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ghostsvacuumcleaner · 10 months

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Shades of Red

art in the cover by @ave661 and @shkretart !

chapter one | chapter two | ao3 | masterlist ✦ Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x civilian f! reader ✦ Summary: The sole survivor of a terrorist attack that killed over a hundred. The soldier responsible for saving her. He wants to help you, but his own trauma make him withdraw when he wants to get closer and intoxicate when he wants to remedy. He kisses your scars and hopes you'll runaway. He wants you to run away. But you won't. ✦ TW: NSFW, explicit, f!reader, little to none f! physical appearence descriptions, canon typical violence, mentions of abuse and trauma/PTSD, bit of gore, mental illness mentions, slowburn;

A/N: Hello girlies! This is the very first time I get the courage to actually post something I wrote. I've been reading y'all fics behind my screen for so much time now I figured I could start postingggg; so please be gentle with the feedbacks, but be also sincere ♥ also, English is not my first language and although I'm fluent, there might be a mistake or two along the way. Don't feel shy in pointing it out if you see any! Moreover, this will be a long ass one I'm pretty sure, but I might get myself some more courage to post my smut oneshots in some near future. Hope you enjoy! x

Chapter 1 - The Incident | 3.3k

There was ash in the air everywhere. That scenario didn’t frighten him – in fact, Ghost was absolutely sure that at that point in his life, almost nothing could fright him. He had seen much worse things before, he thought silently as he walked towards the building completely destroyed. There was debris everywhere – the building had not collapsed completely, but some parts did not survive the flames and now there seemed to be not even a little bit of life in that place. There were still small portions of flames spread through a few heaps of debris, a terrible smell of wood and burnt concrete; but nothing of that could be worse than the smells of dead, flattered human flesh that once or again invaded his nostrils.

His eyes rolled around in search of any record of life. In vain, he knew: there was no chance that any civilian had survived that. A cruel, dark bombing, a violent and destructive terrorist act. The only goal was to destroy any form of life that could inhabit there, and possibly it had been obtained without any further circumstances. When Price sent the radio search order to all members of the 141, he made it very clear that those efforts were in vain. They would find nothing. We lost today, he said. We could not foresee this, nor can we remedy it. It was a burden they had to cope with on a daily basis - the often inability to do something, to act, was a burden that a soldier should carry. It was part of the job.

Ghost pressed the point button in his ear. “Is anyone listening?” He asked, his eyes checking the entire perimeter of the building behind the skull mask that covered his face. “Have you found something, LT?” Soap answered, his voice hushed by the efforts. “No. I’m making an entrance, there’s nothing out here.” the lieutenant stated, kicking off a few remaining pieces of concrete from the front of his feet and laying the rifle in his hands. Ghost stood in front of the main entrance to the building – that place that should have looked like a reception at some point in the near past - and the movement of his boots against the ground caused the roof above his head to shake a little, and some ash particles fell onto his helmet. He observed the movement, standing still for a few seconds, only for warranty; he did not want to end up becoming one more of those burial victims.

When the concrete whisper finally stopped stirring his ears, he entered. The lamp of his helmet lit up, and he looked around. His eagle eyes did not lose an inch of that entire perimeter, his ears attentive as those of a bat. He was looking for a sign, whatever it was: a presence, a scream, voices, calls for help. Anything. Anyone.

All he could hear were the sounds of the structure of the building, apparently ready to give in. Ghost tried to enter one of the apartments; his boots sole hit the semi-destroyed grinded surface of the door, and he broke in. He looked around. An enormous smashed chandelier rested violently against the bloody body of a child.

Many people said Simon was the type of man to have no feelings anymore. That time, scars and trauma had taken from him all and every kind of humanity. He had become a soldier—one of the good, one of the invincible, but nothing aside from that. Nothing but a soldier.

Perhaps that sentence became so repetitive that at some point, he, himself began to believe it. His face remained motionless. The sound of the blood drops hanging on the floor filled his ears, and he snorted for a moment, pressing the point into his ear. “First floor, apartment 102,” he said, coordinating other operators to head to start collecting the bodies.

His eyes went up to the ceiling, facing the huge blunt in the structure that caused the luster to fall. Maybe the parents' bodies were still there somewhere to be found, he thought. But that wasn’t his job, and unfortunately he didn’t have all the time in the world. He then traced his steps out of the apartment, looking around. As he kept going upstairs, the lantern lit up one hand or another thrown out of a pile of debris. Broken legs, the kinds of horrors that haunt the dreams of ordinary people.

As Price had said and as he imagined to be fact, there were no survivors. Even when he reached the last floor, without any hope that he would find any movement that were not spasms of lifeless bodies, he tried. He tried to find someone, to do his job with all the mastery he could. His voice echoed through the entire floor, looking for anyone who could answer, but as expected, there was no response.

All that was left was the subsoil, the garage. When he came down the lobby again and found a portion of the staff dragging out some bodies, placing them in black bags, one of the doctors caught his attention. “Lieutenant. Have you finished checking around? Nothing up there?” The man asked, pulling his glasses from the tip of his nose. Ghost is negative. “No, nothing,” he said bluntly.

The doctor seemed to bite his own jaw with some strength, in disappointment. He has baffled. “You don’t even have to check down there. If those above didn’t survive...” he said, giving on his shoulders. Ghost watched him in silence for a few seconds, before finally answering, “Focus on your work, doc. I’ll finish my own.” He said in a nod before starting to push with his crude hands the stones that covered the entrance to the stairs that led to the garage.

His steps echoed. Ghost walked through the parking lot, passed pillar by pillar, checked every car. There were bursting pipes releasing hot steam, a gas leak as well he could tell – and he didn’t want to be there to see what would happen if some kind of ignition occurred. He hastened his steps. He took a deep breath; he was about to press his point and give up, claiming that there were no survivors, but a stifling sound interrupted his action. He looked around, looking for the source of the heavy breath and the little grumbling of pain he heard. His eyebrows cracked almost instantly and he turned around himself, looking around. All his senses were activated at that moment – he began to walk through among the few cars there, following the sound he had heard and then, a hand hitting the air dropped debris to the side of what seemed to be a body. He approached cautiously, throwing the light from his helmet’s lantern in the direction of the sound, and to his surprise, although not perceptible, there was the only survivor of the bombing: you.

A small, female frame shrunk from a pile of debris. Your hair was covered in ashes, your face - the dirty cheeks with the blackness of the material, your arms painted in the scarlet of your blood flowing freely to the ground, glass blades attached painfully to your soft skin. There was a cut down from the top of your forehead until the beginning of your left eyebrow. The completely messy strands of your hair fell against your face, opaque, bright. The expression of fear on your eyes turned into pure terror the moment they met his own, those small cold orbs inside the mask. You instinctively tried to move away from him, push your body away from those debris, away from that huge and frightening man.

When you threw your body to the side, all you could feel was your back against the cold floor, your left leg refused to work. You felt nauseous, stupid, your head turned. Your mouth trembled in a failed attempt to say something, the silence already lasted for seconds enough for you to fear his frame standing ever so tall and quiet. “Please don’t hurt me.” You managed to say, your voice engulfed in a cry that refused to go out. It wasn’t as if it was going to work; if he was one of the terrorists who caused this incident and really wanted to hurt you, then you were at his mercy and there was little you could do about it.

Maybe, if you were in a better mental and physical condition, you’d be able to identify that the rifle in the hands of the man in front of yourself was of a military model. That all his gear pointed out that he was an operator, someone willing to help. Your mind could not process all the necessary information about him at the given moment, although.

“I will not hurt you, lass.” He explained, and for a moment you felt your chest swell in air and it was hard to contain the immense desire to cry. The heavy steps of the man were made against your small, wounded body. He lowered himself, letting the rifle rest next to him quietly. You gulped in dry, still nervous with your eyes raised to his, now a little closer to you. He wasn’t looking at you — he was looking down, seeming to assess how hurt you were. “I’ll tell you what’s happening now. Okay?” He asked, slowly and calmly, his cold eyes now facing your own, visualizing your soul behind the cover of this hurt shell of yours. You stumbled, and he continued. “I’ll take that away from you, and I need you to help me helping you. Alright? You will be well. I just need you to hold your leg and when I push it over, you roll. Understood?” The man asked, his firm and deep voice being the first source of human contact you had since the lightning caused you to wipe out unconscious hours before. You came in for confirmation.

Ghost nodded back and raised his fingers, counting to three. Contrary to what you might have imagined, he didn’t need to do much to lift the huge concrete block that blocked his left leg from moving — he even had some ease in doing so. He held the concrete above his body, his arms backed over you, he sat down. “Roll.” he commanded, and you obeyed as you could. You leaned her hands on the ground and gave a boost; one of your hands instinctively went to the wounded leg, in an attempt to warm up the pain now felt by finally having released it from the rubble. You couldn’t hold a moan of pain, but he was quickly stifled by the sound of concrete hitting the ground when Ghost let it fall back.

You mentally begged that you could endure that. Your eyes were filled with tears, and a certain despair arose through your throat, your mouth. The anguish of finally feeling the unpleasant smell of the environment, the nervousness of realizing that very possibly, few other people survived that disaster, it was overwhelming your already troubled mind.

Ghost didn’t lose a second in time; he finished positioning the rifle around his body and you felt his arms wrapping you by the waist and the folds of your knees, and he lifted it up with immense ease – it was as if you were featherweight. The gloves in his hands were rough against the sensitivity of your skin, but his touch was as cautious as possible. You could say without a doubt that this soldier of at least twice your height was doing his best not to hurt you any more than you’re already wounded.

“What is your name?” He finally asked, his rifle resting on his back, and you resting over his arms. He wasn’t looking at you – his eyes were fixed ahead, in the direction he was carrying you to, the exit. You answered, and he nodded in acknowledgement. “You can call me Ghost. I am a soldier, yes? We will take care of you.” He said in a clear tactical attempt to calm your nervousness down.

You sat down with your head. “Amelie Miller... Did you find her? My friend, she... did you find her?” You asked, your body trembled as you came to realize his eyes were now boring into yours.

He seemed to look for words that would not hurt you as much as the ones he had to say, but he for one, was not good with words or comforting.

“I’m sorry, girl,” he whispered, in a sigh. “there are no more survivors. You were the only one.”

~ x ~

Your head hurt. Everything hurt; body, arms. There was a blanket around your shoulders and a bottle of water still sealed in your hands. The look in your eyes was empty, blurred; there were a lot of people there. Many doctors, many operators - soldiers like Ghost. One of them wore a mohican, the other had thick eyebrows. The captain was talking to them in an isolated corner, the doctors were talking to each other about your condition, about what should be done from now on. There were agents from the British intelligence surrounding the site, and there were about hundreds of black bags stretched on the floor, closed. You still felt pain, although the healings now prevented blood from flowing freely through your forehead as before. The glass pieces had been removed from your arms, your face was clean now and even so, you never felt so dirty in your entire life.

Every time you dare to blink, you could swear that you would faint. Your hands were getting weaker, loosening around the bottle. The sudden sound of the bottle falling to the ground caught the attention of one of the men there – the captain. As far as you could realize, he called himself something Price.

“Miss.” He said, coming closer to you. Suddenly, there were eyes on you from every angle possible; all of the other soldiers turned to the ambulance where you were sitting now. You slowly raised your face to look back at Price, and he continued. “I’m not going to ask if it’s okay, this question is rhetorical. You need to be hydrated.” He was bowing down in front of you, taking the bottle he dropped and opening it, offering it to you. Your eyes checked at the bottle for a few seconds and your trembling hand finally grabbed it, drinking until the last drop you could - all at once. You could feel your throat burning, your skin seemed to be in living flesh. The appearance of your wounds was not as unpleasant as the feeling of having them, but you knew that all that would leave you some ugly scars.

You could not care about it now – in fact, couldn’t care about anything at all. Your mind was empty and you never felt so apathetic in such a distressful situation.

“What am I going to do now?” You asked, in a whisper, your eyes completely lost. “I—what am I going to do...?,” you repeated, and there was nothing but an absolute feeling of raw pain and loss in your voice right at that moment, for as much as you tried to hide it.

Price swelled his chest, and his lips compressed into a line. “You don’t have to worry about anything now. We’ll take care of everything,” he assured. “The government has a great defense program for disasters like this, you won’t be without a roof,” he finished, trying to calm you down. You closed your eyes and shaken your head, but you did not respond. There was nothing to say, nothing to do; what could be done besides trusting that everything would go well? Trust that they would have a plan for you, a shelter, doctors, a chance of living after you were supposed to die in such a horrific way?

You didn’t even know if you wanted all that. Didn’t even knew if you wanted to be the only survivor. Surely not: at that time, you would rather have died among the other more than a hundred people who were now in black bags scattered on the floor in front of you. You felt so much - you felt gratitude for their work, for saving you, but at the same time you couldn’t help but to feel like a fraud for surviving while other died. Others that, somewhat, deserved more than you to live. There was so much in your mind now, but little that you could really synthesize and make sense of.

You drowned your face between your hands, unable to cry, but wanting so deeply to hide from them, from those men, from doctors, from the press, from everything. Wanting to be away from everything, wanting to be dead for once.

A little further away, Ghost observed you. His broad arms crossed, his posture relentlessly perfect as always. His eyes looked at your gestures, scanned your body —all those wounds, poor girl, he thought. Although he was sure there was no more of a heart in his chest, he felt comprehensive towards your emotions. The horrors you had lived in such a short space of time, the unbearable consequences that that meant for your poor mind. The trauma. The pain.

He could not help but think that he saw a bit of himself in you. Not a bit of Ghost – a little bit of Simon. A little bit of the little Simon who felt an immeasurable strain in his chest, a void that could not be filled.

When the doctors finally helped you to get up in the ambulance and sit on one of the available chairs, your face turned over your own shoulder and you found his eyes stuck to yours. It felt intimidating in some way; perhaps the way his confidence didn’t allow him to look away while you stared at him, or something in the way he seemed capable of reading right through you like a good book of his. He was a savior to you, and somehow it still seemed his persona was conflicting with the one of a savior. He was something else, perhaps still a benefactor, but somehow, a very dangerous man.

There was not a single feeling in his eyes, quite the opposite. There was pure coldness, and yours on the other hand carried some gratitude and ingratitude at the same time. You felt grateful that he had saved you, but at the same time, felt angry at him for not having let you die. You entered the ambulance, and your eyes continued to lock a gaze against his until the moment someone closed the car door from outside.

Ghost turned his eyes at last, and saw Price approaching.

“Fuck.” The captain whispered, laying his hands on his waist, looking at all the misfortune that the incident had caused to that place. “How many bodies?” He asked, looking at Simon with the corner of his eyes.

“A hundred and two so far.” Ghost answered quietly.

“And have you found the bodies of the sons of bitches who did this?” Price said with some disgust and hatred attached to his voice. Ghost assented positively, which made Price crack the dust almost instantly into a distressed expression.

“Motherfuckers.” He grunted, turning to the rest of the team. Soap, who had been remaining in silence for thorough all the search, dared to finally speak.

“We have a lot to report, hm?” He raised his eyebrows, and received a Price assent in response.

“To the headquarters." The captain ordered, making his way to the helicopter that awaited for them, and they left.

#simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #ghost cod #ghost mw2 #simon ghost riley #cod ghost

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lilydalexf · 5 months

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hi! do you know of any fics where mulder or scully (i think this fits either of them well) ask the other "can i kiss you?" ? its my favourite fic "trope" but i think ive only found one xf fic that does it and i cant even remember it, please help!

Thank you for this ask! I have (many) older asks I maybe should've answered first, but it was very fun compiling this rec list of fics where one of Mulder and Scully asks the other "Can I kiss you?" Enjoy! Anamorphosis by Megan Reilly Assigned to find a horrifying serial murderer, Agent Scully discovers things about herself and her past that she never suspected. City of Light by Bonetree On the run through the American Southwest, Scully and Mulder flee the shadowy forces of Owen Curran and Padden's government agents, who threaten their freedom and their lives. On the way, they must also struggle with their own demons, which threaten to tear them apart. (Part of the Goshen universe) Eleventh Hour by Rachel Anton Some feeling defy the confines of time. Fumbling Towards Ecstasy by Jenna Tooms Scully comes to Mulder with a wound only he can heal. general conundrums by @intrepidment Nonsense fluff. Impulse by Suzanne Schramm Mulder and Scully investigate some strange doings in a little town where people seem to have no control over their actions. Let's Bee Together by @baronessblixen Set during IWTB: Scully comes home from the hospital to find a bored and restless Mulder has picked up an interesting new hobby: apiculture. Little Notes by aRcaDIaNFall$ Mulder and Scully are bored in a meeting and start passing notes... The Mad Physicist & The Lab Rat by littlemisfit5290 (@alittlemissfit) "Who said I was even going to the party?” “I said you are if you plan on knowing whether I dressed up as a sexy alien or that beast woman.” MSR, pre IWTB, Halloween fluff. The Most Wonderful Time of the Year by Baroness_Blixen (@baronessblixen) For the first time ever, the FBI is doing a secret Santa exchange. But what do you do when you're not paired with the only person you can imagine exchanging gifts with? You do everything in your power to rig the game. Nuptiae Sub Rosa by SisterSpooky1013 and XFMaweezy (@sisterspooky1013 and @xfmaweezy) A series of canon-compliant missing scenes showing that some dynamics of Mulder and Scully’s relationship may have changed much earlier than previously thought. radiant by kittenscully (@kittenscully) Under normal circumstances, her vulnerability would shock him. But things are different now, the shift tectonic and undeniable. He owes her the same trust that she’s showing him. Saying the Words by Karen Rasch Mulder and Scully finally confront their feelings for the first time. (Part of the Words series) Tender Intent by A.I. Irving When Scully returns to work after recovering from her illness, Mulder discovers that she isn't quite the changed woman she claims to be. Untitled by @baronessblixen “I’ll kick his ass if you want me to.” / “Why do you only kiss me when I’m sleeping?” Untitled by @broadcastnews1987 a “what if one breath never happened au.” Untitled by @msrafterdark scully puts the moves on mulder post-millennium. What Happens In Vegas (Sometimes Finds Its Way Into Official Documents) by tiredmoonlight (@myshipsintheharbor) When some interesting news about the marital status of two agents finds its way to back to the FBI, questions are raised, the main one being that the agents don't actually remember getting married. While You Were Sleeping by Skinfull Mulder falls for an intoxicating red head he spots in the park, then saves her life but not before she is injured and put into a coma, then he meets her sister! Den den dehhhhhh! Seraphim by chekcough (@chekcough) After Mulder returns from the dead, Scully tries to pick up the pieces. AU, with Mulder/Scully relationship pre-established after FTF. Implied character suicide.

#fic rec #roundup #xfiles fanfic #xf fanfic #anon #asks

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leeloooonfire · 11 months

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There's this saying within the group of freaks of Hawkins High and the guys from Corroded Coffin - "Never, ever even think about opening one of Eddie's notebooks if you want to keep all your limbs intact and not roll with disadvantage for the rest of the entire campaign."

It's like an unspoken rule and if one dares to break the silence and say they'd wish to know what kind of treasures lie within the hardcover notebooks dispersed all throughout Eddie's space, their words were whispered off the record. Some, like Gareth, even throw haunted looks over their shoulders and then raise their hands into the air, fingers twisted in a sign against all evil when even one mumbles the unspeakable two words "Eddie's notebooks".

The party were warned early on to never mention the sacred books within Eddie's hearing range or even think about touching them at all.

Only once, Mike dared to reach out for one tattered notebook with a red spine and warped pages when it fell off the table during one of their DnD sessions. Dustin is sure to this day that Mike actually saw his life pass by him in a flash and only his role as one of the youngsters of the group saved his sorry ass from imminent destruction.

Still, even though knowing he might actually not survive this, Dustin really wants to know what's inside of them. Time and time again, Lucas told him to forget it, „You being his favorite won’t save you from his wrath, so banish your foolish wishes from your mind.“

But how could he banish the thoughts when there are so many notebooks around the trailer; hidden between well-loved copies of fantasy books like The Lord of the Rings and Dune or monster manuals within the bookshelves of Eddie's room. When they can be found under the piles of discarded clothes on the floor or kicked under his spray-painted dresser during a heedless moment? One with blue stripes lies just right next to a bottle of bleach under the kitchen sink and two, one blue and one brown, are on the couch at all times. If one might want to relieve themselves during a night of horror movies in the Munson's home, they might find one in the bathroom, right next to the toilet. There are even a few in the tiny gap between Eddie's forever-unmade bed and the patchy, poster-covered wall or in the back of Eddie's beat-up van with stained covers and ripped-out pages.

Some, they all know, are for DnD, and some for his music. One or two, though mostly abandoned within the first few weeks of the year, for school and his studies.

The others? No one really knows.

They all have their own little theories. Like Fred, who thinks Eddie uses most of the notebooks to write down his secret, illegal science experiments. Or Jeff, who once said that Eddie probably uses them for boring stuff like accounting for his drug deals and taxes. Not that Eddie pays any taxes.

There are theories about witchcraft and satanistic rituals held within the pages of the books, obviously. About nude drawings of any DnD monster having intercourse with one of their DnD characters. Theories about him writing a cringy romance novel or poems like an Edwardian nobleman succumbing to his fatal illness.

Clara, one of the older DnD legends who graduated the year before Dustin started Highschool, once said Eddie might be using so many notebooks to keep track of his multiple personalities.

All of them seem rather plausible, but none of them explain why Eddie protects them like Smaug protected the sparkling hoard of gold in the Lonely Mountain.

To the others, it feels like a secret better left alone. To Dustin, however, it seems like the most exciting mystery since his ninth birthday party where his father, then still alive and well, was able to prepare an entire pirate-themed scavenger hunt.

To no one's surprise, he takes the first opportunity that comes along his way to get his hands on one of the thick notebooks.

It's after almost an entire year of wondering, two months after the horrendous affairs of the Upside Down where both Eddie and Max merely escaped with their life and (almost) all limbs intact.

It's when the party and Steve help Eddie and his uncle move out of the now mostly destroyed trailer and into a small house at the edge of Loch Nora.

While the others are all somewhere else in the trailer, Dustin and Steve fill box after box with Eddie's stuff from his bedroom.

"Fucking hell, this place is even filthier than the landfill," Steve mutters to himself when they move the mattress off the bed to dismantle the frame and they get a good look at the trash that gathered under it for probably ever. Or, at least, since Eddie got this bed. Cigarettes, condom wrappers, used tissues -yikes-, crumbled-up or ripped pages, a few scattered pens and more dust than meets the eye. Steve's right, it is filthy. His mother would have a heart attack and then sentences Eddie to a day of cleaning like a disgruntled judge in court.

He is about to say something that's both mean to Steve and still agreeing when he sees them - right at the very edge of the bedframe, hidden underneath a jumper that looks like it could have been Mr Clark's favorite, are seven notebooks.

Dustin moves before Steve can even react; almost jumps over the frame and belly lands on the floor to get to them before the other has the time to count them or take them away or anything.

Steve stares at him with an incredulous look, lifting one part of the frame up in the air, "Why did you do that?"

Dustin shrugs, trying to look innocent like the tiniest baby kitten in the world, and says, "Thought I saw a rat, had to jump."

"A RAT?" Robin shouts, who came into the room to bring yet another empty box for them to fill with Eddie's junk. "WHERE IS THE RAT?"

"There's no rat!" Steve rolls his eyes, but behind Robin, Argyle shouts, "A RAT?"

In the chaos of the entire group trying to find and run away from the non-existing rodent, Dustin grabs three of the notebooks and hides them under his hoodie right between his belly and the waistband of his jeans.

He knows it's shitty.

But - Eddie owns him one, Dustin thinks, for almost dying on him in the Upside Down. So, it somehow feels like his damn right to snoop through his private notebooks.

Just a peak, he tells himself. If it's a diary, he'll close them right away and bring them back to Eddie. It's not like Dustin would want to read something that personal. He would with Mike to make fun of him, but not with Eddie. Despite almost dying and being a massive dork, Dustin thinks Eddie is cool.

This means he will respect his privacy if the notebooks are that personal. Otherwise - what really is the harm, right? Old, discarded DnD notes? Homework and dates of exams? Pffff; it can't be that bad, can it?!

It can.

Less than five hours later, Dustin is sitting on the floor next to his bed and has one of the notebooks open on his legs.

It is definitely not a diary, even though Eddie has marked the pages with dates.

It is, however, probably, pretty personal.

18th of June 1985

They kiss for a long time, lying in the dark, softly and then decisively, chaste and then deep.

Before long, Bilbo lowers down onto Thorin, making a long, slow sound like an early rumble of thunder.

It's so sexy, hot, amazing. Everything's warm and soft and dark and slick, Bilbo's hand on Thorin's forearm, Bilbo's ass in his lap, back against his chest, Bilbo's hole around his dick.

Thorin thought that maybe doing whatever Bilbo wanted would ...

The thing is, Dustin should have closed the notebook after reading the first line right away; shouldn't have even taken them home with him. The thing is he can't just take them back to Eddie and act as if he's never seen what he saw.

And the thing is, is - is that Eddie. Eddie!

Eddie writes - stories?! Fiction? Sexual fiction about two already exciting characters who are, well, are a dwarf and a hobbit. But also are two men.

Sure, Tolkien never explicitly talked about gender in his books, Dustin thinks, but from his understanding and what he's reading in Eddie's notebook, it's two guys - having fictional intercourse.

Does this mean that his brother figure is gay?

Is Eddie a homosexual? Or does he just like writing about Bilbo getting railed by Thorin?

He has sooo many questions, and most of them, he's not sure, he really wants to get an answer.

He is still contemplating what he's going to do with the hobbit porn in his lap when the door opens and Steve comes in with an eye roll, "I knocked about four times, what the hell are you doing that you didn't hear me?"

Dustin, once again, tries to look innocent and shoves the notebook off his lap and under his bed before Steve catches on.

This time, not even a potential rat alert could save his ass, because Steve's eyes narrow and before Dustin can even say anything, the other is on the floor, grabs one of the other two notebooks and opens it.

"NO!" Dustin shouts, slamming against Steve to tackle him and rip the notebook out of his hand, but it is too fucking late.

"Bilbo reacts almost immediately. His mouth latches around the tip, sucking before pulling back and kitten-licking all around the head. Thorin writhes impatiently, his gasps nearly pained. Bilbo suckles, licks [get a dictionary for synonyms] on the tip, and then he glances up, meets Thorin's gaze, and sinks down. - Oh, -."

Steve reads out loud, voice wavering the closer he comes to the end of the passage and then lets go of the book.

Dustin tries to hit Steve in the shoulder before scooping up the notebooks and pushing them under the bed to the other one.

They stare at each other, both flushed and slightly uncomfortable.

God, could El please open one of the portals now so Dustin can hide in the Upside Down? That would be great!

"Please don't say anything!" Dustin says at the same time Steve opens his mouth to let out, "Are you into guys?"

"What? No!"

Steve holds out his hands in front of him as if to protect himself from Dustin's anger, but he raises one eyebrow, "It's okay if you do."

Dustin shakes his head, "Of course, it's okay if I do, but I don't!"

Steve's cheek twitches, clearly unsure how to proceed, and then says, "There's nothing wrong with gay fiction."

"Jesus, I know there's nothing wrong with gay fiction. It's not mine, though."

"Sure!" Steve smiles and reaches out to clasp Dustin on the shoulder, "You can talk to me once you're ready."

"There's nothing to talk about. I have Suzy!"

"Okay, and? There are plenty of people who like both, so it's okay if you just realised that."

Dustin wants to smack his head against a wall, or maybe, Steve's head, "It's seriously not mine. They're Eddie's!"

Steve stills.

Dustin stills. He seriously didn't mean to tell Steve that, to leak Eddie's secret. He just wanted to know what Eddie was hiding, and not maybe, probably out the guy to Steve fucking Harrington.

"Eddie's?! Why do you have Eddie's notebooks?"

Dustin makes a face, deer in the headlight and slightly scared.

Understanding dawns upon Steve's face and he groans, "No you little shit didn't!"

"I didn't!" Dustin says automatically but cringes when Steve kneels down and picks up the three tossed notebooks from the floor.

"Seriously, Dustin, why can you never leave things alone?"

"Please don't tell him."

Steve stares at him, hard, lips pinched together and then sighs, "Okay. But you little fucker own me."

Feel free to use this and make an entire story out of it 🖤☺️

#steddie #eddie munson #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie stranger things #fanfiction #stranger things fan fic idea #stranger things ficlet

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whatsnewalycat · 1 year

Text

Designated Person | Chapter 6

Pairing: Francisco “Catfish” Morales x F!Reader

Chapter 6: Present

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Series Summary: When posting bail for Frankie Morales, your former employer and former lover, you unwittingly designate yourself as his third party custodian during his pre-trial release. Your often tumultuous relationship with him is given a new set of rules and put to the test. Can the two of you co-exist peacefully, or will you crash and burn?

Word Count: 9.2k+

Content / Warnings: Frankie POV, infidelity, past romantic & sexual relationship and related flashbacks, angst, food, AA meeting, alcoholism, abuse mention, lying, confrontation, crying, mutual masturbation, panty snatchin' (sorry idk what else to call it)

Notes: Hello hello hello! If you want the taglist, spotify playlist, or AO3 link, head on down to the masterlist. I appreciate your patience in waiting for this, thank you so much for reading. Ok love u have fun!

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Tonight, the AA meeting is being held in the conference room of a value hotel.

The three-story venue is ripe with families on vacation and traveling professionals who likely booked their rooms as a cost-saving measure. They certainly didn’t choose to stay here because of its charming features, such as the floating island of dead bugs in the outdoor swimming pool, or the dingy low-pile carpet darkened in high-traffic areas, or the generic, faded landscape portraits in shiny golden frames.

Its conference room is windowless, the only source of light buzzing from long fluorescents overhead, dousing everything in a twitchy, vague sort of green that grips Frankie’s stomach.

Or, maybe it’s just the story he’s listening to that’s making him feel ill.

Maybe a little bit of both, it’s hard to tell.

“She had her heart set on leaving, ‘n’ I told her, nobody fuckin’ wants you here anyway, Mary Beth, go on home!”

The haggard old man, who introduced himself as Fred, says this in a jovial, rehearsed way that tells Frankie this story has been told many times. Probably over drinks, to coworkers, or friends, or anyone who happened to be within earshot at his regular barstool.

Fred glances around over his puffy, purpled nose, like he half expects his spectators’ laughter, but the only noise is the squeak of people’s uncomfortable shifting in seats. Either because the story is too relatable, or because these folding chairs are hell on the tailbone.

“She told me if I didn’t get my ass outta that barstool, she’d be gone when I got home,” he looks at the floor and his cheeky grin falls, “I didn’t go home ‘til barclose. ‘N’ she was still there. Knew she would be. She always was.”

The room is silent as he gathers his thoughts.

“She passed away, few years back,” he looks around, putting his calloused hands up defensively, “‘N’ I miss her everyday, don’t get me wrong, but—”

The well-weathered skin of his face sags into solemnity, “I kinda wish she woulda kicked me to the curb, y’know? Was always waitin’ for it, for her to get fed up ‘n’ leave, but she never did. ‘N’ I think, sometimes, maybe… she woulda lived a better life if she did. ‘Steada waiting around for some drunk, she coulda really made somethin’ out of herself. And I feel…” he frowns at the floor, trying to pinpoint the correct emotion, a skill undoubtedly atrophied by decades of avoidance.

“Regret, I think? Wasting so much of her life. It’s one thing wastin’ my life, but her’s… I dunno. It don’t sit right,” Fred clears his throat and swallows, then sighs, “Guess that’s it. Our anniversary’s coming up next week, she’s been on my mind ‘n’ I wanted to get that out.”

The ringleader for tonight is David, as is usually the case at the Monday night meetings Frankie attends. He thanks Fred for sharing, then asks for another volunteer.

Frankie leans back in his seat and presses his fingers to his lips as another participant clears their throat and begins to talk. He’s stuck on the old man’s story, though. His knee starts bouncing as he turns it over in his mind.

I’m not that bad, right? I wasn’t that absent. I didn’t go to the bar every night. On the weekends, sure. And on weeknights, I’d drink myself fuzzy and numb, but at least I was at home.

Was he really present, though?

Before you, when Angie was home with Sarah on maternity leave, he’d come home from work and visit with them for a while. Knock a few beers or drinks back. After dinner, he would continue to drink in the garage, or in the basement. Somewhere Angie couldn’t raise her eyebrows every time he finished a beverage and retrieved a replacement.

Even after you, this ritual continued. You distracted him enough to slow the drinking those few hours after he got home. But once the table was cleared after dinner, he would tuck himself away somewhere in the house to drink alone.

It wasn’t always that way.

He drank, sure, but it wasn’t every day. It wasn’t to the point his mind went blank.

No, that didn’t start until he returned from South America.

Every time his eyelids closed, it played on repeat. The mansion. The crash. The village. Redfly’s vacant eyes. Over and over. His culpability hung around his neck like a noose.

The guys didn’t want to talk about it. A silent agreement not to mention their sins. Angie didn’t want to talk about it. Too pissed at him for going in the first place to feel bad for him.

It just stayed inside him, replaying again and again on loop. He needed something to wipe the slate clean, and booze worked.

Not like he was sober before then. Drinking himself blind on the weekends. Fuck, Angie was the same way. Before she got pregnant, anyway. That’s how they ended up meeting, that summer night back in 2018.

He and Benny went to one of their frequent Saturday spots. The bar was crowded and loud, heavy throngs of people attracted by a popular local DJ. Summer heat crept into the air despite the industrial air conditioner running at full blast, Florida’s relentless humidity hung thick in the air, leaving a dewy residue on every surface.

The only thing Frankie could smell was that primal, earthy scent of sweat. He pinched his shirt and pulled it away from his chest with a few quick tugs, trying to get some kind of a breeze going. When he looked around the bar, swathes of exposed skin all surrounded him, people wiping their foreheads and fanning themselves.

He spotted two women sitting at a high-top table, leaning over their drinks and talking to each other. One of them was a pretty, unassuming brunette. The other had glossy black hair that shone in the neon lights, cascading in waves down the open back of her dress. She looked put together and fucking luminous, the way her copper skin seemed to glow. He couldn’t look away.

Benny was in the middle of a sentence when Frankie cut him off, “Holy shit, look at her.”

“What—who?” Benny followed Frankie’s line of sight and guffawed, “Her? She would eat you for fucking breakfast, man.”

“I fucking wish,” Frankie gave Benny this dopey smile, nodding towards them, “You getting a feel on the friend?”

Benny glanced her over and shrugged, a smirk turning up the corner of his mouth, “Pretty brunette?”

“Right up your alley, huh?” Frankie grinned, then nudged his friend, “So?”

“Fuck it, why not?” Benny chuckled.

“Atta boy,” Frankie smacked his shoulder a few times, then started off towards the table.

“Hey, how’re you two doing tonight?” he asked as he leaned against the table, looking between the two women, who sized him up scrupulously, “Yeah, uh, my name is Frankie, this is my buddy, Benny. Mind if we join you?”

“Why?” the subject of his desire asked, her big, round eyes searching Frankie’s face.

“Why?” he raised his eyebrows and chuckled, “Well, because you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life. I’d sell my goddamn soul for an opportunity to talk to you—”

“Oh yeah?” she smirked and tilted her head, bringing the tip of her tongue to her top teeth before shrugging, “Prove it.”

“You—you want it? My soul?” he grinned and leaned closer, “It’s yours, beautiful, for the low, low price of this barstool next to you. And maybe, if you’re feeling generous, a dance later?”

“That’s a hell of a deal,” she raised her eyebrows and joked, “For you, I mean.”

“Oh yeah?” he laughed, “What if I throw in a sweetener? I’ll buy your drinks, too, how’s that sound?”

She scrunched her face up in contemplation, then smiled, “Deal.”

“Yeah?” Frankie beamed, extending his hand to her, and as she took it, he grazed his thumb against her soft skin, “What’s your name?”

“Angie,” she answered, eyebrow quirking as she told him, “This doesn’t mean you’re taking me home tonight, though.”

“Noted,” he smirked, dropping his eyes to her lips, before meeting her gaze, “So what’re you drinking?”

He woke up the next morning in his bed, head spinning, stomach clenching.

Before opening his eyes, he tried to recount the night, following the path of breadcrumbs his memory allowed him. Meeting Angie, taking shots, flirting with her relentlessly, more drinks, dancing with her. Kissing her on the dance floor. The sidewalk slabs uneven beneath his feet on the walk back to his apartment. A woman’s razor sharp giggle as he fumbled to unlock the door.

The mattress shifted beside him and he cracked one eyelid open tentatively, releasing a sigh of relief when he recognized Angie as the person tangled up in his sheets. Traces of the previous night’s makeup still held in tact on her face, oily pools gathering in the soft wrinkles of her forehead and eyes, black mascara clinging to her lashes in clumps and flaking onto her cheeks, a faint red outline where her lipstick was before he kissed it off of her. He rolled on his side towards her and brushed some of the sweat-dampened hair from her forehead.

She hummed and frowned, then took a deep, wakeful breath as her eyes blinked open. They were stunning in the light. Golden streaks like sunbeams stretching from the middle of her iris into a deep, rich brown.

“Oh, fuck,” she murmured, “We fucked, didn’t we?”

“That’s what it’s looking like,” he smirked, “How’re you feeling?”

She groaned and pinched the bridge of her button nose, “Still drunk.”

“Regret this yet?” he chuckled, half-joking, half-wondering.

“Having sex with a stranger? Yeah, I’m having some regrets,” she scoffed, shaking her head, then threw her hand down at her side. She sighed and studied his face, “You’re cute, though. Kind of wish I could remember it.”

“Ditto,” he said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear with a shrug, “You know, we could have a do-over. Since we’re already here and regretting it. You could… let me have another chance to, ya know, make a lasting impression.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” her dark eyebrow arched. A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. She brought her long, red fingernails to his hairline and combed them through his bed head.

“Yes ma’am,” he nodded, dropping his gaze to her lips, “Plus, that way, when this hangover inevitably kills me, I’ll die a happy man.”

“Is that right?” she giggled. The sound made his heart sing in harmony.

“That’s right,” he reached out to her under the covers, smoothing his hands along her soft skin, coaxing her closer as he murmured, “What do you think, princesa, hmm?”

“I think,” she wriggled on top of him, the sticky heat of her naked body clinging to his, “I could give you a fighting chance.“

She hovered over him, meeting his eyes for an intoxicating moment before he pulled her lips to his. From there, it was full throttle. Kissing, biting, gasping, moaning. Torrid, frenzied movements that burned bright and hot.

Their relationship took off at break-neck speed.

From that day onward, they were doing nightly sleepovers at each others’ apartments. Every free moment spent with the other, most often spent drinking or fucking. Six days into their relationship, Frankie got a text from some girl he was casually seeing. Angie read it when he was out of the room, then confronted him, resulting in their first drunk screaming match, and, subsequently, their first instance of drunk make-up sex.

She worked at a global manufacturing plant’s central office with hundreds of other carpet-walkers and pencil-pushers as a financial analyst. Her hours often ran long and wound her up tight.

When she would show up at Frankie’s apartment after work, she’d be ready to burst. He’d fix her a drink and listen to her bitch about coworkers and projects and idiots who used reply all instead of reply, waiting for her to ask him anything about his day. She never seemed all that curious about him, though, which irked him.

They did have fun together, when they had sex and went out to bars, but by the end of the second month, he found her presence to be draining. That bug of discontentment wriggled beneath his skin. He realized they had little in common aside from their coping mechanisms and combustibility.

He started to think about breaking things off with Angie, but, by then, it was too late.

“Who would like to go next?” David asks, glancing around the circle of metal folding chairs and their scattered occupants.

Frankie meets his eyes and points his index finger at the ceiling.

“Floor’s yours, Frankie.”

“Thanks,” Frankie nodded and crossed his arms, sitting back in the squeaky chair, “Growing up, my dad wasn’t around much,” his mouth opens, but a thought occurs to him and he chuckles, shaking his head, “There’s one for the AA Meeting Bingo Card, huh?”

This actually earns a few amused grins and a snort of laughter from his peers.

He leans forward, pressing his elbows into his knees with a shrug, “Anyway. Even when he was living with us, whenever I did see him, he had a beer in his hand. And I thought it was normal, like everyone’s dad went to the bar every night, so I didn’t think much of it. I’m not sure when that changed. When I started to notice, I mean, that it wasn’t normal.

“When I’d go to my friend’s house, I thought they were… I dunno, fucking weird? Because they sat around the dinner table and talked to each other while they ate. And—and they didn’t seem afraid of their dad. Like, they didn’t have to walk on eggshells when he was around, which made me… uncomfortable, I guess,” he grimaces and shakes his head, “Jesus Christ, that’s fucked up. But, anyway, the point I’m trying to make is that, to me, my dad’s behavior was normal.

“There would be times when he would come home and be three sheets to the goddamn wind, and he’d yell and throw shit, and my ma, she would lock me in my bedroom and tell me not to come out. Said my dad wasn’t feeling well,” he crinkles his nose and shrugs, “They split when I was twelve. And I don’t blame her for leaving him, I really don’t, but… I didn’t see him again until I got out of basic.”

He stops and leans back, taps his fingers on his kneecaps, then crosses his arms. A knot tightens in his throat when he remembers that day. Knocking on the door of his dad’s shitty apartment in Orlando. When it swung open, Frankie barely recognized him.

Seven years left to his own devices aged him decades. Deep wrinkles carved into his droopy forehead. His nose and cheeks were darkened and bumpy, like he had a pubescent case of acne. He looked Frankie over with glossy, barely-there eyes and slurred, “There’s my boy! Hey, come in, Francisco, come in!”

Frankie’s stomach soured when the words hit his face, thick and swollen with whiskey. A warning signal that laid dormant in his veins for years reawakened, gushing hot and electric beneath his staticky skin.

His father turned and started waddling into the apartment, so Frankie followed him, closing the door left wide open behind him. The apartment was threadbare. A dingy beige couch sat on one side of the living room, facing a small antennaed tv propped up on a milk crate. Some blonde news anchor chattered on the tv, but the gurgling buzz of the air conditioning unit effectively muted her. In lieu of a proper dining room setup, his father had a folding chair tucked into a card table, which was cluttered by piles of unopened envelopes and empty beer cans.

While the stranger pulled two beer cans out of his fridge, Frankie managed to stitch some words together, “So, how’ve you been, Dad?”

He didn’t seem to hear his question, just held one aluminum can across the countertop to his son, “You’re a real man now, huh? Have a beer with me, Francisco.”

Frankie took a few steps forward and went to lean onto the counter, but decided against it when he realized how sticky the surface was. He accepted the beer and opened it.

“It’s been too long, my boy, too long. What has it been, four years?”

“Seven,” Frankie corrected, averting his gaze to a tower of dirty dishes emerging from cloudy, gray water in the sink. The wet, bacterial, rotting stench made his nose crinkle.

“Ah, well. I’m, well…” he trailed off and swallowed three big gulps of beer, then grinned, “So, Special Forces, huh?”

“Yeah, I—”

“I’m proud of you, Francisco.”

Frankie’s head jerked backwards and he met his dad’s dark eyes, “Wh-what?”

“Takes discipline,” he responded, nodding, “I’m proud of you. Your mom, she did a good job with you.”

And he wanted to say a million different things. He wanted to say thank you and I love you and I forgive you and I hate you and fuck you. He wanted to yell: No thanks to you, you drunk old bastard. You woman-beating fucking coward. A different part of him wanted to cry: Why did you abandon me? Why wasn’t I good enough? Am I good enough now?

But when he licked his lips and opened his mouth to respond, his dad shuffled off into the sad living room, changing the subject.

Frankie shakes his head and sighs, then looks around the room, “When Angie got pregnant, I vowed I’d never be like him. I—I wanted to be there for my kid, to be better than he was to me, and give my child a better life than I had.

“Ang and I don’t always, um… see eye-to-eye. We have our problems. I’m trying to make it work, but I’m just so,” the word catches in his throat and burns behind his eyes. He takes a deep breath, swallows, and admits, “I’m so scared it’s not going to work. And Ang will take her. And I’ll end up just like him.”

He clears his throat, then takes another wide, cleansing breath before starting again.

“The only things I’ve ever been any good at are being a soldier and being a dad,” he says, staring at the floor, “It’s hard enough only seeing her a few times a week right now. I fucking hate it. I hate not being there when she wakes up in the middle of the night with a nightmare, and not watching Happy Feet with her twice a day, and not cuddling on the couch with her in the morning,” his stomach clenches and he feels a swell of tears starting behind his eyes, but continues, “The only thing getting me through this right now is knowing that it’s temporary. But if it doesn’t work with Angie, and I lose Sarah, I lose fucking everything. And I—I fucking can’t do that. I won’t.”

Frankie buries his face in his hands and feels a sob bubble up his throat. The echo of his crying returns to his ears and he becomes acutely aware of the other people in the room. That hardened part of his brain scolds him, growling at him to fucking get it together. He pushes the chair out behind him and keeps his head down as he walks out of the room, muttering, “I need a minute.”

When your shitty old car pulls into the hotel parking lot, Frankie is still outside pacing, trying to gather the courage to go back inside and face the group.

He breathes a sigh of relief and starts towards it. You furrow your brow at him through your cracked windshield. When he opens the car door and sits down, you ask, “Why aren’t you in there?”

“It’s fine,” he frowns and pulls his seatbelt over his chest, locking it in place, “Got out early.”

You narrow your eyes at him, then scoff, “Bullshit. What happened?”

“Nothing—”

“Oh my god, Frankie, come on,” you cross your arms and lean back in your seat, searching his face, “You’re all flustered right now—”

“I am not,” he protests.

“You’re such a liar, you are flus-tered,” you blink at him with authority, raising one eyebrow, “All jittery, and your eyes look red—did you cry? Is that it?”

It’s irritating how well you know him.

He rolls his eyes and looks out the window, muttering against his fingers, “Can we just go?”

“It’s ok, you know, to cry,” you say quietly.

His leg starts bouncing and his jaw gnashes from one side to the other.

Like you’re one to talk.

Like you don’t go out of your way to hide from him every time tears pool in your eyes.

“Hey,” you coo and tug on his hand. He lets you take it, interlacing his fingers with yours. The contact makes his heart skip a beat. When he looks over at you, your brows are threaded together, earnest eyes searching his face, “You’re not the first person to cry in AA, I promise. They’re there to support you. Give them a chance to help.”

He glances up at the hotel’s exit and sees a few people from the meeting filing out, and shrugs, “It’s over now, anyways.”’

“Did you get your paper signed?”

“No.”

“C’mon, at least get credit for your work,” you smirk, squeezing his hand, “I’m sure they’ll understand why you left.”

He groans and scrubs a hand over his face, “Fine.”

“Atta boy,” you grin, “Do you want me to come with or do you got this?”

“I got this,” he flashes a weak smile, and has to hold himself back from bringing the back of your hand to his lips.

He unbuckles his seatbelt and gets out of the vehicle, nodding at a few familiar faces as he makes his way back into the building to the conference room.

In the room, a few people are putting away chairs or talking in small, quiet groups. David stands by the snack table, signing off on someone’s attendance form. Frankie lines up behind them and avoids David’s gaze when it’s his turn to hand over the attendance sheet.

“That was really vulnerable, what you shared with us today,” David tells Frankie as he unfolds the form.

His nostrils flare and he scoffs, “I thought I was supposed to share things.”

David frowns as he signs off on the paper, shaking his head, “It’s a compliment. Being vulnerable is good, and I appreciate your vulnerability.”

“Oh,” Frankie shifts his weight to one leg and frowns, “Thanks.”

“Yeah, of course,” David hands the form back, and when Frankie takes it, he can tell David is gearing up to say more. His face grows more solemn. He pushes the wire frame of his glasses up the bridge of his nose and says, “I know how conflicting it is being an alcoholic father with an alcoholic father. It’s hard to know if you’re doing the right thing. Being apart from them is hell, even if it’s when you’re doing something to make yourself better. I just wanted to let you know that I get it.”

Frankie nods, searching the man’s face, “Thanks, man.”

“No problem,” David flashes a polite smile, then turns to the snack table and starts picking things up.

When the two of you get home, Frankie goes into your bedroom to haul the TV back to its normal spot in the living room.

He finds himself lingering at the foot of the bed, staring at the side he slept in last night. At the covers, still drawn back from when he woke for work this morning. At the stuffed panda bear you set in his place at some point today.

My place.

He needs to stop thinking like that. It’s not his place. It can’t be his place.

Not permanently, anyway.

Part of him feels guilty for not leaving once you fell asleep. Staying was pure self-indulgence, no matter how many times he tries to convince himself it was for your benefit.

It can’t become a habit.

But all weekend he wanted to hold you. To feel your beating heart and shallow, wheezy breath against his body. Proof that you were still here, after seeing you gasping for air, lips tinged blue, eyes wide with fear.

In his life, he’s faced a lot of scary and uncertain situations. Situations that threatened his own life and that of people he cares about. But this… this was different. At least in combat scenarios, he had training and experience to guide him.

This weekend he felt powerless.

If he had to quantify the terror, he was at maximum capacity. Never been so fucking afraid in his life. He felt so helpless, he folded his hands and bowed his head at your hospital bedside, reaching out to something or someone in hushed whispers, pleading for your recovery.

So, no, he couldn’t bring himself to leave you alone in your bed last night. Not when you fell asleep in his arms, your head on his chest, curled up at his side.

The answer to his prayers.

When he was sure you were sleeping, he pressed his lips to your forehead and told you what he’s only barely been able to admit to himself.

In a million different ways, I’ve always loved you.

It was indulgent. Undisciplined.

But mostly, it was a relief.

Even if his words fell on your sleeping ears.

Even if he can probably never tell you again.

With a heavy sigh, he follows the TV’s power cord to the wall and unplugs it. He freezes when he spots something on the floor next to your dresser. You cough at the other end of the house, and he glances over his shoulder just to make sure you’re not around before he picks it up.

A pile of soft teal lace. Your underwear.

He brings them to his nose and inhales, the familiar scent inspiring a deep, heated churn at the base of his spine. Without another thought, he shoves them in the front pocket of his jeans, then unplugs the TV.

Frankie settles on the couch with a groan, then glances over to where you’re curled up into a little ball and asks, “Were you able to get some rest today?”

You nod and your mouth stretches into a yawn, then you murmur, “Still kind of feel like shit, though. Hopefully it’s better by Wednesday.”

“Oh yeah, how’re your kids doing?”

“Marla said they’re doing better, getting back to their normal selves. Em’s going back to school tomorrow.”

“That’s good,” he leans back and spreads out in his corner of the couch, “You like it, working for them?”

“Yeah,” you shrug, “They’re sweet kids. Whole different vibe than Sarah, though,” you glance at him and chuckle, “Don’t tell anybody, but she was my favorite.”

A grin stretches across Frankie’s face. He presses his fingertips to his lips and looks over at you, “She is pretty great, huh?”

“The best,” you agree, a wistful smile playing on your lips, “I hope that when I, um,“ you falter here, smile dropping. You clear your throat and shake your head, “Sorry, I lost my train of thought. Are you guys doing anything fun tomorrow?”

“Not sure yet. Angie, um… yeah, I don’t know,” he frowns at his knee as it starts to bounce, “She’s pissed at me. So probably, you know, dealing with that.”

“Because you skipped out on Saturday?”

He nods, and when you don’t say anything, he glances over at you, “It’s fine, though, she’ll get over it.”

“Sure,” you smirk, raising an eyebrow, “Have things been going ok outside of that?”

“Aside from the alcoholism, my pending felony, and the fact that I’m living with another woman?” he snorts, “Things are going great.”

“Don’t forget the affair,” you tease.

“Mmm, you mean the isolated incident?” he corrects, rolling his head on his shoulders to look at you.

You scoff and shake your head, “Wow. Yeah, isolated. Sure. Just a mistake, right?”

He searches your face, watching your eyes go dim and your jaw clench, and furrows his brow, “N-no, that’s not—“

You clamp your lips closed with your teeth, like you’re holding yourself back, then open your mouth anyway, “That’s what you tell her, though, right?” you blink, “It was a mistake, it meant nothing to you, it’ll never happen again, blah blah blah?”

His jaw hangs slack and throat croaks as he tries to yield some kind of truth that will both spare your feelings and help him evade scrutiny, “I’m—sorry.”

It’s all he can come up with.

You roll your eyes and sigh, then mutter, “Whatever,” before turning your attention back to the TV.

The silence that settles is tense. It writhes beneath his skin and trickles into his stomach, twisting it into knots.

You start to wriggle in your seat, like it’s bothering you, too. He can feel a jagged energy rolling off your body, and, predictably, you break.

“If you ever want things to actually work with her, you’re going to have to come clean,” you huff, then glare at him, “You know that right? That you can’t just lie to her forever? There’s no way she fucking believes you.”

Frankie sighs, picking his hat off his head to run a hand through his hair, “Can we not?”

“Sure, we can just not,” you snip and sit up straight, crossing your arms across your chest, “We can just pretend things are cool and groovy and you can get your life back and I can fuck off into oblivion.”

“Jesus Christ—”

“Well, fuck, that’s what you want, right, Frankie?” you stare at him, “You’ll be nice to me while you’re here, and cuddle with me, and hold my hand, and what the fuck ever, but when this arrangement is over, then what?”

“I don’t fucking know, ok?!” he snaps, then stands and starts pacing the living room, shaking his head, “I don’t know if—if I’m going to fucking prison, or if I’m going to lose my job, or if my wife will fucking divorce me and take my daughter away—”

Frankie stops and turns away from you, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. A few quiet seconds go by as he gathers himself and wrangles the burgeoning tears back into his skull. When he turns back around, he throws his hands out at his side, then lets them fall loose, “I don’t know what anything will look like after this,” he meets your glossy eyes, all wide and pained, and tells you in a hoarse, shaky voice, “Look, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being a fucking asshole to you for so long. I lied to you. I pushed you away. I fucking—I fucking hurt you and I understand that.”

He takes a few steps forward. Your eyes, pooling with tears, stay glued his, following seamlessly when he crouches down in front of you and pleads, “I’m trying to be better, I swear to god I’m fucking trying. I—I care about you a lot. And I’m sorry I can’t give you a better answer for what you and me will look like after this ‘situation’ is over with, because I have no fucking clue what anything will look like.”

You swallow hard and nod, then drop your gaze as your face crumbles. A sob bubbles up your throat and quickly devolves into a coughing fit.

“Ah, fuck,” he mutters, glancing around. He spots your inhaler on the coffee table and hands it to you, “Need this?”

You take it and inhale a few puffs of albuterol. When your breathing evens out, blink the tears from your eyes and croak out, “Sorry.”

He reaches up and smudges a fat, swollen tear on your cheek with his thumb, “It’s fine, sweetheart.”

A pained expression crosses your face. You lean away from his touch, so he sits down beside you as you exhale a thick sigh and look around the room.

“I understand why you wouldn’t tell Angie everything. I just—” one of your cheeks pulls in like you’re gnawing at the inside. You release it and tell him, “I just hate the idea of you saying we were a mistake. I don’t know. Is that dumb?”

Your eyes flick to his and they’re so sincere, his stomach flips upside down. He shakes his head, “No, that’s not dumb.”

“Ok,” you sniffle, nodding as you look at the TV, “Ok.”

A minute goes by, each second amplifying the buzz beneath his skin. He looks over and realizes you’re squished against the armrest of the couch, curled up in a tense knot of limbs, brow furrowed, biting at your lip.

“Hey,” he coos, beckoning you closer, “Come here.”

You give him this kind of pathetic, kind of cute pout, but accept the invitation. As he wraps an arm around your shoulders, you drape your legs across his lap, rest your head in the crook of his neck. He lays his cheek on the crown of your head and tucks you into an embrace.

Maybe it’s one-sided, but Frankie feels heat humming between your bodies.

The floral, minty scent of your hair, mixing with the musk of your soft skin, all dewy from humidity. Your breath rolling hot across the column of his throat.

You wriggle closer, and the weight of your body settles between his legs. Presses firm down on his half-hard cock.

His insides twist with a nagging, all-consuming want. The kind that usually fogs his brain when he thinks about booze. It claws at him like an animal caged within his ribs. Teeth bared, ferocious, growing: I need her I need her I need her

In the same cadence it always howls: I need a drink I need a drink I need a drink

The tips of his fingers scrape against your shoulder. A little whimper sneaks out your throat and drips down his spine. Your muscles shift and he can feel your lips hovering over his thudding pulse.

This is dangerous. This is a line. A tightrope teetering beneath the soles of his feet.

You breathe his name and it grazes his neck. His body surges with desire, cock throbbing, and he’s unable to stop the whine that croaks out his lips.

He looks down at you, meeting your darkened, heavy-lidded gaze. You study each other, but neither of you move, despite the palpable current of electricity between you.

“I—I should go to bed,” you whisper with little conviction, eyes darting to his mouth.

“It’s still light out,” he says, brushing the back of his hand against your cheek.

You shiver and your lips part, panting, “I need to clear my head—I’m… not thinking right.”

Frankie imagines you clearing your head in your bedroom with the door closed. Your fingers working between your legs, eyes pinched closed while you flip through the mental catalogue of all the times he’s fucked you.

“Can I come with you?” he asks, voice ragged, “I won’t—I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to.”

You search his face, brows pushing together, and nod.

This is stupid.

You both know it.

But he follows you to your room and closes the door behind him.

Sinks into your bed as you lay out on the other side.

You start slow, hands roaming the curves of your body. Over your tight tank top, no bra underneath, just the clear outline of your nipples. Along the middle of those little cotton sleep shorts he likes so much.

He keeps his distance, blood pounding thick in his skull, as you ruck your shirt up your chest and roll a hardened bud between your fingers. You whimper and bite down on your bottom lip, eyes locking to his as your other hand slips beneath the waistband of your shorts.

In his periphery, he can see the outline of your wrist flicking under the fabric, but he can’t part his eyes from yours. It’s entrancing. Your mouth opens in a moan, lips pouting out into a whimper as you start to gain traction.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he groans, pushing his palm against his swollen length trapped within the confines of his jeans, begging for attention. He unbuckles his belt and tugs his pants off. At the same time, you pull your shorts down. Some sort of silent trade agreement.

Frankie wraps his hand around his cock and drags his grip down, pulling the sensitive, aching skin taught. His palm is dry and rough as he starts to rut up and down, but the friction gives his touch an edge that makes him shiver.

You’re watching him do this while you trail your fingertips along the shiny ridges of your sex. Saliva pools in his mouth when he remembers what you taste like. Imagines his tongue tracing the soft folds of you.

Your hips buck and you whimper when you touch your clit. You roll the pads of your fingers against the engorged bundle of nerves, eyelids fluttering as you work yourself.

You both find a steady rhythm, panting and whining, glancing between each other's legs, hands, eyes. The increasingly frantic movements make your bed squeak.

The two of you are so lost in the haze of pleasure, Frankie knows either of you could suggest physical contact between your bodies and the other would immediately say yes, but this fucked up little loophole has you both blissfully dangling on the precipice.

He’s trying to keep his commentary to a minimum, but you’re driving him fucking crazy.

Your blown-out pupils watching him fuck his hand. The sheen of sweat lacing your skin. A thick, gleaming layer of arousal coating your pussy and fingers. He wants to lick it off of you, taste you, drive his cock inside you and feel that divine squeeze.

As his heartbeat starts to gallop and the fire in his belly laps its way up his spine, he pants, “You’re so fucking hot, holy shit—do you like this? Like me watching you get off?”

“Yes,” you gasp, meeting his gaze, working yourself faster, “I do, Frankie, I like it.”

His name on your lips is like an electric jolt to his insides. He groans, “Say my name again.”

“Frankie,” you whimper.

A wave of heat washes over him, “Fuck yes, that’s so fucking good, baby—say it again—”

“Frankie,” you moan, sinking two fingers into your cunt, a sick wet sound squelching out as you start to fuck yourself.

“Such a good girl, holy fuck, that’s it,” he grunts, pumping himself faster, lightning churning in his belly, “Gonna make yourself cum, sweet girl?”

You nod feverishly, face pinched up with pleasure, hips arching into your touch, “Frankie—fuck fuck fuck—”

“There we go, baby, you can do it,” he rasps, and watches as your movements come to a fever pitch, then your body starts to shudder and you belt out this strangled moan that pushes him over the edge.

Pleasure ripples through him and he grinds his fist down a few more times, pulsing his load all over his hand, across the bedding, a few splatters reaching your hip. He groans and slows.

His muscles start to melt. He throws his head back into the pillow, then rolls his head on his shoulders to look at you.

Your chest is heaving and you’re all blissed out, a hazy smile on your lips.

“You’re not gonna freak out, now, are you?” he pants, searching your face. He reaches over and gives you a playful poke to show he’s only half-joking.

You meet his eyes smirking for a beat before you chuckle, “I don’t think so, but—could you get my, umm—inhaler?”

“Yeah,” he nods and rolls off the bed.

When Frankie returns, you’re pulling your shirt down over your tits and propping yourself up on some pillows.

“Thanks,” you murmur, then take it from him and inhale a few puffs.

“You ok?” he asks as he rolls onto the bed next to you, wrestling a pillow under his chest.

A coy smile plays on your lips when you glance over at him, shaking your head, “This was really dumb.”

He chuckles and shrugs, “Probably.”

“Fuck,” you giggle, burying your face in your hands, “Frankie, why did we do that?”

“Because we’re big dumb idiots?” he laughs.

“Speak for yourself,” you snort, curling up on your side to face him.

“Sure, yeah, of course. You’re super smart,” he teases, pointing between him and you, “This is definitely something that smart people do.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” you push his shoulder weakly. After a few moments of comfortable silence, you say, “We’re never going to speak of this again, are we?”

He opens his mouth to make a joke and attempt to sweep it all under the rug, but stops when he realizes it probably warrants a conversation.

“Do—is that what you wanna do?” he asks instead, stammering, “Because we can, you know, talk about it if you want to.“

“I don’t know what I want,” you sigh, your face folding into a thoughtful expression. A few moments pass, then your eyebrows shoot up and you look at him, “Ok, this is a weird time to ask this, but, I meant to ask you earlier and forgot.”

He nods, “Shoot.”

“My sister is getting married over Labor Day weekend, and because I’m her bridesmaid and family and blah blah blah, she wants me to go stay out there for the week, and umm, I don’t know how that works with your parole and stuff—”

“Do you want me to ask Ralph tomorrow?”

“Well, yeah,” you meet his eyes, “But—but also, can you come with me?”

It takes a moment for Frankie to register the question, and when he understands, his mind starts whirring with uncertainty. Angie. Court. Ralph. Sarah. Prison.

“Not, like, as my date or whatever,” you add, waving your hand around nervously as you explain, “I just–I haven’t been home in years because my family is the worst and I—” you sigh, face pinching up as you admit, “I could use a friend.”

That makes up his mind.

“Yeah,” he answers, “Yeah, as long as I’m not in fucking jail by then, I’ll make it work. Let me… let me talk to work and Ralph, see what I can do.”

You give him a restrained smile and say, “Thank you.”

After the two of you decide to get dressed and watch a movie, he goes into his bedroom to change into a pair of basketball shorts, while you supervise a packet of popcorn in the microwave. Giving his closed door a quick glance, he pulls the bundle of soft teal lace out of his pocket and opens a dresser drawer to tuck them away, but pauses when his thumb grazes something damp.

His brows furrow, then shoot up as he unfolds the underwear and recognizes the slick substance coating them. He brings the fabric to his nose and inhales, confirming his suspicion.

You must have noticed them when he was getting your inhaler. And rather than taking the panties back, or saying anything to him, you cleaned your arousal off and replaced them.

He grins at the present, because that’s what it is, really, then shoves the lace into his dresser drawer.

“Daddy, look, that’s Mumble,” Sarah tells Frankie, pointing one chubby, blueberry-stained finger at a plastic baby emperor penguin.

Her collection of penguins is lined up on the edge of the dining room table, in order of smallest to biggest. She wriggles around on his lap, looking up at him with those big brown eyes, waiting for acknowledgement.

“That one does look like Mumble,” he agrees emphatically, “What kind of penguin is he?”

“A empreror penguin!” she beams, throwing her hands in the air.

“That’s right,” he chuckles, “An emperor penguin! How many penguins do you have?”

Sarah’s eyes light up at the exciting new challenge, and she turns her attention to the plastic figurine lineup, counting each one out loud.

Frankie glances across the table at Angie. She‘s glaring out the window, her arms crossed over her chest.

“Ang,” he rumbles, but she doesn’t respond. A hot wave of frustration weaves through his muscles and pulls them taught. His nostrils flare and he shakes his head, muttering, “Whatever.”

The dining room chair scrapes against the floor as she pushes it out and stomps out of the room, down the stairs like a petulant child.

Sarah stops counting and tells him, “Mommy’s mad.”

He chuckles softly at this and nods, “Yeah, I think so. I’m gonna go talk to her, ok, sweetie?”

Sarah resumes her counting when Frankie stands and sets her in the chair. He finds Angie in the laundry room, folding clothes with sharp, agitated movements.

“Can we talk about this?” he asks. She doesn’t acknowledge him, so he continues, “Angelica. Come on. You haven’t said a word to me since I texted you on Saturday. Please, just tell me what’s wrong.”

“The fact that you don’t know what’s wrong is exactly what’s fucking wrong, Francisco,” she growls.

He sighs and steps closer, leaning one hip against the washer, “As much as I would love to be able to, I can’t read your mind. So if you could help me out, maybe give me a clue—”

“Do you need me to spell it out for you?” she snaps, tossing the small pink t-shirt in her hands into a laundry basket.

His head jerks back and he scoffs, “Sure.”

“You passed up time with your wife and daughter to be with your fucking mistress,” she blinks, then throws her hands up in the air, “Is it really so fucking inconceivable that I’m mad about that?”

“First of all, she’s not my mistress,” Frankie asserts, crossing his arms, “Second, she almost fucking died, Ang, I couldn’t just leave her alone in the hospital.”

“So, what, she didn’t have anyone else that could come sit with her in the hospital?” Angie snorts, raising an eyebrow, “I was about to say she’s a grown woman, she can take care of herself, but,” she sucks on her teeth and flashes him a faux sympathetic smile, “That’s barely true, isn’t it?”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, rolling his eyes, then stares at her, “You know that’s not true, and—and no, ok? She didn’t have anyone else to sit at the hospital with her. None of her family made it out, she doesn’t have any friends. Her boyfriend didn’t even come to visit, so,” he pushes off the washing machine and pinches the bridge of his nose, then drops his hand and lies, “I felt fucking bad for her, that’s all. She couldn’t breathe and was all sick and shit, and nobody cared enough to visit her. It was, I don’t know, it was sad and I felt shitty about leaving.”

She seems to consider this, then gives a little shrug, “That is kind of sad.”

He nods, searching her face, dark eyebrows all scrunched together in contemplation.

“She has a boyfriend?”

He nods, “Yeah. They’ve been together for a while.”

Not exactly a lie, but he can tell a little truth stretching will bring this conversation to a more comfortable place.

“I missed you,” he says in a pleading tone, meeting her eyes, hoping she buys it.

She sighs, “I missed you too.”

The glint in her eyes tells him it’s safe to approach, so he does. He presses his lips against her forehead, closing his eyes as he murmurs, “I love you.”

When Frankie gets home, you and Rory are sitting on the couch watching a movie together. His arm is draped over your shoulders and you’re huddled in his lap, head on his chest.

It reminds him of how the two of you are when no one else is around.

His blood pressure spikes and heats his veins. You perk up as you notice him, putting space between your body and Rory’s. A nervous smile spreads across your face. He doesn’t return the smile, just nods in greeting as he closes the door behind him, “Hey.”

Rory looks him up and down, then turns back to the TV.

“Hey, how’s it going?” you ask.

Frankie frowns and shrugs, “Fine. What’re you guys watching?”

Your phone starts ringing before you can answer. You sit up and grab it off the coffee table, muttering, “It’s my sister, I’ll be right back,” then tiptoe through the house to your bedroom, leaving him and Rory alone.

Frankie steps on the heel of his boot and starts to wriggle his foot free.

“Hey, man, I wanted to tell you—thanks for looking after her last weekend.”

Frankie glances up at Rory as he kicks one boot off, then the other, “Sure, yeah,” then starts off towards his room. Rory keeps talking, though, so he pauses.

“When she didn’t respond to me for a day I figured, ya know…” he shrugs, staring at him.

Frankie frowns and shakes his head, “Figured what?”

“Figured she ran off with you, man,” he chuckles, but his eyes aren’t smiling. They’re studying.

Frankie snorts and brings his hands to his hips, “What, really?”

Rory stands and saunters over, looking the way you left to make sure you’re still occupied, then tucks his hands in the front of his jean pockets and shrugs again, “Seems like y’all are pretty close. She doesn’t really like to talk about you. Kinda weird for someone who’s supposedly a friend.”

What kind of macho man bullshit is this? Is he… flexing?

“Yeah, she’s pretty private,” Frankie searches the other man’s face.

“Y’all ever fuck around?” he asks.

Frankie jerks his head back and frowns, “Uhh, sorry, what?”

Rory doesn’t say anything, just lets the air between them grow more hostile, flicking his eyes around Frankie’s face like a challenge. One that he’s not fucking interested in taking. Christ, what a fucking mess that would be.

Frankie scoffs and shakes his head, “No, we don’t fuck around. We’re friends. Ok?” He holds his hands up and tries to soften his face, “So, take it easy, she’s all yours.”

Rory seems to relax a little, then says, “Alright.”

“Alright,” Frankie chuckles with amusement, “We good?”

“Yeah,” Rory grins, offering a clenched fist to Frankie, “Sorry, man.”

“Hey, don’t sweat it,” he bumps knuckles with the meathead and tells him, “You two have a good time, alright?”

Frankie retreats to his room and locks the door behind him.

Every muscle in his body starts to deflate.

His thoughts are fuzzy and loud.

He starts for his bed, but pauses, and turns instead to the dresser, thinking of that teal lace.

Today is one of those rare July days where it’s not just tolerable to be outside, it’s actually enjoyable.

A slight breeze rustles the palm fronds above. The sun kisses Frankie’s skin. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, inhaling the scent of a neighbor’s charcoal grill.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

He cracks an eye open to find you standing over where he’s laying in the hammock and grins innocently, “What?”

“WhAt?” you mock him and snort, but pull up a chair and drop your little wicker basket in its seat, warning, “Ok, well, you’re sharing the hammock, at least.”

“Come on in, the water’s fine,” he tucks a hand behind his head and watches you roll into the hammock facing him.

You wriggle around for an entire minute, and when he starts to giggle at your restlessness, you whine, “Oh my god, scoot over.”

“Here,” he murmurs, shifting his weight so you lay roughly hip to hip, hooking one arm under your legs, “Better?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. Your body calms.

Then it’s quiet.

And the silence isn’t anything but peaceful, really.

“This is good,” you say eventually.

He’s not sure what this you’re referring to, but he agrees, “Yeah.”

You point to the sky, “That cloud looks like a gator.”

Frankie squints upward, examining the fluffy cotton balls hanging in the electric blue atmosphere, “That one looks like a cloud.”

A snort erupts from your face and you lay a playful smack on his thigh, “Oh, come on, use your imagination!”

“Ok, let’s see,” he clears his throat and tilts the bill of his hat back to take in more of the view. Then one catches his eye. He points to it, “Butterfly.”

You follow his direction and murmur, “Oh yeah, look at that. Neat.”

He studies it for a while, watching the two wings tumble and morph as it moves across the sky, until it’s just another nondescript cumulus cloud. Then he turns his attention to the basket you brought outside.

The hammock wobbles in protest when he sits up and lays it across the middle ground of your bodies. Frankie surveys the contents of the shallow wicker basket: a baguette; a dish of soft, white cheese with a little spatula-like knife sticking out the center; a bowl of red grapes and sliced strawberries; a couple of mandarin oranges.

He rips off a piece of bread and spreads some cheese across the soft inside, then sits back and takes a bite. You do the same, topping the cheese with some strawberries. As the two of you eat in a content silence, looking up at the sky, Frankie starts to ruminate on the confrontation that is surely lingering on the tip of your tongue.

Neither of you have dared to mention how you got off together in your bed. Surprisingly, it hasn’t changed the energy between him and you. But he’s found himself wondering if he’s just oblivious and unable to sense your disquiet, like he has in the past.

And now, since it’s Family Dinner, State of the Union, or whatever Ralph calls it, he braces himself for impact.

“Alright, let me have it,” he says after he finishes his second chunk of bread, nerves getting the best of him, “Do you wanna talk about it?”

The hammock shifts unsteadily as you sit up and put the basket back on the chair, then you lay back and stretch out, releasing a heavy sigh, “Honestly… I kind of don’t know what to say about it. I—I don’t know. I don’t feel different or have any kind of strong feelings about what happened.”

Frankie hums and looks over at you, watching your serene, skyward face.

“What about you? How do you feel?” you ask, leveling your gaze with his.

“I feel… the same,” he answers, frowning, “Like I should have a strong feeling, but I—I just don’t?”

“Yeah,” you chuckle, shrugging, “Well, I don’t know, should we just… leave it?”

Relief washes over him and he nods, “I’m ok with that if you are.”

“Ok,” you grin, then look back up at the sky, “Anything else you need to get off your chest?”

Frankie rifles through his brain, pausing to think about Rory and the odd confrontation that happened the other day. It left a bad taste in his mouth. But, he shakes his head, “No. You?”

“I can’t think of anything.”

“Alright,” he inhales the blissful breeze that tickles his sun-warmed skin, then exhales, repeating your earlier sentiment, “This is good.”

[ Next Chapter ]

#designated person #frankie morales x ofc #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales #frankie catfish morales #francisco catfish morales #francisco morales #triple frontier fanfic #frankie morales angst #frankie morales fanfiction #triple frontier #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal

236 notes · View notes

darlingvernon · 2 years

Text

rain | kim mingyu

info ↠ fluff, clean

summary: mingyu growing a new fondness for being in the rain.

Mingyu sighed for the nth time in the past fifteen minutes as he stood under the bus stop waiting for the rain to pass. You were nowhere to be found, even though this was your idea. A part of him wanted to kick your ass for ditching him while the other wished that you were already in your dorms and away from the rain so that you wouldn’t fall ill.

He knew this would happen. Hell, the whole town knew it would happen; the weatherman predicted it after all. But, he ignored his gut feeling and he ignored his common sense. He always did — always caving in when it came to you. You were his best friend after all.

That’s not true. You were more than that. He’d known for a long time. He’d known from the start.

You were the love of his life.

The power you had over him was frightening. You had his heart in the palm of your hands and you could crush it at any moment if you wished. He knew it and he was sure that you knew it, too. Luckily, you had chosen to take care of it instead.

With a sigh, Mingyu made a move to sit on the bench knowing it would be awhile yet until he could leave, only to stand up again when he saw you running towards him from the corner of his eye. Cursing, he tore his varsity jacket off and rushed to meet you, sheltering you underneath it as he guided you to the bus stop.

“Have you completely lost your mind?” Mingyu asked incredulously. He was ready to scold you until you moved your drenched hair away from your face and beamed up at him. All he ended up doing was chuckling at the sight of you.

“Maybe,” you replied with a giggle. “Also, hello. Sorry I’m late. My damn English professor held us back again.”

“Maybe he was saving you from getting drenched,” Mingyu retorted as he wrapped his jacket around you to keep you warm.

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, please. If anything, he was stopping me from achieving my full potential. You and I both know that I could look much worse than this. I’ll show him.”

Mingyu laughed, wrapping his arms around you from behind before you could step foot in the downpour. “Oh no, you don’t,” he warned with a glint in his eye. “You’re going to get sick and I’d have to take care of your ass.”

“When have you ever complained about that?” you scoffed. “Unhand me at once.”

“No.”

“Kim Mingyu, don’t make me do it.”

“Your pout and puppy dog eyes aren’t gonna work this time,” Mingyu informed you and you rolled your eyes again. If he wanted a challenge, he would get one.

Mingyu knew that he had made a terrible mistake as soon as the words slipped from his lips. You accepted his challenge and he didn’t last two seconds before he unwrapped his arms from you. With a victorious smile, you gazed intensely at him — a gaze that knocked the air out of his lungs — before running back out to the downpour.

He watched as the water covered you immediately, your clothing clinging to your skin. You turned to face him and opened your mouth to say something but no words came out. Confusion graced his face and you took a deep breath to try again.

“Mingyu, there’s something I need to tell you.”

The rain was so loud, he could barely make out your words. “What is it?”

“I’m in love with you,” you revealed.

Mingyu could only hear the first word before the rain bore down harder, drowning out your voice.

“Listen, I can barely hear you. This rain is—”

“I’m in love with you!” you yelled as hard as you could, unsure if you should even have bothered because the rain was really coming down and there was no chance that Mingyu would have heard you.

Except he did. He heard everything. Every single word.

With his heart thundering in his chest, he allowed the words to sink into his heart before he made the decision to leap. Literally. Into the downpour. To make his way to you.

Rooted to the spot, you watched with keen eyes as Mingyu made his way to you — downpour be damned. His clothes and his hair stuck to his skin and you knew you’d never seen him so beautiful. You weren’t sure why he was headed your way after complaining so much about getting sick unless he heard—

Oh shit, he heard you.

Your flight response was about to breach the surface but Mingyu reached you just in time. Cupping your face in his hands, he made you meet his gaze. “What did you say?”

“You heard me.”

“Say it, again.”

“Mingyu, listen I—”

“Please.”

Clutching his shirt tight in your hands, you mustered all the courage you had inside you. This was your plan after all. There was no way you would back out now.

“I’m in love with you.”

“Finally,” Mingyu breathed out before crashing his lips against yours in a feverish kiss.

The rain continued to fall around you and whilst you should have been shuddering in the cold, you were basking in the warmth instead. The warmth that was radiating from his kiss. Unable to help yourself, you kissed him back just as fierce, even though you knew he still hadn’t said the words you wanted to hear back.

Tilting your head to deepen the kiss, Mingyu ran his tongue across your lips and you opened up to let him slip in. Your tongues danced with each other perfectly and Mingyu brought your body closer to him; a moan slipping from your lips from his actions.

Mingyu finally pulled away, resting his forehead against yours as he breathed you in. “I’m in love with you, too,” he confessed, chuckling against your lips, before kissing you again.

Mingyu realised then, that being with you in the pouring rain, wasn’t so bad after all.

241 notes · View notes

pikahlua · 2 years

Text

Katsuki’s trading card is Ruined and Izuku is mad about it: Wait a fucking minute is that the Second’s quIRK-?

Whacha lookin’ at, Izuku?

The card.

He’s looking at the card.

HE’S LOOKING AT THE CARD.

He has no way of knowing who is “dead” or not. He just sees everyone down basically. Mirio’s the one who spills the beans, but it’s AFTER Izuku’s wild reaction.

What the fuck is going on?

Oh you bet Mirio’s your ass I have an idea.

Katsuki had a plan

I maintain that Katsuki did not go in for a Hail Mary shot just because he got a quirk boost. He fucking knew what he was doing. Maybe he didn’t know if he’d take damage, maybe he did or didn’t plan to get hit, but he KNEW what the FUCK he was TRYING TO DO.

And Monoma’s reaction is my meta evidence.

TELL ME THAT BLASTY KID SUDDENLY CHANGED HIS ENTIRE PERSONALITY AND THREW OUT HIS CHARACTER ARC. GO ON. I FUCKING DARE YOU.

Dis bitch.

He only went into action after THAT THING HAPPENED.

“That thing” being:

1. Tomura was touching him

2. Tomura said the names of All Might, Izuku Midoriya, and Katsuki Bakugou while touching Katsuki

Katsuki is key to the plan to defeat Tomura

I was catching onto the pros’ weird behavior over Katsuki’s life quite a few chapters ago.

Yes, of course Aizawa cares about his student, but his wording in this scene is...weird. He immediately calls for Izuku’s whereabouts the second Tomura acknowledges the closeness between Izuku and Katsuki. Suddenly everyone is treating Katsuki like glass.

Edgeshot in particular said something that caught my attention.

“A life we can ill afford to lose.”

Sure, there is something to be said for the theme of heroes who are strangers to Katsuki finally acting like heroes and saving him when they really fucking should save him. But like...wow. I’m sure Edgeshot has had plenty of opportunities to save random civilians by sacrificing his own life, but he didn’t. He saved that last resort for this moment in spite of all his years working as a hero. What was so special about this particular life? What if Izuku, who apparently is key in their plan to defeat Tomura, dies too? Why wouldn’t Edgeshot save his power for the life that could potentially save the most lives?

Unless that’s exactly what he did.

From chapter 367:

"Right now, Edgeshot is taking life-saving measures for Bakugou-kun!! He will definitely be successful! We're fighting [based on] that premise!! We haven't lost anything yet! We aren't giving up!"

Isn’t this an interesting way for Mirio to put it? “We are fighting on that premise” and “we haven’t lost anything yet,” huh? Even if Edgeshot may be lost, they haven’t lost anything?

What if Izuku is freaking out because without Katsuki their plan (to save Tomura) can’t possibly succeed anymore?

Look at the focus placed on that card!

Where’s All Might?

Where the fUCK IS-?

...

FUCK.

Consider this

Katsuki goes in for...something. Something to forward their plan. Maybe to touch Tomura? Because he’s fast enough and can predict his movements for a moment? It doesn’t matter. He goes in.

He doesn’t plan on getting hit.

In fact, the only reason he gets hit is because, unexpectedly, TomurAFO senses a threat and panics. His survival instincts kick in.

As a result, he lands a hit on Katsuki right in the chest.

But.

We also see this at the SAME TIME Katsuki’s heart takes damage.

Either he knows he’s about to die.

Or.

He knows he’s about to lose his card, which suddenly is important when we the readers had no idea it was still important.

Tomura hit Katsuki with a deadly blow. He also ruined the card.

But what else did we see on that page?

Izuku has the same card.

The Second’s magical vanishing gauntlet

Why does the Second only have one gauntlet in these flashbacks when he has two in the vestige realm?

Maybe he gave the other to someone else.

Remember that Tomura has said All Might’s, Izuku’s, and Katsuki’s names?

What if the Second’s quirk creates connections between people based on their names...but the connection is maintained through paired objects?

What if Izuku was trying to use the Second’s quirk to get to UA faster because he also has his All Might card on hand.

He and Katsuki have the same trading card, and that would allow Izuku to activate the Second’s quirk to...get to Katsuki faster somehow.

Maybe All Might’s vestige IS IN THE CARD. Maybe it traveled to Katsuki via the Second’s quirk, and the cards are the travel points.

Maybe Katsuki and Izuku are trying to get one of the cards onto Tomura so they and/or All Might’s vestige can travel to Tomura’s vestige world.

And if Katsuki’s card is ruined, their plan can only now work if Katsuki somehow managed to meet the activation conditions of the Second’s quirk before the card was ruined. Or maybe ruining the card is PART of the activation conditions.

THE POINT IS

All Might’s vestige AND YOICHI, the FIRST and LAST vestiges in the OFA chain are currently unaccounted for!

KATSUKI’S CARD IS RUINED

AND IZUKU LOST IT OVER THAT

#my hero academia manga spoilers #I HAVE CONNECTED ALL THE DOTS WAY TOO MANY TIMES #meta #theory #second OFA user #second's quirk theory #katsuki bakugou #motherfuckin katsuki bakugou #izuku midoriya #get a fucking card sleeve you dweebs

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abbythewritor · 7 months

Text

"Fairness" One Piece x Saitama reader, eight.

"Just a Normal girl looking for an everyday life. At least, if you call sailing across the seas with idiots with useless dreams a simple task, then you might wanna see a doctor. Seriously."

Warnings: Blood, gore, mentions of Luekimia, and heaps amount of blood and strength. It might be a little cursing, but not bad, and maybe some flirting in there, but it's mostly clean.

Other things:

-You didn't get bald due to your powers; you got bald to an extreme illness.

-You part of the straw hat crew, but others are interested in you and your power.

-Everyone that is a male is taller than you.

-Monsters from the OPM world will appear in One Piece, and I'll make some new monsters you will fight.

Enjoy the eighth chapter everyone! :)

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I was stopped.

Why?

Well, the shit head of marines decided to bring out an army of Kumas, which were all in front of us.

It made me sick, as this man once was a human being, now used as a weapon for the fucking law of the earth.

The people around me, and throughout the world were shocked on how many they were are, their eyes like saucers.

But, I was more worried at Ivanka, who was fighting the main Kuma, who wasn't alive either, as both of theme stared each other down, Ivanka looking pissed.

"Is this the real one? The real Kuma?" A pirate asked. "I've heard from time to time that Dr. Vegapunk was trying to build a human weapon and was repeatedly sending prototypes to Various places." Another one spoke, which made the man beside him to be shocked. "S-So they're all weapons, but why do they all look like Kuma?" No one's question was answered, as a man with a monkey on his shoulder saw a familiar person who commanded the Kuma army at Sabaody; as he was talking into a snail, I noticed it too, as I realized what the marines were planning, and to tell you the truth, they weren't playing fair. "Shit.." I muttered, catching Luffy and Jimbei's attention. "What is it, Y/n?" the fishman asked as I turned to the two. "I know what they are planning; it's weird, right? First, they leaked the information; they moved Ace's execution to make us rush. Then, they slowly backed up and lured all of us, even the other pirates, inside of this place and blocked the bay head with Kuma copies to close the trap we are now in." Jimbei hummed. "I see, so this was all planned...." I nodded. 'Yes, but we need to be cautious; these robots look strong; Ivanka-san struggled to fight against one, let alone an army..." Luffy cracked his knuckles. "That man, my crew, and I encountered him at Sabaody, I have the urge to kick his ass-" I put a hand on Luffy's shoulder. "Not the time; you must save energy to rescue your brother." Jimbei nodded. "She's right, Luffy, let's focus on moving forward and retrieve victory on the battlefield-" "GET DOWN!!" Some pirates yelled as the three of us turned to the Robot Army, firing all kinds of lasers. Many explosions happened throughout the place. Pirates struggled to stand, their arms covering their faces from the dust and gusts that blew wildly.

As two lasers came out of the way, I blocked them from hitting me, Luffy, or Jimbei. When I landed, I saw the robots go to marine ships, not bothering to kill themselves. I felt angered while glaring back that way, whitebeard feeling the same as an annoyed look on his face. "They don't mind killing their own; what a bunch of animals..." As he looked back in front of them to Sengoku, he put his sword on the ground, the blade going into the wood of his ship. "DON'T BE AFRAID, GUYS! LET'S CHARGE THE PLAZA WITHOUT STOPPING!!" His brave words fired me, Luffy, and Jimbei up as we ran forward with his crew, taking down any marines that stood in our way.

Marco, who flew above us, launched towards oncoming marines, making a kicking attack as they spread apart like bowling pins, plopping dead to the floor.

I was amazed by his power, as the outline of fire surrounding the man looked like a bird, a phoenix.

His power went away as he looked down at the dead bodies as he landed. "Don't think we'll back down. I'll kill all of you to get to ace, Yoi."

His words made my heart flutter as the three of us ran past him, heading more to the platform; I jumped in the air, his arm extending down, as my body flew down, both hitting the ground at a robust pace, scattering more marines also, the same way Marco did.

But, no matter how many marines the four of us took down, they just kept coming, like a bee nest that got knocked down, the colony wanting to sting us for revenge.

As I struggled to keep up with them, my breaths became heavy as the dust was around.

Everything was like slow motion, as my hands went to my knees, exhaustion coming to me at the worst time.

Slight blood dripped down my head from slashes mixed with sweat, and my eyes looked dizzyingly around me.

Even though I'm basically vital and Kill things with one punch, I'm still human and have limits; if they keep coming like this, I might just pass out from exhaustion.

As Luffy and Jimbie went ahead, not knowing my uneasiness, Marines surrounded me. I panted heavingly, looking at them as they looked multiple, but in all reality, I was just seeing double the amount before my knees gave out.

As the group charged at me, thinking I was vulnerable, Marco flew over me again, attacking the marines with his fire. His foot slammed on the ground, causing them all to scatter, as it was the last batch of them so far. "Man, these marines are such a pain in the ass, HEY! Are you alright, Yoi?" He noticed me on all fours on the ground, breathing heavily as he quickly walked to me, kneeling down to my level as I nodded. "Y-Yeah, t-they're just too many of them. Sir, with all due respect, if we don't get to that execution platform in time, they'll just keep coming and coming.." I spoke, sitting back up on my knees as he grabbed something from his belt holster, as it was fresh cool water, as he handed me some. "Drink." I took it with thanks, as the feeling of cool liquid hitting my throat relieved me, as the PInapple man defended off Marines who tend to get close.

Landing back down, he smiled gently when he noticed I was still drinking. "All that fighting and punching you did wear you out, Yoi; I'm impressed with your power." Taking the bottle from my lips, I smiled tiredly. "Thanks...it comes in handy with fighting in wars.." I joked as he let out a snort. "Then you must have fought a lot of them. Are you a pirate, miss?" I shook my head. "No, actually, just a regular girl." I ducked as he kicked some marines away, his eyes widening with shock. "Really? Then how did you end up in Impel down, in this battlefield?" Sighing, I used all my strength to get up and took more steady, deep breaths. "Long story, but we should get to Ace before something happens-GAH!!"I knelt down, holding my side as it seemed Mihawk's sword created a wound from our battle a couple hours ago, as the pineapple man rushed to my side. "Hey! You're wounded! You can barely stand how do you think you can get close to Ace right now, Yoi!" My teeth gritted with annoyance. "I'm fine; it's just a scratch-" "It's not just a scratch, Yoi, it looks pretty deep. OI! BACK US UP WHILE I TEND TO HER WOUND!" Some pirates nodded, others gathering around us to form a circle as they fended off the marines as Marco set me down gently on my back. Lifting up my tee shirt, his eyes widened, the wound looking more terrible than he'd seen through your shirt.

Ace saw this on the execution platform, watching me down on the ground as it made his eyes widen and for Sengoku to form a small smile. "Guess the girl is down." He spoke, Ace not believing his words as his head looked to the floor, his lower lip trembling. 'No...not you too, cutie...first Oars....now you?! Why couldn't you just listen to me?!'

I took deep breaths, Marco grabbing rubbing alcohol from his belt as he took the blue cloth around his pants, ripping some of it and holding it against my mouth. "Bite down on it, Yoi, there will be pain." Nodding, I didn't have time to not trust him, as I took the cloth in my mouth before he opened the bottle of Rubbing alcohol. "Ok, ready? 3...2...1-" "NGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!" I let out a groan of pain, my back arching suddenly as the stinging was worse than I'd ever felt before. Marco cringed from my sudden cries, feeling terrible for me as they got louder and louder each time he put pressure on it, my teeth biting as hard as I could on the blue cloth in my mouth. "You're doing great, Yoi OI. KEEP THE DEBREE OUT OF THE CIRCLE!" He snapped to some crewmates as they apologized softly; Marco's snail responder rang, and he cursed before picking it up. "pops." "What are you doing? Why aren't you heading to Ace?" "The girl is down; I'm helping her." Marco's response seemed to make Whitebeard's eyes furrow the slightest. "What happened?" "Dunno, but the slash mark on her side is rather big for a normal sword." This made Whitebeard think as he looked around the battlefield, his eyes landing on Mihawk, who was fighting against Pirates, as he noticed something off about You.

The tip of it was gone, just above where the crack you made earlier. "Seems the brat had a run-in with Mihawk; check to see if fragments are in there; the rubber brat and Jimbei are still in pursuit; catch up when you're done." "Got it, Yoi." As the transponder ended, Crocodile still was trying to get to Whitebeard, as he heard the conversation, knowing the brat they were talking about was you? Letting out a pissed and annoyed sigh, he was done with Whitebeard for now, as he turned to the battlefield again, his eyes landing on your head, the only thing he could see, which was cringing and biting on a cloth from pain.

Not knowing why he cared when he saw you like that, he simply left, going away from Whitebeard as he headed in your direction, watching as more Marines took down some of the crew surrounding you. "Damnit!" Marco gritted, holding a small knife in his mouth as he tried to look for fragments, but the battlefield was too rumbly and dusty for any progress. "SAND WHIP!" A familiar voice yelled as crocodile whipped some marines out of the way, aiding the circle. As I gently smiled at the cloth as he turned. "Got yourself in a little pickle.." He spoke to me as his hand disintegrated some swords in people's hands, kicking the two marines out of the way. "Crocodile, Yoi," Marco spoke, still focused on finding the fragments. "What can I do, birdbrain...?" Marco sighed. "Why do you wanna help-you know what? Never mind, this area is too dirty of a condition and too unstable for me to fix her. Yoi, I need a secluded area to do my magic." Crocodile stayed silent, his eyes looking around, as his eyes landed on Buggy and Mister three ways in the distance as he turned. "Give me a moment." As he was fighting off some marines, he forgot Ivanka gave everyone snail transponder shells, which could attach to his ear.

It was an intelligent method, even though she knew everyone had different views and destinations of the war; if anything had gone south on Impel down, it was a way to communicate.

Sighing, he couldn't believe he was doing this as he pressed the shell in his ear. "Oi, Ivankov.." She heard as she dodged some of Kuma's attacks, and when he was recharging, she touched the shell. "CROC BOY!" "Bald chick is down; Birdbrain needs a secure area to fix her up." Her eyes widened. "EH?! Y/N GIRL IS DOWN?! HOW?!" Crocodile gritted his teeth with annoyance. "Don't get enough damn time to explain, I need mister three..." She looked at the man the crocodile was speaking. "Oh! You mean Wax-man! I see where you're getting at. Hold on-DEATH...." Crocodile cringed, taking his finger off the shell as he didn't want his ears to go wrong, and he pressed it again. "Ivan-" "He's on the way to you! Just ensure Y/n doesn't get hurt more; she and Luffy need to free Ace!" "Yeah, Yeah, I get it, protect the baldie..." With that, he let go, as Mister Three was close. "Oi, Mister three, took you long enough!" The man huffed and Puffed. "What do I need to do?!" Crocodile pointed to me and Marco. "Form a dome around them so the birdbrain can perform on Baldy." That's all that needed to be said; as he got in front of us, more marines came, and his hands went to the ground. "WAX....DOME!!!' He yelled as large amounts of wax came out of his hands, forming a rather large dome surrounding us three, preventing Marines from entering. "Huh...guess he's not useless after all..." After his words, Buggy was sailing across the sky, letting out a fearful scream as Crocodile looked blankly, not bothered to help as Buggy crashed in front of him, Mister One coming as well. "Mister One." Crocodile greeted. "What's going on? I heard the conversation on the snail." Crocodile and Him turn to the giant dome. "She's in there, doesn't know how long birdbrains will be." Both froze when a familiar YEHAWW! Sounded through their ears as Ivankov harshly landed in front of Buggy, who jolted up with a squeal. "D-DAMN YOU IVANKOV! YOU ALMOST KILLED ME TWICE!!" Buggy snapped as Ivankov stood elegantly. "OH! MY BAD!" "THAT'S ALL YOU HAVE TO SAY?!" She nodded simply, turning to the done. "OI BIRD BOY!? HOW LONG DO YOU NEED?!" Buggy's eyes widened with shock at her simple answer, his face turning red with anger until Marco called out. "Give me 20 minutes, Yoi!" Mister Three tilted his head while kneeling next to me. "Is twenty minutes really enough time? I'm not a doctor, but doesn't a procedure take forever?" Marco let out a sigh. "Yeah, but we don't have 'forever.' she needs to be up and running again, pops orders." Mister Three nodded. "I see; what can I do?" Marco smiled at him. "You've already done enough, Yoi; your friends must protect this dome." Mister Three nodded and stood again. "Right. GUYS! IF ANYONE THAT'S NOT A MARINE CAN HEAR ME! PROTECT THE DOME FROM THE ENEMY WITH ALL COST!"

Crocodile scoffed, not liking to be given orders from a lower level, but readied his sand as Mister One and Ivankov stood by him, forcing Buggy to help as well. Some Marines were surprised by this team-up but continued to charge. "On my word, we attack!" Ivankov spoke as Mister One and Crocodile nodded, buggy not liking the idea, but the three just ignored. "THREE.....TWO...." Everyone got instance, as Buggy let out a sigh of disappointment, as he got instance as well, knives coming from his gloves as the four looked forward, ready to protect you at all cost.

"ONE!"

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"DEATH WINK!"

"THOUSAND SLASH!"

"FIST KNIFE TWIST!"

"SAND STORM!"

Let me tell you when the Marines wanted you dead, they weren't joking.

Ever since you took down the giant and almost defeated Mihawk and Smoker, they legit called you a potential threat.

So, they were trying to hunt you down the past twenty minutes, as Marco was, you know, TENDING YOUR WOUND!

It was like gym class all over again, but this time, the enemy of dodgeball can ACTUALLY kill you.

Oi! Birdbrain, what's taking so long?!" Crocodile yelled, disintegrating a marine in the air, before chucking his heart at another one, causing the man to scream, as Mister One slashes his throat.

"SHUT THE HELL UP, LEATHER PURSE, THIS TAKES TIME!!" Crocodile scoffed. "WE DON'T HAVE TIME!! JUST BE DAMN GLAD WE ARE DOING THIS!" Marco let out a frustrated sigh as his dagger was held in his mouth, his fingers carefully going through your wound. There were many knife fragments from Yohru stuck in parts of your tissue as you let out loud groans of Pain while mister three was freaking out. "H-hey!" He muttered, Kneeling next to you, as he hated the painful groans you made, not knowing what to do.

Gulping soon, he then looked at Marco. "I thought you said you needed twenty minutes; it's been over thirty!" Focused, Marco glared harshly up at him. "It would have been twenty, but the damn rumbling and shouting is not workable for my taste; it would be easier if she was under sleeping gas." Mister Three looked back at you as sweat dripped down your forehead, the cloth from Marco's belt still in your mouth. "I wish there was something I could do..." he spoke, Marco slightly glancing up at him again. "Try to have her not move so much, Yoi; it would make this much easier." Mister Three nodded. "Got it, I'm sorry, Y/n, I must do this." He spoke softly, and you didn't care but just nodded as he gently held your shoulders, as Marco began working again.

Humming loudly with the pain shooting through your body, your back arched as Mister Three keeps your shoulders down, you not being able to move much as your teeth bit down on the blue cloth as hard as you could, your teammates still protecting the dome outside.

However, you didn't know how loud you were, as the battlefield heard when the cloth escaped your mouth, your high-pitched painful scream running through everyone's ears.

Luffy and Jimbei heard, turning as you weren't there, their eyes widening as they looked at a dome where the scream was coming from. "Y-Y/n!" Luffy yelled, wanting to return, but Jimbei stood before him. "Luffy! We must proceed!" His eyes widened. "No! Not with my friend hurt!" Jimbei stopped him again. "She will be fine! The others are with her; your Job is to get to Ace!" Teeth gritting, he looked back to the dome, his brows furrowing as he and everyone on the battlefield heard your painful screams. He didn't want to leave you, but you and he both knew that Ace had a time limit, as he had to move on.

Turning, he ran, heading to the platform, as his eyes were focused and determined. 'Don't die, Y/n-san.....we'll save Ace, and you'll join my crew! That's my promise!' He thought as Jimbei followed before the Camera cut back to the dome and the others, as Mister One and Crocodile scattered some enemies, their breaths getting heavier as Ivanka and Buggy were still with loads of energy. "They keep coming; they won't stop until Y/n is dead now that she's a threat." Crocodile's teeth gritted with annoyance. "I don't want to take care of another dead body. OI! WHAT'S GOING ON?!" He yelled to the dome, as my screams were getting louder and louder.

Marco tried his best to go as fast as he could without damaging any of my tissue as he was almost done getting the fragments out, Mister Three still holding onto your shoulders as he looked down at you. "Y/n! Listen to my voice! Your going to be ok; the pain will stop soon! Just think of how much ass you will kick when you get back up! Just think of saving Ace, this war ending, and what you'll do in life after this!" I screamed more when Marco put the danger back in my wound, getting more pieces as I still was held down. “Y/n! I know it hurts! But you have to fight through the pain! We can’t battle everyone without you! You say to everyone that they need fairness, but you need fairness as well!” I breathed heavily, more sweat dripping down my body, as I looked at mister threes eyes, as somehow, he made things less painful, as he nodded his head.

“That’s it! Just look at me, don’t think of the pain! Your strong! You helped us escape that stupid prison, now don’t let this scratch get to you!” As he kept talking encouragingly to me, his words made me push through, my heart racing as our eyes never left each other, as Marco got the last piece out. “Done!” He yelled, Mister three smiling down at me, as my head went back with exhaustion. “You did it Y/n! Good job!” He praised, as Marco set the dagger down. “Oi, candle man, can you create a seal over the stitches I’m gonna make?” He looked to Marco who was already putting string through your skin. “Oh, yeah, sure, smart thinking. Just hold on a little longer Y/n” he spoke, scooting closer to Marco as he gently laid your hands on your wound, creating a wax covering so nothing will happen to it, as your ears continued to hear the fighting outside, as you became worried the time will run out. “A-Ace..” I mumbled, which caught the attention of the two, Marco sighed. “Nothings happened yet, Yoi, don’t worry.” I sat up on my elbows when Mister three was done. “But I have to get to Luffy, he’s going to get hurt-nng!” Pain from the cut shot through me, as Mister three grabbed my shoulders. “Are you serious?! Y/n-San, you have a cut the size of A sea monster on your side and you wanna continue to fight?! I understand you want people to have fairness, but think of yourself!” He snapped, worried for your safety as Marco sighed. “He’s right miss, I don’t know you, but that wound won’t hold with his wax if you go out and be reckless. Pops gave an order to keep you alive-“ “I don’t care about that damn old prick!” I snapped, harshly glaring to him. “I wanna die knowing that someone didn’t share a fate of unfairness than to sit here, and watch the man who’s life has been fucked over something he hasn’t done. That’s what a heroes called, to save the people and keep fighting when you get knocked down. Someone taught me how to be like that sorry if it bothers your sorry buts.” My explanation made the two go quiet, as I started to get up.

“I appreciate your concern, but, I’ve dealt with worse than this. So, excuse my sorry ass, I have a person to save.” I blanket stated, soon punching a hole easily in the wax dome, a gust of wind blowing some marines back, as the four protecting you paused, turning to see you waking out.

Smirking, Crocodile looked to see your fist clenched, eyes blank as the battle stopped again, Sengokus eyes widening with you being up again.

Ace was shocked too, not believing your up and going as if nothing happened, as he sighed with full relief.

“Send all the fucking marines you want too me goat man!” I snapped, Sengokus teeth gritting with annoyance as whitebeard and some warlords smirked, Luffy giving you a bright smile, as of Jimbei, myself stopping as I pointed to the Admirals and Aces direction. “BECAUSE NO MATTER HOW MMAY TIMES I GET KNOCKED DOWN…”

“I WILL ALWAYS BE………”

Disappearing from my spot, everyone’s eyes widening, wondering where I went, before I teleported above where the admirals were, in front of the Giant green giant as I slammed on the ground, which broke under me, as I screamed harshly to them.

“ONE STEP AHEAD!!”

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Author: AHHHH!!! Another chapter done!! This one was just a filler to get the story going, I’m so excited to publish more you have no idea.

The fan art contest is still in session! If you want to enter, just send me a picture on the message are here on tumbler, and send me the two pictures required.

One: a picture of Y/n by herself.

Two: another picture of Y/n with any character she has met so far!

She can be any size or any race she wants, just no dirty or explicit content please, or you will be disqualified!

Anyways, I will be declaring the winner by the end of October, so hopefully I’ll see a lot of photos!

Anyway, have a good night and sleep well! BYE!!

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