever he's arguing with Santiago about something easily Googleable (she'll do just that—look it up and wait patiently with the phone screen turned away until they're finished their shouting match), he'll grind his jaw and sulk for a bit when he's in the wrong. Then, he'll slap Santiago good-naturedly on the cheek and they’ll move on. Being wrong about such trivial things leads to being wrong in the real world. Making the wrong call. Getting someone hurt.

He's always been a bit of a worrier.

But he doesn't get mad when she's right. Because she makes it sound so sweet, so gentle, and all he can do is laugh. Of course she's right. He was stupid to argue with her in the first place. It's much safer if they travel together. He can keep her safe. He can.

He fucking will.

“Get one of my sweatshirts,” he says. “Don't take off the hood.”

She rolls her eyes but does as he asks. Indulging him. He will earn the right to be indulged again. The sweatshirt is his, an old and too-large grubby thing, blue (his favourite colour), and it swallows her. He waits until she crosses the room to collect his wallet and plants himself by the window, rubbing a hand down his face and splashing some cold water over it for good measure. Jesus. Get yourself together. Fucking asshole.

They slip into the truck and he pulls out of the driveway after making triple-sure no one lingers nearby. She draws a knee up to her chest so she can rest her chin on it, always detesting the feeling of her feet on the ground. It’s as if she can taste the tremors in the ground on her tongue and needs reprieve from them.

“Those jeans aren’t yours,” he says after a too-long silence. He hopes she isn’t put off by him memorising the articles in her closet.

“Matt’s,” she says idly. “Got blood on mine. I felt like I wanted to fuck him over in some small way. Taking his pants probably wasn’t the best method.”

He says nothing, but he sets his jaw and turns into town. It’s small enough that it borders on a hamlet, really; there’s a single Food World and a gas station, which are connected to one another. He can see every single home from here, stuck in the middle of nowhere on this lonely country road. It’s almost pleasant.

“What’s your favourite piece from my closet, Frankie?”

Shit.

She says it teasingly, a smile tugging on one corner of her mouth. It’s the kind of smile she gets when she’s trying not to, biting down on her bottom lip. He can’t quite grasp the depth of his own want, the way his chest lurches and his fingers twitch toward her. His body knows him before he does. He wants to lunge across the truck bench and put his mouth on hers, slide his hands up her—his—sweatshirt, and feel her: her strong, soft, capable body, her scars and bruises he’s memorised in their years together. He wants to hear her gasps and whimpers, different from any cries of pain he’s heard from her lips before. He wants to make her feel good. And she would feel so fucking good.

“You really wanna know?” he says.

She’s already looking at him when he parks at the Food World. “Yeah, I do.”

“That blue sundress,” he tells her, “the one you wear for the Fourth of July every year.”

Her brows lift a little in the middle, stretching the scar on her nose, and she’s so adorable sometimes it makes him hurt, makes him forget that she’s killed people with those fingers twiddling in her lap, makes him keep talking even though she already fucking knows what her dress looks like. She’s the one who wears it.

“It’s got these… I don’t know, these fuckin’ bows. Yeah, they’re bows. On the shoulders. You have to re-tie them when they get loose. Your face scrunches up when you concentrate, the way it does when you’re on a roof, watching a target through your scope.” Frankie watches her eyes scan his face, every inch, every freckle, like she’s trying to memorise it before a test. “It kinda—sorta flutters when there’s a breeze, y’know? It’s… nice.” He clears his throat and turns his head away, looking through the windshield. “You look nice in blue.”

Recalling the way her hips curve in that flowy fucking dress, the way she glows and shines and makes everyone shield their eyes from the glare, Frankie knows why his favourite colour is blue.

And Christ, the way she looks at him after his humiliating admission… The weight of her gaze, the slow blinking, the way her lashes brush her cheeks, the sheer power she imposes upon him when she watches him like that. He feels like he’s the biggest and smallest thing in the universe. He feels like suffering too long under that look will turn him to ashes.

“Frank,” she says, a name shoved out, dreamlike in quality. “If you’d told me you liked it so much, I’d wear it every day.”

He lets himself laugh. “Even in winter?”

“I have snow boots and a parka for a reason.” She lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Haute couture, no?”

He needs to get out of this truck. He needs to get out before he does something he’ll regret. “C’mon,” he says, “let’s make this quick.”

The Food World is mostly deserted. There are two cashiers, one drumming his fingers on the counter and the other resting her chin in her palm. People mill about the aisles, mostly in similar dress to theirs, sweatpants and sweatshirts and ratty jeans. Muzak crackles through the overhead P.A. systems. Nothing immediately prickles at his instincts. Frankie lets her walk ahead, lingering behind her. He doesn’t like people at his back, never has: an old soldier’s itch. Even waiting in lines makes him sweat a little above the brow. She’s never been that nervous, but she understands. She reaches backward every so often and squeezes his hand to make sure he’s still with her.

From here, he can’t exactly help but look at her ass in those too-big jeans, the flare of her hips, her legs. His hood is secure atop her head, morphing her into a stranger to the world, no longer the beautiful beacon with the cuts and bruises on her face. Frankie, in his own jeans and his grey T-shirt and his olive green button-up, cap snug on his head, looks just as unassuming—save for the permanent frown on his face.

“We need these,” she says when they reach the empty baking aisle, though he isn’t sure why they’re in the baking aisle. Until he sees her hold up two boxes of cake mix. Chocolate and birthday confetti.

“We do not need those.”

“Cat,” she says, her voice dropping low, nearly a fucking purr. Does she know what she’s doing? What she does to him? “You are too grumpy to function. It’s your birthday in a couple days. What if we’re still in that stupid house because of me? You’ll have no cake to celebrate.”

“I don’t want to celebrate getting older,” he says, gently plucking the boxes from her hands. It makes her eyes widen, a deliberate, dirty goddamn move, until she schools her face to look like she’s about to cry. He flicks her on the nose. “And that… is a rotten play, Fox.”

Her pouting mouth makes him want to pounce, to shove her up against the shelves of boxed mix and wipe that look off her face with his mouth. His fingers. His cock. God, he needs to get a grip.

“You aren’t old, Frankie,” she says softly. She reaches for him and gently pries his fingers, one-by-one, from the box of chocolate mix. He lets her. “Your life deserves to be celebrated. We’ll do chocolate, okay? It’s understated.”

But he feels old. He remembers the first day she was introduced to the team: her fresh-faced and bounding with energy. He, mid-thirties at the time, was hesitant to accept a new member of the team. He and the guys had already gelled, known one another for years in Basic before they were slapped together, and Frankie didn’t know what to make of the sniper, the stunner. But she slipped in, made them laugh and silenced any doubts with that perfect fucking aim, and made him feel like an asshole for ever thinking she wasn't the perfect choice. She's always the perfect choice.

Your life deserves to be celebrated.

“Okay,” he relents. “Chocolate. Now get out of this aisle before you convince me to buy whipped cream.”

She beams up at him and it's worth giving up his pride. “And don't give me any of that shit about this being your fault,” he says, guiding her toward the produce. “It's his. You know it.”

“It was my decision to rope you in, Frank. You're the only one I trust with my life like this.”

It's such a vulnerable, soft thing that escapes her mouth. Absently, his hand finds her waist, squeezes. She looks up at him, her face obscured by half a shadow thanks to the hood, and he's worried he's gone too far. But her lips part, her breath leaves her in a sigh, and she whispers, full of conviction: “I mean it.”

Frankie tries to rein in his breathing, shifts the cyclic stick back toward the space between two walls, his lungs. Overrides the spin-out by looking in her eyes. “I know you do,” he says. “I know, baby.”

She brings his knuckles to her mouth and kisses each one. He loses control again. Fuck, he's not even scanning his surroundings. He's lost himself in her, in that gentle smile she gives him. There's solidarity in that smile. Forgiveness, almost. “For the record,” she says, “it wasn't a hundred guys.”

Just like that, he wants to slap himself all over again.

You've been fucking around with a hundred other guys because you wanted me? Tell me how that makes sense, honey, because it doesn't make a goddamn inch of sense to me.

He hates himself. He hates himself so much, and he'll never be good enough to—

She's laughing.

Why the fuck is she laughing?

“You have a tendency to get mad,” she says, still snickering a little. “And when you get mad, you run your mouth. I was hurt and drained and fucking humiliated from being the bitch dumb enough to date him for two years. And what you said hurt. But I shouldn't have walked away.” She shrugs. “Wasted so much time already.”

He shakes his head, vaguely unable to comprehend what she's saying. “How…” He clears his throat. “How can you say that? I was a fucking asshole. I called you—”

“You didn't call me anything.” She picks up a lemon and inspects it. “How do you feel about lemon meringue?”

“I've never had it.” He grasps her wrist. “What are you saying, Fox?”

“I’m saying that we've both been idiots. How have you never tried lemon meringue?”

“Mom never made it.” He slips his hand under her hood and cradles the back of her head. Look at me, he wants to say. Don't stop looking at me. “I’m sorry, Fox. I’m sorry for everything I said. I pressured you. I was so angry for what that dickhead had done to you, and I was so desperate for you, I didn't give you the space you needed. I am… so. Fucking. Sorry.”

He shakes his head and shifts his thumb to trace the edge of her jaw, eyeing the nasty bruise. “You took a bullet for me. You and your infinite fucking wisdom. Jesus, you’re perfect. Knowing how much the world has burned you… It kills me, baby. I never wanted to hurt you, too, and I did. Don't forgive me. Please.”

Don't forgive me until I’ve earned it. I’ll never earn it. You're too good for this world, Foxy. You're too good for me.

She lifts her hand to his, her fingers curling gently around his wrist. She hasn't stopped looking at him, her breaths coming a bit shorter, a bit bruised. “Frankie,” she whispers. “There's someone watching us by the doors. Don’t look.”

His stomach plummets. He threads his fingers through hers and keeps her tucked to his side as they bypass the produce and head straight for the canned food aisle. “Grab what you need,” he says. “Make it heavy.”

A good makeshift weapon: a bag full of cans. He doesn't have his gun on him. It’s in the glove box. Fuck. She begins to swipe canned corn, beans, and ravioli into their reusable bag and he never lets go of her hand. “Relax,” she says, hoisting the bag up onto her shoulder and rubbing his arm in soothing lines. Up and down. Up and down. “It's okay, Frank. You're with me.”

He wants to believe her, but he's panicking. “Got everything?” he asks, trying to keep his posture casual even as his mind shifts gears. Keep your eyes open. Be ready. Keep her safe.

For the love of all good things, keep her safe.

“I’m ready,” she says easily, not a hint of her anxiety translating to her face. “Could’ve used that lemon, though.”

“If you want to bake for me so badly, honey, just tell me,” he says, not looking at her, keeping his head on a swivel for the someone she was talking about. “Describe him to me.”

“Tall, white, wearing all black,” she says quietly. They make their way toward the checkout. He wants to grab her hand and run to the truck, but they can't exactly smuggle out a bag filled with clanking metal cans.

She reaches the counter first and smiles at the man behind it, immediately rushing to place all their items on the belt. “The man in all black,” she whispers to the man, never once dropping her smiling façade, “he’s got a gun. Please call the cops. I think he's following us.”

They both crowd together to shroud the cashier from view as he carries on bagging their groceries at the same time he reaches under the counter and presses the panic button. “How will you be paying?” he asks, all-too easily.

Frankie looks behind him. The man, not facing them, rings out a single banana at the opposite register. The woman behind it looks polite but faintly rattled. He gathers the girl at his side a little closer, tucking an arm around her waist and slipping his hand into the pocket of the sweatshirt she wears.

“Thank you,” says the cashier when she hands him a folded handful of bills. Frankie guesses he's thanking them for more than the money. “Have a great day. Stay safe out there.”

They both nod their thanks and walk as briskly as they can out of the store without drawing suspicion. Frankie doesn't hear any footsteps behind him, but he still fumbles with the keys in his rush to get her in the vehicle.

She's got one foot still planted on the side step when she hazards a glance toward the doors of the Food World, and screams, “Frankie, down!”

He ducks at the same time he drops his shoulder to tackle her to the ground. He can't quite manoeuvre them quickly enough to prevent her from slamming hard into the ground; he watches her slam her shoulder against the asphalt at the same time the gunshot goes off. Frankie lands hard on his back, but they're both scrambling to get behind the truck. There isn't time to lick their wounds. The cans have spilled from the bag under the truck. One, filled with baked beans, nudges Frankie’s foot and rolls to a stop.

He keeps his hand pressed against her back as they move, grounding himself in her. She's still alive. He's going to keep it that way. “Fuck,” she says, daring to peek around the truck. “It’s him. Plus another guy at our eleven o’clock.”

“Get in the bed of the truck,” he says, handing her the can. “Smash the back window and crawl inside. Get the gun from the glove box. I’ll be right behind you.”

She nods, clinical in her analysis of the situation. Her face is grim, but she knows it’s their only option. Frankie unlatches the tailgate and pushes at her thighs to help her up while keeping her body as low as possible. She cracks the window with the edge of the can, but it takes three total hits to break the glass. It seems only one of the men is armed, the one who had followed them into the Food World. The other is making his way around the vehicle to flank them. Frankie ducks low to avoid one shot in particular, and he can hear it whizz past his ear. She’s inside the truck, crawling toward the glove box and wrenching it open. She flicks off the safety, leans out the broken window, and aims for the man closest to Frankie: the one holding the gun, who’s currently trying to kill him.

It makes his ears ring. The shot fires hardly a foot away from his left ear, but he knows who’s fired it, so he doesn’t flinch. Next to him, he hears a body topple and flips onto his back. She hops out of the truck and checks to make sure the man is dead before she circles the truck to accost the other.

Only he isn��t there.

“Frank?” she says, not meeting his eyes, still scanning her surroundings. “Where—”

It happens too quickly. Too quickly, even, for Frankie to bark a warning. He can only watch in terror as the man springs out from behind the gas pump and tackles her to the ground. She loses her grip on the gun in the tussle, her head smacking hard against the pavement. Visibly dazed, eyes unfocused, she reaches blindly for the man’s throat, but he pins down her arms at her sides, his thighs bracketing her writhing legs as she tries, unavailingly, to kick him in the balls.

Frankie doesn’t think when he acts. Terror and rage flood him. They are thick and cloying in his throat. They cloud the reason. The methodical soldier flees.

He’s bigger than the man atop her. He’s also angrier. His body barrels into him, knocks him aside, sending them both rolling across the ground. Frankie doesn’t reach for the gun. He doesn’t even try to. He just balls his hand into a fist and breaks the man’s noise.

Blood sprays, splattering the man’s face and Frankie’s knuckles as he yelps, a gurgled, helpless cry. But Frankie doesn’t stop. He can’t. He won’t. He punches, again and again and again. The face is a target, a pinkish round thing with eyes and a crooked nose and a mouth. The nose splits at the bridge, blood seeping. The whites of the eyes stain red. Blood vessels snap. Lips swell. At some point, the target stops crying, stops moving. He’s piloting, he’s in control, he’s so fucking out of control he can barely see.

Cyclic stick. Window panes. Rotor blades. Scope. Rooftop. Stars. Laughter. Her.

“Frankie.”

The target is red now. Blood and skin and bone. His own split knuckles, beginning to hurt. His senses sharpen at the sound of his voice, but he doesn’t stop. Only slows down. He can’t stop. What if he gets back up?

What if he hurts her again?

Faintly, he registers her stumbling toward him, hands and knees, desperate. Clawing at him. “Frankie,” she says. “Frankie, he’s down. Please. You’re done. It’s done.”

Finally, he pitches backward, as if someone has thrown him off the body beneath him. It’s the only way he can imagine stopping. He wants to go back for more, but her hands are there: one on his chest, pressing against his heart and calming the erratic beating, and the other cupping his face in her palm, like he’s something to be cherished.

“You did it,” she pants. His hands fly backward, slapping against the asphalt to keep himself from tumbling onto his back. She’s still holding him.

There’s a thin dribble of blood on her temple. It’s minimal. It’s nothing. But his hand flies to the nape of her neck. “You’re bleeding,” he croaks.

She laughs again, a bit raspy, a bit hysterical. “So are you.”

“He…” Frankie swallows, thick, smoke and fire and fear. “I didn’t see him.”

“Neither did I.” She kisses him on the forehead. It’s gentle, so gentle, and when it’s over, she rests her forehead on his. “Hear that?”

He does. Sirens. The police have arrived. “Means we need to get up,” she says. “Are you all right, Frank? Can you get up?”

She shifts back to help him stand, but he blurts out, “Wait. Wait.”

Panic flitting across her face, she returns to him. “What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head vaguely, not really feeling it, his vision sharpening to her. Her eyes are her mouth and her mouth is her nose and her nose is her ears. She’s whole and she’s here, in front of him, and he needs her to know.

“I love you,” he says.

The smile creeps up slow, but when it arrives, it knocks the breath from him. “Sounded just as good out loud as it did in my head.” Her fingers find the collar of his button-up, and she grips it hard. Her eyes bury him deep in the earth. “I love you, Francisco. But you knew that.”

“Wish I knew it sooner,” he huffs, leaning in so he can finally, finally, kiss her the way he’s wanted to for so long.

But a shadow looms over them, and a policeman awkwardly clears his throat. “Sir, ma’am, are you able to stand up?”

One policeman was all the department could spare, apparently. She and Frankie rose to greet him, explaining the situation as best they could. The man, unconscious but not quite dead on the ground, did not help Frankie’s case, but the cashier corroborated their story, having seen the entire affair through the windows of the Food World.

They were questioned for too fucking long at the station. They were supplied with a bag of ice for his knuckles, and another for the gash in her temple, as if to make up for keeping them there for ten hours. The bloodied man confessed, once he woke up from his Frankie-induced nap: a lackey for a trafficking ring who was enlisted to kill her for getting too close. Frankie, too.

He drives them back to the safe house instead of St. Augustine. Frankie has too much to do, too much to say. He can’t stand any more car rides in total silence.

“So,” she sighs when she follows him inside, “that was a total fucking—mmmph!”

With a grumbling sound from deep in his chest and a faint shake of his head—why fucking wait?—Frankie crowds her, the door closing at her back, and slants his mouth to fit hers.

Her hand flies up to cup his cheek, keeping him close, the other at his back. His strong back, his broad shoulders, the scruff of his patchy beard. Fuck, she can feel all of it. Frankie keeps it gentle, holding back, his hand finding a home at the back of her neck. He just kisses her.

She smells like oranges and blood and… fuck, like him, still wearing his sweatshirt. And kissing him. His head is spinning, his chest tightening, her perfect fist wrapped around his heart, squeezing until it pops. He wants it to. He wants to die here. He's finally here, and he's kissing the girl of his dreams. Love taps at the barricade of his skull, knocking at his ribs, asking to come in. He opens all of him.

“I love you,” he says, grinning against her mouth. “Fucking love you.”

She laughs breathlessly when their teeth clack together, but neither of them can hold back their smile. “You saved my life,” she says, lifting the cap off his head so she can tangle her fingers in his hair, too-long since its last cut. “The scales are balancing, Francisco.”

He laughs, too, somewhat delirious from the taste and the smell of her, nudging his nose against hers. “Can you feel it?” he asks, placing his palm over her years-old bullet wound.

“I feel it everywhere,” she says, angling his head so he can't help but look her in the eye. Good. He wants to see all of her, all the time. “Tell me again.”

He puts his forehead to hers and kisses the tip of her nose. “I love you. Te amo. Can’t fucking help it.”

She scans his face, eyes pleading. Outside, a bird chirps. He's surprised to discover that life exists outside the two of them.

“I want you to show me,” she says.

And he will. God, he will. She is the air he breathes. He kisses her like it, dipping his head low to catch her mouth again, harder and firmer, opening up her mouth for him. He slides his tongue against hers and swallows every needy sigh she loosens from her chest. His hand slides from her hip to her back, splaying his fingers underneath his sweatshirt and pressing her to him.

“Frankie,” she whispers. The force of such a gentle plea tears at him, rends all his limbs apart, and catches on what's left of his restraint. A fish hook. It tugs until he bleeds, an open wound for her.

He pulls away just long enough to grasp at the sweatshirt. “Take it off, Frankie,” she says, breathless and panting. He does. He'll do anything she asks.

It lands in a heap by the door. Underneath, she's wearing the shirt she wore this morning, a simple white tee, and he grunts in frustration. “Too many clothes,” is vaguely what comes out of his mouth as he tugs it up over her head and revels in the way her pupils dilate. He may as well go the whole nine yards, he figures, unclasping her bra and bearing her to him. Her back arches and her tits press up against his chest, keen and wanting.

He stares for a moment, his cock an aching and persistent presence in his jeans. He doesn't know what to do first. He's obsessed. He wants to possess her, be possessed by her, sink into her until it's unclear where either of their bodies begin. “You're fucking perfect,” he says.

“You can take a picture if you want,” she teases, pushing up against him and lifting her arms around his neck. He really fucking loves the sound of that: a small printed picture he gets to look at whenever he can't have the real thing. “But kiss me first.”

He finally gets his mouth on her again, sated and not altogether. His calloused hand finds her rib cage, fingers brushing the swell of her breast. He's too rough for her; she's delicate, smooth, perfect. He’s got a pilot’s hands.

“Jesus. You’re so soft,” he grunts into her mouth, kissing her until her lips are bruised. He shifts to the corner of her lips, her Cupid’s bow, the gentle curves of it that fascinate him. He finds her jawline and traces it with his lips, enjoying the way her breathing begins to go shallow as he moves to her ear, biting the lobe before sucking and licking at the spot below it.

“Frankieeee,” she mewls, grinding against him. He makes a gruff noise into her throat as he breathes her in deep, breathing in the scent of her the way a drowning man sucks in air at the ascent.

“I know, baby,” he mumbles, slipping his hand down to her jeans and toying with the button at the same time he kisses her shoulder.

“Want to undress you,” she says, pushing her hips up against his hand. “Please.”

Frankie’s never heard begging sound so good. He nods against her skin and pulls away, only to hoist her up and wrap her thighs around his hips. He swells a little with pride at the needy whimper that leaves her at the show of strength. “Bedroom,” he says into her ear, nipping at her lobe again.

She nods frantically. He lowers her onto the bed and she lifts herself up to grab at his shirt. He laughs at the eagerness, but it sobers to hot and heavy arousal at the sight of her concentration, her devout eagerness to get his clothes off. He helps her shrug him out of his button-up and lifts his arms for her as she takes off his shirt. Her lips part, her pupils dark and wide, and he's stunned. Stunned by her blatant desire, her inability to hide it. “Never thought…” She trails off, chest heaving.

“What is it, baby?”

“Never thought I’d get this,” she says earnestly, thumb stroking his jaw. “You.”

He kicks off his shoes and socks, holding her firm around the waist. She stands on her toes and kisses him, deep and true. “You've got me,” he tells her, breathing it into her mouth. “I’m yours, baby. I’ve always been.”

“Frankie.” Her lips are on his jaw, licking at the patch of skin that breaks his beard, then his throat, tasting and licking him the way she wants to. “I love you so much.”

He curses. She's revelling in him, and he loves it. He can't let go of her, can't stop himself from parting his lips and squeezing his eyes shut at the way she lavishes his throat with her mouth. She begins to make her way down his chest, sitting down on the bed so she can travel all the way down to his navel. His breathing is jagged, torn at the edges. He needs her so badly. She needs him so badly.

“Baby…”

She hums, busy pressing kisses to his ribs, fumbling with his belt, the button, the zipper, at his jeans.

Frankie bends down and notches his hands at the back of her thighs, half-tossing her farther up the bed. He pulls off jeans and boxers and briefly allows himself to grin at the sight of her sucking in a breath when his cock slaps against his stomach, hard and leaking. He isn't an idiot. He knows he's big. And it feels fucking good to know she wants him.

He crawls up her body and tilts her chin up so he can kiss her. “I want to taste you,” he says. She gasps when he cups the heat of her through her jeans.

“Please,” she says, writhing against him. Frankie yanks those godforsaken jeans down with little mercy, and she chokes out a laugh. “You really hate those things.”

“They're his.” Frankie tosses them across the room. “I want you to walk out of here forgetting he ever touched you… His fucking hands on you.”

She grounds him with a thumb brushing over his chin. “I’m yours,” she says. “Yours, Francisco.”

He grabs her ankle and locks it around his hip, forcing her legs to spread wide. The wet spot on her pink panties is unmistakable. “Mine,” he says under his breath, pressing his palm against her clit through her underwear. She whines his name. “Fuck, honey. You’re mine, huh?”

She nods, lifting herself into her elbows to watch him peel her panties down her legs. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, I am. Please…”

Frankie’s cock twitches at the sight of her glistening core. He shifts onto his stomach and, without warning, spreads her folds with two fingers and flattens his tongue against her slit. “Ohhh!” she cries, thighs trembling at the first touch. “Fuck… Frank…”

He flicks his tongue against her clit and presses his hips into the mattress to relieve some of the ache in his cock. Her moan is long and low, her hands grabbing, needy, nestling in his hair and holding on. He groans at the taste of her, the sweetness, nectar and sharp tang, so wet for him. For him.

Frankie can't get enough. She tastes so good, and she moans so loudly for him, out here in the middle of nowhere, that he can't find it in himself to pull away from her cunt. Instead, he wraps a hand around her thigh as the other presses down against her belly to keep her still. He licks her clit until she's quivering and shifts to her entrance, circling it with his tongue before plunging inside and lapping up the slick that pours from her. She cries out with pleasure when his thumb circles her clit.

“Your fingers,” she pleads, brows drawn up in the middle. “Want your fingers.”

Her face, flushed and needy, might make him come on the mattress. “You want my fingers, baby?” he says softly, still swiping her clit while his lips occupy themselves with kissing her inner thighs, the so-soft skin there.

“Wanna know how it feels… to be one of your helicopters,” she says with a breathless laugh.

He hums, bringing her clit into his mouth and sucking hard. She screams his name. “You're not a machine,” he says.

“You fly them like you wanna fuck them,” she gasps, writhing as he suctions his lips to her clit again.

He smacks the side of her thigh. “Only wanna fuck you. If you'll stay still.”

“Oh, please.”

He can't tell if it's a genuine plea or her smart mouth, but he wants to see her come so badly he doesn't respond. He dives back in, sucking and lapping at her clit as two fingers trace her hole and sink in to the knuckle, prodding at her front wall. “Fucking wet,” he mumbles against her, but it's lost in the vibrations that make her cry out from the stimulation.

“F—fuck, Frank, I…” Her eyes are unfocused, but he keeps his on her nonetheless. “I’m gonna… fuck—!”

He presses his fingers up against that spongy spot and laps at her clit while she comes, drenching his fingers in her hot slick. “Fuck,” she croaks, her body melting into the mattress. “That was…”

“Not over.” He sits up and leans over her, locking her leg around his hip and kissing her deeply. She’s boneless and pliant in his arms as he manhandles her hips up onto his thighs, sliding his cock through her wetness. She shivers. “I need you, baby,” he rasps. “Need you so fuckin’ bad.”

“Want you inside me, Frankie,” she says. “Fuck me, please. Make me yours.”

It's all he needs. Frankie pushes the head of his cock past her entrance and squeezes his eyes shut at the hot tightness of her. “Jesus.”

“You're big, Frank,” she says with a strained laugh. “Fuck, you're so—big!”

He pushes more of himself inside and groans at the unrelenting grip of her walls around him. It's airtight, it's wet, it's fucking heaven. He's died. He must have.

“I can take it,” she moans, her foot pressing at the small of his back, trying to pull more of him inside her. “I can, Frankie.”

She's so determined, so adorable in the way her brow scrunches, and he's so in love. He pushes inside until their hips are flush together and feels embarrassed by how good it is, so soon. It's been too long since he's buried himself inside a woman’s body, and hers is sending him fucking soaring. “Fucking… Hold still, honey. Can’t—fuck, you're so tight. Don't move. Just give me a second.”

She grins, head falling back into the pillow. “Can't… do that… to a helicopter.”

Frankie pulls out halfway and thrusts inside her sharply, hissing at the spark of pleasure that ricochets off his spine. “Smartass,” he grits out, relishing in the way she blindly reaches for the bedsheets and curls them in her hands.

“Frankie, honey, fuck me,” she says, rocking her hips against his.

He does. Of course he does.

Frankie begins to move inside her, establishing a rhythm that gets her moaning under him. He fucks her the way she wants; he fucks her to make her his, forever. He gets so deep inside her he feels his head prod her womb, and it doubles him over.

He drapes his body over her and humps her like an animal, kissing her until their mouths can barely fit together with the harsh thrusts that shift her body up the bed. His lips latch onto her jaw, nipping at it, then her shoulder, holding her body with the reverence it deserves, fucking into her until she's crying on his cock.

Frankie lifts her legs up onto his shoulders and bends her in fucking half. “Fuck!” she screams. “Frankie!”

“Hold on, baby.” She brings her hands around her thighs, and the angle deepens deliciously. He fucks her hard, biting the flesh of her calf, grunting about how good she is, how good she takes him, wrapped around his cock.

She drinks it in, swallowing thickly. “Wanted you… so long…”

He's punching the breath out of her, and he gently unwinds her hands from her thighs so they fall back down around his hips. He hooks a foot in the crook of her knee and rolls them over until she's on top. He places his hand on her belly. “Feel me?” he says, bucking his hips up into her.

She chokes on whatever she was about to say and lets her head fall back. When her eyes meet his, they're lidded, lashes spidery on her cheeks and her gaze heavy with lust. “I feel you,” she says. “Fuck, you're so big. So deep.”

He plants his feet on the mattress and holds onto her hips, grinding her against him. She shudders, grasping his shoulders, when her clit rubs up against his navel. “No fuckin’ idea,” he grunts, “how long I’ve been picturing this.”

“You ever dream of me?” she asks, her hair falling over her shoulders. The one and only deity he’s ever believed in. “I dreamed about you,” she confesses, squeezing her breasts in her hands. Frankie can’t believe what he’s seeing or hearing, even though he’s balls-deep inside her. “Touched myself thinking about you. Thought about you taking me… Fuck, I think I’m dreaming.”

He takes two handfuls of her ass and bounces her hard on his cock. She yelps, nails digging into his shoulder. “That feel like a dream, baby?” he says. “You have any idea how crazy you make me? Every time you fucking touched me, smiled at me… Jesus, eres tan… so beautiful.”

“Frankie,” she moans. “It was so hot watching you beat the shit out of him for me.” She glides long and slow up and back down his length, guided by his hands bruising her hips. “Fuck, you’re so strong.”

Frankie is lightheaded from the admission. He threads his fingers through her hair and pulls her down to him by the back of her head, baring his teeth against her cheek and he fucks up into her. It’s deep and she’s helpless in this position, taking his cock and clinging to him with cries of his name. “You like me protecting you?” he rasps into her ear. “Like me getting all bloody for you?”

“Fuck—yes!” she gasps.

“Show me how much you like it,” he says. “Ride me.”

And oh, she rides him. It's like she's possessed, a feral little fox, lifting her hips until he's barely inside her and twisting on the way back down. His vision goes white with the feeling of it. “Fucking… Muy bien… No puedo… Baby, you're so good.”

She rocks on him, grinds, bounces, until he's seeing stars burst behind his eyes. It's good. It's really good. She just keeps going, riding him hard, the shitty mattress squeaking under their bodies. He squeezes her tits in his rough hands, pinching her nipples. Her moans turn to whimpers.

He sits up and pulls out of her abruptly. She protests vaguely, but she’s so cockdrunk she can barely form words as he flips her onto her stomach and secures a pillow under hips. He has the perfect view of her ass from her, her head turned as far toward him as she can manage, cheek pressed into the mattress. He places a hand on the small of her back. Frankie slides into her from behind, and her moan is so loud, so desperate, that he begins to fuck her without mercy, without abandon.

“Ohhhhh… Frank—fuck, I can’t… fuck!”

“Yeah, you can,” he coos, grinding deep, pressing up against her front wall. Her ass arches up against him. “Are you my girl?”

She nods frantically, her cheek scratching the mattress as the force of his thrusts rock her entire body. “I’m your girl. I’m your girl.”

“Nobody fucks with my girl.” He pounds her so hard the room echoes with the sounds of his hips slapping against her ass, the squelching of her wet cunt around him. “My—perfect—girl.”

“Fuck. ‘M gonna come, Frankie,” she moans, face-down, fisting the bedsheets.

He can feel it. She’s squeezing the life out of him, trapping him inside her, begging for his cum. “Where?” He barely manages to push out the question.

“Inside,” she pleads. “Fuck, inside me, please. I want your cum.”

He can’t refuse her. He doesn’t want to. “I’ll give it to you, baby. Come for me.”

She stiffens and shudders, moaning his name and pulsating around his cock. He works her through it, thrusting shallow and urging himself toward his own peak, until she collapses onto the mattress and mewls like a fucking cat. “I love you, Frankie,” are the words he hears.

He does, pushing himself all the way inside her until he can’t even see his fucking cock anymore. He drowns her cunt in his hot cum, spilling deep and groaning her name, all while her pussy flutters around him and urges more, more, more out of him. When he finishes, he collapses on top of her, a canopy over her back, his lips finding her shoulder. He can’t muster the energy to pull out of her, let alone move, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

“My big strong man,” she giggles.

He huffs against her skin, moving to the crook of her neck, where he buries his face. “Fucking Fox.”

“Yeah, baby, you just did.” She’s still giggling, and it’s infectious. He grins into her throat, laughing until he’s wheezing.

“Jesus Christ,” he manages, certain he’s smearing tears of laughter all over her. “We should probably eat dinner.”

“Are you hungry?” she asks. “Can you move? Because I’m not. And I can’t.”

He’s still chuckling. “I’m on top of you, baby. ‘Course you can’t move.”

“Good. Keep it that way.” She reaches around his head and scratches her fingers at the nape of his neck. He purrs against her. “We’ll eat when we wake up. Go to sleep, Frankie. I’ll be here when you open your eyes.”

He shifts off her slightly, pulling out of her as he moves onto his side to look into her eyes. He tucks her hair behind her ear. It’s matted with sweat and his manhandling. “I love you,” he tells her, just because he can. Because she loves him, too.

She grins, sleepy and worn. “Wake me up,” she whispers, her fingers lovingly tracing the grey in his beard, “whenever you’d like. However you’d like.”

He can’t help but squeeze her ass where his hand rests on it. “You serious?”

“I’m always serious, Francisco.” Her eyes flutter shut, and he doesn’t say another word.

He lets her sleep and watches until he follows.

He blinks awake to her hair tickling his nostrils, her soft back flush against his chest. He's seen her asleep before, memorised the way she looks when her lips are slightly parted and her even breathing gently rustles the hair in her face. He's so familiar with it. But he's never seen it so close, never felt the way her warm naked body curls gently into his, never been able to smell the lingering scent of citrus and sweat that clings to her. He's never been able to lean in and kiss her shoulder the way he does now.

She's yours.

Frankie is aware of his hard cock, slotted against the cleft of her asscheeks, needy for a wet, hot place to bury itself inside. He's aware of the way her body looks so tempting, so sweet. As his brain comes slowly to life, he becomes aware of the words she said last night.

Wake me up however you'd like.

He bites back a groan when she shifts in her sleep, her ass rocking back against his erection. Frankie reaches between their bodies and swipes two fingers through her folds. She's wet. No, she’s fucking soaked.

I dreamed about you.

Maybe she still does.

Still slick with his cum and her own arousal, she’ll take him so easily. It's blinding. Frankie's mind goes hazy with need, his body acting independently of his mind. He lifts her thigh and hooks it back around his hip, slotting his cock at her entrance. In her sleep, she hums, and the gentle sound rattles around in his head as he slides his cock inside her until he bottoms out.

He has to let out the rumbling sound that tears at his throat, so he buries his face in her throat and begins to fuck her from behind, pushing out little breaths of exertion into her skin.

“Mmmmmfrankie,” she mumbles, her eyes still closed, body still limp and malleable.

It’s deafening. She grips him so tightly, her walls sucking at him, begging for him. Frankie kisses the spot below her ear, sloppy and desperate, coaxing her awake with each languid drag of his cock.

“Frank,” she gasps, her eyes cracking open, her head turning, her lips seeking his, desperate and fuzzy with desire.

“Needed you, baby,” he groans, fucking her harder now that she's awake. She whispers his name, her voice crackling with sleep, still not coherent but grabbing greedily at his cock with her cunt. “So fucking good. Wet for me even in your sleep, huh? Muy hermosa, can't take you anywhere.”

She whimpers, head resting on his shoulder, lifting her arm just to bring him closer to him, fingers threading in his messy hair. He gravitates to her, lips on her ear, her jaw, her shoulder, every-fucking-where. “Gonna… gonna keep me locked up here?” she says, throat clicking with drool. “Fuck me whenever you want?”

Frankie grinds, making her cry out, gasping with the effort of taking him so deep, pressing up against the spot he knows will make her crumble. Stardust on his fingers. “Maybe I will,” he muses. “Nobody can fuckin’ touch you that way.”

“Frankie!” she screams, but it's muted, croaking with disuse. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.”

She's a mess around him, debauched and so beautiful, pinching each knob of his spine with the pleasure it gives him to see her break because of him. It’s disarming.

He hooks her leg higher, securing his arm around her thigh, pulling it back, fucking her harder. Deeper. He's so deep he knows it’ll take. It’ll fucking take, and—

It won't. She's got an implant. But fuck, Frankie imagines, rutting into her like a fucking monster, pressing up against her womb and giving her a piece of him that connects them forever. He reaches around her body and rubs her clit because he's about to come, and she comes first. She has to.

She does. Crying out his name, grabbing at him with her needy hands, she soaks his cock. Fucking soaks it, her slick sticky on his thighs and making it oh, so easy to take her harder, deeper still. The sounds are filthy and obscene and wet, and he tangles his fingers in her hair to pull her head backward. She's squirming and squeezing around him, begging for him to come inside her.

He does. Spurt after spurt of hot cum finds its home at the deepest part of her, and there's so much it dribbles out around his cock and mingles with her own wetness. Frankie groans into her ear as he comes, rocking shallowly, not stopping until he's given her all of it. The slick noise as he pulls out makes his cock twitch even more, but they're both tired, spent, and in need of a shower.

“Oh my God,” she mutters into the pillow, panting. “I can't walk.”

Frankie chuckles, sliding off the bed and tugging on her ankle. She protests with a little whine. “You're cute, baby, but don't be lazy. Gotta clean you up.”

“Don't wanna,” she says, wiggling her ass at him, giving him a glimpse of the cum slipping out of her hole, the mess he made of her body.

He covers her body with his and bites the flesh of her asscheek. “Frankie!” she squeals.

“Get up,” he says, giving the bite mark a gentle smack.

She finally turns over and, pouting, follows him into the bathroom. “You think it's over?” she asks him, locking the door behind them even though nobody else is in the house. Force of habit.

Frankie turns on the shower and places his fingers underneath the stream to test the temperature. “If it isn't,” he says, “we’ll figure it out.”

She smiles up at him. “You need a haircut, Francisco.”

“Lost my favourite hairdresser for a bit,” he says, pulling her naked body up against him. “Made some mistakes.”

“Maybe she'll take on her favourite client again,” muses his girl, brushing his hair away from his forehead with her fingers. “We waited so long, Frankie.”

Her voice holds melancholy, the drip of knowing misery that they've wasted years yearning. But Frankie kisses her forehead and cradles the back of her head. “You and your infinite wisdom, baby. Don’t you have something for me?”

She laughs, and it's like the bells at midnight. “I’m fresh out,” she whispers, resting her cheek against his chest. “But maybe my wisdom is that I love you. It’s the best choice I’ve ever made.”

THE END.

#pedro pascal fic #kiwisbell's fics #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales smut #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales fic #frankie morales fluff #francisco catfish morales #frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfiction

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thewalkingwillowtree · 10 months

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Safe Haven

Series Part Listing Found Here

Neteyam x Original Na'vi Female Character

Summery: Seeking refuge, Xilä and her father venture to the lands of the Omatikaya clan, in the hopes that the Toruk Makto would be generous in allowing them to stay. This is her story about not only finding her strength, but finding love.

Warning: This story contains smut, violence & abuse (please don't read if these topics will affect you)

Some characters have been aged up. Neteyam in particular is 23.

Xilä is my own creation.

Part 1 - Escape

Xilä was roughly roused from sleep. Calloused hands forcefully tugged her into a seated position, shaking her frantically.

“Wake up girl. They’re coming! Get dressed!” It was her father.

Licking her chapped lips and blinking to force herself awake, she watched as her father moved around their tiny home, arming himself with what seemed like every weapon he owned. He was dressed for the outside already- a threadbare hooded cloak was draped over his large body and cracked, hexapede leather boots covered his massive feet.

“Xilä! Don’t make me smack you. Get. Up!”

Moving quickly, she tied her makeshift, calf length boots to her feet- they would be in need of another repair soon.

“Father, what is happening?” She asked shakily as she slipped on her own cloak over her frame, ensuring her hood was secure and her nose and mouth were covered.

“Don’t ask questions. Pack whatever food we have left. We need to leave.”

Her hands shook as she used a scrap of cloth to wrap up a measly hunk of seed loaf, some shrivelled root vegetables and a small clay pot of two day old mashed beans. She had just tied off the knot when she heard distant hoots and howls coming from outside- The Rogue Warriors.

T'shteyo grabbed his daughter’s wrist painfully and dragged her out of their home. Home was putting it lightly. Their abode- like all the others in their little village, was nothing but a poorly assembled lean-to, made out of rocks and sun-baked clay. Weaved, strips of sticks and tree bark acted as their privacy screen and her sad excuse of a bed was the thin skin of deadland beast.

“Keep your mouth shut,” her father hissed harshly as he dragged her behind him.

They kept to the shadows, dodging around surrounding structures and completely dead shrubs, leaping over the deep cracks and faults that littered the ground. The sky was still dark but the tinge of purple told her that morning was near.

Panting excessively, Xilä kept glancing behind her, looking to see if anyone followed them. She felt light headed- having not been used to such vigorous activity. She also hadn’t had a decent meal in who knows how long.

When she realized where her father was leading them she dug her heels into the ground and ripped her wrist from his hold. Stumbling to catch her footing she shook her head vigorously.

“That’s the Dead Forest father. You said it was forbidden. Why- Ah!”

T'shteyo clamped her bicep in a bruising grip and pulled her close. “You questioning me now? You think you know best, girl?”

Her ears fell back and her eyes fell to her feet. “No father.”

“Those bastards back there? Su’ko and his men? They want us dead. And unless you want me to leave your pesky ass here you shut up and do as I say, when I say. You don’t question me. Understood?”

She nodded numbly and once he was satisfied with her response he turned and headed straight into the forest without another word.

The Dead Forest was exactly like its namesake. Dead. There were no signs of life here- not a single green leaf or blade of grass was seen and parts of the forest appeared to be burnt, remnants of smoke lingering in the still air.

When they had made it a substantial distance away from the village, her father stopped at the base of what she assumed was once a grand tree.

“Okay. You stay here and keep out of sight until I get back.”

Xilä perked up in alarm. He was leaving her? Here?! She was about to question him but his glare reminded her of the conversation he’d had with her that morning.

“Keep the food and don’t make a sound. Got me?” And then he was gone.

Scared of every rustle and crack of the woods surrounding her, Xilä squeezed herself between a gap in the large trunk and tucked her knees to her chest, waiting with baited breath.

She felt miserable….but then again she was always miserable. That was her life, wasn’t it? Her mind wandered to the clan- to the home she had just escaped from.

Since she could remember, her clan had struggled. Way before her birth, the lands of the Li'ona clan were well known for its crystal clear rivers and abundant wildlife, but over time the rains stopped and so the rivers dried up. Food grew scarce, the lands became barren and the people suffered.

Through the years the suffering grew worse. They had to wear boots and thick coverings to protect themselves from the harsh weather, else it caused blisters and heat stroke. There were many quakes and tremors too which caused the ground to shift and crack.

One such deadly quake a few years back was the reason they’d lost their home, the reason they lived so poorly now. That quake had also caused the deaths of many of their people- they were too few in numbers now.

T'shteyo, her father, was the clan’s Olo'eyktan and as the people’s despair and misery grew, so did their hatred for the leader. A rebellion was born- The Rogue Warriors as people called them, led by the ruthless Su’ko, tried to overthrow her father’s ruling many times over the years- threatening not only his life but hers too.

Xilä was guessing that them being on the run now meant that rebellion had been successful this time- they had won. Her father had finally been overthrown.

Night drew near now. Where did her father go? How long should she wait until?

Two days went by. She was starving and dying of thirst. The food was long gone and with every second that passed her hope faded. Xilä forced herself to think good things, clinging to the tiny remnants of hope she had left. Hope that her father had not abandoned her. Hope for a better life.

She dared not cry though. Like her father said, crying was a sign of weakness.

On the night of the third day, the loud roar of an animal in the distance woke her from a light slumber. Ears straining to hear she held her breath as its galloping drew closer and closer- until it sounded as if it were right on top of her.

The shadow of a creature bathed her in darkness- fear crippling her…and then she heard her father’s voice.

“Time to go.”

They rode for three weeks straight, stopping only when the beast grew tired. Her father had found the direhorse by sheer luck he’d said. It was massive, ugly and seemed to share the same temperament as its new owner.

Xilä had never been this far from home before and with every minute that passed by, she saw something new and exciting. Never before had she seen so much greenery, so much life. It was hard to keep the grin off her face.

Two days ago when they stopped for the beast to rest and while her father napped, she had snuck away to bathe in the stream they’d collected water from. It was glorious. She scrubbed every nook and cranny of her being, from head to toe.

Her waist length hair was still ratty and tangled but at least it was properly cleaned for the first time in months.

She also managed to wash her worn, shabby shift dress she usually wore under her cloak. It never fit her properly, always hanging off one shoulder uncomfortably. But at least it smelled clean again- like the soap nuts she had used to also scrub her hair and body.

As they journeyed, the forest surrounding them now was lush and alive, thriving in wonderment and Xilä wished she had more than one pair of eyes, if only to see more.

Xilä wasn’t quite sure where they were going, she never bothered to ask either since she knew it would only anger her father.

He had always been angry towards her. T'shteyo was taller than most Na’vi men but his frame was weak. Lack of proper diet over the years had caused him to lose the majority of his muscle mass. That meant nothing though, he was still a force to be reckoned with and through the years of constant trials and tribulations he faced, it hardened him- turning him into the monster he was today.

“We should be almost there now, if we push we’d get there in a day and a half or so.”

Xilä perked up at the sudden information her father decided to share. For the most part, their journey had been conversational less, apart from his occasional grunts of “time to go,” or “eat this,” or “shut up,” the one time she’d been humming too loudly.

“Where is there, exactly?” She asked, hesitantly.

“The Omaticaya clan,” he responded gruffly, chewing on a raw root vegetable as they sat in the clearing the direhourse was grazing in.

They had so far only been surviving on the few raw fruits or vegetables they recognized. Her father refused to hunt or build a fire to cook anything decent.

The Omaticaya clan. She’d heard about them before.

Many years ago, way before she was even born, there was a Great War. Their world had been invaded by spices they called Humans- she’d never seen one in all her nineteen years of life but had heard many horrific tales about the terrifying creatures.

The Humans demolished the Omaticaya home “HomeTree” and so a war broke out. The clan leader, the legendary Toruk Makto had called upon the aid of other clans. Xilä’s father had been one of the few leaders who responded to their call for help- leading his own warriors out to battle.

“And…you know where they live now?” She asked, wondering how he knew where to find them, even after all these years.

He sucked his teeth and grunted in acknowledgement. “Now listen here. You don’t say a word to anyone. You leave the talking to me, got it? Step a toe out of line and you’ll have it coming, that I promise.”

A rustle and the crack of a twig had them both alert and simultaneously jerking to the direction it came from. The next few seconds seemed as if played out in slow motion.

A massive hissing creature lunged out of the wilderness and attacked their direhorse that was grazing some feet away.

Xilä screamed and scrambled to her feet as her father charged at the beast, his knives at the ready.

Movement caught her eye and now there was another six legged creature edging its way to closer to the direhorse. At her gasp it snapped its head in her direction, stilling for a fraction of a second before it charged.

Xilä ran.

Pushing herself, she dodged around the illuminated flora surrounding her, screaming at the stop of her lungs as it quickly gained on her.

She grappled onto a tall thick tree root, ungracefully pulling herself up to claw her way higher up the tree. It did nothing to deter her predator as it leaped forward landing on the branch above her.

With a terrified gasp and a silent scream she slipped. Her head landed against the forest floor with a resounding CRACK. She stared helplessly as the creature above her leaped onto the ground once more, prowling towards her.

Just as it moved to pounce, an arrow embedded into its side. It roared angrily, hissing and stumbling on its legs before another arrow joined the first.

Then it finally fell. Dead.

Xilä was immovable. Head throbbing agonizingly, her vision grew dark.

The last thing she saw before she lost consciousness was a flash of vibrant blue stripes and gold glowing eyes.

Hello lovelies, I missed you guys! I am finally back with another story. The style will definitely be different, but I'm hoping you guys like it.

This is kind of an introduction per say, the other chapters will be longer. Fingers crossed I have part 2 up tonight, if not tomorrow.

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged.

Thanks for reading. Please like and comment, I love hearing from you all :)

Tag: @riatesullironalite

#neteyam #neteyam x oc #neteyam avatar #neteyam fic #neteyam x reader #neteyam fanfiction #neteyam sully #avatar twow

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dwobbitfromtheshire · 4 months

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It's that time again when I clean out my draft folder. Found this. Here's a treat.

Eddie was learning how to play basketball in order to understand the game and in order to understand why Lucas wanted to play so badly. He was learning it from Steve Harrington, the man who pulled him out of hell and who was now his friend. He now knew why everyone liked Steve so much now. He was more than just the popular jock with the good hair and the rich parents. Steve Harrington had the biggest heart of anyone he had ever known, and Eddie was grateful to be able to call him his friend.

Now, here they were in the school gym, getting hot and sweaty as the two of them played. Robin and Vickie were sitting in the bleachers, with popcorn that Robin had insisted on bringing with them. Steve was winning, of course, which was no surprise to anyone, especially Eddie. The man was talented, and all of this workout had left a strange familiar heat in Eddie's stomach that he refused to acknowledge. It grew stronger when Steve pressed himself up against Eddie. He couldn't deny it anymore when Steve displayed a jock move when the game was over and slapped Eddie's ass. Oh God, Eddie wanted him to do it again and he could feel his cock twitch in the ridiculous tiny shorts. He didn't expect what came out of Steve’s mouth. Didn't they say good game?

"Good boy," Steve whispered.

And suddenly, Eddie was letting out a loud, breathy moan that filled the gym. It couldn't possibly be mistaken for anything else. He couldn't deny it anymore. He also liked men, and he was very much attracted to Steve Harrington. With wide eyes, he turned to look at Steve and the others. Robin's mouth had dropped open, causing popcorn to spill out, and Vickie had a hand pressed to her mouth. He couldn't look at Steve, though. He wouldn't. He squeaked and ran towards the locker room, ignoring Steve calling his name. He didn't bother changing, just gathered his clothes and ran straight out of the gym.

"Eddie!" Steve called.

"Bye! Gotta go!" Eddie squeaked out.

When he stormed into their new house, Wayne was just getting home.

"How was the game?" Wayne asked as Eddie brushed by him.

"If anyone asks, I left town!" Eddie shrieked.

He went into his room, slammed the door, and locked it. Eddie crawled into his bed and screamed into his pillow as he clutched his teddy bear. A knock came at his door and he shut his eyes tightly.

"It couldn't have been that bad," Wayne said through the door.

"Believe me, it was!" Eddie yelled. "I kind of just want to take a nap."

"Okay, I'm here if you need me," Wayne said.

Eddie clutched Jelly Bean tighter. Yes, his teddy bear's name was Jelly Bean. He was a kid when he named him, and he happened to love jelly beans at the time. Eddie sighed and drifted off to sleep. When he woke up, he momentarily forgot what happened. Eddie shuffled into the living room, still holding Jelly Bean. Wayne was sitting on the couch, watching TV. Eddie plopped down next to him. He was watching MASH reruns. Eddie turned Jelly Bean toward the TV when Radar came on with his own teddy bear.

"Oh, Steve came by with a note for you," Wayne said and handed him the piece of paper.

Eddie's eyes widened as everything came crashing down all at once. Shit. Was this Steve telling him that he didn't want to be friends? Well, that was an irrational thought. Steve would never do that, and Eddie knew that. Still. . .he couldn't help the thought that lingered at the back of his mind. Eddie opened up the piece of paper, his hands trembling.

"I'm here whenever you're ready to talk."

That's just like him. The sweet bastard. Eddie groaned and tilted his head back.

"Did something happen? Did you and Steve get into a fight?" Wayne asked.

"Something happened, but it wasn't a fight," Eddie said and sighed. "I have to tell you something."

Wayne didn't hesitate to turn off the television and give Eddie his full attention. Suddenly, he was nervous.

"You can tell me anything, son, you know that," he said.

"What if I told that I liked women. . . and men?" Eddie asked.

"Would it upset you to know that I already figured that out?" Wayne asked softly.

"What? How?! I didn't even know!" Eddie exclaimed.

"My eyes may be starting to go, but I still got them. You're not exactly subtle. . . Except towards yourself, apparently. I've seen the way you look at Steve," Wayne said and paused. "I've also seen the way you look at Tom Selleck when Magnum PI comes on. You had your tongue nearly hanging out of your head."

"Well, his thighs are right there! It's hard not to look at them," Eddie scowled and then softened his face. "So, this doesn't change anything?"

"You still my nephew?" Wayne asked.

"Yeah."

"Then nothing has changed. I love you just as much as I've always had," Wayne said. "You're my boy."

Eddie grinned and nestled his head onto Wayne's shoulder, cuddling into him just like he did when he was little.

"I love you, too."

"You getting a little old for this, ain't you?" Wayne asked as he turned the television back on.

"Jelly Bean says no."

A couple of days later, Eddie invited Steve over to his house to talk. Wayne had left for work a while ago. Steve smiled at him like he always did, except this time Eddie was aware of how his heart raced at the sight of him. He pulled him into his bedroom and closed the door behind, turning the stereo down on low. For some reason, he was really paranoid all of a sudden about people listening in. Eddie threw himself across his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He was surprised when Steve copied his actions.

"How have you been?" Steve asked.

"I've been good," Eddie paused. "I came to a conclusion about something."

"Yeah?"

"I'm not the quickest on picking up on things, especially on things like this. I'm a slow learner in that department," Eddie said. "I didn't even know about myself, or I didn't want to know."

"Know about what?" Steve asked.

"That I like men and women not until. . ." He trailed off.

"Not until what?" Steve asked.

"Not until you slapped my ass!" Eddie exclaimed. "It just freaked me out, man, and I just ran. It felt like I was on full display."

"It freaked me out at first, too, when I realized it," Steve said.

"When you realized what?" Eddie asked.

"That I liked men and women," Steve said. "I didn't even know that you could do that."

Eddie realized then they had both turned on their sides, and they were now gazing into each other's eyes.

"I'm not sure why I ran from it. I'm so open-minded about so many things," Eddie said.

"I think it's just hard for anyone to open up, especially to ourselves," Steve said. "And it's just easier to run away."

"I don't want to run away anymore," Eddie whispered. "Especially not from you."

"I don't want to run away from you either," Steve said.

He reached over to take Eddie's hand that was lying between them and interlaced their fingers together. Eddie smiled.

"Can we take this slow? I really want this to work," he said.

"Take all of the time that you need," Steve whispered.

Eddie moved closer so their noses were now brushed up together. They didn't say or do anything else, just laid there and gazed into each other's eyes. Eddie never felt more freeing than he did at this moment. He wasn't just open with himself. He was open with Steve, too. This was it, no more running away for Eddie Munson.

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setokaibapetty · 4 days

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5 + 1 Fic Friday Roundup: Surprise Relative

Some fics where a surpise blood relation pops up. Like, sometimes the guy who raised you was lying about being your dad, sometimes a Pit gives you a baby, etc.

Imprint (AO3) - "He screwed his eyes shut, held his breath, desperately wished that he was back in his safehouse, alone and blissfully unaware. But the weight in his hands remained, and when he opened his eyes, it was to the bean-shaped 'fuck you' the Lazarus Pit had kindly bestowed upon him, arms and legs folded up against his front beneath off-white muslin while tiny lips smacked softly.'

Red Blood, Blue Blood (AO3) - "Jason Todd was living a very ordinary life in Crime Alley before his mother gets sick. Then, suddenly, Jason and Catherine have to grapple with the secret everyone has known since Jason was born with black hair and blue eyes—Willis Todd wasn't his biological father. Bruce Wayne is, and not only is he the richest man in Gotham, he has three other children who may not be glad to have an interloper in their midst."

Going Off-Book (AO3) - "Dick winces. “Tim, meet Damian Wayne. Apparently, his mom told him who his dad was when he turned eighteen and the first thing he did after finding out was enroll in the nearest police academy. He served for a couple of years and just arranged a transfer here from Metropolis.” He directs a pleading gaze at Tim. “Like I said, Bruce had to go out of town for a while, but he asked me to show Damian the ropes. Tim, I’m sorry, but—"

when the dead tree flowers (AO3) - "It wasn't solely Jango Fett's DNA that went into making Domino Squad. Palpatine had other plans for them. Thankfully, so does their second genetic donor, and he has just as few qualms about murder as a Sith Lord."

Open Arms (AO3) - "The story starts when Quinlan get's a call from the hospital; an old girlfriend has given birth and named him the father, leaving the baby at the hospital. This triggers a series of events that bring Fox back into contact with his bio family, who he is not as distant from as he might like to think."

Bonus: welcome all your bastard actions home (AO3) - "Daenerys had arrived at Winterfell three days past, a great host of dragons and roses and suns and krakens, clearly expecting Jon -- the King in the North, as uneasy that title rests on his shoulders -- to bend the knee. Instead, he takes her to the crypts to speak of ancient history."

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hello-eeveev · 1 year

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Beau had half a mind to march over to the Candles and kill Ludinus Da’leth herself, if only so she didn’t have to spend another day looking over the same documents, trying to find something they could use to get him out of power. She didn’t trust him—hadn’t from the start—but the more she walked in similar circles, the more she had to deal with the Assembly’s bullshit, the more she was convinced that whatever Ludinus was up to at any given moment, it couldn’t be good. But he had spent centuries navigating Dwendalian politics; of course he knew how to cover his tracks well.

She was halfway through plotting out the assassination when Caleb, who was sitting at the desk across from her, closed his book and looked up at her. “It’s five o’clock,” he said.

“Finally.” Beau sagged in her chair, taking in a deep breath. As she exhaled, she let thoughts of work fade from her mind. Once she felt suitably non-murderous, she slapped her hands onto her desk and stood. “Let’s get going then.”

She and Caleb fell into their routine as easily as they fought side-by-side. Caleb collected all the files and documents and organized them as he saw fit, while Beau stacked the books in the order that she knew would be most convenient for whoever reshelved them. Then they switched. Beau ran the papers back to her tiny office and locked them in her desk drawer, and Caleb passed off the books to the nearest archivist to be put away. When they met back up, Caleb walked Beau all the way to the teleportation circle on the other side of the Archive. Outside of going home to Yasha, this was Beau’s favorite part of the day, because regardless of what they ended up talking about, they made sure that, for at least these fifteen minutes, neither of them had to think about their country’s corrupt systems and the horrible people running them.

By the time they arrived at the teleportation circle, her half thought-out plans of murdering the Martinet had been shoved into the back of her mind by Caleb’s fond tales of the kids he tutored and the progress they were making.

She really hoped he would take the Soltryce job, if not for the good he would do there, at least for himself. He seemed so happy when he talked about teaching, almost as much as when he was nerding out about spells with Essek or Veth.

The caster in charge of the circle beckoned Beau into the center of the room, and she jogged into position as they began drawing the sigils for the Zadash Archive circle.

“Hey, so tomorrow night, Yasha’s trying out a new recipe that she got from Martina,” Beau said, turning to face Caleb who lingered at the edge of the casting space. “It’s a stir-fry sorta thing that she learned on a trip to the Menagerie Coast. I think it’ll be really good, especially if we use some of your green beans. You down?”

The invitation was more of a formality at this point. Caleb joined them for dinner almost every weekend. But Caleb shifted awkwardly, looking down at his feet.

“Ah, I would love to,” he said, “but I already have plans for tomorrow. Maybe another night.”

“Eating a boba and reading all night doesn’t count as dinner plans.”

Caleb huffed a laugh. “No, it is a, um…” He picked at some fuzz on his coat sleeve. “A date.”

“Wha—” Beau blinked. Shook her head and blinked again. “What? With who?”

Caleb caught her gaze, expression completely neutral except for a growing redness on his face. “A friend,” he said.

She furrowed her brow. “I’m gonna need a little more information than that, dude.”

He glanced down at the runes being drawn beneath her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him run his thumb over the ring on his index finger—his Ring of Telepathy, it looked like—and his voice entered her mind.

“Essek.”

Beau’s eyes widened, but then the bastard smiled and waved like nothing happened. “Have a nice evening, Beauregard.”

Faster than she could run over and punch that smug look off his face, the chalk on the floor flashed and suddenly she was back at the Zadash Archive.

She fumbled for her Sending Stone. “Fucking piece of shit—I’m gonna—” She yanked it out of her pocket and activated it. “Caleb!” she shouted. Some poor young monk tried to greet her while an older expositor threw a stern expression her way, but Beau paid them no mind. She was already running out the door.

“The fuck kinda timing was that? What do you mean you’re going on a date with—” Shit, she couldn’t use Essek’s name in the middle of Zadash. “—with him? When did this happen? How? Who else knows?”

“You are the first, unless someone else has figured it out already,” he replied. “Unfortunately Sending is limited to twenty-five words, so I cannot say more. Goodnight, Beauregard.”

“I know for a fact that’s not how these Sending Stones work, you asshole!” She did a quick count of Caleb’s message in her head. Twenty-six words.

She could practically hear his shit-eating grin in the silence that followed.

Forget Ludinus, she had another wizard to kill.

Before long, Beau was sprinting up to her house. She waved off Martina’s sickeningly sweet hello and threw open her front door.

“Yasha!” she yelled. “Babe, you’re not gonna believe what Caleb just told me. Can you message Jester today?”

#cr fic #ficlet #Caleb drops the ‘Essek and I are dating bomb’#and has the best/worst timing about it #empire sibling shenanigans #beauregard lionett #caleb widogast #shadowgast #eve’s writing #I’ll put it on ao3 whenever I come up with a decent title lol

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hydrangeyes · 6 months

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Hypnos (Hades) Imagine!

So if you don't know, Yes this already existed, my old account was deleted (accident but I can tell I won't be getting it back), and am reposting my old x male reader works!

I don't know if I saved all of them but here is one that was saved to my AO3 account.

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I love him, I love this goofy idiot so fucking much it was embarrassing when this game first came out.

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- little picnic turned nap dates

- when zag returns now, he can shit talk with hypnos before giving a kiss and asking how his day was

- family drama pt. 2??????👀👀 in more ways than just one *eyes nyx hella confused*

- the moment hypnos stands on his feet and zag having to finally admit he is probably the shortest in the realm (Dusa doesn’t count she can float!)

- god prank dates sends my heart a fluttering

- bro listen listen smug bastard hypnos at dinner time no regrets “your son calls me daddy too.”

- !!!! Modern Au of fucking giving him a handmade quilted blanket!! I- *tearing up*

- bruh I will sob if a fic was made where zag tries to fuckin learn quilting for his mans

- Zag learning sewing is such an appealing thought anyway-

- pls let me hold his hand and he cracks a joke on how tiny my hands are 🥺

- I like the headcanon that hypnos is way more powerful than he lets on (“do you know how stressful it would be if I flexed? No thanks, I’m exhausted just thinking about it.”)

- love the idea that if someone genuinely annoys him he just *waves* now they’re asleep, pls shut the fuck up

- okay okay but like naps with him and our pup cerberus????

- just ugh whenever zag goes to the surface he brings trinkets to hypnos and I- look. Hypnos treasures each of them

- it’s not like he can’t go to the surface himself, but the sun makes him all restless, and the night- oof *incoming mommy issues*

- okay idk why but I vibe with the thought that him and Charon secretly hang out just like, the thought that the reason a lot of spirits peacefully (for the most part) hang while traveling is because Hypnos gifted Charon something to keep them calm/sleepy/dazed

- okay but vacations with Sleepy boi? Come explore hell with me, alot has changed since mother came back

-where does he live!!??? Scratch that where does any of you live??? Like am I suppose to go off your stories or imagine hades deadass has you sleeping in hallways? This wouldn’t surprise me

- give this man a bean bag chair and I very much doubt he will ever want to leave it

#male reader #x male reader #Hypnos x male reader #Hades x male reader #Hades game

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blackbat05 · 10 months

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Kindred Spirit

Miguel O’Hara x Reader (Modern AU)

Plot: You leave to a foreign land to heal your heart but things doesn’t go quite as planned.

Genre: PG-13 (enemies to friends)

A/N: My love for Korea is clearly shown again😬 In my romance novel phase and couldn’t help but to draw inspiration from them! I know the genre said as much but I like to think there’s more to this relationship beyond this! Feel free to use your imagination and - Reblogs and comments appreciated!💜

You really couldn’t wait to land on the island and have a well deserved getaway. Especially with everything that had happened the past couple of months.

The airport was bustling as you slowly navigated your way through the departure hall at Gimpo. You thanked god for giving you foresight to complete the self check in process online as you breezed past other travelers who were still trying to find their way to the right check in counters.

2.30pm. You could use some food. Unfortunately, you could not find a direct flight to Jeju for the dates that you had intended and had to settle with a quick layover. No matter, that was a small problem and you weren’t going to let it deter your very first solo holiday in a long time.

Opting for a quick snack at the convenience store, you are welcomed by endless choices of microwaveable food and drinks with colorful packaging. You settled on their signature banana milk and a fish bread with red bean filling. Making your way to the counter, you take out your card to prepare for payment at the empty counter.

Well, it was empty until some rude bastard decided that it was okay to cut the line.

“Card.” He gruffly responds. You had to give credit to the young cashier who seemed to have his own fair share of grouchy (or rude) travelers as he calmly receives the card for transaction. You move backwards so that the man doesn’t run over you in the process, stepping on something.

To you horror, you realized that you just stepped on your favorite keychain that was given by your best friend. Your currently broken keychain. It must have dropped from your bag when that man pushed past you. Now you had a ball to pick with him.

He leaves as quickly as he came in. You give a smile to the cashier, tapping your card for payment. Thanking him, you grabbed your purchase and made your way to the man’s retreating back.

“Hey! You!” The man stops pulling his tiny black suitcase, turning around with a frown directed at you. “Me?” He points at himself, as if he could do no wrong.

“Yeah. You.” You didn’t realize how tall he was until you were almost toe to toe with him. “Please apologize.”

He scrunches his nose in confusion and you had to remind yourself again that he was a horrible asshole and he probably did this whenever he was at the loosing end to charm his way out of trouble. It was not going to work with you.

“Uh, in case you didn’t notice? You cut in front of me at the convenience store. Not to mention you broke something that was very precious to me.” You held out the heart shaped keychain that was now split in two.

“I didn’t see you. Maybe if you were a little taller, you wouldn’t have crashed into me.” He responds cooly. You had a serious urge to slap the pompous expression on his face. “Wow, so it’s my fault now that I didn’t watch out for a giant ignoramus!” You respond sarcastically. He raises his brow at your choice of words. He prepares his luggage, ready to move. You step in front of him, hands held out.

“Woah, big man. Where do you think you’re going?”

Was that a smile? Or were you just mistaken. The man quickly reverts back to a scowl, taking a step beside you. He leans down, so that it was only loud enough for you to hear.

“What do you want me to do? I’ll give you money if that’s what you want. I just saw a gift shop if you walk down. You can get your precious keychain from there.”

You try to form words into a coherent sentence but before you could even get a single word out, the man was long gone, as he strides off in those annoying long legs of his.

“Jerk!” You yelled, causing a few alarmed looks thrown your way.

At least you weren’t going to see him.

***

“You got to be kidding me.”

You managed to get a last minute upgrade to the first class seats that you appreciated with the leg room despite only having to travel for an hour. You didn’t expect to be staring at the jerk who didn’t know what an apology meant. He looks up at you, a flicker of annoyance flashing across his face.

Placing your backpack on the floor, you settled in to let others pass. You could feel someone staring into your back but you did your best to ignore the attention. As an older woman passed, you whipped around, hissing harshly.

“What do you want?”

He stares at you, but says nothing. Instead, he returns to his laptop that was sat on the tray table, typing away. You can’t believe you just got ignored.

“I hope your eyeballs fall out.” You mutter loud enough for him to hear.

“How mature.”

Soon, the announcement comes on and the plane enters the runway. Engine roaring, you take a deep breath. You loved to travel to different countries, but that didn’t mean you were peachy on flights. As the plane takes off, you grip the edge of your seat, shutting your eyes.

Once you hear the sound of the seatbelt sign going off, you open your eyes to see an unreadable expression on the man’s face. “If you’re going to say something, just say it.” You say, harsher than intended.

“Hey, I may be a jerk but I don’t cross the line.” He raises his hands in defense. The flight attendant comes, pausing the conversation between the two of you. You sip on the plastic cup filled with white wine, hoping that this would help ease your nerves.

Unfortunately, the weather surrounding Jeju that day was much turbulent than usual. The seatbelt sign turns on, and you abandoned your plastic cup. You breathed heavily, counting in your mind. The plane shakes and you let out a small whimper.

You tried to think about your best friend and her advice of not letting one’s fear rule them. The plane shakes again and you are at wits end. A large hand comes to hold yours and you gather the courage to get a peek.

“My name’s Miguel.” You find yourself staring at the man’s chocolate eyes. “What? I’m just trying to make conversation here.”

“Y/N.”

“So, what are you doing so far away from home?” He sees that you look a little alarmed at his accurate assessment. “Relax, I just happened to see you putting your passport in. Besides, I don’t think I’m doing myself any favors trying to stalk an angry woman who could hunt me down till the ends of the Earth because I broke her keychain.”

At the mention of your keychain, you couldn’t help but to feel sad. Miguel notices this and hesitates for a few seconds before asking. “I know this isn’t my place to ask but did that keychain have a meaning for you?”

You’re thrown by his question and for a moment you are unsure of how to respond. Do you even want to tell him? You think about your first encounter with him and a tiny part of you fears that he’s only going to mock you further. At the same time, Miguel’s initiative to reach out to you despite your rocky start told you that there was more to him that meets the eye.

“Yeah. My best friend gave it to me. Well, she used to be.” You smiled sadly. “She was ill. Cancer. It shocked everyone around us. She was the last person I ever expected to get cancer. Always so active and full of life. She always wanted to come to Jeju, to see the ocean but never got the chance. I’m doing it for her now.”

“I’m sorry to hear that and I’m sorry that I said those things. It was clearly out of line and I totally understand if you still think I’m a jerk.” Miguel’s response made you laugh and suddenly, you didn’t feel like you were trying to fight for your life not to pass out or throw up on the plane. This earns a charming grin from Miguel.

You feel the plane descending and you realized that Miguel has helped you throughout the turbulence. He seems to have figure this out as he prepares for landing, fixing his seatbelt.

“Thank you. For distracting me.” The least you could do was to be a decent person by thanking him. Miguel simply nods and the plane prepares to land at Jeju International Airport.

***

“Where is it? Argh god damn it!”

You were at your rented villa, currently in a bind as you attempt to find the missing keychain. It wasn’t as bad as loosing your passport but it was a very precious gift, a reminder of her presence on this trip. You’re about to loose all hope, when the bell rings.

Miguel stands in front, looking dapper with the brown coat. The wind playfully messes with his hair, accentuating his sharp cheekbones.

“Miguel?”

“Thank god. I thought I had the wrong house again. Do you mind if I come in?”

“Of course not. Please.” You sidestep to let the man in and you are reminded how big Miguel is, as he stands awkwardly in the cozy but compact villa. Preparing coffee, you place one mug at his side, curious about the reason for his visit. Miguel doesn’t say anything, but simply takes out something from his pocket to put on the table. Your keychain.

“How?” You stuttered. “Don’t tell me you stole it-” You were genuinely surprised at how the keychain had ended up in his hands.

“I didn’t.” It was almost accusatory and for a moment you thought that the conversation was going to break out into an argument. Miguel’s expression softens. “Your keychain fell onto the floor as you were taking out your bag from the overhead bin. I tried to call you but you already left the plane.”

At the faint memory, you let out a soft “oh”, allowing Miguel to continue. “Then, I saw you on the bus. It was a challenge trying to find where you were on this island but I managed to narrow it down.” Miguel looked proud of himself. “The bus route only has a few stops that tourists would stay.”

“So you went to every one of them?” You said in disbelief. “I could have been anywhere.”

“Call it luck.” He smiles. “Besides, after the conversation we had on the plane about your friend, it gave me an idea where you would stay.” He refers to the vast and sparkling clear ocean that was a short walk from the villa. “I didn’t want to look like I was some creep so I just ended up ringing the doorbells.” He messes with his hair, looking a little sheepish at the thought of it and you find your heart throb a little.

“You are a menace Miguel. But a great friend. Thank you.”

“Friend?” He asks pertaining to your choice of words. “Even after what I said at the airport?”

You nod. “Takes a guy of great character to help someone with their fear of flying even though he got yelled at in public.” Your honest response causes the both of you to break into laughter. “But… you don’t have to respond if you don’t want. I just feel like you have a story to tell too.”

You think you have crossed a line when Miguel sighs. “I had a wife and daughter. They were my everything. We were on a holiday and I was at the wheel.” You breath hitches at your throat.

“The weather was horrible and my daughter was scared. We were both trying to distract her so much that I didn’t see the truck coming.” He continues in a flat voice. “They were gone. Just like that. I never went on a holiday again. At least not anywhere with islands.”

“Until now.”

“Until now.” Miguel repeats. “Then I met you. Or rather you crashed into me and demanded all sorts of things.” You couldn’t help but to chuckle. “That made me rethink if this was the right decision. Until I saw you on the plane and told me your story even when you were at your most vulnerable.”

Suddenly, the image of the conceited man at the airport was long gone and you saw a man who had loved his family so much that he denied himself happiness to numb the raw pain.

“So, what made you come back?”

“Meeting a couple of old friends. Rather, one of them forced me to meet them here otherwise they would drag my sorry ass out themselves.” Miguel tells you dryly. “I got to admit, I’m glad they did. Otherwise I wouldn’t have met you.”

You couldn’t help but to turn pink at his confession. Clearing the mugs, you turn towards the sink only to feel his gaze burning through your back. As you finished washing the mugs, you feel his imposing presence behind you. Miguel takes the mugs, placing it on the drying rack.

“Um, I was going to meet the group of friends I told you about. Would you like to join us?” Miguel sees your surprised expression and quickly adds. “That is if you want. We were going to have dinner and Peter always orders too much for his own good.” He pauses.

“And I don’t think I’m ready to say goodbye yet.”

You see the broken keychain on the table and wonder if this was orchestrated by your best friend who was probably looking down at you with a knowing smirk on her face. At the thought of it, you start to tear up and Miguel looks worried if he had said something wrong. You shake your head, giving a non verbal confirmation that it was not the case.

“I would love to, Miguel.” You give a watery laugh.

With the last minute change in plans, Miguel waits outside to give you privacy to change. As you tossed on a jacket, you stared into the mirror, clutching one half of the keychain.

You put the keychain away, hoping that you didn’t make Miguel wait too long. Locking the door, you step out into the cool air that the evening had to offer and start to walk side by side. It was quiet but it did not feel awkward at all.

Miguel’s calming presence provided a sense of security, allowing you to take in the sight and sound of the ocean. He too, seemed to be in a world of his own, as he borrows the strength of the seas to battle with his own demons.

Still, it was easier when you knew there was someone standing by your side.

You let the sound of the waves crashing lull you into a moment of peace.

“You alright?” Miguel’s voice enters and you look up to see him, brows knitted in concern.

You don’t know what made you do it. The serene environment? The mood? Or maybe, it just felt right. You take his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze that he returns.

“I know you’re watching me from up there.” You prayed that your friend was listening. “Thank you for looking out for me like you’ve always had. You don’t have to worry about me being alone now.”

“I will be. Eventually.”

#miguel o’hara #miguel o’hara x reader #spiderman 2099 #spiderman: across the spiderverse

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reginaldqueribundus · 8 months

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#mine didn't actually fit it's #''let's go let's go let's go to the mall let's go let's go & I'll bring both balls. 1 to the left & 1 to the right.#meet in the middle a testicle fight!''#the northern boys #tumblr polls #a post by me™

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dialovers-translations · 1 year

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DIABOLIK LOVERS LOST EDEN Imajin Webshop Tokuten Drama CD “Goldfish Paradise: The Disaster of the Magic Goldfish” Part 2

Original title: ゴールドフィッシュパラダイス★魔金魚の災い」後篇

Source: Diabolik Lovers LOST EDEN Imajin Webshop Tokuten Drama CD

Audio: Here

Seiyuu: Hirakawa Daisuke, Tatsuhisa Suzuki & Tomoaki Maeno

Translator’s note: I honestly felt so bad for Yuma throughout most of this CD. The poor guy was so serious and genuine about the competition, but he’s over there with barely any fish biting while the two guys just fucking around are getting one after the other. Sometimes it’d be like that in life though. The Magic Goldfish showing up was so random though, but tokuten CDs are known for being quite chaotic and unpredictable, so I can’t complain.

→ LIKE MY TRANSLATIONS? SUPPORT ME ON KO-FI!

*Plop*

Laito: Aha~ Seems like the strawberry flavored ones are more effective than the lemon ones. They just keep on coming!

Kino: Honestly, fishing is proving to be quite the effective strategy to vent off any pent-up stress.

Laito: Kino-kun! How many do you have so far?

Kino: Good question. I haven’t been counting, but I’m pretty sure I’ve got at least more than twenty right now. At this rate, I’ll easily win this thing. …So, how many has Mr. Big Talk caught so far~?

Yuma: Only…three.

Laito: Eeh~? I can’t believe you’ve only caught three when a whole thirty minutes has passed already~

Yuma: Shut up! …Fuck! At this rate, these fuckers will run away with my prize money! I have to avoid that at all costs…!!

Laito: You say that, but I can’t picture you walking around with any sweets on you, so what will you use as bait?

Yuma: Actually…I do have somethin’ sweet on me…

Laito: Eh? Really?

*Rustle*

Yuma: This thing from the packed lunch Ruki made me take with meー It’s sweet, isn’t it?

Kino: Eh? What’s that? Could it be…warabi mochi? (1)

Laito: Pfftー! Geez, Yuma~ I can’t believe you’ve got warabi mochi in your packed lunch. Talk about lame!

Yuma: S-Shut up! Ruki’s been really into traditional Japanese cuisine as of late, includin’ sweets and such as well…It’s not like I’m the one who asked him to put that shit in there!

Kino: I don’t really care about the backstory but…I doubt any fish will want a bite of that. Well, I’ll watch closely as all of your hopes shatter into a million pieces, so go ahead and use it.

Yuma: Fuck off! Run yer mouth all ya want!

*Plop*

Laito: Nfu~ You’re not getting a bite at all.

Kino: I don’t even see any ripples in the water. I guess these fish aren’t particularly fond of sweets.

Yuma: Why…!? Come on, can’t some random-ass miracle happen to me as well!?

Laito: I can’t believe he’s trying to threaten these goldfish…Fufu, how embarrassing.

Kino: Haha! This is painful to watch. Honestly, I feel for the guy.

*Ding ding ding*

Kino: Woah there, seems like now isn’t the time to be distracted by some guy trying to pray to the God of all Goldfish. I suppose it’s time for the final spurt to victory!

Laito: I shall do that too~ Actually, fishing is surprisingly easy, don’t you think?

Yuma: Ya bastards…Ya really think ya can just say whatever ya want, huh? Hah! Just watch me! The true battle starts now!

*Rustle rustle*

Laito: Oh~? What are you going to use as bait next? A rice cake filled with red bean paste, perhaps?

Yuma: Hell nah! I’m bringin’ out the big guns this time! Imma throw in Sugar-chan! This one’s special, straight from the Demon World as well so it should be super effective!

*Plop*

Yuma: Oh come on…Why won’t any of these fuckers bite!?

Laito: You know…Maybe it doesn’t work on regular animals because it’s a product from the Demon World?

Kino: I mean…using a sugar cube as bait is just bad taste, don’t you think?

Yuma: Why didn’t ya stop me then if ya knew that!? I totally wasted it now!!

Kino: Ahー Sorry, my bad. I didn’t think you were that stupid, you wouldn’t even be able to figure out such an obvious thing.

Yuma: Fuck…My Sugar-chan…

*Bubble bubble bubble*

Laito: Huh? I think I saw a shadow in the water just now?

*Bubble bubble bubble*

Kino: I think you’re right. But…It didn’t look tiny like a goldfish…

*SPLASH*

Yuma: O-Oi…What was that huge, black fin just now…? It was two meters long, at least.

Laito: I don’t know but…Since this place is called ‘Goldfish Paradise’, it must be a goldfish as well, right…?

Kino: Haah!? No way there’s a goldfish so ridiculously big! It has to be a mistake of some sort.

*Creaak*

Laito: Hey! Something’s tugging strongly onto Yuma’s rod! Could it be that he has that monstrous Goldfish from earlier on the hook!?

Kino: I’m pretty sure he does. Since it went for the sugar cube from the Demon World…Perhaps it’s a goldfish native to that world as well?

Yuma: Haah!? And what is that monster doin’ inside this run-down-the-mill fishin’ pond!? Ugh…

Laito: Don’t tell me…Could this place be connected to the Demon World somehow? …Anyway, now that you’ve got it on the hook, you better do something about it!

Yuma tries to reel in the goldfish.

Yuma: That’s…easier than said…It’s seriously strong…I’m pretty sure I’ll end up in the water with it if I dare loosen my grip for even a split second…!

Kino: Hah…? I mean, can’t you hurry up and either reel it in or let it pull you in instead. That’ll fix the problem, right?

Yuma: Ugh…What do you mean…let it pull me in…!? We’re talkin’ ‘bout a freakin’ monster over here!

Laito: I doubt one sugar cube is enough to satisfy something of such a size! But if it gobbles you up whole, it might just still its hunger for now!

Yuma: Fuck off…! But seriously, it’s no joke how strong this thing is! Damnit…Oi! Help me out!!

Kino: Haah…?

Yuma: I can’t do this on my own, but if we combine our forces, we might just be able to reel it in! Now quit yappin’ and grab hold of my fishin’ rod!

Laito: Eeh!? Ah, god, guess I have no other choice!

Kino: And why exactly should I get close to this sweaty, smelly guy? I can’t believe this.

*Rustle*

Yuma: ‘Kay, don’t let go now, got it? We’ll pull at the count of three! Three, two…one!!

They start pulling the fish in.

Laito, Yuma & Kino: Ughーー!

*Creaaak*

Yuma: We’ve almost got him! Give it everythin’ you’ve got, fuckers! Aaaahーーー!

*SPLASH*

*Boing*

Yuma: Uwah…What’s this enormous, disgustin’ thing? I guess it’s a creature from the Demon World after all…?

Laito: I think it’s about as big as our entire manor? Also…Its stench is out of this world… (hurls)

Kino: I believe this could be a…a Magic Goldfish like the ones at Rotigenberg.

Yuma: Ya know ‘bout these!?

Kino: They’re infamous in the Demon World for causing disaster. Never heard of them? You’ll often see them at goldfish scooping games at festivals and such. …The only downside to them is that they have a huge appetite, causing them to quickly grow incredibly large.

Laito: Heeh…Well, if they only grow large without much more, I guess we can just let it do its thing?

Yuma: Yeah.

Kino: Ah, right. I forgot to mention but…Its favorite food is humans.

Yuma: Ah…? …Which means… ーー !! This is bad…!!

The fish starts cracking its teeth.

Laito: Uwah…This guy is ready to chow down…What are we going to do about this?

The people in the shop start freaking out.

Yuma: Oi! Doesn’t it have a weakness or somethin’...!?

Kino: Let me think…It’s highly resistant to fire and hitting it from the outside won’t have much effect either.

Yuma: Which means we gotta hit from the inside, huh? …Oi, Mr. Fedora! Go and get yerself swallowed by it!

Laito: Eh!? Why me!? No way! Besides, I’m not a human, so it won’t eat me, will it?

Kino: Then why not randomly pick one of those humans running around over there to feed it?

Yuma: You can’t do that! The competition will get canceled!

Laito: Eh!? You still haven’t given up on taking that prize money home!?

Yuma: ‘Course not! Not only the prize money either, but the 10 kg of salt given as a bonus prize will be mine as well!

Kino: Ah. …That’s it!

Laito: Eh?

Kino: I’m pretty sure…salt is the Magic Goldfish’ greatest enemy…? I’ve heard that if you sprinkle it on top, it’ll shrink down just like a sea slug does.

Laito: Then we can just use the salt over there, right? Well then, Yuma…You’re our man when it comes to physical work!

Yuma: …No.

Laito: Eh?

Yuma: I refuse to give up the prize! That salt is mine!!

*Wriggle wriggle*

*Thud thud*

Laito: Uwah! Could it be…Is it reacting to the word ‘salt’...!?

*THUD*

Yuma: Uwah! Hey! Don’t run away towards the prize money! …Ah, fine!! I really want that salt but I guess I’ve got no other choice, I’ll do it!!

Yuma runs up to the salt.

Yuma: Aaaaah…!!

*Rustle*

Yuma: Take this…!!

Yuma sprinkles the salt on top of the giant goldfish.

*Woosh*

Laito: Wow! Amazing! It shrunk in the blink of an eye!

Kino: Haah…My amazing memory saved lives this time.

Yuma: But the competition is completely ruined…With everythin’ thrown ‘round, we can’t even tell who caught how many goldfish…Ahー …Which means, just fuck it, right?

Laito: Eh? What do you mean?

Yuma: I’ll be claimin’ the prize money in return for takin’ care of the Magic Goldfish. See ya!

Yuma runs off.

Kino: Hah!? Excuse me!? How am I supposed to pay for my microtransactions then!?

Kino chases after him.

*Wriggle wriggle*

Laito: Ahー Oh well, I guess this helped me kill some time. Besides, it could be quite interesting to take this Magic Goldfish home and let it free in the bathtub. …Nfu~ With that settled, I better head home right away!

ーー THE END ーー

#diabolik lovers #dialovers #laito sakamaki #yuma mukami #kino #diabolik lovers translation #diabolik lovers drama cd #drama cd

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lackyghost · 9 months

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Bakugou Katsuki grumbles as he walks, his shitty, coffee soaked shirt in hand. His pale blonde hair is wild, speckled with more of the brown bean juice. His black tank top is basically sealed against his front, leaving the outline of the usually concealed inner binding layer obviously visible.

He’s following after a guy he would very reluctantly consider a friend. The guy is silent as he goes, his own left shoulder soaked in coffee, some splashes in the white portion of his bicolored hair, split straight down the middle, red on the clean side.

Todoroki Shouto looks back at Katsuki, his mismatched turquoise and gray eyes locking with Katsuki’s scarlet ones, which are burning with indignance.

“It’s just up this path,” Shouto says.

“Whatever,” Katsuki grouses, his voice deep and laced with a growl.

The blonde wishes he could say he’s surprised when Shouto turns up the path to a massive, traditional style home, but he’s not. He knows the guy’s father is some ultra-rich CEO.

Shouto slides open the front door a little harshly and it bangs open. Before Katsuki can even step up into the genkan, a deep voice yells out “SHOUTO!” the name is drawn out, exaggerated, and Shouto sighs in annoyance.

A moment later, a slightly older man rounds the corner, a shit-eating grin on his face. He’s got the same pale skin as Shouto, and he’s a little taller, with snow white hair and bright turquoise irises.

His skin is coated in tattoos, all black, pale blue, and plum purples, snaking up his toned, shirtless torso, over both shoulders, down his strong arms to the backs of his hands. It curls up over his throat as well, ending up along the lower portion of his jaw, leading up to his face full of piercings.

Shark bite rings in his lower lip, three studs in his earlobes and rings all up his helixes, three tiny studs in his left nostril, barbells in both of his eyebrows.

“How’d I do?” The guy asks, planting his hands on his hips. “I’ve been practicing.”

"You're impossible, Touya," Shouto says, moving to the side so that Katsuki can step in beside him.

As soon as Touya’s gaze lands on Katsuki, his eyes blow wide. He clenches his jaw in an effort to not let it drop as he soaks in the man’s stunning face, gorgeous even with those pink lips twisted in a scowl.

Katsuki, on the other hand, has no qualms checking the elder man out.

"You get into a fight with a Sharpie and a stapler?" The blonde questions, voice deep and gruff, and Touya is in love.

“Todoroki Touya,” the tattooed man says, not offering his hand, just a smirk that is borderline psychotic.

“Didn’t fucking ask, Patchwork,” Katsuki grouses.

Touya’s grin widens and he eyes the stained boys before him. “Did a coffee machine explode?”

“Some bastard ordered the wrong fucking thing and decided it was my fucking fault,” Katsuki snarls angrily as he kicks his shoes off.

“So, Shouto was being kind and offered to help you out, so sweet,” Touya coos.

“No, he is the one who made the fucking drink,” Katsuki says, glaring at the bicolored man.

“I also got wet,” Shouto says, gesturing to his sleeve.

“I will fucking kill you,” Katsuki growls.

Touya snickers. “You can try, but us Todorokis are hard to kill.”

“I’m determined,” Katsuki says flatly.

“Stop flirting,” Shouto says tiredly.

Katsuki’s eyes go wide and his upper cheeks flush pink. “I—I am not fucking flirting!”

“I am,” Touya says cheerfully. “Come on, Doll, I think my clothes would fit you better than my scrawny little brother’s.”

“Fuck off,” Shouto says, annoyed.

Katsuki, however, throws his soaked shirt in Shouto’s face and looks to Touya as he steps into a pair of guest slippers. “Well? Fucking hurry up.”

Touya smirks, pleased, and spins on his heel to lead the way to his bedroom. Katsuki flips Shouto off as he follows, the bicolored boy returns the gesture.

Katsuki eyes the Todoroki house as they go, taking in the traditional styles all throughout the place, rice paper in the sliding doors, tatami mats, and classical ink artwork of samurai.

Touya’s room is one of the larger, as he’s the eldest sibling and had claimed dibs on it a long time ago. While he does have his own little studio apartment closer to the city, he’s always maintained his room here for convenience.

“This looks about your size,” Touya says, tossing a shirt to Katsuki.

The blonde grunts and looks around. “Bathroom?”

Touya gives him a curious look, but points to a door attached to his room. Katsuki nods and heads in there, shutting the door behind himself.

He peels his tank top up and unclasps the binder portion, immediately taking in a deep breath as his lungs are able to fully expand. He peels the drenched fabric off, his small breasts coming free.

He avoids looking at them in the mirror; even small as they are, they’re breasts and he hates them.

There’s a sheen of coffee on his skin though, and he looks around for a washcloth, finding one in the little closet and quickly wetting it so he can wipe himself down.

“Oh, I found this!” Touya’s voice shouts moments before the door is shoved open.

Katsuki’s arms fly up to cross over his chest as indignance and shame flush his cheeks a vibrant red. “Do you know how to fucking knock!?”

“Oh, sorry,” Touya says, holding out the white fabric in his hands. “I know it’s not the same thing, but it’s a compression tank. Figured it might help.”

Katsuki’s whole body freezes and he blinks at the man, who just holds the item out, a small smile on his lips. The blonde slowly reaches out with one hand to take the tank top, feeling his chest tightening up in a new way.

“Thanks,” he says, voice rougher than usual.

“Lemme know if you want a hoodie or whatever on top of that,” Touya says, and then leaves the bathroom, shutting the door behind himself.

Katsuki pulls the tank on, it definitely isn’t that great as it’s a mild compression, but it’s miles better than nothing at all. He pulls the t-shirt on over top of it, snorting out a soft laugh when he looks in the mirror and sees the bold ‘FUCK OFF’ in English along the front.

“So edgy,” he muses, and then gathers up his tank top and the washcloth and steps out of the room.

Touya looks up from where he was lazily lounging on his bed and gives the blonde a lopsided grin. “Looks good on you, Doll.”

“Don’t fucking call me that,” the blonde says, nose scrunching up. “Name’s Bakugou Katsuki.”

“Sure thing, Doll,” Touya says cheerfully, sitting up and pocketing his phone while the blonde glowers at him.

“You’re an asshole,” Katsuki says dryly.

“Yes,” Touya agrees easily.

“You seriously need to learn personal space,” Katsuki adds.

“Probably,” Touya says, shrugging. “Does that binder need hand washing, or will it work on a gentle cycle?”

Katsuki furrows his brows. “Hand only. I’ll wash it at home.”

“We’ve got a tub in the laundry room,” Touya says, cocking a brow.

Katsuki grimaces slightly. “I don’t… not a lot of people know.”

“Oh,” Touya says, blinking.

“I don’t know how the fuck you know, but you need to keep your fucking mouth shut,” Katsuki says, scowling heavily. “I’m fucking serious, Patchwork.”

“I just noticed your binder,” Touya says, shrugging. “I’ve got a couple of trans friends. I guess I just notice that shit.”

Katsuki calms a little at that, but he still hates the simmering shame inside of him, knowing that someone found out the secret he’s tried hard to hide over the years.

“Just show me where the fucking laundry room is,” he grumbles.

“Sure thing, Doll,” Touya chirps.

“I told you not to call me that,” the blonde snaps.

“Whatever you say, Katsuki,” Touya says and the younger nearly trips over his own feet as his face flushes a bright red.

“Wh-what the fuck!?” He says, voice pitched up in embarrassment.

Touya just hums, amused, and continues leading the way to the laundry room. Katsuki growls under his breath, but follows after the man who is somehow an absolute asshole and weirdly considerate. He’s a walking, talking, smirking oxymoron.

The laundry room is fully tiled, the machines modern and sleek, with a large washing basin to one side, a washboard hung next to it, and a series of clothes lines beneath little dryer fans in the ceiling.

“What the fuck,” Katsuki mutters and Touya snorts.

“Right? Wish I had this shit in my apartment,” he says as he opens a cupboard above a long counter and pulls out a box of washing soap for sensitive skin. “Need any help?”

“Fuck off,” Katsuki says, swiping the box from him and crossing the room to go to the sink.

Touya gives a considering hum. “Okay.”

Katsuki ignores him as he turns the water on, making sure it’s cold, but not too cold, and then adding in a little of the washing powder.

He scrubs the top carefully between his hands, rolling it until the water is a faded brown color. He drains the basin and refills it, repeating the process a second time before rinsing it thoroughly and then draining the sink.

He turns to hang the binder up and nearly drops it when he sees Touya there, leaning against the counter by the washer and dryer.

“What the fuck?” He blurts out.

Touya just looks up from where he’d been scrolling through social media on his phone. “I made hot chocolate.”

He points to the two steaming mugs on the counter beside him and Katsuki’s eye twitches. He scowls as he moves to hang his tank top up, trying to clip it up so it looks like a normal tank top. He flips the switch on the wall for the fans and is surprised at how silent they are.

Touya shoves his phone in his pocket and grabs the mugs, moving over to Katsuki’s side and tapping his elbow against the blonde’s, gathering his attention.

““Wanna go sit down and watch a shit movie?” Touya asks, and then takes a sip of his cocoa, holding the other out to the blonde.

“Why would I want to watch a shitty movie?” Katsuki questions, bewildered, as he takes the offered mug.

“So that you can make fun of it, obviously,” Touya says.

Katsuki blinks slowly. “Okay.”

“Good choice, Katsuki,” Touya says, and the blonde blushes again, but bites his tongue against another retort as he follows the guy out to the living room.

Touya flops down on the couch and pats the space right next to him, so Katsuki sits on the opposite end, as far from the tattooed man as possible. Touya pouts, but grabs the remote and turns on some horrible movie about zombie beavers.

When the first horribly made puppet zombie beaver pops up on screen Katsuki snorts, and when it leaps at a person and bites into their throat, the blonde throws his head back and laughs.

Touya smirks, eyes crinkling as he soaks up the sound, using the blonde’s distraction to inch closer and closer to the shorter man.

Katsuki isn’t an idiot though, and he notices the tattooed man ebbing closer. His heart thuds with each scoot over, and he finds himself biting back grins at how satisfied the man looks, thinking he’s getting away with it.

When Touya is just close enough, Katsuki swats him upside the head. “You ain’t sly, Patches.”

Touya laughs and grins at the blonde. “So, you like me getting close, eh?”

“Sh-shut up, I didn’t fucking say that,” Katsuki says, scrunching his nose up.

Touya hums thoughtfully. “See, now, I think you’re the type of person who would’ve shoved me to the floor if you didn’t want me this close.”

The tattooed man drops all pretenses at being a shitty ninja and turns fully to face the blonde, leaning in closer, eyes lidding. “I think you find me as interesting as I find you.”

Katsuki swallows thickly. “So what if I do?”

“Date me,” Touya says.

Katsuki’s eyebrows raise. “Date you?”

“Yeah,” Touya says, nodding, a grin tugging his lips up. Katsuki pretends that he needs any amount of time at all to consider that. “Fine.”

#my hero academia #ao3 link #dabibaku #dbbk #bakudabi #dabi x bakugou katsuki #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #my hero fanfic #fluff #meet cute

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