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bittercoldbrew · 3 years

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Well, geeze, this got outta hand... I blame @silverwolf319 for being so kind and encouraging and joining me in the little spoon!Ezra club even though he’s technically a big spoon in this one, but I think it still qualifies. Thank you, darling 💕

In theory this is a follow-up to my earlier Ezra/OC oneshot (which is, in theory, a follow-up to my finished story, To Build Something New), but I think they can be read independently, or in any order you please. Here we’ve got about 5k words of just the softest fluff I think I’ve ever written, Cee and Ezra and his unnamed partner with she/her pronouns, building a blanket fort together when the rain keeps them all up at night. This briefly gets a teensy bit saucier than the other one did, so I’m asking to keep this one 18+ only, please and thanks, friends. No other warnings, just an absurd amount of established relationship sweetness here. Enjoy!

Most nights, she loves the skylight above their bed, loves the view of the vast and glorious expanse of space beyond the meager atmosphere of this dwarf planet that has become so dear to her—loves, too, the occasional brush of willowy branches against the glass from the big tree outside, when the wind is up. After so very many years spent floating through the galaxy aboard slingbacks and freighters, she needs this glimpse of the heavens just as much as she needs the reminder of the solid ground beneath her feet. Even now, more than two years spent as a resident of Aphelia, she still has horrid dreams of hull breaches and micrometeoroids and hairline cracks, and often it helps to wake and watch for lazy clouds drifting by or those familiar leaves or the rare nightbird, proof that there is a sky here, hugging her close to the crust of the planet she’s made her own and promising to never let her be sucked out into the void.

Tonight, however, and the storm it has brought, offer far more proof than she would ever need. The wind howls; branches thrash and snap into the air; rain pelts harsh rhythms against the glass; and the sky is so full up with clouds that she can’t find a single soothing glimmer of any stars beyond.

The man in bed beside her, with his steady breaths and radiant warmth, the gentle weight of his arm across her belly, should be more than comfort enough. Ezra is not often an easy sleeper, but he can be a deep one under the right circumstances, and if she were a sensible woman she'd cuddle up against his chest and let the sweet thrumming of his tender heart lull her back to sleep.

She puts on a good show, she'll admit; but she is not often as sensible as people seem to believe.

Feeling guilty, yet restless, she creeps out from under his loose hold and to the edge of the bed. Light flashes overhead, followed closely by a deep groan of thunder, and she freezes halfway to her feet and glances over her shoulder to make sure it hasn’t woken him. But no, his eyes are still closed, those pretty dark lashes fanned against his cheeks, though a slight frown now creases his brow. He buries his face deeper into the pillow with a soft grumble, and she releases her held breath and stands and creeps around the bed and out into the hall—taking one of the spare blankets with her, of course.

She has some vague thoughts of decaffeinated tea and chocolate bars, maybe a dip into that carton of ripe berries in the refrigeration unit if Ezra hasn’t eaten them all by now, but her weary feet can’t seem to carry her that long way to the kitchen and she all but collapses onto the couch, instead. Ridiculous, she thinks, that she can feel this exhausted and this wired simultaneously. There’s been a stomach bug getting passed around at work, one she’s somehow managed to dodge thus far—both a blessing and a curse, because it’s meant that she’s been picking up extra shifts left and right. Tomorrow—technically today, she confirms after a quick glance at the time—is supposed to be her first day off in a tenday and a half, and she’s been so looking forward to finally having time to unwind and spend with her little family. Given the way her pulse keeps jumping with every crash of lightning and rattle of windows, she’s going to spend the day catching up on lost sleep, instead.

Cursing herself, her anxiety, and the weather—not necessarily in that order—she curls up against the arm of the couch and tucks the blanket under her chin, contents herself to a night spent merely hoping for sleep to come.

The storm is...beautiful, she has to admit, viewed through the front room’s wide windows. Dark as it is, there’s enough sheet lightning to paint the sky in grayish purples and greens, and the ribbons of rain seem to dance in the wind. They do have a DTV in here, but the signal isn’t great even on the clearest of days, and the serials streaming in the overnight public blocks are nothing but trash. The storm, for all its insolence, is likely to be far more entertaining.

She loses track of how long she sits there, knees pulled up to her chest, head resting against the back of the couch, until she hears the low rasp of her name and turns to find Ezra shuffling into the room. His hair is mussed, his chest bare, patched and tattered sleep pants riding tantalizingly low on lean hips; but his eyes are only half-open, hand and attention occupied as he hitches his prosthesis up over the liner that insulates his limb remnant, and seals it into place. There’s a soft hiss, and then a gentle whirr as the delicate machinery twitches synthetic finger and wrist and elbow joints, cycling through its startup flexibility test.

While it’s busy, Ezra rests his left arm on the back of the couch, and leans over to place a slow and sleepy kiss to her lips. “Hey, you,” he sighs.

“Hey, you,” she answers, mouth spreading up into a smile as she lifts a hand to smooth along his jaw. “I’m sorry; did I wake you?”

“Nah, the storm did,” he tells her, and though he’s not the sort of man to lie to her, she’s not entirely sure she believes him. “Mind if I sit with you a while?”

“I’d love that.” Kevva only knows why they’re whispering, with the storm crashing so loudly around them, but it feels right, here in the dark—especially when he comes around and settles in close beside her. She unwinds the blanket and drapes it over them both, and he wraps his arms around her and pulls her into his warmth. He smells a bit like derma-cream, but she’s grown so accustomed to the tangy blend of menthol and citrus that it mostly just smells like home, and she all but melts into him.

“How long you been awake, starlight?” he asks, keeping his voice low and gentle, and she sighs and shakes her head.

“Never fell asleep in the first place. I got up, oh...” She lifts her gaze, checking the time that floats into view, courtesy of her optical implant. “An hour ago, maybe?”

He squeezes her tight, and she can hear the frown in his voice as he asks, “Why didn’t you wake me?”

She kisses his shoulder—there’s a little cream there, too, and it makes her lips tingle for a brief moment. “You were sleeping so soundly, I didn’t wanna interrupt.”

He huffs, dipping his head to meet her eyes. “You know you’re more important, babygirl. Besides...” he trails off, lifting an unsubtle eyebrow, “you know how much I love sendin’ you to sleep.”

She snorts a laugh, shakes her head. “You’re a selfless man.”

“I’m just eager to help,” he says, grinning, and she laughs again.

“You’re eager for something, I’ll grant you that.” The grin broadens, his cheek dimpling, and she considers the offer. It’s tempting, that’s for sure—she’s been working so much, hasn’t had much time or energy to indulge in the pleasure he’s always so willing to give her. She’s missed him, missed the sweet words that fall from his lips as he comes undone for her, missed the way he fills her just right, as though his body was made for hers, and hers for his.

But the idea of just the walk from the couch to the bedroom seems a little insurmountable right now, even for such a delectable reward. She doesn’t think her body can get any more exhausted than it already is, with or without his best efforts, and sleep hasn’t blessed her yet; and he’d put his arm on which means he’d expected to be awake for a while, hadn’t really planned on taking her back to bed so soon. With a sigh, she tucks her face into the crook of his neck, and shakes her head softly. “Thank you...but I think I’d just like to listen to the rain a little longer.”

He nods, hugging her close and resting his cheek against her hair. “That sounds just fine to me.”

Ezra gives her so many reasons to love him, and this is no exception—how willing he is to set aside his own desires for hers, how he always seems to know when she wants to be wooed and persuaded into bed versus when she just wants to be close to him without interference, even of the pleasurable kind.

She’s never been as skilled with words as he is, has no idea how to really verbalize such a feeling, but she breathes against his neck, “I love you so much, Ez,” and hopes it might suffice, for now.

He rubs her back, presses a kiss to the top of her head, murmurs, “I love you too, baby,” into her hair, his soft voice full of so much tenderness that she thinks he understands everything she’s ever left unsaid.

A boom of thunder splits the night, so close it seems to happen before the blinding flash, and they both jump. Ezra pulls away, squeezes her shoulder. “I’m gonna...go check that out,” he tells her, and she nods as he heaves himself to his feet and crosses the room to peer through the window.

She twists around to try and watch as he moves away from the glass and heads into the kitchen, beyond her view. An instant later, she hears the back door slide open, a strong draft and sharp whistle of wind blowing into the house before it closes again. “Ezra?” she calls, but there’s no response, so she assumes he’s gone outside to investigate, and waits with bated breath for him to return.

A minute later, he does, with another rush of wind; then he comes striding back around the corner, rubbing at his wet hair with a dish towel and looking far more awake and alert than he had before. “Looks like there’s a tree down in the back,” he announces, shaking his head. “Not one of ours, though, and I didn’t see a lick of flame. Too wet out there, I reckon.”

She puffs out a breath, and nods her head. “That’s a relief.”

“Mm-hm,” he agrees, dragging the towel over his face and down his neck and across his broad, glistening chest. Her hands suddenly itch to grab the towel from him and finish the job herself (possibly with her tongue, perhaps, fuck the towel, why do they even have towels?), the sight of him enough to cause her mind and libido to make a stark course correction from where she’d just said she wanted this night to lead, and she opens her mouth to make those intentions clear.

Before she can, another voice speaks up. “Did you guys hear that?”

Twisting back the other way, she turns and spots Cee stepping into the room, one hand rubbing at her tired eyes, the other holding her beloved plush Puzu doll against her stomach. “Aww, not you, too,” she calls, propping her chin on the back of the couch and offering the girl a sympathetic smile.

“We didn’t wake you, did we, little bird?” Ezra asks, slinging the towel over his shoulder with a sheepish expression on his face.

“Pretty sure it was the sky exploding that did it,” the teenager says dryly, shaking her head. “Planets are weird.”

“They are indeed,” he agrees, glancing from his daughter to his partner with a broad grin. Of the three of them, she is the de facto expert on planets, having resided on one for the longest and most recent stretch of time—but that was almost twenty years ago, now, so she isn’t entirely convinced it should count.

Shaking her head, she hauls herself up off the couch and stretches her arms up above her head, feeling something pop along her spine. “Well,” she sighs, turning to face them with her hands on her hips. “Why don’t I make us some cocoa, then, before we lose power or something?”

They both seem thrilled by the prospect, and she makes her way into the kitchen with a smile, taking only a slight detour to trail her fingers along the cooled, damp skin of Ezra’s back as she passes him by. There will be opportunity enough, later, for her hands to have their fill of him. They might all end up sleeping the day away after this storm finally passes, so for now she’s going to make the most of this time to spend with them.

Her hot chocolate recipe, perfected over the course of many years of sleepless nights, has become something of a ritual now that she has these two beloved people to make it for; she falls into it without conscious thought, toasting cardamom pods and a cinnamon stick in the saucepan before adding milk, then chopping up a bar of the good chocolate to stir in once it’s warm enough. The storm still rages loudly, and she can only just make out the cadence and timbre of Cee’s and Ezra’s voices as they discuss something in the other room, and she lets the sounds wash over her as she grabs a foil-wrapped parcel of popcorn and sets it on the other burner to pop, marveling at how surreal yet mundane it feels, to have a family—something she’d never even dreamed of for herself, before she met these two.

She’s poking around in the pantry, checking to see if there are any other tasty treats to munch on, when the sound of heavy furniture creaking along the floor—and their resulting laughter—reaches her ears and makes her question all those warm and fuzzy feelings. She leans back, trying to catch sight of what’s going on over there, and calls, “What’re you two up to?”

“Nothin’!” Ezra answers, far too quickly for her comfort, and she frowns and takes a step that way.

But then Cee calls back, “It’s a surprise! No peeking!”

“Fine! Fine,” she mutters, shaking her head but turning back. She’s pretty sure, now, what they’re doing, but resolves not to interfere in the creative process unless they ask for it.

Besides, she has snacks to prepare.

She whips up a few peanut butter sandwiches, crusts on and sliced into triangles, in case anyone’s really hungry—they’ll make for a quick lunch tomorrow, if not—and grabs the last few handfuls of berries out of the fridge as well. Tossing one into her mouth, the sweet, sharp juice bursts along her tongue as she dumps the popcorn into a big bowl and pointedly ignores the sounds of bedroom doors opening and something heavy being dragged down the hall. She fills the kettle with water and heats that, too, just in case they do lose power tonight and someone decides they want tea or something before it comes back; with a couple towels draped on top, it should stay warm enough until morning.

The milk is ready, so she scoops out the spices and whisks in the chocolate and ladles up three mugs, then arranges them and all the food into one of the fruit crates Ez brings home from Kikur, and calls, “Can I come in yet?”

“Just—hang on a tick,” he grunts, and she can hear a bit of scuffling. Then, Cee’s voice, “Okay, it’s ready!”

Already smiling, she hefts up the crate and heads over to see what they’ve made of the front room.

The coffee table has disappeared entirely; the couch has been moved back against the wall, its seats and pillows removed to serve as cushions atop Cee’s mattress, relocated from her bedroom to the floor. The floor lamp was taken from its usual corner to stand at the foot of the mattress, and two big bedsheets have been clothespinned together and draped over its lampshade and tucked behind the back of the couch, forming a canopy to cover their heads while still giving them a view of the windows and the rain beyond.

Ezra has changed into a dry pair of sweatpants and one of the soft sweaters she tends to steal from his wardrobe when he’s away. He clicks on the lamp, bathing the space inside in a warm, cloth-dampened glow; then he takes a step back and surveys their work with his hands on his hips and a serious expression, as though it were something far more architecturally complex than a cozy blanket fort. “You know, I think this is our best one yet.”

She sets the crate down gently, careful not to spill anything, and crosses her arms with an appraising air. “You know, I think you might be right...” she says, nodding her head slowly. “We better get in it, just to be sure.”

Laughing, Cee tosses her stuffed animal inside and clambers in first. She follows after the girl, settling in among the soft cushions and warm blankets with a sigh, amazed at how well the lightweight sheets muffle the harsh noise of the raging storm.

Ezra doesn’t join them just yet, instead crouching down to investigate the contents of the crate. “What is all this, starlight?” he asks, lifting up and passing over the mugs of chocolate and bowl of popcorn. “You made us a feast.”

“Just some snacks, to tide us over. Hey, no, you give that to us,” she reprimands, seeing him prying open the carton of berries. “Don’t even think about it.”

The man is a berry-eating fiend, just inhales the things like some sort of confused anteater gone frugivore. If she takes her eyes off him for one second with that carton in his possession, they’ll all be gone before she and Cee ever get a chance.

Even with her staring him down, he pops three into his mouth at once; but then he does, begrudgingly, hand the rest over, so she allows this transgression and snatches them up and passes the carton into Cee’s hands for safekeeping.

“You’re so mean to me,” he grumbles, even as he rests the plate of sandwiches she made on top of the mattress and stuffs one wedge into his mouth, finally moving past the lamp and under the canopy to settle against the cushions beside her.

“You need to learn how to share,” she scolds, taking the bitten-off piece of sandwich from his mouth and biting into it herself.

“Ew, no,” Cee groans. “If you two are gonna be gross, you’ll be banished from the fort.”

"Sorry, boss," she tells her, genuinely chastened.

Ezra nods his head, settling his expression into something solemn. "She's harsh, but fair."

Then, in a flash, he snatches back the last corner of bread and peanut butter and shoves it in his mouth, shattering the moment and sending them all into fits of laughter, too giddy from the lateness of the hour and the lack of sleep and the spontaneity of finding themselves all huddled together like this to ever be able (or willing) to reign in their shared mirth.

They giggle and tease each other and snack, mouths going sticky with peanut butter and chocolate, fingertips smeared with butter and salt and berry juice, even as the wind howls and the rain beats down on the roof. Here, under their makeshift tent, the three of them are warm and content and safe, and she doesn’t think she’s ever been so happy to have found herself unable to fall asleep.

Cee is not often very physically affectionate, but she turns into a real cuddlebug when tired, and tonight is no exception. The older woman wraps her arms around the teenager’s shoulders and hugs her close, the Puzu plush tucked between them.

Beside her, Ezra tosses the last of the berries into his mouth and heaves a slow, satisfied sigh. “Did I ever tell you two about the time I met a ghost? Was a night just like this one.”

The girls look at each other, sharing matching dubious glances. “No, you haven’t,” Cee says, voice dry as bone. “And no, you definitely didn’t.”

“Swear it on my good arm!” he proclaims, laying his prosthetic hand over his heart, and it is utterly impossible to tell if the expression on his face is genuine or not. “Even know whose specter it was; I described his face to my crew after they found me, and one of the old timers said, ‘Why, that was Long Richard Johnson!’”

His captive audience squawk similar, wordless sounds of protest—she’s certain there’s never been such a man with such a name, let alone a spirit of the same.

But Ezra’s eyebrows shoot up with surprise, and he pushes himself up on his elbows to gape at them. “What? You never heard the legend of Ol’ Long Dick?”

“Stop,” Cee groans, tossing a handful of popcorn at his face, but he shakes his head, a grin spreading across his face as he really starts to delve into the role of storyteller.

“No, no, I’m not— This is not just a me thing, this an honest-to-Kevva prospector’s legend. He was one of the greats, the first independent contractor to ever set foot on the Green.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, still disbelieving, but resting her cheek atop Cee’s head to listen. With or without any kernel of truth, this is bound to be an interesting tale, at least.

“I mean it! He was the first to reject allegiance to any of the corps; and they let ‘im, too, because no one else, before or since, could suss out those gems like he could. He was a master of the Green Moon; they say he was the first to locate the Queen’s Lair, but he refused to mark it on any map or tell anyone where it was, knew the corps were too greedy and bloodthirsty to ever be trusted with such knowledge. They say he hired a private ship to sneak him out there without their purview, determined to harvest it all his own self, but there was some engine trouble and he never did make it. They say he’s buried up at the top of the Green’s highest peak, with a headstone that reads, ‘Here lies Long Dick Johnson, who earned every inch of his name’.”

“You’re a menace,” she gasps, pelting him with more popcorn, because she’d almost started believing him until that last bit.

But he only laughs and shakes his head, plucking popcorn out of his own hair and tossing it in his mouth. “I’m only relaying what I myself have been told, any deviations from the truth are someone else’s doing.”

“And this ‘ghost’ you saw?” Cee asks, making exaggerated air quotes with a skeptical look on her face.

“Ah, now, that is my tale to tell.” He leans in and props his chin in his hand, voice lowering to a whisper as he begins, “It was a night just like this one...”

He weaves a tapestry with his words, painting a picture for them of himself as a (somewhat) fresher-faced kip, new to the moon above Bakhroma, having contracted out his able body and his rundown ship to a crew of grizzled prospectors, in exchange for training on how to harvest the dazzling gems and a reasonable cut of their earnings. All had gone accordingly, until they found themselves caught in one of the moon’s rare, but devastating, rainstorms, and had to stay cooped up inside the ship, unable to harvest and unable to relocate lest the ship get struck by lightning midair and leave them stranded there permanently. So instead he spent his days learning complicated board games with made-up rules using bits and pieces of supplies they had lying around, letting his ears be filled with raucous stories of days and prospectors gone by.

And then, late one night, he’d been shaken awake by a man he’d thought to be one of the crew, dragged from his bunk and shuffled into his suit and helmet and filter and pack. He’d only briefly tried to hesitate, to wake the others, but the man had grabbed him and growled, “There’s no time, boy—move, or you’ll miss it.” So, only half awake and unable to think straight, he’d obeyed without question and followed him out the airlock.

He had stumbled in the dark, in the mud, in the rain and wind, still relatively new to this and unaccustomed to the bulky suit, and by the time he realized that the only reason he could follow at all was because the man leading him was glowing—luminous and stark and visible even through the sheeting rain and dust and muck that clouded his helmet—they were too far from the ship for him to ever have any hope of making it back on his own. He’d had no choice but to plod along after the ghost, for hours, maybe, until finally the figure stopped and pointed at his feet and commanded, “Dig.”

And then, without a whole lotta options otherwise, he had obeyed.

Eventually, the storm passed, and the light dawned, and his crew must’ve noticed his empty bunk and followed the single track of stumbling footprints until they found him where he’d fallen asleep in the shallow gouge he’d carved in the dirt, still clutching his shovel.

They accused him of sleepwalking, of cabin fever, of dipping into the good hooch behind their backs—all without malice, really, but certainly refusing to believe any claim of spectral visions. At least, that was, until one of the men looked down, and realized that the thing at his feet wasn’t, in fact, a large clump of dirt, but an aurelac root nodule the size of a small child.

“To this day, that was my finest single harvest,” he admits, shaking his head slowly. “The crew gave me a heartier cut than promised, and still all had enough to retire off of. Not me, though; from that day on, I was hooked. Sunk my savings in a newer ship and sought out another crew and kept goin’ back, always hoping to see him again, to pull another fabled haul.”

She nods her head, unsure of what she could possibly have to say to that, but she can so vividly imagine how such an experience would inspire a man like him, would spur him on to the sort of life he’s led. So she says nothing, simply lays a hand against his cheek, letting the edge of her thumb rest in the dimple that creases his cheek as he blinks and tears his gaze away from the past to smile at her instead.

He turns his head, presses his lips to her palm with a sweet kiss, and nods toward the teenager resting against her shoulder. “How long’s she been out?”

“Hm?” she asks, surprised, and looks down to find that he’s right, that the girl’s eyes are firmly closed, her chest rising and falling with deep, steady breaths. “Oh,” she whispers, scared to wake her, “I didn’t even notice.”

His breathy laugh is quiet, a chuckle kept mostly inside his chest, and he nods his head and says, “Let’s not wake her. She can sleep out here, don’t you think?”

“I—” she tries, but the words are stifled by a deep yawn that causes tears to prick at the corners of her eyes; she brushes them away, offers him a sheepish smile. “I think I might join her.”

His grin is brilliant as he nods again, leans in for a quick kiss, then pulls back and starts gathering up the empty mugs and half-eaten popcorn and sandwiches. “How about we all stay, hm? I’ll put these away.”

“Here, I can help—” she starts, but he catches her reaching hand in his and shakes his head.

“I got it, baby. You stay here with her, yeah? I’ll be back soon.”

She nods, rubbing at her eye again, the exhaustion of the past two weeks finally catching up with her. “You promise?”

Ezra kisses her again, warm, soft lips lingering in a way that steals her breath away, leaves her lightheaded and a little dazed when he pulls back and whispers, “I promise.”

She settles deeper into the cushions as he quietly gathers up the dishes and food and the few errant popcorn kernels they’d thrown at him, and slips out from the blanket fort. It’s immediately colder in there without his warmth, emptier without his familiar weight beside her, and she hugs Cee a little tighter as she listens to the fridge opening and closing, the faucet turning on and off, his footsteps drawing near then moving past and away down the hall to the bedroom. Above it all, the sound of the rain against the roof has settled into a steadier, gentler thrum, the booming thunder and frightful wind moving on to rattle someone else’s windows.

When Ezra returns, clicking off the lamp and crawling under the canopy to slide in beside her, he has removed his prosthetic arm—never fond of sleeping with it on—and brought the heavy quilt from atop their bed along with him. She helps him spread it out over all three of them, making sure Cee is tucked in snug while he settles in and wraps his arm around her waist.

He rests his chin on her available shoulder, his whispered words a warm brush of breath on her skin as he asks, “What’d you think of my story?”

“I think it was...effective at making us all sleepy.”

He huffs a laugh, rubs his nose against her cheek. “Alright, sure, but did you believe it?”

She grins in the dark, even though she knows he can’t see it. “I believe that you believe it,” she allows.

His lips, pressing against her skin, curl up into a smile, and the warmth of it works its way deep into her heart and radiates from there to the top of her head and the tips of her toes. His hand slips beneath her shirt, palm spreading along her belly—not teasing, not suggesting anything more than a blatant desire to touch as much of her as he can. “That’s more than enough for me,” he sighs, achingly content.

She nods her head in agreement; and in these last few instants of consciousness before sleep finally claims her, she thinks that this moment, snuggled close between the two best people in the known universe, safe and warm from any storm, is more than enough for her, too.

#god this is so self-indulgent i really have no excuse #maybe someday i will write about something other than these three. but no promises #little spoon!Ezra #(on a technicality)#ezra prospect x oc #ezra prospect x reader #to build something new #theres a line in here that made me laugh when i wrote it and makes me laugh every time i read it again #i wonder if you all can spot it lol #real yearning hours #silverwolf319 #my writing

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youvebeenlivingfictional · 3 years

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Ok so I just got caught up on “What’s the Use of Wonderin’” and I’ve had a lot of favorite parts up until the point, but oh my dog, chapters 26 & 27 have to be my favorites to date. Not just parts of the chapters, but the whole darn enchilada. The way you’ve written Javi has just allowed the story to naturally progress to these moment between him & Abejita and it was just so masterfully done. I’m in awe of your writing.

I couldn’t help but wonder what was going through Javi’s head when he unpacked the sunflower and made the decision to keep it in his desk? And how he felt about Abejita finding it? His comment about Abejita being able to have sunflowers on their desk? All I could of was Abejita coming into the office one morning and finding a vase of them already waiting there. And don’t get me started on the bee magnet.

I’m so in love with this story. Thank you for blessing us with it💗💗

omggggg thank you thank you thank you thank you

So I actually wrote a very very very long post about Javier and that sunflower and you can find it here! Thank you so much for reading 🥰🥰🥰

#asks #replies #What's the Use of Wonderin'#Javejita #silverwolf319

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highsviolets · 3 years

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World you rather write a “there’s only one bed” trope fic or a “fuck or does” trope fic?

Thank you for the ask!

Hm....while I love reading sex pollen and the like, I’m much more likely to write “there was only one bed.” Something about the subtle shift (or...not so subtle) in the relationship that occurs when that happens is so fun to me 🥰

#send me writing asks about anything!#ask #silverwolf319

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ohnopoe · 3 years

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Jack Daniels + taste

It’s queued! Thanks!

#answered #silverwolf319

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just-here-for-the-moment · 2 years

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M'am I ADORE BASIC TRAINING!! Such gorgeous writing and young!Frankie is soooo swoon worthy

Me reading this Ask:

Thank you Jasmine!!! I love you so much!!!! And because I love you so much, I'm going to give you a teeny little preview of Basic Training-Chapter 3:

Frankie stepped into the shower and tried to clear his mind. Despite the physical labor of the afternoon and the heat of the water, his brain wouldn't turn off. It kept buzzing with flashes of her smile, her laugh, how she wiggled and did funny little dances while the music was playing during their cleanup.

Layered over everything were her kind words. “You’re not a loser” and “I think you have what it takes” looped in his head endlessly. Frankie’s chest bloomed with warmth at the memory of the low, urgent tone of her voice and how she had gripped his wrist as she spoke. Other memories rose to the surface: the scent of her perfume, the way her jeans and T-shirt skimmed her curves, how her eyes shone at him when he made her laugh. An all-too-familiar tingle started low in his pelvis, and his cock sprang to attention.

Frankie tried to ignore his erection, but the images tortured him until he finally gave in and rubbed one out, feeling equal parts guilty and relieved. He had never thought about her while masturbating before, not even at the height of his crush in high school. The relief and release was mixed with shame, and it all swirled together with the ache of the eavesdropped rejection.

Frankie tried to push that part away, but he eventually decided that overhearing was probably better than having to face it. It was far less painful than asking her out and getting rejected to his face, having to see her features soften into a sympathetic wince as she tried to reject him politely.

Frankie hopped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. He rubbed a second towel over his wet curls and opened the bathroom door. His mom's voice called down the hall from the living room, underscored by a laugh track from the TV.

"Hey Frankie, you got a phone call while you were in the shower. Your old math teacher called."

Frankie froze, his heart thudding with a sudden urgency. "My math teacher?"

"Yeah, Miss-"

"No, I know her name, but why did she call?"

"I don't know, mijo, she just said you left something in her class this afternoon while you were helping. Her number's by the phone in the kitchen." The sitcom laugh track rose again, and Frankie heard his mom chuckle along with it.

Frankie practically ran to his room to get dressed, throwing on jeans and a flannel shirt before he padded barefoot to the kitchen. He eyed the neon green pad next to the cordless phone base. Seven digits, scrawled in blue ballpoint pen in his mom's familiar handwriting. It looked perfectly normal, a regular phone number that could have been anyone's- but it was hers.

Basic Training series masterlist

---

“Everything bagel” tag list: @quica-quica-quica @anaaaispunk @justanotherblonde23 @gracie7209 @nicolethered @honestly-shite @driedgreentomatoes @dihra-vesa @1800-fight-me @the-queen-of-fools @juletheghoul @kesskirata @honeymandos @silverwolf319 @mourningbirds1 @greeneyedblondie44 @spacedilf @maxwell–lord @anxiousandboujee @cevvie @sherala007 @writeforfandoms @libellule2001 @deadhumourist @mandoalorian @javierpinme @eri16 @mandocrasis @pilothusband @bastillealmighty @jitterbugs927 @babiiface95 @toomanystoriessolittletime @yespolkadotkitty @fisforfulcrum @prettylilhalforc @mswarriorbabe80 @littlemisspascal @wildemaven @castleamc @coreychick @whataperfectwasteoftime @bunniesofsteel @katareyoudrilling @furious-rogue-stuff @green-socks @mrsparknuts

#basic training #chapter 3 coming soon!#I love you yespolkadotkitty!

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yespolkadotkitty · 3 years

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🥺🌼💕 get to know your mutuals!! when you get this, it means i want to know more about you, so list 5 things about yourself you want your followers to know. they can be as simple as your age or as complex as your deepest fear, as long as it’s something you’re comfortable with sharing. when you’re done, send this to 10 people you want to get to know better 🥺🌼💕 Right back at you my love <3

Friend! <3

******

1. I once high-fived Michael Douglas, for those of you old enough to know who he is.

2. I broke my back when I was 16.

3. If I eat cheese I come out in hives.

4. My first ever publication was a story in Smash Hits! magazine about meeting Nicky From Westlife. I was 14.

5. I got married in the second largest castle in Europe.

No pressure tags: @silverwolf319 @pascalisthepunkest @librariantothejedi @songsformonkeys @skvatnavle @grogusmum

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scribbledghost · 3 years

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Minotaur!Jack cuddles & kisses are giving me life right now, dear Scribbs. I am loving this story soooo much!

Thank you so much! I won't lie, I'm absolutely loving being able to write MinoWhiskey fluff. And I'm so glad you're enjoying it too!

#reviews #silverwolf319 #asked and answered

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paisley-print · 2 years

Text

Epilogue

After fleeing your abusive husband and changing your name, you find yourself in the small coastal town of July, North Carolina. Soon you meet Frankie Morales, Air Force Veteran and single dad. As the two of you grow closer, you begin to let go of your past and learn to love again. That is until a strange man shows up in town, and you ’re forced to choose between your safety or the safety of the people that you love.

SERIES MASTER LIST

TAG LIST GOOGLE FORM CLICK HERE TO BE ADDED OR TAKEN OFF A LIST.

Rating: 18+

Notes: THAT’S ALL KIDS!! Thanks!!

Trigger Warnings: Domestic Abuse, PTSD, anxiety, injury, police brutality, alcoholism, homicide, drug use, guns.

NTWE: @reaanddin @kotemorons @kenbechillin @qytyy @abzidabzy @livcamryn @heythere-mel @winter-fox-queen @sherala007 @inkededucatednnerdy @quica-quica-quica @hnt-escape @toomanystoriessolittletime @whataperfectwasteoftime @headinthestarz @casssiopeia @day-off-inkyoto @librariantothejedi @dobbyjen @goblinsimp @kiizhikehn-cedar @chook007 @thirddeadlysin @lawfulgranola @thetypewriterimproviser @darnitdraco @quietpainter @pinkrosethorne @mummifymecaptain @hellovanessax@notagamersdey @punkremus@hopeamarsu @what-iwish-you-knew @djjarins @hoff-mommy @punkerthanpascal @absurdthirst @i-ship-it-ironically @tobealostwanderer @seececerun @ezzieu2 @littlemissoblivious @lowlights @tintinn16 @withakindheartx @1andthesame @thedeviltohisangel @dihra-vesa @maryfanson @ahsokathearcher @itllpassby @ohyeasam @athalien @silverwolf319 @pjkimrn @a-few-fandoms-too-many @mando-amando @fictitious-little-stitious @elinedjarin @deadhumourist @i-love-movies @mishasminion360 @mishasminion360 @the-rambling-nerd @sweet-heartbadmouth @kissing-stars @mylittlesenaar @alberta-sunrise @zetasaturno99 @thatpinkshirt @voteforpedro09 @greeneyedblondie44 @feel-it-on-the-way-home13 @galaxyofmando @kravitzwhore @solemnlyswearss @gooddaykate @sherala007 @aliwritesfic @athalien

The gentle spring breeze sent the smell of flowers down the corridor of the grand marble building. There were hundreds of them, Ben's wife had done an amazing job putting this all together. The ceremony took place in the courtyard of the banquet hall and now you stood watching as people filtered into another room for the cocktail hour.

Lucy had looked absolutely adorable as the flower girl; the big frilly blue dress appealing to her sense of style.

You were happy for them, Ben and his wife, but you couldn’t help but feel a little sad as well.It had been a year now but the aftershocks were still strong as ever. You had been seeing a therapist, but you knew a grieving cycle as complex as this one took time.

David’s death had lifted a huge burden off your shoulders, you didn't even realize just how big until someone came in and told you the news. You cried in the hospital bed, weeped like a child, for hours. Santiago was there, he stayed by your side the whole time, sitting silently and allowing you to move through all these emotions.

“Champagne for the pretty lady,” a voice said, snapping you out of your daydream.

You turned to see Frankie striding up to you with a glass in hand, looking as handsome as ever in his suit and tie.

“Aren't you supposed to be taking photos right now” you asked, smiling and allowing him to pass you the champagne flute.

Frankie had been the one to save your life that day. Even with two bullet wounds, one to the shoulder and the other to the abdomen, he had been the person who fired the shot that brought David down. The surgery took hours, but Frankie managed to pull through and make a really substantial recovery. He had a few minor issues still, but nothing life threatening.

The story ended up making headline news. Some other evidence of David’s misdoings came out in the weeks after as well. Frankie and the others were never charged with anything related to the incident. You weren't either. The best of all however, was that Summer had gotten her name back. Summer’s family reached out to you via letter, they did not hold any ill will towards you at all. They were glad that their daughters' last doings on this earth was helping a woman in a similar situation. They said they would continue to pray for you, and keep you in their thoughts.

Frankie looped his arm around your waist and pulled you in. “They don’t need us right now, besides I haven't seen you all day. I wanted to get a good look at you in that dress” he smiled.

You rolled your eyes, setting the flute down the little foyer table next to you then reaching up to adjust his tie.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, lowering his voice a little.

You let out an amused huff but didn’t look up at him “about the wedding, and how nice it is.”

He nodded, knowing you had more to say.

“I think” you went on, “maybe we could bring it up next week in couples counseling. I feel like I might be coming around to the idea of marriage again. With you, at least. ….What do you think?” You asked, giving him a little grin as you looked up at him.

“I think that it definitely sounds like something worth bringing up… and I would have to look into the legality of it all, but even if it never happens, as long as I am with you I'm happy.” He leaned forward and gave you a soft kiss.

Santi’s voice came bellowing through the corridor. “Fish - make out with your girlfriend later we have shit to do.”

“I’m being summoned” Frankie laughed, “I’m glad you feel that way though.”

You smiled and patted him on the chest “me too, now go, I’ll see you in a bit. I love you.”

“I love you too,” he said, turning on his heels.

You watched him go, smiling and picking up your glass. You drew in a slow and steady breath feeling the breeze from outside shuffle the fabric of your dress a little. Lucy’s bright laughter came floating through the hallway. There was a time in your life where you never thought any of this would be possible, that you would be happy again, but you were… and for that you were so proud.

#pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfic #triple frontier fanfic #Frankie fanfiction #frankie morales fanfiction #Frankie Morales fanfic #Frankie catfish morales #catfish fanfiction #tw: domestic abuse #tw: injury #tw: alcohol #tw: police violence #tw: anxiety

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highsviolets · 3 years

Note

Congratulations on completing your thesis! I’m so proud of you!

Thank you so much!!! 🥰🥰🥰

#:)#ask #silverwolf319

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just-here-for-the-moment · 3 years

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Tell me about Reader who’s only dated assholes (arrogant tech bros, flaky politicians, unfaithful artists, ghosting athletes, etc…) from different walks of life until she meets Frankie 👀 maybe pure FILTH ensues after a while, maybe… 👀 like. Pure fucking nasty filth. Also, beaches. 😊 maybe not at the same time tho sounds painful tbh

Ok this may have ended up softer than "filthy" but not by much!! Hope you enjoy Frankie and his magic hands, dude. Those Hands

Word count: 1200+

Rating: explicit, 18+ only

Outline: Frankie Morales x “You” (cis/het female reader, “blank canvas”/no physical description/no name/no use of “Y/N”)

Warnings: coffee shop meet-cute; beach vacation; oral sex/F receiving; vaginal fingering; P/V sex; shower scene; mentions of food and alcohol

It was the hands you noticed first. Work-worn and calloused, but somehow also soft-looking. Big hands, nice hands, they held the door of the coffee shop open for you to enter as he left, and you almost tripped over the threshold with how distracted you were. You didn’t know you could be attracted to hands until you saw his, but somehow they were different from the soft, manicured hands of all the men you had dated before. Guys who only worked at keyboards in nice offices, who played golf or maybe drew sketches for upscale galleries, guys who didn’t mow their own lawns. Guys who got bored and left you after five days or seven weeks or four months. You hoped you would see him again.

And a week later you did, and then a few days after that, and then again the next day. And then one day you timed it just right, or he did, and you actually ended up in line together. And when you both picked up your orders, you ended up sort of fighting to give the other person the last open seats, a little two-top table, until you both just laughed and decided to sit with a stranger. Well, a nice stranger anyway. And there’s no way to sit at a tiny 2-person table like that without talking, and so it was very nice to find out that the pair of nice hands belonged to a nice man who finally gave you his name, and by the end of the conversation, his number. And so that’s how you ended up with ‘Frankie Morales’ listed in your phone and a date for the following Saturday.

And oh, wow, what those hands could do. Over the next few weeks you found out how warm they felt holding your hand, how well they fit around the side of your hip as you walked, how good they felt cupping your jaw for a kiss, and how thick they were when he slid them inside of you while he worked magic with his talented tongue.

Weeks turned into months turned into a year, and then suddenly there was an anniversary weekend to plan and a beach vacation to arrange, and you found yourself laying on a white sand beach holding one of those big hands in yours as you napped under an umbrella. You were just drifting off when Frankie’s big hand gave yours a squeeze. You cracked your eyes to watch him walk away, because you never got tired of that particular view, the broad shoulders and the golden skin and the easy confidence he carried himself with. Your Frankie.

And then he came back and offered you a cold drink and you sat up and brushed his fingers with yours as you took the cup and smiled at him over your sunglasses. And when he smiled back little stars burst behind your navel, better than butterflies because the starbursts were backed up by 365 days of knowing what those hands and lips and body could do, to you and with you and for you.

And the afternoon passed in lazy naps on the beach blanket interspersed with squealing moments in the water, Frankie splashing you or carrying you piggyback into the waves. And one big wave knocking your sunglasses loose into the water, lost forever until Frankie gives you his to wear, and tells you how cute you look with his big aviators on. And then the sun sets and it’s time to go wash up, have a romantic dinner, take a bottle of wine back to your beach view room. And when it’s dark you turn off all the lights and let the moon stream in through your open balcony door.

Frankie takes his time with you that first night, working you open with his lovely soft lips and tongue, licking and swirling you up into knots of desire until his fingers push you over the edge and you burst into pieces, moaning wordless sounds into the salt-scented night air that’s rolling through the room. And then he does it again, one more time just to feel you squeeze his fingers hard before he strokes himself and slides into you with hardly any friction at all. You cling to him with your arms and legs wrapped as tight as you can until he chases his own high and pins it down inside of you, thrusting into you and releasing his own deep groans, then making you sigh with contentment as he tucks you under his big arm to sleep.

The second day passes in a blur of laughter and a boat trip, sightseeing and catching a few precious glimpses of dolphins, and then more beach time and dinner. And another long night of lovemaking in your room, but this time with Frankie taking you on your hands and knees, feeling him pound deep inside of you, hitting that ticklish spot over and over as you gaze out the balcony door over the moonlit ocean. And then again at 1:00 a.m. when you wake up and feel Frankie’s cock hard against you as you snuggle, and you shift your hips back into him, and bump him playfully until he wakes up. And then you straddle him and he cups your breasts with those big hands as you grind against him and make him moan in the near dark.

And you wake up the next morning and he’s absent from the bed, but you hear him in the shower and you sneak in to join him. And Frankie puts those hands to good use one more time, scrubbing your back and rubbing suds all over you, tip to toe, and then rinsing you off before he makes you come on his fingers. He wraps you tight with your back to his broad chest, one big hand under your ribs and the other rubbing tight circles into your clit and dipping up inside of you by turns until you collapse and shatter for him and then come back to yourself. And then you kiss him and tell him you love him and he says it back, and you know he means it.

And you wonder how you did this before, without Frankie. How you put up with the arrogance and the dullness of the disinterested men that you dated. How you ever believed that they were worth your time. Because now you see it, the way that Frankie uses his hands and his whole heart to love you. How he listens to you and sees you, how you won’t ever be alone as long as he’s there.

And you dress and go down to breakfast and intertwine your fingers with his beside your orange juice, and you lift his hand to yours and kiss his magic fingers one by one. And he just looks at you, glowing at you like you’re the sweetest thing he’ll ever see. And then he tells you how soft your lips are, and how much he’s looking forward to tonight. And you tuck into your breakfast and you swear nothing has ever tasted this good in your life, because you’re finally with the right person, and that makes all the difference in the world.

--- Frankie "Catfish" Morales character masterlist Just-here-for-the-moment’s main masterlist

The only tag list I have for fics: @quica-quica-quica @anaaaispunk @justanotherblonde23 @gracie7209 @nicolethered @honestly-shite @driedgreentomatoes @dihra-vesa @1800-fight-me @the-queen-of-fools @juletheghoul @kesskirata @honeymandos @silverwolf319 @mourningbirds1 @greeneyedblondie44 @spacedilf @maxwell–lord @anxiousandboujee @cevvie @sherala007 @writeforfandoms @libellule2001 @deadhumourist @mandoalorian @javierpinme @eri16 @mandocrasis @pilothusband @bastillealmighty @eri16 @jitterbugs927 @babiiface95 because Frankie!!

#pedrostories #pedro stories #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x female reader #francisco catfish morales #frankie catfish morales x you #frankie catfish morales x reader #frankie catfish morales x female reader #you ask and JHFTM delivers!

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writeforfandoms · 2 years

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Birthday ficlets!

Okay I'm making this post so that everybody knows what to expect. Info below the cut.

On Nov. 11 starting at about 8am PST, I'll be posting the birthday ficlets. I will have individual relationships/ratings/warnings per ficlet!

I WILL NOT be tagging people per ficlet because you'd all murder me. I think I'm putting up 14 or 15 ficlets in that one day. Nobody needs to get tagged that many times.

That being said, I will create a master post for the birthday ficlets, and either late Nov. 11 or Nov. 12 I will post the master post and tag everybody on that.

Ficlets are 1k or less each. They are not properly titled bc I am too lazy.

Taglist:

@saradika @fandom-blackhole @pedrocentric @cannedsoupsucks @shoopidly @beskarprincessjenny @sarahjkl82-blog @liviiii98 @adriiibell @seasonschange-butpeopledont @sunnydunnydays @princessxkenobi @thirddeadlysin @pbeatriz @oonajaeadira @kiizhikehn-cedar @green-socks @withakindheartx @linkpk88 @janebby @anditsmywholeheart @evyiione @ohheyitsokay @amneris21 @recklessworry @the-feckless-wonder @kotemorons @myguiltypleasures21 @javierpinme @grogusmum @eri16 @idreamofboobear @pintsizemama @pedrostories @agent-jack-d @stevie75 @luxmundee @kirsteng42 @horton-hears-a-honk @reader-without-a-story @5pectre @alexxavicry @elegantduckturtle @litakino @soltaasbruxas @pjkimrn @jaime1110 @trash-dino-5000 @theanothersherlockian @mandalwhorean @dindjarinsloverx @mswarriorbabe80 @anaaaispunk @miraclesabound @theredwritingwitch @spideysimpossiblegirl @quica-quica-quica @queridopascal @fisforfulcrum @revna-qasst @way-too-addicted-to-fandoms @kesskirata @brandyllyn @silverwolf319 @blueeyesatnight @justnat15 @freyjasamael @herb-welch @clydesducktape

#birthday ficlets #this is gonna be fun #i hope y'all like them anyway #i had fun writing these #and i'm excited to share them with you

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paisley-print · 2 years

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Chapter Fourteen

SERIES MASTER LIST

TAG LIST GOOGLE FORM CLICK HERE TO BE ADDED OR TAKEN OFF A LIST.

Rating: 18+

Notes: Sorry for the head hopping!

Trigger Warnings: Domestic Abuse, PTSD, anxiety, injury, police brutality, alcoholism, homicide, drug use, guns.

NTWE: @reaanddin @kotemorons @kenbechillin @qytyy @abzidabzy @livcamryn @heythere-mel @winter-fox-queen @sherala007 @inkededucatednnerdy @quica-quica-quica @hnt-escape @toomanystoriessolittletime @whataperfectwasteoftime @headinthestarz @casssiopeia @day-off-inkyoto @librariantothejedi @dobbyjen @goblinsimp @kiizhikehn-cedar @chook007 @thirddeadlysin @lawfulgranola @thetypewriterimproviser @darnitdraco @quietpainter @pinkrosethorne @mummifymecaptain @hellovanessax@notagamersdey @punkremus @hopeamarsu @what-iwish-you-knew @djjarins @hoff-mommy @punkerthanpascal @absurdthirst @i-ship-it-ironically @tobealostwanderer @seececerun @ezzieu2 @littlemissoblivious @lowlights @tintinn16 @withakindheartx @1andthesame @thedeviltohisangel @dihra-vesa @maryfanson @ahsokathearcher @itllpassby @ohyeasam @athalien @silverwolf319 @pjkimrn @a-few-fandoms-too-many @mando-amando @fictitious-little-stitious @elinedjarin @deadhumourist @i-love-movies @mishasminion360 @mishasminion360 @the-rambling-nerd @sweet-heartbadmouth @kissing-stars @mylittlesenaar @alberta-sunrise @zetasaturno99 @thatpinkshirt @voteforpedro09 @greeneyedblondie44 @feel-it-on-the-way-home13 @galaxyofmando @kravitzwhore @solemnlyswearss @gooddaykate @sherala007 @aliwritesfic @athalien

You tried pulling at the metal rod the cuff was attached to. Even with decades of rust, it didn’t budge. You moved onto your back, grinding your teeth and using your legs to push off against the radiator with all your might. Still, nothing came loose.

‘Focus’ you told yourself, looking around the room.

It was pitch black, only the silhouette of the door frame was visible. You were reminded about the day you pulled Lucy from the water, how dark it was, how quiet. Like suspended in ether. That’s what it felt like now, being underwater.

You stretched your arm out as far as it could go and searched around for anything you could use to break the chain on the cuff. When you realized there was nothing of use around you, you pulled on the cuff again. Then spit on your wrist and rubbed your saliva around your skin.

You braced yourself, drawing in a quick breath and yanking as hard as you could. Even with all that force, the cuffs didn’t move an inch. Desperate now, and you got onto your knees and smoothed your hands along the floorboards. Fingers scanning for a catch or a dip in the wood.

A gasp escaped your lips as you felt one. Quickly you wiped the soot off your fingers, gripped the nail between your thumb and pointer, then jimmied it upwards.

Inch by inch, you pulled, readjusted and pulled again, repeating that process until you got enough of the nail exposed to grip it with your fist and yank it out. It ripped from the floor much easier than you had expected, flying out of your bloody hands and skidding across the floor.

You drew in a shaky breath, swallowing hard. You were okay. If it was out of your reach, you would simply find another. You had time. You were going to be okay.

You turned, stretching your arm as far as it could go and feeling around for the nail. Your fingers just grazed the edge, you held your breath and reached even more. When you got hold of it you walked it up slowly until you could pick it up.

You took the nail and placed it in your mouth, the taste of rust bitter against your tongue. You took the nail between your teeth and brought it up to the keyholes on the cuff. You had actually practiced this at the house for an entire day once. David had left the cuffs behind and you thought it might save your life one day.

Headlights shone through the cracks of the house. You looked up just as they darted across the wall and grew larger by the second.

“Fuck fuck Fuck,” you whispered, the nail firmly still in your mouth.

You didn’t think you would make it in time. You felt hopeless. You knew you were going to die.

Then finally, a click.

The cuff came apart in your hand. David’s flashlight shone against the wall, and you could hear his footsteps treading through the house. You turned away, body blocking your hands, heart racing so fast you could hear it thumping in your ears. You waited, nail clutched so tightly in your hand you could hardly feel the tips of your fingers anymore.

David came in then tossed something towards you, a pregnancy test. He would kill you in an instant, but a baby was something that shared half of his DNA. You were his object, but that baby, if there was a baby, was an extension of himself.

“You don’t believe me?” you asked.

“No, I don't,” he said simply. You could tell by his tone you were really starting to push his buttons.

You lifted your head, looking up at him. “I need two hands if you're really going to make me do it here.”

He thought for a moment, eyes scanning you. Then he moved forward, crouching down in order to undo the cuffs.

You seized this opportunity, taking the nail and driving it into his shoulder. David reeled backwards, falling and crying out in pain. You didn’t wait to see the damage you inflicted. The moment he jerked back, you were on your feet, sprinting into the darkness.

You heard a shot ring out behind you, then another, closer this time. You pushed on harder despite the terrain, stumbling and having to brace yourself on tree trunks each step of the way. You didn’t know where you were going, you just knew you had to get away. To your right, you heard water.

The moon was coming out, casting a thin veil of silver across the landscape. It was the lake, the one Frankie had taken you to. Your mind raced as it tried to establish some sort of mental map to help guide you.

Then, without warning, you felt the pull of your hair jerking you backwards.

Frankie heard the shots. They were closer than expected. He felt hopeful. David didn’t have to shoot something that was already dead. That hope was short-lived, however, when he realized the gunfire ceased, meaning one of those bullets must have hit its mark. Frankie grit his teeth, hoping that the boys had made it, and heard the shots as well.

He needed you to be alive. All of this was his fault. If he hadn’t kicked you out, you would have been safe. Instead, you were here, with the very man Frankie had vowed to protect you from. He knew that forgiveness was unlikely, but even if you never spoke to him again, it would be okay, just as long as you were alive.

He heard a large splash and all at once the trees opened up to reveal a rundown house and the glow of red tail lights. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but once they did, Frankie felt a jolt of horror when he realized there was a car slowly sinking itself into the inky darkness of the lake. Next to that stood the figure of a man, watching. Frankie raised his gun and squeezed off two shots. The figure ducked away, firing two shots of his own before fleeing in the direction of the house.

Frankie’s first instinct was to follow, but when he saw the taillights of the vehicle vanish completely below the surface he knew he couldn’t just leave you. If there was even a chance you could be alive he would take it. He started towards the lake, ripping off his jacket and diving into the water.

It was freezing cold, and full of debris from the storm. Visibility was low but the lights in the car were still functional.

He grabbed onto the side of the car and pulled himself forward. The front of the vehicle had already settled onto the bottom of the lake. Frankie could see you through the windows laying in the back seat, arms floating above you, eyes closed and mouth slightly ajar.

He used the end of the gun to strike at the corner of the window, a spider web crack pattern formed instantly. He did it once more and the pieces came apart freely. His lungs burned but he pushed on, he had already lost so much time he couldn’t afford to lose anymore.

He reached into the cabin and snaked an arm around your chest, as soon as he had a firm grasp on you he kicked off against the metal of the car and swam desperately to the surface. He broke through the surface and pulled your head above water, taking in large gulps of air and bracing himself for any attacks David might have been waiting to inflict.

Your head fell against his cheek, and that's when he realized that you were still warm. He reached the bank of the lake in a matter of seconds and laid you out on the sand.

He gave you two breaths and started chest compressions. It was hard to feel in moments like this, he was scared yes - but he didn’t have access to it, not yet anyway. There would be time for feelings later. He heard you choke and turned you over on your side, allowing you to vomit up the water from the lake.

He pulled you up, cradling you in his arms and rubbing your back as you gulped up air.

The fact that you are still alive was nothing short of a miracle, his brain couldn't even process it yet. He heard a voice and realized it was his own, cooing into your ear, telling you that you were safe now and everything was going to be alright.

There was a loud bang.

The sound caused your ears to ring so loud you brought your hands up to block your ears. Everything felt so cloudy, like the world wasn’t moving fast enough. Reality didn't feel tangible anymore, your life felt like something you were watching yourself take part in from above rather than be an active participant in. All you wanted to do was lay down and shut your eyes.

You were vaguely aware of a hand coming up and wrapping itself in your hair, pulling you from the ground to a standing position.

“You just don’t know when to fucking die do you?” David's voice hissed in your ear.

A light in the distance caught your attention, it was moving towards you. Even Though David was quite intoxicated, his reflexes were much faster than yours, he maneuvered you around so that your back was flat against his chest, and placed the barrel of the gun against your head.

A voice spoke, and you recognized it as Santiago's, “It’s over, put the gun down.”

Two more lights emerged from either side of the lake.

David stood, swaying a little as he held you.

There was not an ounce of humanity left in his voice as he spoke “did you let them fuck you all at once or just pass you around on different nights? Jesus, I can’t believe I ever loved a whore like you.”

There was another shot, and for a few breathless seconds you thought you were dead. Eighty-six thousand four hundred seconds go by each day and nobody bats an eye, but those seconds seemed to last a lifetime. All you could think about was David's words - love, love I can't believe I ever loved a whore like you.

You had experienced anger before, resentment even, but the feeling that coursed through you now was none of those. This was something deeper, something so base and animalistic your body moved without any conscious effort. David had fallen, pulling you to the ground with him.

You pulled yourself up, took hold of a river rock lying next to you on the sand, crawled on top of your husband and sank the rock into his forehead. Then again, and again, and again.

“You didn’t fucking love me” you shouted “That was never love. I was the one that loved, that cared - for the both of us. You hurt me and I stayed because I wanted you to love me so badly. I wanted a life with you and you took that away from us! You! I wish I never fucking met you.”

An arm came around your torso and pulled you away. In the moonlight you could see the husk of flesh that was once David's face, laying there motionless on the ground.

“He's dead, he’s dead Summer. You’re okay, you're okay.” It was Ben's voice, strong and unwavering as ever.

You felt lightheaded as Ben's face came into your vision, he was speaking but you couldn't hear a word of it. You turned your head to see the rest of the men surrounding Frankie who was lying motionless on the sand.

“No, no '' you muttered, trying to pull yourself up but being held back by Ben.

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