#what really happened in peru

[brothersnackariahsbitch]

Catarina recounting Magnus’s drunken escapades in Peru is high key one of the funniest parts of the entire Shadowhunters series.

#the shadowhuter chronicles #the bane chronicles #catarina loss #magnus bane #what really happened in Peru

[i-have-not-slept]

Malectober Day 31: Golden

“Aren’t you going to tell me where we’re going?” Alec asked.

Magnus looked up from the Portal currently forming in front of him, blinking through the sparks. “It’s a surprise.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t you trust me?”

Alec smiled back. “Of course I do.”

“Good.” Magnus said. He held out a hand to Alec. “Come on. I’ll explain everything later.”

Alec took his hand and followed him through the Portal, trusting Magnus to guide them both to their destination.

They emerged onto a cobbled street in bright sunlight. Alec looked around, blinking, at the whitewashed houses, red tiled roofs and rocky brown mountains rising in the distance. The air was warm and smelled like baking bread and spices.

Alec glanced over with Magnus, who was looking at him with a small smile. “Where are we?”

“Peru.” Magnus said cheerfully.

Alec put his hands on his hips, frowning at Magnus severely. “I thought you were banned from Peru. Catarina and Ragnor are always talking about it.” He gave Magnus a suspicious look. “Are we going to have to run from the police again?”

Magnus put on an injured expression. “I resent the implication that I’m constantly dragging you into law-breaking shenanigans. I obtained special permission from the High Council of Peruvian warlocks to enter the country for an afternoon.”

“And they just gave you permission?” Alec said dubiously. “Just like that?”

“Well,” Magnus said slowly. “I may have mentioned that my husband happens to be the Consul of the Shadowhunters and he might not be entirely happy to hear that my request was denied.”

Alec burst out laughing and stepped closer to Magnus, wrapping his arms around him. Magnus leaned into him, nuzzling Alec’s cheek.

“I love you.” Alec murmured against Magnus’s ear. “But you’ve really got to stop using me as a political weapon to get what you want.”

“I’ll stop one day.” Magnus said happily. He kissed Alec’s cheek. “Now, Jace and Clary are watching the boys for the afternoon, so we can stay here until sunset. Come on.” He grabbed Alec’s hand and set off down the street, pulling Alec with him.

“Hey, wait.” Alec said, laughing. “Aren’t you going to tell me why we’re here?”

Was it his imagination, or did Magnus look slightly uncertain? “I’ll tell you later.” he said, squeezing Alec’s hand. “Promise.”

Smiling, Alec shook his head and let Magnus lead him towards the town square. He could put up with a little strangeness if it made Magnus happy.

Hours later, the sun was beginning to dip towards the horizon, and Alec still wasn’t sure why Magnus had brought them here. He wasn’t complaining, though, because every minute together had been wonderful. The town was peaceful, with small, brightly coloured houses and an old cathedral built of white stone that shone in the sunlight. They’d spent hours wandering through the streets, eating food from the roadside vendors, poking into cafés, museums, bookshops.

It was the sort of thing they didn’t get to do very often, time spent outside of home with no sense of urgency or responsibility, no mission to complete and no kids to watch. In Alec’s opinion, there was nothing better than doing nothing with Magnus.

The whole time, Alec had been able to tell Magnus was waiting to tell him something. As they wandered through the markets, Magnus kept giving him little sideways glances, and looking as if he was about to speak before changing his mind. Once it would have worried Alec, but not now. He knew Magnus would tell him when he was ready.

Now, as afternoon flowed into evening, they were hiking up a rocky hill overlooking the town. The path wound upwards through rugged scrubland, glowing gold in the light of the setting sun. Magnus was a few metres ahead of Alec, and he kept looking back at him with a little smile. Alec could tell he was building up to something, but he didn’t say anything, content with the gentle silence between them.

Finally they reached the top of the hill. They were on a flat, rocky plain overlooking the valley and the town below. The light spilled down the hillsides and flowed across the buildings like molten gold.

Magnus turned and looked over at Alec. His face was washed in golden light, making him seem to glow from within. Alec’s heart stuttered briefly in his chest at the sight of him.

“Okay.” Alec said. “Why did you bring me here? I know there’s some kind of reason.”

For the second time that day, Magnus looked hesitant, even a little apprehensive. He stepped closer to Alec, taking his hand and clasping it within both of his. Alec put his other hand over Magnus’. He could tell his husband was working up to some kind of confession.

“Why I brought you here.” Magnus murmured. He had his eyes fixed on their joined hands, like he was half-scared to meet Alec’s eyes. He took a deep breath. “Do you know what this town is called?”

“No.” Alec murmured. He rubbed his thumb over Magnus’s knuckles, feeling the warmth of his skin.

“It’s called Moquega.” Magnus said softly.

“Oh.” Alec said. The name sounded familiar. He thought he might have read it in the notebook of stories Magnus had given him years ago, when they’d got back together after their breakup. “Have you been here before?”

“Once.” Magnus said. He looked up at Alec suddenly, and his expression was more open, more vulnerable than Alec had hardly ever seen it. “Moquegua means “quiet place” in Quechua.” he said haltingly. “When I first came here, I— I didn’t feel comfortable or safe, because I felt— I felt like there was no quiet place in the world for me, and there never would be.”

He dropped his gaze again, gripping Alec’s hand tighter “And I felt like that for a long time. Like I always had to keep moving, and never rest anywhere. But then when I met you— you made me feel anchored. Peaceful.”

He looked up again, and Alec saw that there were tears brimming in his eyes. “I wanted to bring you here to tell you. I’ve never told you before and I wanted to tell you. You’re my quiet place, Alec.”

Alec’s heart broke open, sending warm light flooding through his veins. He wrapped his arms around Magnus, holding him so close he could feel his heartbeat. Magnus put his head down on Alec’s shoulder, shaking in his arms.

“Thank you for telling me.” Alec. He blinked back tears of his own, overwhelmed by a sudden rush of emotions, gratitude and joy and love. “You’re so— you’re so wonderful. You’re everything. I love you, Magnus.”

Magnus gave a soft, teary laugh and pulled away from Alec to look at him. “I love you too.” he whispered, and then they were kissing. Alec cupped the back of Magnus’s neck, closing his eyes, feeling his entire body sing. They held each other close on the mountaintop, in the wash of golden light.

#malectober #malectober 2022 #malectober22 #only took me six months to finish lol #malec #magnus bane #alec lightwood #magnus lightwood bane #alec lightwood bane #malec fanfic #tsc #cassandra clare #the shadowhunter chronicles #the bane chronicles #tbc #what really happened in peru #what to buy the shadowhunter who has everything #tsc fanfic #shadowhunters

[darcyolsson]

guess i am reading tbc now. forgot this book has all of the whimsy of early tmi and none of the high stakes and I cannot lie you know I love cc's writing best at her goofiest..... having a great time already

#ragnor my bestie beloved.... i have missed you so much #hes such a hater i love him #also magnus' characterisation in earlier books is so funny. hes like if a man were insane #vic reads tbc #what really happened in peru

[lalalilylulu]

"Do you think that eventually our kind becomes far enough removed from humanity that we transform into creatures that are untouchable and unlovable by humanity?" Magnus asked.

Ragnor and Catarina stared at him.

"Don't answer that," Magnus told them. "That sounded like the question of a man who doesn't need answers. That sounded like the question of a man who needs another drink. Here we go!"

#magnus bane #the bane chronicles #what really happened in peru

[tkingfisher]

I have a question I just thought of. I remember reading that the potato is something that you can discuss at length. I'm curious about the Irish potato famine (as it's called by many people) of 1845 - 52. The potato blight killed a whole load of potatoes, and blight warnings are still a thing today. But... honestly, why? Was just one variety of potato grown? If not, wouldn't different varieties have resisted? The only thing I'm even remotely familiar with is Panama Disease, which is killing off Cavendish bananas because they're all genetically identical - was that the case for the potatoes being grown at the time?

Oh boy. Okay, this is a huge complicated topic and I can only do the Cliff Notes version and even that is absurdly long, but here we go.

The cause of the Irish Potato Famine were, in order:

A) the British

B) the British but moreso

C) still the British but also capitalism

and

D) monoculture

I am not nearly so equipped to talk about A-C as many, many other people, so let’s talk about D.

Now, the humble potato is frankly one of the most glorious products of agricultural science ever created, for which we must thank the indigenous people of Peru, who produced some goddamn geniuses at potato breeding (and also figured out how to freeze-dry potatoes centuries before Idahoan.) The Incas had literally thousands of potato varieties, every size, shape, color, growing condition, right down to sacred potatoes only for consumption by the royal family. They did seriously epic shit with a weird little tuber, a feat perhaps only surpassed by the geniuses who made corn out of teosinte.

Quite a long time later—by which I mean about ten thousand years after the potato was domesticated—the Irish were growing a potato variety called the Lumper. It was a big, coarse, ugly-ass potato which apparently didn’t even taste that great. Irish farmers had other potatoes that they liked a lot better! But the Lumper had three things going for it—it gave huge yields, tolerated nutrient-poor soil, and it didn’t mind wet feet.

(Wet feet is the gardening term for plants with their roots in waterlogged soil. Most potatoes do not actually like wet feet and will rot. But the Lumper was fine with it, which meant that basically you could grow the things in poor soggy soil, which large swaths of Ireland had in generous supply.)

Because of a whole lot of really abusive shit by various landowners, a lot of Irish people ended up dependent on the Lumper for their diet, and I mean dependent. You can live for a really long time on cow’s milk and potatoes if you have to, and a potato that would produce massive yields in crappy wet soil was a godsend. So you had vast areas that were planted with just the Lumper. (There are some reports that other, better-tasting potato varieties were grown for the landlords, but while the workers dug them, they were not allowed to eat them. I can’t speak to the truth of this or not, but it’s definitely worth looking up a full history of the socioeconomics of the famine, if you ever happen to be feeling too good about the world and want to be crushed.)

Unfortunately, the Lumper has one other significant trait—it is extremely vulnerable to potato blight, a disease caused by Phytophtora infestans, which is a weird little thing called an oomycete. It’s more like a fungus than it is anything else, but it’s actually in a separate kingdom called Chromista. (Currently, anyway. Taxonomy is where idealistic young scientists go to become old before their time.) Nevertheless, for our purposes, let’s just call it a fungus. (Also, Chromista is a great name for an alicorn in My Little Pony.)

P. infestans loooooves members of the Solanum clan, which include tomatoes and potatoes. This love is not returned. In a tomato, it’s usually called late blight, in a potato, it’s potato blight, no matter what you call it, it’s bad news. It likes damp, cool conditions, and of course Ireland is basically one big damp cool condition, so once the blight got established, it was in heaven.

Blight on a potato takes about five days from start to finish. This sucker is FAST. One day there’s a blotch on a leaf, next day there’s some whitish stuff under a leaf, then the tubers are suddenly turning black and mushy and stink to high heaven. You may even think you got a good tuber and put it in storage and then you open the door to the root cellar and the whole bin has rotted practically overnight.

The spores can spread by wind, and once it landed on a potato plant, all it needed was like two days above fifty degrees with high humidity, and it was off and running. And it gets in the soil. But worst of all, it lives in the tubers themselves.

Potato cultivars, for those who don’t know, are almost always a clone of the parent. All Yukon Golds are basically the same Yukon Gold. You pop a tuber off a plant, you pop it in the ground, it grows another plant just like the first one, asexual reproduction at its finest.*

Now, potatoes can and do set seed, but there’s some variation even in a seed with two parents of the same variety. Two Yukon Golds might give you Yukon Goldish. Mix up multiple varieties and you don’t always know what you’re gonna get.** (I have grown potatoes from mixed seed and thus made my own cultivars, it’s fun, but the results are wildly variable. Some don’t set tubers at all, some contain high levels of solanine.***)

If you want specific, uniform varieties that all perform the same way, you probably use the tubers. More importantly, tubers start growing right away once you wake them up, whereas potato seedlings can be finicky and often won’t do anything impressive the first year.

To make matters more confusing, the little tuber clones are referred to as seed potatoes.

Anyway, back to the blight. Everybody was growing from little tuber clones, which could be infected with the blight. This means that if your seed potatoes are infected with blight, even if they look fine, if you plant them, your whole crop is infected. The minute you get a cool wet day, the oomcyte wakes up and goes to town. And if you leave an infected potato in the ground, it infects everybody else—and if you’ve ever dug potatoes, you know that you always, always miss one.

Well. The blight came, it hit the Lumper, and it spread like wildfire. The Lumper grew in the wet conditions the blight loved, and was also really susceptible to it, so it was a match made in hell. There were potato varieties even then that were more resistant to the blight, but they were tiny islands and a sea of blight was washing over them daily, so they eventually succumbed. Even if you planted a different potato, if it was in soil that had previously held the Lumper, it was likely doomed.

This is the problem with monocultures. You plant all one variety and it’s susceptible to some particular bug, when that bug hits, you have no fall back position. And potatoes, being more or less clones, are even more vulnerable than most seed-grown crops, and this bug is particularly nasty and the spring of ‘45 was exactly the right weather and the British government was being particularly evil and ultimately a million people starved to death because of a perfect storm.

The Lumper still exists. Somebody turned up some heirloom seeds back in 2008 and grew them out, and what they got is probably pretty close to the original. Being seed grown, it doesn’t carry the blight. It’s an ugly, watery, kinda waxy potato that even its champions think tastes sorta okay, I guess. Cultivariable, one of the few sources I can find, says that in addition to not being resistant to blight, it’s not resistant to anything else either, and there’s not much point in trying to grow it unless you have long dry summers and no local blight.

And that is the saga of the Lumper, the blight, and why I personally always plant at least four varieties of potato.

* There’s some subtleties here, but for layman’s purposes, we’ll go with this.

** It’s actually way complicated, but this is already hella long.

*** Same stuff that makes green potatoes toxic. Super bitter, so you know right away it’s inedible and spit it out. We still refer to taste-tasting the new crop from seed as “the Potato Suicide Pact” but it’s not actually dangerous.

#gardening #potatoes #potato famine #long #agriculture

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

hiiii, can i request what would happen after reader flashed tan during an argument?

hii angel!! yes you can !! continuation from this thank you for requesting, hope you like it💌

AFTER FLASHING TAN.

so so so…

im thinking that he'd open the door and see you lying on the bed, minding your own business. maybe playing on your phone

and he'd just be standing in the door frame, unamused and trying to get your attention without saying anything. but bc you're teasing him, you know what he's up to, so you ignore him. mindlessly looking at the weather app on your phone

he'd walk over to you on the bed, taking your phone from your hand to put it on the nightstand (also he'd look at the screen and see what you were looking at, but he'd conceal any reactions. mentally applauding you for successfully toying with him)

"weather app, really?"

maybe you'd shrug, saying how you were seeing how hot it is in peru. JUST TO MESS AROUND WITH HIM

he'd lean over you, trying to kiss you but you tilt your head away, shielding it and saying how he can't kiss you til he apologises. his brows would narrow

"say you're sorry and admit you were wrong first. then you can kiss me."

"for what?"

"fine, then don't kiss me."

you'd just be playing with him, trying to see how long it takes for him to admit and apologise

"sorry. can I kiss you now?"

"no."

"why?"

"say it like you mean it. that was pathetic. there was no heart in that."

"really?"

"really."

"i'm sorry."

"nope, try again."

"i'm sorry, my love. I was a dick and I was wrong."

then you'd just smile and kiss him, saying, "good. and yes, you were."

would probs play out like that. then maybe some makeup sex

#ask #yonlyssguts #tangerine #tangerine x reader #tangerine headcanon

[alpaca-clouds]

Try to learn about the old foods

I have most recently started to meal prep, with making a lot of foods and putting them in the freezer. This ended up allowing me to buy the foods in bulk from the local market. And, well... This allowed me to eat some of the foods that the supermarket does not have.

We do have a bit of a problem. And that problem mostly is that we got our food kinda messed up. Because people have lost the connection to the food they eat. But also because of colonialism.

The big thing that happened is, that we lost contact with most local foods. No matter where I go in the "first world nations"... The foods offered to me in the supermarkets are the same - and they also look the same.

This means that a lot of people have no real idea, what foods came from where in the world - but also do not know half of the foods that originated with where they are from, because they are not easily available.

Tomatoes are an example. Not only did historical tomatoes look and taste very differently from the tomatoes we eat today, but obviously... they came from the Americas. So they are not a food that originated with Europe and was not widely available in Europe until the 1600s. While, yes, the first tomates came here more than a hundred years earlier... it took a while for them to catch on.

This is parsnip. Another root vegetable that was commonly eaten in Europe for most of history. It has a more intensive taste than the usual carrot - but is also not that different from it, when it comes to consistency and how it is going to cook.

This is fennel. You might know fennel seeds as a spice or something you might drink as a tea. But the rest of the plant is edible, too, and a surprisingly strong flavored vegetable. It also is very crunchy and makes a really great addition to salads. But it is often not really sold in many places.

This is the Jerusalem Artichoke, another vegetable that originates within the Americas. To be exact, this is the root of a kind of sunflower. It got its name for being very similar in taste and tecture to the Artichoke. I honestly do not know, though, why it is called "Jerusalem Artichoke", because it does not have anything to do with Jerusalem.

The Potimarron is a kind of squash that - like basically all other forms of squash - originates in the Americas as well. It has a very nutty flavor. In Europe it was very popular in France for a long while, hence the french name. It has tons of meat and really makes for great stews!

This is a rutabaga, which originates from somewhere in northern Europe. We do not really know from where. All we know is, that it was a Swedish botanist who cultivates the form we still eat to this day in the 1620s. Which is why it is also called the "Swedish turnip". It does taste like a more bitter carrot, but makes really good addition to stews or can be served stamped.

This is the Chinese Artichoke and another root vegetable, that as the name suggest originates from China. It was cultivates in China in the late medieval period and has later made its way to Europe, especially France. It has a really sweet and nutty taste and can be eaten raw or in salads. Though there are dishes mashing the vegetable, too.

These are tigernuts, a vegetable that has been around forever. It originates in southern Europe, southern Asia and northern Africa. It is a dried fruit, with a sweet and earthy taste and it is known a lot in Spanish cuisine, but also in the cuisine of southern Asia.

Yacon is a root vegetable that originates with Peru, where it is still eaten, while the rest of the world mostly forgot about it. Well, except Japan, where it is currently getting more and more popular. It is a vegetable, but it has a very fruity taste.

I could now go on and name more vegetables from all around the world that were once grown and fed people, but got forgotten more and more in favor of the very limited diet made up of potatoes, corn, potatoes, peppers, cucumber, onion and tomatoes, that is basically what you will get to eat in most places.

And... Well, the thing about it is that... It is not really a good thing that we grow the same stuff everywhere. It is not good for us and it is not good for the environment. It is not good for those foods, either.

I really wish people would try and eat more of the stuff that originates with their region. And that they would eat the not-so-perfect looking foods as well. Because it is gonna be more sustainable in the end.

#solarpunk #food #vegetables #fruits #farming #agriculture #history #food history #sustainable living #sustainability #colonialism

[canonicallyobserving911]

Buck & Eddie: Eddie KNOWS Buck!

The title of episode 7x5 is "You don't know me" (it could change) and when I read it, all I could think about is something I haven't been able to forget since 6x4 aired. It was Buck’s conversation with Connor and IMO, it was weird and superficial for REASONS I might explain in a future post.

Anyway, Buck's overall arc in Season 6 was about him trying to be at ease while not making the same mistakes (which started at the end of 5x18). In 6x1, he wanted to be interim captain, then he went on to search for happiness in 6x2 followed by his decision to be Connor's sperm donor in 6x4 and that led to the comment included in the scene below, "I know those things about you". But the question is, does Connor really know Buck? 🤔

Reminder, based on the things that were shown in CANON in 4x5, Buck and Connor never really knew each other. They were acquaintances who met while they were in Peru and that was after Buck left Hershey when Maddie told him to "Go and be happy". During their conversation while Buck was bartending, Connor "suggested" Buck move to L.A. with him and the guys he knew because they were "kind of like a family". It's important to note that Connor said it after he stopped listening to Buck while he was trying to explain something to him.

Who always listens to Buck? EDDIE!

Now on to Season 7.

In the recent TCA interview, with regards to Buck’s self-discovery journey, OS commented that Buck’s sperm donation for his friends "hasn't necessarily played in any kind of conscious way so far" within the first 5 episodes (see below).

So the question is, could Buck tell Connor, "You don't know me!" in a conversation about the baby in 7x5 and it have something to do with Buck’s self-discovery journey? It's possible since as mentioned above, Connor doesn't really know Buck. Let's be real... when Connor reappeared they hadn't seen each other in three years and the attributes Connor mentioned about why he asked him to be his sperm donor instead of him going to a sperm bank aren't necessarily HEREDITARY.

Reminder, Buck likes to make things about himself and he likes to fix things. Therefore, the way things played out in 6A made it seem like he was making things about himself with the sperm donation too.

Here are a few of the comments that have been said to Buck and about him by his family.

In 3x1 and 3x2 (they replayed some of the scene from the end of 3x1 at the beginning of 3x2), Chris said, "You're going to be ok kid" after Buck told him he hopes he finds a job he likes and somethimg that makes him feel like he matters when he grows up. This happened after Buck quit the 118 but before the Tsunami.

In 3x6, Hen told Bobby, "I think Buck makes everything hard on Buck. The boy has two settings... zero and shut up before I smack you". They were discussing Bobby letting Buck work again after the lawsuit.

In 3x9, Eddie said, "So we're making this about you again?" while they were in the kitchen after Buck apologized for the second time following the lawsuit.

In 3x16 Chimney said, "So it's all about you?" when Buck was telling the team about Red.

In 3x16, Maddie said, "So you don't think this business with Red is hitting a little too close to home? A lonely hero firefighter who's pining for his lost love."

In 4x5, Athena said, "You never give up, that's what being Buck means to me" after he stayed in the warehouse fire against orders.

In 5x4, Eddie said, "You're the guy who likes to fix things" after Maddie and Chimney left.

In 6x11, dead Bobby said, "Aww kid, if what matters to you most is the way people see you... then you haven't learned a damn thing" in Buck’s coma dream.

They all know how Buck likes to make things about himself and at various points, they've said it in some form or another. Family won't hesitate to tell the people they love the truth unlike those who want to get what they can then leave like Connor did. And that's one of the reasons why I think Buck didn't talk to anyone about the sperm donation because if he had, they would have told him the truth. He did talk to Hen and even though she didn't discourage him, she did caution him about the possible ramifications of it except he was adamant about doing it and he wouldn't listen to the universe when it kept screaming at him.

Does Connor know Buck? NO!

The person who does know Buck is EDDIE!

Eddie not only knows him, HE SEES HIM! He also listens to him, he takes care of him and he's the one who's been there for him. In 6x1, he helped Buck see another side to Bobby's decision about interim captain. In 6x6, Eddie was the one who reassured him that Karen would be fine without a spleen. The list goes on and on but 9-1-1 made it a point in Season 6 to show the GA that NO ONE knows Buck like Eddie does and that continued even in 6x15 when Buck said that BS about ND seeing him.

No one believed it and it's possible Buck didn't believe it either.

The point of this post is that Buck’s breakdown may finally happen in Season 7 and it might have something to do with the sperm donation 👀.

Reminder, he didn't have one in season 6 even though he died and I think all of these things are related and could lead to it.

If Buck does have a breakdown, who's going to be by his side? EDDIE!

The same way Buck was by Eddie’s side after Eddie’s breakdown.

I said I wasn't going to speculate and I hadn't planned on it but I have so many thoughts about what could trigger Buck’s breakdown and I've been debating whether I'll post them. But I just might now that everything seems to be pointing in that direction.

Will Buck finally breakdown in season 7? Only the showrunner, writers and producers know the answer to that question.

#buddie #eddie diaz #evan buckley #911 abc #911 on abc #911 meta #911 spoilers #911 speculation #911 season 7 #911 season 7 speculation #911 season 6 speculation #buck's breakdown 911 #evan buckley character study 911 #anti connor and kameron #oliver stark #ryan guzman

[andavs]

Drinking Preferences in 9-1-1

Quick note: All of this is free from paid product placement because the show doesn’t have the characters interact with/drink real alcohol brands. They only use real brands for set dressing when they aren’t the focus and wouldn’t really be recognizable unless you already know that bottle/label.

So Maddie and Chimney have Grand Marnier and Monopolowa vodka (real brands) sitting out on a bar cart but the one bottle anyone interacts with is the fake brand of Glencallan scotch. The bar Chimney worked at was fully stocked with real brands of vodka (Deep Eddy, Stolichnaya, Tito's, Absolut) but no one actually touches them.

The fake prop brands fall into two categories: totally fake and generic, and lookalikes.

The totally fake brands are things like Glencallan scotch (a mashup of Glenlivet and Macallan) or the piscos behind the bar in Peru. Buck has Meichtry Draft beer in his fridge, which is a common prop beer that other shows use too, and a lot of characters in the show drink the generic Genuine beer.

The lookalikes are things like the beer Buck serves Connor that's called Cerveza Extra but it's written in a similar font to Corona Extra so to the passing glance, it’s recognizable to most people as a real brand they’re familiar with. When Buck and Hen are doing shots, the tequila is Carlos Medina Especial, made to look like Jose Cuervo. (Judging from the bottle shape and back label, Buck and Taylor were also doing shots of a different fake Jose Cuervo.)

Because they aren’t restrained by product placement, the show can give the characters their own drinking preferences instead of having them all drink the same brand with the clearly visible label conveniently turned towards the camera.

And because I was watching anyway, I kept track of how many times each character drinks what. (Scenes that show them drinking and what they're drinking, not counting up every drink they've had.)

So as of 6x12:

Chimney

Beer: 15 | Wine: 9 | Spirits: 4 | Cocktails: 0

Chimney seems to prefer beer, and he also drinks wine with Maddie pretty often. His go-to spirit appears to be tequila, but he also had scotch while his dad was visiting.

When he’s hanging out, he has a beer or two.

When he's misery-drinking, he has more than two, like when Albert first showed up or when he felt responsible for letting Shannon die.

When shit’s going down that he's not directly involved in, like when the Buckleys were coming or when Karen thought Hen was cheating again, he goes for tequila. It's a fake Don Julio called Señor Suertes.

But when things were really wrong, when Maddie first left and he was falling apart trying to figure out what happened to her, there was no evidence of him drinking at all. The entire apartment was covered in baby stuff.

Maddie

Beer: 2 | Wine: 18 | Spirits: 0 | Cocktails: 0

Maddie almost exclusively drinks wine, and in their new house, she and Chimney have a small, full wine rack on the counter.

She first drinks a beer after dispatch was taken hostage, when both Chim and Buck are also having beer but Josh is having wine. She seems to have another beer at May's graduation party, but everyone's drinks are in plastic cups and look more like juice than their usual prop beverages.

She stops drinking through all of s4 (pregnant) and doesn't seem to have another drink until the balcony with Buck at the end of s5.

Athena

Beer: 2 | Wine: 26 | Spirits: 4 | Cocktails: 3

Athena drinks the most out of the main characters.

She usually drinks wine, but she'll also go for something stronger, usually when she's out at a bar. She often has a glass of wine with dinner, and seems to favor having one after a rough day. After she slapped Harry, she drank a neat whiskey at home. She's added whiskey to her coffee twice.

But like Chimney, when she's spiraling and obsessively cleaning the entire house after realizing Hudson was in there touching their belongings, she was totally sober.

Bobby

Beer: 0 | Wine: 0 | Spirits: 3 | Cocktails: 0 | Club Soda: 2

Obviously Bobby doesn't drink, but when he was struggling with relapsing in Starting Over, he was holding the same prop Glencallan scotch that Chim has. When he did relapse in Worst Day Ever, he was drinking a fake Jack Daniels. In Point of Origin, he was drinking a generic vodka.

(Interesting that he chose a 35 year scotch, which is not cheap, when he previously drank Jack, which is about $25.)

When he's out with people who are drinking, he usually goes for club soda or water.

(The same scotch being used for Bobby, Chim, and Buck could be intentional, but this is also a common fake scotch brand used all over the place, so it could just be that they had it on hand.)

Hen

Beer: 9 | Wine: 11 | Spirits: 1 | Cocktails: 1

Hen is mostly seen drinking beer or wine; beer when she's out at a bar, and usually wine when she's at home or at Athena's. Hen and Karen have a full wine rack in their kitchen (added after s4), but clearly neither one of them will turn down tequila (I like to think it’s Chim’s influence).

Eddie

Beer: 13 | Wine: 5 | Spirits: 1 | Cocktails: 0

Eddie generally sticks to beer. He's also the one we see drink the least out of everyone who does drink, but Maddie's only one scene ahead of him.

We've seen him drink wine a few times (always red) and he also had a cognac or brandy at dinner with Shannon (judging by the type of glass). But when he's most comfortable and relaxed, having a drink with Buck or the team, he's drinking beer.

We don't see him drinking after a rough day unless he's talking things through with Buck over a beer. If he keeps anything beyond beer in his home, it’s kept out of sight. There was no visible alcohol in his house in Texas either.

Buck

Beer: 12 | Wine: 11 | Spirits: 6 | Cocktails: 2

Buck is pretty evenly split between beer and wine.

He worked as a bartender, but he doesn’t seem to have much interest in alcohol beyond having a drink with other people. This makes me think he wanted to bartend for the social aspect of it, not because he particularly cares about spirits or making cocktails.

Buck also doesn't seem to care about the quality of what he drinks. Chimney's go-to bottle is about $40-50, while Buck's doing shots of bottom shelf tequila with Taylor and Hen, and drinking a full pint glass of watery margarita with Lucy. (This man should stop drinking tequila.)

The first time the Buckleys all have dinner together, Phillip has scotch and Buck has wine, but the second and third times, Buck opts for scotch with his dad. These are the only times we've seen him drink scotch, so I assume he did because his dad did.

The only time we've seen Buck drink alone was while he was depressed after the blood clot, as there were a few empty beer bottles scattered around his kitchen when Eddie showed up, and he was sitting with an empty beer bottle when Eddie and Chris came by after the tsunami.

He has a small wine rack on the kitchen counter that has a few bottles in it, and occasionally there's a wine bottle grouped with the olive oil/other cooking bottles.

Random Observations:

Buck and Eddie didn't have a beer together on screen until 3x9, the Kitchen Scene.

Athena frequently drinks wine at Bobby's apartment in s2. They keep alcohol in their home (out of sight) and he has no problem pouring wine for others.

I'm pretty sure that the only time we saw Buck drink in all of s1 was (trying) to have a glass of wine on his date with Abby.

Hen and Athena almost always drink wine at each other's houses. I think they only had beers once.

Anyway, I think prop alcohol is really interesting and I have a passion for label design, and this is what I've chosen to do with that. Hopefully I didn't miss too much.

#guys i think eddie might be a lightweight #and his wine nights with karen are in jeopardy #unless she decides to educate him about wine which would be excellent #911 fox #911 #911 meta

[kiwisbell]

Security Details: Chapter 2 [frankie morales]

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

chapter 1 | chapter 2

pairing: francisco "catfish" morales x f!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni)

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

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

word count: ~ 9k

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

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

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

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

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

“And you got on the boat with five.”

He’s beginning to understand. “Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nah, see, now I know you're lying.”

“What the fuck are those?”

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

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

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

She gasped. “Don't tell me…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hates that she has to be here. 

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

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

~

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

“No.”

“Frank—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He huffs. “We’re not… arguing.”

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

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

He's always been a bit of a worrier. 

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

He fucking will. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit.

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

“You really wanna know?” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He lets himself laugh. “Even in winter?”

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

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

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

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

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

“We do not need those.”

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

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

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

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

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

Your life deserves to be celebrated. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She's laughing. 

Why the fuck is she laughing?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only he isn’t there. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Frankie.” 

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

What if he hurts her again?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you,” he says. 

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I want you to show me,” she says. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it, baby?”

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

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

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

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

“Baby…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, please.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He does. Of course he does. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck—yes!” she gasps. 

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

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

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

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

“Ohhhhh… Frank—fuck, I can’t… fuck!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My big strong man,” she giggles. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He lets her sleep and watches until he follows.

~

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

She's yours. 

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

Wake me up however you'd like. 

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

I dreamed about you. 

Maybe she still does. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE END.

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

[putaposyinyourhair]

Slowly but Also Like All at Once

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7

noah diaz x mirage (they’re… y’know 💅)

warnings: mirage keeps flirting like an asshole and noah’s still in his feels but it gets tender

arcee shows up (and you know she should come with her own caution label)

“So, um…” Noah pauses for a second, to think on his words before he says them aloud. “You look good.”

He physically flinches away from his own words— from his own stupidity— and squeezes his eyes shut, not able to stop himself from reaching up with both hands to dig his knuckles into his eye sockets.

Fuckin’ idiot.

But Mirage just chuckles at his expense and Noah forces the embarrassment away with a deep breath.

“I meant like— you look… new,” he tries to correct, even though it still sounds wrong. “How’d that happen?”

“Oh, you mean how’d they get humpty dumpty back together again?” Mirage drawls.

Noah shifts in the sand, pulling away from Mirage’s side— where he’s been resting for a while now— and turns to sit cross-legged in the sand, staring up at the bot.

Mirage is looking up at the sky. The stars are starting to disappear behind dark clouds but the moon is still shining brightly over the water, its light reflecting off of Mirage’s silver face plating.

“Yeah,” Noah alludes, curiously.

Mirage glances down at him, frowning softly for a moment— such a quick little moment that Noah barely catches it— before he shrugs.

“OP spent like ten weeks in the Mojave looking for one of our medics who crash-landed there,” the mech reveals. “Ratchet. Dude’s usually such a buzzkill but… he’s good at what he does. I’ll give him that.”

Noah’s brows arch.

A medic? A new autobot?

“How many of you are there?” he asks before he can stop himself. “On Earth, I mean.”

One side of Mirage’s mouth tugs up into a sly smirk and Noah rolls his eyes before the bot can even reply.

“I told you already, boo, there’s none like me,” he declares pompously.

Noah reaches out and attempts to shove at Mirage’s thigh guard, uselessly because it does absolutely nothing.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Noah tells him. “You’re one of a kind.”

Mirage sits up, grinning.

“You better recognize!”

Noah barks out a short laugh.

“You a one of a kind dumbass,” he snickers softly.

Mirage reaches out to poke at his chest playfully and Noah tries to bat the digit away fruitlessly.

“Yeah, but you missed me,” the mech teases. “You already admitted it. No take backs.”

Noah doesn’t know why the words pull such a visceral reaction out of him, but they do. The happy smile drops from his face and he swallows drily.

“I did, man,” he concedes, fisting the material of his jeans in his hands. “I really fuckin’ did.”

Mirage moves so fast, it almost scares the shit out of Noah. The mech reaches out and suddenly Noah finds himself settled on top of the bot’s lap, pressed against his chest plates with one of Mirage’s servos cradling his back— well, the backpack strapped to his back anyway— whilst the other gently presses Noah’s face into the junction between his helm and his shoulderpad.

They’re… hugging?

Noah feels kind of frozen solid for a minute, unsure of what to do in this strange new situation. Sure, he’s been… inside— for lack of a better word— of Mirage before, in different modes of him too. And Noah doesn’t think either of them are strangers to physical proximity, after all they’d stuck pretty close to each other the whole time in Peru.

But this is something else. Something… more.

It’s nice though. Really nice.

So he relaxes into it.

It’s warm. And he can feel that same hum emanating from underneath the bot’s plating, like a low-frequency vibration that seems to soothe and calm something deep inside of Noah— he’s almost tempted to call it his soul, as corny as that fucking sounds.

Noah’s face feels more heated than usual.

“You a hugger, huh?” he mumbles, reaching up to run a few fingers against the glossy metal edge of that baseball cap-esque piece that rounds the back of Mirage’s helm.

This close, Mirage smells faintly of motor oil and something else Noah suspects must be alien in origin because he decides there’s no earthly scent he can compare it to. Not any that do it justice anyway.

Mirage’s digits move against the back of his head, digging into his curls as the mech’s chest plate’s rise and fall with a small stutter.

“For you?” he sighs. “Always.”

Noah’s eyes widen, his jaw clenching.

And his heart is fucking… fluttering. He really hopes his friend can’t feel it.

Something’s wrong. With him. Or with Mirage.

Noah doesn’t know what it is. But this is…

It is weird. Or, maybe not weird. Weird isn’t the right word for it.

“Mirage.”

Noah pulls away from the mech so fast, a yelp bursting out of him as he nearly tumbles off of the bot’s lap— he’s sure he would’ve gone sprawling into the sand between his friends’ outstretched legs had it not been for Mirage’s servos keeping him upright. He reaches out and grabs onto one of the bot’s gauntlets.

And before he can look away— to locate the source of the newcomer’s voice, a newcomer Noah is pretty sure is Arcee— he looks up at Mirage.

Oh.

Mirage’s face is doing… something. The mech’s optics are darker than usual— not glowing as bright a blue— and the silver metal just beneath his optics is tinged with a bluish hue, something Noah’s never seen it do before.

Noah doesn’t want to assume but it almost looks like a—

“Aww, Arcee, why you scarin’ my boy like that?” Mirage whines out, throwing his helm back like an unruly child who’s been told he has to eat all the vegetables on his plate. “His heart’s beating so fast!”

Okay, so Mirage can feel his heartbeat when they’re this close.

Wonderful.

Noah huffs— mortified but unwilling to admit it, even though his cheeks feel so flushed he probably looks like he could be doing an impression of a tomato— and reaches back to gently push away the servo Mirage has at his back.

“I wasn’t scared,” he grumbles, grunting as he steps down from Mirage’s lap and back onto the sand. “Jus’ surprised… that’s all.”

Arcee steps closer, smiling softly as she glances between them for a moment.

“Sorry, Noah,” she has the decency to apologize. “I really didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Noah waves her apology off.

“Nah, seriously,” he stresses, reaching up to grab onto the straps of his backpack. “I wasn’t scared or nothin’.”

Yeah, he kind of was. But he was mostly embarrassed.

Was it normal for cybertronians to hug humans? To hold humans the way Mirage was holding him?

Arcee isn’t giving him any indication. So maybe it’s not as big of a deal as it feels to Noah.

The femme fixes her gaze on Mirage, one optical ridge arching as both servos rest at her skirt plates. Her lower body cocking to one side as she watches the blue and silver bot rise off of the ground, raining sand down all over Noah who groans and steps away, reaching up to sweep it off of his head.

He’s definitely going to need a good, long shower later to get all that sand out of his curls.

“I said I’d cover for you for a couple of hours, Mirage,” Arcee points out, then mimics glancing down at a watch on her gauntlet in a very human-like way. “It’s been six.”

Noah’s eyes widen, glancing down at his own watch quickly.

Six hours? Oh, he definitely missed dinner. His ma’s gonna kill him.

It’s nearing sunrise already.

“It’s time,” Arcee emphasizes. "Optimus will not be pleased."

A sharp wave of what can only be panic rushes through Noah. It’s so quick, engulfing him from head to toe. He feels exactly the same way he’d felt when he’d had to stand there and watch Mirage be taken away. He thinks he makes some kind of tiny strangled noise.

The overwhelming sensation leaves him blanched and breathless.

“Arcee!” Mirage chastises, dropping to one knee beside Noah. “You’re not helping.”

Noah feels a couple of his friend’s digits slip underneath his chin and he lets the mech tenderly lift his face so he’s looking up into Mirage’s now bright blue optics.

“W-what is she talkin’ about?” he manages to squeak out, despite the dread that feels like it’s got a physical hold of his heart in his chest.

“It's nothing bad!” Mirage swears, holding his other servo up, palm out. “I promise.”

Noah swallows the lump in his throat and exhales shakily.

“Okay,” he yields. “Okay, sorry.”

He feels kind of stupid about his reaction, childish, and pulls his chin away from the mech's digits. But he doesn’t look away.

Mirage gives him a look that Noah thinks translates as sheepish, before he stands, optics flickering about for a moment like he’s struggling to make himself meet Noah’s unwavering gaze.

“Okay, so, uh,” Mirage stammers, reaching up to rub at the back of his helm with one slightly twitchy servo. “Well, you see, what had happened was—”

Arcee huffs.

“Ratchet has yet to give him the all clear so Optimus expressly forbid him from leaving," she reveals. "So of course he snuck out of the medbay without permission to come see you tonight, Noah.”

Oh. Yeah, sure.

Noah’s heart doesn’t feel like it’s swelling with joy and about to burst out of his chest or anything.

He’s totally like… chill about it.

#noah x mirage #norage #noah diaz #mirage #mirage rotb #transformers rise of the beasts #transformers rotb #mirage x noah

[brothersnackariahsbitch]

If I don’t find out what Magnus did to get banned from Peru by the end of TWP, I will be rioting

#the shadowhuter chronicles #magnus bane #the bane chronicles #the wicked powers #TWP #what really happened in Peru

[valexformula1]

Electricity - DR3

Request: No

Summary: Reader and Daniel being fools for each other but not confessing after Daniel heard Lewis is gonna ask reader out

Pairing: Daniel Ricciardo x best friend!reader

Word Count: 1323

Warnings: little sad and fluff, house moving, Daniel and reader being a pair of fools for ice cream, cursing

Author’s Note: Inspired by the song electricity of Silk City, Dua Lipa. Don’t be a ghost reader, it took me a while to write in it.

1996

At your 7 years you got to move from your country because your father got a job offer at Perth, Australia, you got to admin it was scary at first, moving from Peru to Australia was not easy especially when it was a different idiom, people, school, basically everything. Your mother died when you were 4, so it has been you and your dad only until you meet him.

Your dad was a mechanic engineer, and he was working at the Australia track when you meet him. 

It was a very hotness Wednesday when you were looking around for your dad since you got lost looking the other cars when suddenly him bumped you, a pretty boy with big brown eyes and a cheeky smile.

“Sorry, I didn’t see where I was going” 

“Sorry too, are you okey? ” he said cheking on you to see if you were fine

“Yep, I’m y/n by the way”

“I’m Daniel, nice to meet you” he said shaking hands with you “Come on, let’s go for some ice cream” 

Before you could answer he was already running and holding your hand, so you could follow him.

Since that you and him start to hang more and more becoming best friends, you attending to his races and him been for you in every broken heart.

2011

When I'm with you

Ooh, baby

Giving up my ghost for you

“Gosh Daniel, I’m so proud of you debuting for F1” you said

“What you think about the race?” he replied

“That someone is getting an F1 seat soon” 

“You really think so?”

“Absolutely, you’ll see”

“Thanks, changing theme” he said looking behind you “where is Michael?”

“He isn’t coming, actually he isn’t coming anymore we split out, think it wasn’t meant to be”

“What? Why? You okey?”

“Yep, we just wanted different things” you said trying to recover the reality “come on let’s go for some ice cream” you said grabbing his hand.

The truth was that Micheal want to call it quits since he saw how much time you spend with Daniel and you attending to the race and cancelling your date 3 days before was the straw that broke the camel's back. 

He told you that it was clear you and Daniel were in love, so he broke up with you, you didn’t agree with him saying that you got a thing for Daniel when it wasn’t he was your best friend that was all.

2021

All I see is you, lately

Wide awake and in my dreams

I see your face so vividly

I don't know what I'd do

Ooh, baby

If you only saw a friend in me

I'd be bittersweet

That casual kiss on my cheek would have meant nothing up until recently, every time that you saw, hug or touch Daniel there was a feeling, a feeling in your stomach.

This started to happen since that GP 2 years ago when he wins, you watch him get off the stage to hug you and since then you could stop thinking about him. 

Now you weren’t dumb you knew what it meant, but it didn’t matter, today you decided to give it a shot and tell him after the race. 

“Hey Dan, congrats on p4” you said after entering on his driver's room

“Thanks y/n” okey it was now or never

“So, I want to tell you something” said both of you

“Go ahead” he said

“No, you” you said thinking he would say what you think it was, was it that he felt the same? He also likes you ?

“Well, I meet this pretty girl yesterday and I ask her to go on a date tomorrow” he said smiling

After that you learn that online date apps were not that bad at all.

2022

I know you've been treating, treating yourself wrong

So let me care for you

Ooh, baby

I'ma love you differently

I'll give you electricity

“Hey, you wanna grab some ice cream?” you said to him after he opens the door of the hotel

Everybody knew Daniel wasn’t having the time of his life this season with Mclaren treating him like shit.

“Thank but not in the mood” he says a little sad

“What’s wrong?” you could feel something was not fine

“Imleavingmclaren” he whispered 

“What?” you replied confused

“I’m leaving Mclaren y/n” he said more loud this time with tears in his eyes

This past few weeks Daniel was the center of attention on the paddock but not for a good reason, everyone wanted to know where he was going to go or do after the news. Daniel started to push everyone, fake smiling all the time, there wasn’t that smile that you saw years ago anymore, he started to lose weight and cancelled to your friend dates.

“Daniel, talk to me” you beg, this week you found out Daniel wasn’t eating

“I am fine”

“No you’re not, you being skipping foods” 

“Just wasn’t hungry, that’s all”

“What about our Wednesdays of ice cream that you seem to skip now” you replied a little angry now

“Busy”

“Daniel Joseph Ricciardo stop it, I know you since we were 7, and I know you are not fine, and it’s okey not being fine sometimes” you said now hugging him

“It’s just too much for me right now, I feel like my life doesn’t matter anymore, I feel lost” he cried

“You’re going to be fine, let me care for you ”

2023

I feel electric, baby

So electric, baby

Wanna let you know, let you know

I think I'm ready, baby

I think I'm ready, now

It was the Australia GP and you decided to go see it with Daniel, that night at the hotel he started to feel better, it has been a tough way, but now he was the third driver of Red Bull Racing, and he had enough time for Wednesdays of Ice cream.

“Hey Seb, how retiring treating you?”

“Very good, where is your lovebird?”

“Not my lovebird”

“Come on y/n, you two are bound to one another, you always have been, and I know he feels the same” 

“Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t think he feels the same way” you replied

“Who? Daniel?” said Hanna joining the conversation “he is a fool for you” 

“Yep but y/n says he is not” Seb said telling his wife the context 

“I even thought you were dating, there is no way he doesn’t” she said

“Yeah, well he doesn’t” you said 

Max has won the Australia GP, and you’re at the hotel getting ready for the party when you heard a knock.

“Hi Dan” you said opening the door

“So I heard Lewis want to ask you out” he says while entering to the room.

What? Lewis? I mean he was cute, well hot, but you were more into a certain Australian “Really? Who you kn..” you couldn’t finish because you feel his lips against you. 

“Before you said anything I just want you to know I’ve always liked you, from the first moment I saw you at that Wednesday when we went to eat ice cream, and you order vanilla, and ever since that day I have hidden my feelings because I didn’t want to lose you, but now I heard Lewis want to ask you out, so I have to risk now because I know him, and I know that if you say yes to that date I will lose you forever so here I’m telling you everything and hoping you feel the same way y/n”  he lower his head as he finishes saying that, not wanting to look your reaction but instead of a push he feels your lips again.

“That means you like me too?”

“Of course you fool”

He started to smile, grab your hand and run while yelled “Come on, let’s grab some ice cream to commemorate this moment” 

#daniel ricciardo imagine #danny ric #daniel ricciardo #daniel ricciardo x reader #daniel ricciardo x you #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine

[qxldnya]

ENEMIES TO LOVERS

Part 1

Jude Bellingham x baller!reader

(ongoing series)

Sypnosis; it is clear that you and jude aren't very fond of eachother but what happens when both of you need to make a mutual deal?

Wc: 500

Warning: swearing, wall pinning:), jerk jude? (ik he is a sweartheart irl)

A/n: there's unfortunately a lack of enemies to lovers fics on jude so i decided to take matters in my own hands, yw;)

It had all started with one stupid mistake that snowballed into a complete catastrophe.

Because, you know, it seemed like that was the common trend with your life nowadays. You'd been in the common area, sketching a few mindless doodles after training when your mom had called.

For a brief moment, staring at your vibrating phone with a scathing hatred, you'd considered just letting it go straight to voicemail.

This would mark the... seventh? Eighth time this week? That she'd called to ask about the same fucking topic.

It was never, "Hi sweetie! How's it going at the club?" or "Honey! Are you feeling ok?"

Picking up the phone, you're met with the same line you've grown to memorize over the course of the past month or so.

"Have you found a plus-one to the wedding yet?"

The question has you pondering whether or not it would really be a bad idea to just discreetly smash your phone into the brick wall next to you. Repeatedly. So you can't take any calls for the rest of the month.

So fucking tempting. Instead, you just turn the volume up, pressing the small buttons a bit too hard in your small fit of annoyance. It's just quiet enough to not disturb the other students across the room, but loud enough so you can continue to sketch comfortably without having to put the phone to your ear.

Plus, no one's sitting close enough to hear you anyways. The cause of this whole plus-one fiasco was a result of your Aunt Sylvie's wedding.

Had it been under normal circumstances, you'd have merely taken a Friday off for classes and driven down to the chosen venue, had a grand time, and been back by midnight.

These were not normal circumstances.

Because your aunt has never affiliated with anything that could be filed under "normal circumstances."

Why? She's loaded. Like. "Vacation homes in Peru" loaded. Oh, and famous, too. One of the most successful football managers in your country, to be precise.

An elite coach, she got you to step a foot in the football world at a young age and teached you everything you know. And you commended her for it, you truly did.

The occasional "gift" of joining almost any club you wanted was always proved to be a welcome perk of being her sole niece.

And she was truly a good aunt to you; overall, a very sweet woman with some fat stacks of cash. And maybe a bit of a controlling streak.

So it wasn't too surprising that she got engaged soon after her rise to fame, to another baller. Nor was it very surprising when they'd announced their wedding details: a fully paid wedding destination trip to none other than the Bahamas.

For an entire week. At first, you'd been absolutely psyched. College loans meant vacations of any sort were always out of the question, so this was some sort of god-sent miracle to rest your fatigued brain.

She'd reserved rooms for all the guests at one of the most luxurious resorts, planned numerous exciting activities and events throughout the week such as snorkeling and jet-skiing, prepared top-tier food accommodations - everything. Quite literally the experience of a lifetime. And you were certain the wedding ceremony was going to be absolutely beautiful as well.

There was only one catch. Every guest needed a plus-one

As in a romantic partner plus-one. Some bullshit about couples activities, photo symmetry, and singles proving to be too costly by taking up more rooms - apparently even the filthy rich needed to worry about budgeting sometimes.

To be honest, you didn't completely understand it. But hurrah! Your mother had come to save the day! By trying to set you up with fucking Tom. The son of a long-time family friend, whom you'd quickly grown to despise.

He was just... not it. At all. If you had to use one adjective to describe him, it would be slippery. Because he's as greasy as he is deceiving, you think to yourself sourly as you tighten your grip on your phone.

You'd had one too many bad encounters with him that just teetered on the edge of being socially unacceptable enough to warrant him a ban from family events.

But he was smart enough to take note of that, and often just barely toed the line around you, hence why your parents didn't see anything wrong with trying to get you two together for the wedding.

Despite your numerous protests and refusals, of course. Your mother's voice in your ear reminds you that you've forgotten to respond, and you just sigh, pinching your brow.

You'd tried getting a plus one! You really had! But it seemed like despite the whole "all expenses paid vacation" bait you'd used to keep any potential candidates on the hook, no one really felt like coming along as your romantic partner.

Especially not after one date. With a girl they met on Tinder. Fuck! There's a good chance you've been placed on a list for suspected organ traffickers at this point.

"Honey?!! Your mom asked again.

You don't want to cancel on a luxurious trip like this, but also, the thought of having to share a room with Tom, let alone act like his date, is enough to make you reconsider. Who knows what that creep would try to pull?

And then the doors to the common room open and in walks the infamous quartet that seems to be known everywhere across camp: James Reece, Trent Alexander Arnold, Phil foden, and of course, Jude. Your training partner for the upcoming World Cup.

"Honey? Did you find someone to be your plus one??" Her pitch rises a few octaves with excitement. For some reason, you're not really paying attention, just looking at the group, and specifically, Jude.

Man, fuck that guy.

"Uhh..." is all you can respond with, still distracted. And to be honest, you're not sure why.

He seems to be in a foul mood like always, teeth grit as he lets out a slew of insults towards his friends, who merely laugh good-naturedly in response.

And for a brief moment, he turns towards you. Your eyes meet, his crimson irises seemingly studying you intently, before he just curls his lip and turns away. Bitch. You scowl back at him. Out of everyone you could've been partnered up with, it had to be him.

Despite your best efforts or admittedly, failures he'd - turned down any prospect of friendship, or even a simple truce between the two of you, which had made this past season difficult.

Especially with partner duality as we call it where we basically have you compete with our partner. Those were awful to deal with. A small voice reminds you that although you did try to be nice, you kind of stuck your foot in your mouth and made a pretty awful first impression at the beginning of the season You bash the small voice with the one who held a grudge.

And for some reason, whether it be the frustration with the whole wedding situation, or because you just really hate seeing his face, you begin to sort of angrily fixate on him, as if you're silently blaming him for all of your current problems right now.

And so, not by your own accord though, your mind wanders. That fucking look he gave you. Like you were nothing but an insect for him to regard with absolute disgust. You knew being the only women to play with men would backlash. Even though you earned your spot and worked hard to get to your position despite your aunt being who she is.

You imagine confronting him someday, asking why he has to be such a complete jerk to everyone he encounters in his miserable life.

"What's his name?" Her question doesn't fully register, and to be honest, you've completely forgotten what she's talking about.

You're too absorbed in your own thoughts about your asshole of a teammate, and in this moment, the question seems to relate to just that. And so, you make a horrible mistake.

A truly, truly horrible mistake.

"Jude," you mumble with a glare, still focused on the retreating form of the brunette. There's silence. The four men exit the room.

"You found a plus one!" Comes the shriek of celebration, and you're immediately startled out of your stupor and almost drop your phone onto the floor.

"Jude, huh? Is that his first name or his surname? How long have you known him? Is he nice? Wait, you need to tell me the details later, I have to go call your aunt and tell her the good news! Oh, I'm so proud of you!"

What?

"Wait, WAIT!" You try to interrupt, your notebook almost falling out of your lap as you lurch forward to bring the phone to your ear, but she hangs up before you can explain, leaving you with nothing but a dead line.

At first, you're too stunned to process what just happened. And when the realization finally dawns on you, the only rational decision seems to be: freak the fuck out. You try to call her back repeatedly, but the line is busy, and you assume that she's probably too busy gushing to your aunt about your "brand new boyfriend."

Oh, fuck. You bury your face into your hands, mortified that your mother now thinks you're taking Jude, of all people, as your stupid plus-one. And now she's gone and told your aunt. Fuck. You now have to tell them both the truth before this all gets too out of hand...

...And you'd rather do that from within the privacy of your own apartment. With a quick glance around the front of the room, you're pleased to note that nobody's looking at you funny or whispering to themselves, like you'd feared.

Maybe using speakerphone hadn't been the best decision, but the commotion that surrounds you has gone on like normal, and nobody even bothers to give you a second glance as you get up to leave.

Thank god nobody heard that, you think shamefully to yourself, snatching up your bag and hurrying out of the room.

Declan Rise finally turns around from the seat directly behind you to watch you leave, mouth agape in pure shock as he silently mumbles a "no wayyy-" And then, he whips his phone out and begins texting.

-

It takes about two hours before you're able to get ahold of your aunt. And she gives you the exact same treatment your mother did, if not worse.

"Darling!" She exclaims as soon as she picks up. "I am so overjoyed to hear you'll be able to attend the wedding! You're my only niece you know, and I was afraid you'd cancel on me! I just simply couldn't have dealt with that. The bridesmaid coordinations would've been thrown off entirely!"

"Actually," you begin with an awkward laugh, but she cuts you off. "Well, in other good news, you were actually the last person we needed to RSVP so the fiancé and I have officially booked everything! I'll have your ticket details sent to you within the next few hours. And I am so looking forward to meeting Jude, he is an excellent player! Even though I'm not that keen over you dating a fellow college who am I to stand in the way of true love! Just don't tell the rest of the world just yet I do not think they would take it that well. But you will have to tell me what he's like."

You try to speak again, starting to explain the situation, but she doesn't respond. There's a muffled voice from somewhere in the background, and she's silent for a few more moments before she clears her throat and giggles.

"I have to run, darling. I'm going to a meeting. But I'm just- I'm so excited! I'll see you in three weeks~" She hangs up. And you're left to sit on your bed, absolutely dumbstruck, because it seems that literally NOBODY is willing to let you get a single word in today. But now, there's a real problem.

She has reserved you and your NOT-boyfriend Jude spots at her wedding. Her ultra-expensive vacation resort wedding. And you sure as fuck can't pay her back for all of that if you decide to drop out last second.

Not that you think she'd charge you, but you'd assume it would be the most respectful thing to do in such a scenario

However, it's that... or go with Tom. You crash face first into your pillows and scream.

The universe is probably laughing in response. First day of the world cup training. You were really looking forward to it since it was theoretical and noy out on the field just yet. Today we were just taking it easy and just start out with a game plan on the board.

Each row sat two people, and you absent-mindedly wondered who you'd be paired up with. And as it turned out, you didn't have to wonder for long.

So here you are, standing awkwardly by your desk and trying not to full on gawk at Trent who's supposed to be sitting next to you for the rest of the season. Holy, shit. He looks like a fucking model, with his perfectly tanned skin and sharp crimson eyes that regard you without a single hint of interest.

His shoulders are broad, as well as his chest, and you can't help but let your eyes linger on his lips- Internally slapping yourself, you try your best to smile in a not-creepy way, forcing yourself to go back to a more normal headspace as you stick your hand out in greeting.

What you meant to say was "Hi," and then introduce yourself with a little, "hey?" But for some reason, you can't help but fumble your words like an idiot. So instead, you decided to just keep quiet anf not embarrass yourself even more.

-

You wake up the next day, groggy and disoriented. You'd been up all night trying to figure out how the hell you were going to get out of this, because if you tell your mom now, she's definitely going to guilt trip you into going with Tom. And speak of the devil, she sent you a text.

From: Mom

Hi honey! Good morning! I hope you're having a good day. And you better tell me all about this Jude guy soon

At least she's actually sending you good morning texts now instead of suspicious download links to dating websites! So, maybe paying your auntie back isn't such a bad option. At least less than 5,000$, right?

She messages you again. You groan, and pointedly ignore the text, along with a few others from your best friend mason who instantly clicked with you since you first started your career at the National team, tossing your phone off to the side as you roll out of bed to get ready for your first training.

You'll read them all later. And hopefully you'll get all of this bullshit sorted out later too, but for now, you just really need a coffee. Your cat jumps onto the bed with a loud purr, reminding you that it is, in fact, breakfast time.

At least for her, anyways. You stroke your fingers through her soft fur, smiling as she keens into your touch. Perhaps it won't be so bad. You'll get through this, no matter the outcome.

But something's off today, you note, as you make your way to the rest of the team forty minutes later. For some reason, it feels like a lot more people are looking at you than normal. Not a huge change, but you can feel a few lingering gazes that make you more than a bit uneasy

You quicken your pace. The attention - or more likely your own paranoia - only worsens as you make your way towards training, trying your best to keep calm.

Ok, something is up. Is there a hole in your shorts? An embarrassing stain you hadn't noticed? Fuck, you'll have to ask Mason when you see him. You swear if it's something along those lines, you're going to lose it. As if shit isn't already stressful enough for you. The group of people working at the camp start thinning out as everyone rushes to there oh so important planning for the upcoming World Cup, and you feel like you can finally breathe normally again.

The pitch is right up ahead, and you make a beeline for it, ready to find out if you really did publicly humiliate yourself in front of half of the team just by walking to training. But you never actually make it into the pitch

Because right as you're about to go outside through the doorway, someone yanks you to the side and against the wall beside it. You yelp, wincing at the sudden motion. It didn't hurt but it sure did startle the shit out of you.

Jude's eyes are boring right into yours, only inches from your face as he towers over you. Oh come on. You try to move away from him with a glare, but he keeps you firmly in place.

"What the hell are you doing?" You hiss, indignantly staring up at him. He doesn't respond. On any normal day, you would've shoved him off with a parting gift of some choice words and maybe even the middle finger as a garnish on top.

But this feels... much different from the usual spats you both have. You flinch away as he snarls at you with a scathing venom that drips from his every word.

"Why the FUCK am I hearing that we're dating?"

#jude bellingham fic #jude bellingham x fotballer reader #jude bellingham fluff #jude bellingham blurb #jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham smut #jude bellingham imagine #jude bellingham #trent alexander arnold x reader

[lalalilylulu]

Magnus remembered lying in the silver sand of the night desert and thinking of quiet places where he did not belong, and how sometimes he believed, as he believed in the passage of time and the joy of living and the absolute merciless unfairness of fate, that there was no quiet place in the world for him, and never would be. Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God.

#magnus bane #the bane chronicles #what really happened in peru

[creativitysparks4everxoxo]

Nah, but for real: WE NEED AN ANIMATED SERIES THAT FOLLOWS THE ADVENTURES OF MIRAGE AND NOAH AFTER THE EVENTS THAT TOOK PLACE IN ROTB!

I need a post-credit scene animated series follow-up!!!!

I just can't stop thinking about Noah and Mirage's interactions throughout the entire movie, and how the post-credit scene leaves us wanting more. It leaves me wanting to see just how many late nights Noah spent rebuilding Mirage from scratch. I want to see Noah's frustrated moments and his breakdown moments when all the memories of Mirage going to extreme lengths to protect him during the final battle flood his mind. I want to see an extremely exhausted but very determined Noah working on rebuilding Mirage.

I want to see the moment when Noah got to watch Mirage transform into his root mode for the first time after Noah made major progress with his repairs. (Assuming this happened before the post-credit scene) If it didn't, then instead I want to see the moment when Mirage first spoke to Noah during his repair stage and how absolutely ecstatic Noah was.

✨️ I want to see Noah's face when Mirage looks at him for the first time after his repairs. I want to see all the emotions on Noah's face and all the comfort that Mirage gives him! ✨️

Gimme all of the emotions!!!!!

But most importantly, I want to see Noah and Mirage's friendship continue to grow stronger throughout a multi-season animated series. At least 3 seasons minimum. I want to see it all!

I want to see them have those intense moments where they stare into each other's eyes/optics. I don't know how bold the writers would be for a show like this, or if they would be willing to go beyond the platonic borders of Noah and Mirage's relationship. It would be cool if there was romance between them in the show, but it might be considered "too much" to some people. Honestly though, I wouldn't mind if they took platonic relationship approach. I wouldn't mind because it works just as well and the writers could still write Mirage as the naturally teasing/flirty/over confident bot that he is and it would probably go over the bigots head. But we would know what's up. 🤭 And the extra Noah/Mirage content would give us fanfic/fanart inspo. It's essentially a win-win either way you slice it.

I just want a Mirage & Noah centric show, OKAY! 🥺

Gah! Just give us a show where we get to see Mirage take Noah on long drives to calm him down and they can talk about heavy shit. A late night drive to the beach, or even a drive to some fast food joint's drive thru, and then they go back to the garage and talk. Or they go for a walk in a secluded area.

Give us a show where Noah and Mirage get to have that "closure" and a chance to really talk about the moment where everything changed between them. The original deal was for Noah to steal the transwarp key from the museum and in return Mirage would let Noah "sell" him for cash that he could use to support his family. But instead they went on dangerous mission to Peru together and now there's no way in hell that Noah would ever sell Mirage! Not after they literally fused together to become one! I want them to talk about this! I want Mirage to tell Noah why he kidnapped him that fateful day and then Noah could chime in and be like, "I thought I was going to die, man. Your driving was terrifying!" And then of course Mirage would pretend to be offended, say his piece and humour would ensue and they would both be laughing and having a good time. Gimme a scene like that!

And give me scenes when Decepticons stir up trouble and Mirage jumps to protect Noah fiercely (naturally). And don't be afraid to give us those "Oh shit!" episodes when some type of disaster happens that's like level 3 on the "Disaster Metre", but Noah is still freaking the fuck out because he's scared that Mirage is hurt/dying, but instead he's not. He's totally fine, maybe a few scratches to his paint, but he's not in severe pain or in any pain at all. But Mirage sees his boi freaking out, so he has to gently calm him down before he spirals out of control. Yes, more fluff please!

And also, I really want to see Elena in this show! She is so awesome and needs to be in this show, continuing to bring in the knowledge and her warm heart and kindness. I need to see her interact with the other Autobots and maybe even become close friends with Arcee. I need to see Elena interact with Mirage and hear the funny shit he would say to make her laugh. I NEED THIS! And of course OP, Bumblebee, Wheeljack and other Autobot characters would need to be in the show. Maybe we could even get a few episodes featuring Charlie and Bee sneaking out to see her, or maybe not sneaking out at all.

But also, I would love to see Noah and Mirage moments where Mirage tries to get out of patrol duty and essentially leaves his post to go hang with Noah. Noah would be the "voice of reason", but he will end up caving because he can't bring himself to say no to Mirage. Not after everything they've been through together. I imagine Noah would be struggling with some PTSD and other psychological trauma, so when Mirage goes on patrols or does general Autobot stuff, Noah would worry A LOT. This would lead to fluffy scenes and angst and sweet comfort. I NEED THIS!

Honestly, I just need more Mirage and Noah moments, because these two are awesome and I've just been watching Bumblebee and ROTB back to back on repeat ever since ROTB was released digitally. And now I am forever basking in the sweet glow of this Transformers reboot, that is full of action, adventure, comedy, heart and everything that we've ever wanted to see in a Transformers movie. The amount of kindness and compassion that Charlie showed to Bee is wholesome. And the amount of kindness and compassion that Noah and Elena showed the Autobots and Maximals is also wholesome. This is what being a human companion to giant alien robots should look like!

I don't know the whole creative process and other fine details that would need to be worked out in order to get a show like this on the air, but I really do think that this Transformers reboot needs to start making some post-movie shows to help fill in the gaps and give us additional content to obsess over. It's not uncommon for a movie's success to carry over into a show, so I really think we need a post-ROTB show!

~And I think that's it. For now. 🙂

I almost didn't post this 🙈

#transformers #transformers rise of the beasts #rotb #rotb mirage #rotb noah #tf rise of the beasts #mirage and noah #mirage and noah are an iconic duo #noah x mirage #noah/mirage #they need their own show! #like come on! #it would be so funny! #transformers rotb #noah diaz #tf rotb #tf rotb mirage #tf rotb noah #just my silly little thoughts