#Frankies Long Line Short

[womenofwrestlingfashion]

Contour Corset in Onyx from Joah Brown (n/a), Frankies Long Line Short with Ribbed Hem from One Teaspoon (n/a), Diane Purse in Navy from Louis Vuitton ($2,830), Training Crew Socks in White from Nike ($28 for 6 pairs) & Travis Scott x Air Jordan 1 Low OG "Reverse Mocha" Sneakers (n/a)

[apuff]

castoff but they all got haircuts

[thus-spoke-lo]

"What's Got You All Worked Up?": Little things that turn One Piece men on feat. Zoro - Sanji - Law - Usopp - Franky - Crocodile - Doflamingo

NSFW/18+ [minors DNI]

CW: gn!reader [Zoro, Sanji, Usopp]; afab!reader [Law, Franky, Crocodile, Doflamingo] - no gendered pronouns used; vaginal fingering [Law]; vaginal intercourse [Law]; somnophilia [Doflamingo]

Zoro: the way you look after a workout

Zoro never cares if you keep up with him when he works out—he loves that you want to spend time with him, adores how serious you take your bicep curls or how you look in the afternoon light when you lay down on a mat for a while to slowly stretch your limbs. But it’s when you’re all done for the day, when the heat of the midday sun has the room like a sauna and your muscles are sore and shaking, that he starts to lose all semblance of control. Your temples are dappled with perspiration, your chest heaving as you finish your last rep, sweat is trickling down your neck; he swallows hard and lets out a low groan at the sight of you. It reminds him of the way you look right after he fucks you, all heated and glistening with sweat and limbs weak and trembling. And since you’re already all warmed up, this seems like the perfect time to bend you over and take you right there on the weight bench.

Sanji: the way you smell

He doesn’t mean to be such a pest (well, actually he does) when he comes up behind you in the mornings, when you’ve just woken and you’re still sleep-drunk and groaning that the sun is out again already, but he needs to bury his face in the crook of your neck as soon as you wake and inhale your scent. Sanji thinks you smell sweet in the mornings, like pancakes and pastries, and pulls you back into bed so he can devour you like the delicious treat that you are. In the afternoons, he catches a whiff of you on the breeze, your skin covered in the salty spray of the sea, hands scented with tangerines after helping Nami in the garden, and he’s all over you, plying you with kisses and lust-tinged whimpers, begging you to come to his bunk, just for a little while, just so he can taste the way the citrus settled into your skin. And at night, he’s insatiable, burying his nose in your hair unabashedly when you stay to help him clean after dinner, taking in the way the faint traces of aromatic ingredients have settled on you and mixed with your own scent that he adores. It’s not long before he’s shutting off the sink and taking you by the hand, leading you over to the table and making a meal of you right then and there.

Law: the way you look in comfy clothes

Sure, he thinks you look lovely on the rare occasion you get to leave the submarine together and you doll yourself up for him, wearing that new shirt he likes, the one that flows over your body like water, and take the effort to line your eyes and swipe a little lipstick on. But when he feels the most hungry for you is when you get back and head straight to your quarters, stripping off your shoes and your pretty shirt and those tight jeans that make your ass look perfect but that you joke threaten to cut off your breathing one of these days. He sits in his desk chair and watches as everything comes off, and you crawl into his bed, face freshly-scrubbed, tucking your hands into the sleeves of an oversized sweatshirt. It’s then, when you’re finally comfortable and warm, when you look at ease and relaxed, and you gaze at him with half-lidded eyes, that he’s all over you, fingers dipping below the waistband of your soft cotton shorts, teasing your pussy until you whimper and beg for more. He doesn’t even bother to strip the rest of your clothes off before he pulls his cock out of his jeans and buries himself inside you to the hilt, pulling your shorts to the side instead so you can stay nice and cozy, just how he likes you.

Usopp: when you help in his workshop

Sharing his workspace with you is already intimate enough for Usopp – it’s like he’s sharing a piece of himself the way he invites you in. But once you’re in there, it’s hard for him not to be heated at how serious you take it. You look so sweet the way your tongue pokes out of your mouth when you’re focused on something, and he feels a tingle at the base of his spine whenever you pout and ask him for help—you’re so close to getting it right, you just need him to guide you, to stand behind you and place his hands on yours and make sure the welding equipment stays steady. Watching the way you grip that piece of metal piping your working with in a way that makes him wish your hands were wrapped around his length instead…it takes everything he has not to grab you and sit you on top his worktable, to wrap his arms around your waist and pull you against him, let you feel just how much you drive him crazy. But he resists, at least for the moment, anyway--hearing you describe just how hard that steel is and how hot and sweaty you've become doing all this work pushes him to the brink soon enough, and he has no qualms in showing you exactly how skilled his hands are.

Franky: when you show just a little bit of skin

Coming from a man who walks around in an open shirt and swim briefs, this sounds pretty rich. But there’s just something so tantalizing about seeing a hint of skin and having to imagine what’s underneath, like that time your leggings were more sheer than you thought, and you bent over to grab the laundry basket and he got a quick glimpse of your panties (that happened to be the same pattern as one of his shirts). It was enough to drive him to distraction for the rest of the day and make him glad he was alone in the engine room, barely able to contain the way his cock pulsed every time he remembered how you looked. He loves that one sweater you wear, too—the one that just won’t stay on your shoulder and keeps slipping down, exposing just the slightest bit of soft skin in the afternoon sun, and the way it leads his eyes down to the way the fabric settles over your breasts. And don’t even get him started on that hint of your tummy he gets to see when you reach up to grab something off a high shelf, reminding him how easy it would be to wrap his big hand around your waist and just slide it right on up until he can feel the silky material of that nice bra he bought you…have mercy.

Crocodile: the way you look getting ready for dinner

It’s so routine now that you don’t seem to mind—at first it alarmed you, made you feel like prey when Crocodile would sit on the velvet couch in your quarters, his arms draped across the back, a cigar clenched in his teeth, and he’d watch you ready yourself for that evening’s festivities. But now, you almost welcomed the way his predatory gaze would settle on you as you sit at your vanity and paint your lips; you throw a wink and a pout his way now and again in the mirror, almost tempting him to ruin that pretty makeup after you’ve spent so long putting it on. He loves how your body moves, almost sleek and catlike, around the room, slinking into your closet and asking him which dress he likes better. He shifts in his seat as you wriggle into that pretty blue number he adores, and throbs as you glance over your shoulder and bat your eyes, asking him sweetly to come zip you up. And how can he refuse? Of course, by the time he crosses the room and reaches you, you both know that he has no plans to move that zipper an inch, and instead you feel the tip of his hook lifting your hem as he growls in your ear to bend over—he’s going to take care of that needy pussy of yours before you ever step foot out of your room. Guess you’ll be late for dinner, again.

Doflamingo: the way you look when you’re sleeping

He chuckles quietly and wonders if you fell asleep this way on purpose—the silken nightgown he dressed you in before he left for the evening has been discarded on the floor, and you lay atop the sheets, your body completely bare and bathed in moonlight. He slowly circles the bed like a predator, admiring the way your limbs are stretched out, arms flung above your head, your legs spread, one knee bent and lolled to the side, exposing your pretty little cunt. It looks just like the way you fling yourself onto the mattress when you’re feeling needy, how you toss your dress at him and lay back against the plush pillows, biting your lip and beckoning him to you with sweet pleas of I need you. He licks his lips at how your slit glistens, and wonders if you’re dreaming of him, wonders if perhaps you touched yourself thinking of him before you fell asleep. He sits carefully on the edge of the bed and watches you sleep a little longer, your lashes fluttering slightly as you moan and shift, your breasts heaving as you inhale deeply and sigh. You tempt him even in slumber, and he palms the throbbing hardness that pushes against his slacks, groaning softly as he decides if he should wake you with his fingers, his tongue, or his cock.

[princeoftheeternalbog]

Really sleepy and so like sleeping with you headcannons lets go

I'm not sure half of these are even on the same vibe so uhm like do with that what you will, this is so long and it's atrocious but oh well. Also sorry if its ooc😻

I think maybe one line of suggestive in Franky's and Namis.

I feel like i forgot someone tbh..

Luffy

Sleeps anywhere and everywhere but sleeps better and longer next to you. Thus he is obsessed with sleeping with you and whenever he wants to sleep now you have no choice you must take sleep too. He snores and drools but that's kind of a win because then he doesn't care if you do yk? Loves taking naps with you and it's a way he likes to connect with you. Always kisses you before you sleep and after you wake up. He's so comfortable to lie next to because he's so squishy and he holds you in like every way possible because he doesn't have to worry about circulation being cut off or anything.

Zoro

Again he will sleep literally anywhere. He sleeps like a log but somehow you are the only person able to wake him up, Robin theorises it's his observation haki keeping an eye on you but whatever it is you are Zoros designated alarm clock. However, there is about a 30% chance that when you wake him up, he will just snatch you to cuddle and go back to sleep. You cannot escape his hold and if you keep trying to wake him up he'll just bite you(gently) idk he's feral. Depends on his schedule if he's comfortable or not, usually when he's bulking up he's squishier and it's nice to cushion your head on.

Sanji

Never naps and it's so alarming. How does he survive on like 6 hours everyday we will never know. Anyways he's very clingy when he's sleepy but in like a 'I don't want to bother you so I'll just sit over here looking really forlorn', just take the man to bed. Is somehow so comfy to sleep with it's actually annoying because after a certain point you just can't sleep alone anymore. Always tucks you in if you don't get up at the same time as him and he'll leave little snacks and drinks on your bedside table for when you do wake up. Sanji has a more lean muscly build so it's more comfortable to have him lie on top of you and he is not complaining in the slightest.

Nami

Loves cuddling in the winter, hates it in the summer. She's really sensitive to the temperature yk it's that innate sense of the weather, so when it's hot she is hot. But she really likes being able to touch you, so after a certain point she just forces franky to install(invent) air conditioning and it makes the summer so much more bearable. After this there's no escape, you will be cuddling every night (unless boundaries yk). She always tries to convince you stay in bed in the morning...and it always works. She's very persuasive okay. Lets you use her as a pillow, like her chest or thighs or tummy, she just wants to be next to you.

Usopp

Really shy about sleeping with you the first time. Only the first time. After that well lets just say you created a monster. He's really good at telling when you need a nap, especially when you won't admit it. He just subtly ushers you to a comfy spot and then oh what a surprise your eyes are getting really heavy and hm Usopp wouldn't mind if you leant on him for a bit and then snoreville. He thinks you're so pretty when you're sleeping because you look so peaceful and relaxed, so even if he's not tired he will always agree to a nap. He will carry you to bed. And he's so casual about it too, I guess because you're not like watching him directly so he's just like really chill.

Robin

Actually has a nap schedule with her sleep schedule, she usually takes a very short one after lunch because her power can be quite draining and so once you find this out it's just a big cuddle session which she loves. She tends to keep you to a sleep schedule too but she won't force you if you are really insistent on staying up, but she will say I told you so when you're grumpy and feel sick the next day. So lovely to sleep with, she barely moves, never hogs the blanket, doesn't snore and somehow always stays very cool even in the summer. She also always makes sure you get into bed safely if you're drunk or ill, even if she is too, she really cares about you.

Franky

I won't lie...he builds himself an entire like cushion add-on thing so you can comfortably sleep next to him. He looks like a giant marshmallow man it's so funny. But also it's so cute because he takes your comfort so seriously and he runs multiple tests to make sure it's the absolute comfiest he can be for you. Loves naps but absolutely adores actual bedtime because of the whole like rituals and because he knows he doesn't have to get up in like an hour. Sometimes he will seriously overwork into the night, but on those occasions it's fairly easy to coax him to bed(😚). Also he wears one of those stupid scrooge hats tbh. And yes he says super in his sleep.

Brook

Really insecure about sleeping together because he thinks he'll be uncomfortable to lie next to or cuddle :(. On the other hand, you're also really worried because you don't want to accidentally hurt him while he's asleep, so for the first few months you sleep in beds that are close enough to hold hands instead. Eventually when you both become comfortable with the idea, you end up sleeping together almost every night and you occasionally nap together too. He wears really soft padded pajamas to make sure you're comfy. It's surprisingly more comfy to sleep next to him than you thought it would be.

I won't lie sometimes you do shit yourself waking up and seeing a skeleton.

Jinbei

So responsible, absolutely will stop you from napping if it's too close to bedtime. He knows sleep is important but he also knows a routine is important...and he can't bear watching you sleep alone so if you mess up your schedule then you're messing up his. This also works for if you try to stay up late too, he'll straight up snatch you off the ground and just carry you to bed no matter how much you complain. Really good cuddler, like really good. He always knows how much pressure to use while holding you and when you want more or less contact, knows when you need extra blankets, when you want to sleep in a hammock instead of a bed. He's got a sixth sense for your sleeping habits (read: he's desperately in love with you).

Law

Really grumpy about it. And really shy. Also he's a hypocrite, he'll stay up working till early hours of the morning but if you dare even try he's stood there staring at you like the mf eyes of notre dame. He always wants to cuddle but absolutely despises asking so again he just stares, you can always tell though because his ears go really red. Once you're in the bed though he's suddenly mr suave i will arrange everything, he will literally pick you up to manoeuvre you both into a better sleeping position and doesn't even bat an eye. He will nap but you have to trick him into it, he secretly loves it and lets you do it even when he knows what's happening.

Kidd

Needs like 15 million blankets to sleep. Uses one of said 15 million blankets to wrap you up like a burrito if you refuse to come sleep/nap with him. But actually it kinda does hurt his feelings so you can make up for it by playing with his hair until he falls asleep. Loves napping, he's like an overgrown cat and he'll sleep literally anywhere. But if it's anywhere other than his or yours (or killers) room he somehow? manages? to scowl? in his sleep? Yeah I don't know but it just stops his crew from messing with him because he looks so angry. Like Zoro he will literally just snatch you if you're in his vicinity, like you walk past for two seconds and then suddenly your vision flips and you're just stuck in this iron grip. He won't let you go and the crew just walk past you too.

Killer

You literally don't sleep together until you've been dating for like a fucking year. He really values his privacy and you really respect it which culminates in neither of you asking for such a long time that you both forget its a common couple thing. Until someone asks why you don't sleep together and then you guys are like huh idk and then that's the day you finally do. He's a good cuddler but he's a blanket hogger and you have to braid his hair before bed or it will end up in your mouth. On the plus side, he will make and leave breakfast or coffee (or anything you want) on your bedside table if he wakes up first. Also he always picks the best bedsheets and eventually buys two quilts so you can at least have some blanket when he snatches it all.

Ace

Naturally runs like a furnance and is hell to sleep next to in the summer. But he gets really grumpy if you dont sleep next to him so the crew make you suck it up I'm sorry. Literally you're like clawing at the walls as they throw you in and lock the door. Anyways he's a really good cuddler and so comfy to sleep with, and he always takes naps with his head in your lap. He loves to have you sleep on him too because he loves to look at your face and stroke you hair, idk he likes being slow with you even though he's really energetic. Being naturally sleepy and like a little radiator also tends to make the people around him sleepy so you two are banned from working next to each other because you both just end up napping.

Marco

He doesn't sleep a lot because well he doesn't really need to. But he adores sleeping with you. It's one of his like favourite 'bonding' activities, especially if you haven't been able to be alone for a while, he just loves being that close and the intimacy of sleeping in each others beds. On another note he's obsessed with making your bed really comfy because as a doctor he knows sleep hygiene is important and as a bird...well yk...nest. He's not shy about it but don't tease him because it will hurt his feelings and he won't tell you to save your feelings, beautiful sweet man that he is. LOVES a good nap/cuddle especially in the winter, if you both have spare time he just bundles you both in a big fluffy blanket and just exists with you for a bit.

Izou

He is surprisingly a really undignified sleeper, which is why you don't sleep in the same room for months when you first get together😭. When you finally do, you wake up with his arm in your face, his hair is everywhere, there's a pillow across the room, the blanket is somehow under the bed, you're just like wtf how. And Izou is just (⁠ ⁠´⁠◡⁠‿◡⁠`⁠). But he gets better over time because his brain becomes more aware of your presence as you become more important to him and then bedtime settles into comfy chaos. Pillows still end up everywhere but he is now your cushion so you don't really care. He doesn't really nap anywhere that's not his room but if you do then he carries you to bed :).

[radio-fmm]

Dear Luffy… what?!

Luffy x fem!reader

1.6k words, fluff confession, gendered terms such as ‘woman’

!This is a part 2! Sanji found your love letter to Luffy and now everyone knows you like your Captain

Pt.1 | Masterlist

It had been a week since Sanji had found your letter, and somehow things got worse. Everyone on the ship knew about your crush by now, everyone except from the one that should be more concerned about it. The strawhats lived for gossip

Every glance, smile and compliment you’d share with your Captain as you both usually did, was accompanied with giggles, teases and whispers from your crewmates, making you nervous to even breath near Luffy in fear they’ll say something out of place loud enough for him to notice

Even your time alone was disturbed by them trying to convince you to confess to the clueless strawhat boy

“I’m sure he likes you too!”, “It’s not that big of a deal”, “Just go and tell him already!”

As encouraging they were being, it didn’t simmer your nerves, it made them grow bigger and bigger turning you into an anxious mess

Of course your time with Luffy was cut short thanks to your noisy friends; the fun games, fondness and entertaining conversations you’d used to share with him long gone, replaced with you just sulking around the ship and hiding from everyone

Soon enough they’ll either forget or lose interest in the matter

Right?

At this reate, Franky should install a loud very incorrect buzzer on the ship

All of this horrendous energy was getting to you, not only were you feeling frustrated and hopeless; since no longer getting your daily dose of Luffy, your lack of sunlight had your patience running alarmingly low. Consequently, you were feisty. No one could approach, look, ask, or even talk to you without your reaction being blown so out of proportion that it ended on you screaming at them

Today’s victim? Zoro

“Can you move your weights for a sec? I need to mop”

“Can’t” he answered quickly, grunting as he flexed his arms mid push up

“Just put them aside real quick” you were keeping your calm, already growing annoyed

“Do it yourself woman”

Uh oh

Zoro genuinely didn’t mean to sound so condescending and rude, usually you knew this was just the way he talked to everyone, you just had too much going on. The argument got so heated that it had the whole ship witnessing the whole ordeal around both, like a street fight club. You were red, cheeks puffed and up on your tip toes screaming at the swordsman like he couldn’t just cut you in half any moment now

“Can’t you just be nice for one second?!”- heads immediately turn- “Can you stop being a total jerk?!”- eyes widened- “Grow some brains first and I’ll consider it”- gasps bounce around the deck- “What about growing some balls and confess to Luffy already?”

Silence

Deafening silence doesn’t even begin to describe this silence. It’s a heavy one, laced with panic, regret and fear.

Your heart beats loud and then drops to your stomach, suddenly feeling nauseous as a hand flies to your mouth. Zoro’s eyebrows jump and sweats profusely

He fucked up

All eyes on you then on the Captain, who’s face you can’t even turn to look at right now, only focused on the embarrassment that was choking you. Embarrassing, so fucking embarrassing. The most dreaded emotion, you hated it to the core, you most rather Zoro cut your chest and throw you out into the open ocean of the Grand Line before feeling this

It’s been a while and no one has dared to speak. A giggle then breaks the freezing moment, melting it completely in its warmth as it slowly builds into joyful laughter

“Good one Zoro!” Luffy comments and it somehow feels like a punch to the gut, even if it’s just him being honest

Nami then curses at her Captain, manicured hand pushing him in pure disbelief

“What? It’s not like I didn’t know”

Silence. Everyone is surprised you haven’t fainted by now

Ussop then joins the navigators side “What? You knew this whole time?”

Finally, with all the remaining strength in your body you turn, slowly, eyes meeting as you drown in too many emotions flowing inside of you

“Hehe yeah!” The Captain smiles, ever so sweetly and you actually taste your breakfast in your mouth

You turn to Zoro, helpless

“I’m sorry” he mutters, genuinely ashamed

But you don’t answer, the only sound being heard being your boots stomping on the hard wood of The Sunny as you leave, tears peeking, and then, a door being slammed

It’s been a while since you had sobbed like this. You didn’t even knew why you were even crying anymore, the last week had been hell for you. You felt bad for snapping at Zoro and being a total ass to the whole crew; you felt so stupid for crying at something that could be resolved by talking and you hated yourself for not giving yourself grace

Because it’s ok to feel too much

It was comical how different you were from Luffy in that sense. Yes you were confident, adventurous and a loyal friend, but you were also reserved, shy and very sensitive. Your Captain was actually very emotionally intelligent, he knew exactly how to identify his emotions and navigate them, but you? It felt like being pushed into the sea without a motive or direction

You were too tender for a pirate, but again, there’s no shame in that

After a deserved lengthy crying session, you wiped yours tears and allowed yourself to take a big breath in. Suddenly, it didn’t felt as bad anymore. You opened your bedroom door and decided to go and wash your face to clear up to then apologize for exploding like you did. Again, embarrassment creeped up on you but you shrugged it off

It’s ok to feel. You reminded yourself on the mirror before leaving

The deck of The Sunny was weirdly quiet, no sign of anyone relaxing or in light conversation. Quickly you notice the familiar strawhat of your Captain and can’t help but smile a little, you had missed him this last week

“Hey Luf” you greet sweetly making him turn, a trace of a scowl leaving his features now replaced by worry, his arms shoot up unexpectedly and wrap around you before pushing you into a big hug, he speaks your name in almost relief making your heart skip a beat

“Oh I was so worried about you!, are you still mad?” His worry makes you feel guilty

“I was never mad at you Luf, or actually anyone… I was just really stressed out” you explain as you slowly melt into his embrace, warmness spreading trough your tired limbs as you feel a smile forming on Luffy’s lips

“I scolded them” your eyes wide slightly and your eyebrows jump

“Really?”

“Usopp told me what was going on and it just wasn’t ok” he tenses, as if the memory of it all makes him uncomfortable

A gentle sigh lefts your lips, leaving the tight hug you were enveloped in to face the man before you

“Thank you Luffy, but I also messed up, I shouldn’t have snapped like that” he shakes his head

“It’s understandable, you were under so much stress didn’t you?”. His understanding was something so foreign to you, his emotional maturity showing, butterflies in your belly going wild

He pulls another smile out of you before he pulls you in once again almost crushing you, it almost felt apologetic

But there was still, the elephant in the room

“So… you knew” it’s all you can muster up to say. Luffy then lets you go completely making a slight pout appear on your face at the motion. He looks a little bashful? you can’t really tell because it’s an emotion you had never related to him before

He scratches the back of his neck “Yeah… you always spend time with me and treat me differently than everyone else, and you make my heart beat so fast! It was obvious”

You don’t really know how to feel about his statement, you were obvious yet he just accepted it?. Your face becomes redish by the moment, feeling embarrassed but a different kind of embarrassed, thus one didn’t made you feel terrible

“Why didn’t you say anything?” your hands drop to play with the hem of your shirt as you waited expectantly, repeating his small hint of reciprocity in your head as comfort at the moment

“Because you never acknowledged it and I didn’t wanna push ya’”

Of course

Suddenly you feel a giggle bubble in your stomach and it hits Luffy’s ears, making him smile widely

“You’re such an idiot” your hands cover your face, the warmth of your cheeks engulfing them

“Also thought I’d pass out if I said a thing, you make me nervous” Luffy thought if he kept confessing this kind of stuff, you would keep laughing, and he adores when you do

“What?!”- you are a fit of giggles at this point. “Me? making you? nervous?!”

You both laugh, and it’s just so endearing, the moment so sugary sweet you fear you’ll have a toothache. Suddenly you are being pulled again, this time by your arms making your soft lips land on top of Luffy’s pillowy ones. You yelp in surprise but immediately ease into it, fitting in his frame like you were meant to be after all

Your tooth aches

Your Captain then looks at your puppy eyes and grins “Wanted to do that for a while now”

After a much needed kissing session to soothe you. Luffy made everyone on the ship apologize to you, one by one (except for Chopper, he never dared tease you) before making it known how much he really really loved you

Like it wasn’t obvious enough

tag list: @guinea-pig16 @cosywinterevenings @angieslove06 @rafis03

Ty for the love on the first part 🥹

[almostempty]

Cargo

(joel x f!reader, din x f!reader, frankie x f!reader) | wc: 4.9k | other fics | Ao3

summary: smuggler!joel finds you and brings you to his partner in crime, with a side of gratuitous smut and a special guest along the way (full spoiler summary under the warnings/tags) 

note: this is for my lovely @auterdelabre, and it was inspired by the line you wrote when i joked about joel using “cargo” as a pet name (and a couple other things i had to mix in there) 

extra note: i hope this can bring a lil distraction in light of the heavy reality of today, fuck fascists – just don’t fuck them

warnings/tags: mdni explicit, smut, smuggler!joel, dubcon, oral, piv, degradation, ‘whore’ and one (1) ‘slut’, truly pwp - like the plot is just p, pls let me know if i missed anything important, weds warnings: doin’ it/fillin’ it up unprotected with no consequences bc it’s fiction and in the words of Wu-Tang Clan’s Ol’ Dirty Bastard in Shimmy Shimmy Ya - Ooooh, Baby, I like it raw; f!reader is able-bodied–this time this bish has hair that joel can worm his fingers into, no y/n, likely many mistakes bc i yam who i yam 

FULL SPOILER SUMMARY: crackfic crossover: star wars smuggler!joel finds you and y’all fuck, he brings you to his partner dark!din and y’all fuck, but surprise! smuggler!joel and dark!din were your co-stars for your independent porn. your bf, Frankie (who played the Mandalorian), is just so turned on watching you edit the video that…you guessed it! y’all fuck) 

The clear water rushes downstream, rippling around your legs as you step toward the bank and the soft grass. The sunlight filtering through the forest canopy makes the surface of the stream sparkle like glitter. But, you. You are the star of the scene. 

You glow like you’re a creature drawn from the sun and the soil, from the woods and the water. Crystal-clear droplets of water race along your skin, rolling over your curves and dripping back into the current to flow down, down, down to another body of water. 

You appear meditative, attuned to nature's tranquility, disregarding the universe's relentlessly unjust chaos. The ugliness and the violence. The balance. The dark. 

Joel lurks in the trees, waiting to make his presence known. Holding out for an opportunity to strike. He creeps out of the treeline with deft precision, like a shadow. You’re only partially dressed, still bent over your bag, searching for something when he gets close.  

“Don’t think you’ll need to worry about that anymore.” 

He’s not loud, but his gruff voice still disturbs the serenity. A jarring interruption to the leaves rustling in the breeze and the birdsongs echoing above. You take one long breath before you look him in the eye. Dropping your bag, you raise your hands in surrender. 

You have nothing. No weapons, no defense, no chance of getting far if he’s tracked you down already. “How did you find me?” You square your shoulders, standing your ground despite your disadvantaged position. 

“It’s my job,” he replies simply. 

He circles around you slowly, appraising you, eyes roaming over your exposed skin. Your tight shorts and thin undershirt don’t leave much for him to imagine, but you refuse to shrink or hide. You assess him yourself, and realization spreads across your face. You mutter his name aloud. Joel. 

He pauses just behind you and hooks a finger under the thin strap along your shoulder, teasing down the skin before snapping it like a rubber band. You stifle a wince. Just because he has you alone and barely dressed in the wilderness doesn’t mean you intend to give easily. You keep your chin raised in a proudly defiant stance. 

Joel chuckles dangerously at you, stepping closer. He rests his large palms atop your shoulders. It would be a sweet portrait of the two of you if it weren’t for the reality of the circumstance. Instead, his body is oppressive, so broad compared to you that it’s like you’re caged in, locked in a gravitational pull towards him, despite being in the open air. 

Your distaste for his presence has your body rigid and tense. You’re holding your breath as he leers at your body over your shoulder. His fingers dig into the flesh over the ridge of your clavicle like the claws of a predator ready to fly you away or tear you apart. 

“Are you going to come along willingly now?” he asks. The bass of his voice sends a shiver down your spine despite his furnace of a chest radiating into your back. The question hangs ominously between you. The or left unsaid. 

You swallow slowly, muttering an agreement and turning so you’re face to face. Your eyes dart across his features, and it’s strangely intimate. Something heavy in the closeness of your mouths, the shared breaths you take. His humanity is so apparent. You could reach out to trace every line of his face, but his stoic expression morphs into something sinister.

“That’s too bad,” he tuts, disappointed, “I was hoping you’d put up a fight.” 

You scowl, shifting your weight to lean away from him. He laughs harshly at your response. It’s a grating, barking sound, baring his teeth. 

You’re still thinking about what he was hoping for as he binds your wrists together, but he’s not revealing anything else. He grabs your upper arm and begins leading you toward the dense trees. You stumble, adjusting to his pace and trying to find your stride. 

“Where are you taking me?” you complain, trying to jerk your arm out of his grip, but he’s latched on tight. He’s unfazed by your attempt to break away from him as if it’s a natural part of his day-to-day to wrestle with an unwilling companion. 

It’s an exertion to keep up with him; he moves with purpose and little regard for you. Unaware of the small branches and shoots of new growth in the forest whip at your face, arms, and ankles. Uncaring that they obstruct your vision as you let him lead. 

You take his strength, size, and foul-tempered look apparent from his profile. You follow half a step behind, visibly less enthused about his single-minded pursuit. 

“Not far.” He’s blunt. Unhelpful. Answering you without a glance in your direction. 

“What do you want with me?”

“That’s not my decision,” he shrugs as if he isn’t talking about what happens to your life. Not wasting a word to ease your panic. 

“Who sent you?” Fear cracks through your voice. Ugly and raw. 

“Don’t know.” 

He’s so short with you. Brutish and rushed. Trudging along indifferent to your world crashing down. 

“You don’t know?” There’s an edge to your tone, frustration apparent. Joel shoots you a scathing look. He has a handsome face, but his dark eyes show no kindness. 

“Don’t know. Don’t care.” He turns away, looking forward as you make your way along. 

He moves confidently, like a force of nature. Twigs snap under his boots as he creates his path without regard for the destruction. 

“Then what’s in it for you? Why not just let me go?” You press sulkily. 

“I get paid for delivering you, not making decisions, sweet thing.” 

His response is gross and detached. Sweet thing. The pet name drips with sarcasm. You’re just an object. You scoff at him. 

“You’re despicable,” you cut under your breath as you weave through the underbrush. Disgust warps your features as you make your way along.

“Watch it,” Joel snaps. A low tolerance threshold. Fitting for a surly smuggler. 

“It’s true,” you snap right back. He doesn’t take it lightly, stopping and yanking you around roughly so you’re facing him again. 

“You’re heartless,” you jab, “scum. You don’t care about anything but your own profit.” 

Fed up, he backs you into the nearest tree. The bark digs into your shoulder blades. His hand grips your throat menacingly. His face is so close to yours. The deep line between his brows, the depth of his dark eyes, and his plush lower lips are all you can see. 

“Keep it up,” he goads. His fingers are merely a threat, resting along your arteries. Tempting you to talk back. “We both know you aren’t innocent,” he adds. 

You snarl at that, arguing that he doesn’t know the first thing about you, but he only grins darkly. 

Joel enjoys the way you detest him. He also enjoys the sight of you pinned under his hand. The way it only takes one to have you helplessly trapped. You’re still muttering insults at him, but he’s ignoring your words. He’s too interested in the arch in your spine tilting you towards him. The rising and falling as your breath is shallow and quick. 

Your thin top is still damp from your dip in the water, and from his point of view, it’s a scene that deserves to be photographed. You seem so delicate in contrast to him. His wide palm covering your throat, his vascular forearm so masculine against your supple skin. You look at him through your lashes, your eyes narrow and scornful, but his eyes trail down as your voice trails off. 

Joel has a perfect view of your hard nipples under the thin material of your shirt. The fabric clings to you like you’re in a wet t-shirt contest, and the longer he stares, the more he starts to lose his sense of urgency in taking you anywhere.

“What?” you interrupt his ogling, forcing your features into a disapproving glower to overcompensate for the breathlessness. 

He’s amused by your contempt and disobedience. He can tell there’s a struggle forming beneath the surface. The twitch between your brows where they threaten to saddle in pleasure if he applies the right pressure. The lust flickering behind your eyes. The disdain tugging at the corners of your frown only makes his blood run hotter. 

“You think you’re better than me,” His voice drops, sinfully low. You stare blankly, not arguing. “You think you’re special,” he continues cruelly. 

“You aren’t.” His fingers squeeze along just the sides of your neck; playing god with you, he restricts the blood pumping through your arteries. “No, sweet thing, you’re just another runaway whore with a bad attitude. That sure as hell doesn’t make you special.”

“I’m not a whore.” You spit his words back in his face. 

“No?” He mocks, tilting his head and dragging his eyes over your frame. His lecherous gaze highlights your compromising position. You’re on display for him, at his mercy, alone. It all comes into focus as your throat runs dry. “Could’ve fooled me.” He lifts the pressure off your neck, and the blood rushes to your head. 

Your gasp switches into a tight frown. His cocky smirk only widens. 

“Argue all you want, but your body doesn’t lie,” he coos arrogantly. 

“Can feel your pulse beating faster,” his fingers massage deliberately at your neck. You steel your breathing, eyes searching for something on his face to focus on. Something to ground you. But he leans in close, his breath hot along your ear. “So desperate,” he inhales deeply like he’s cataloging your scent, “just for me?” 

His other hand traces the angle of your jaw. 

“Maybe that’s just a human response to being pinned to a tree in the middle of nowhere by a smuggler,” you hiss. 

“Maybe.” He releases you, and you stagger forward at the sudden loss of support. Losing your balance and unable to steady yourself with your hands bound, you’re toppling forward to your knees as Joel half catches you—stopping you from landing with your face in the dirt. 

He shakes his head at you in disbelief. Every time you move, you pose just to tempt him. Here you are on your knees, glowing in the soft light as you tilt your face up at him. The fear that flitters over your face twists into something else. Something that makes you both pause. 

Joel moves first, resting a hand on your cheek. Reflexively, your lips part, and he can’t stop slipping his thumb into your mouth. You try to recalibrate, reversing the involuntary responses, but he’s already seen them. The way your breath hitched and the way your eyes darkened. 

He raises a brow slightly, entertained by how easy it is to read the signs. “It’s too late to hide it.” He pulls his thumb back, dragging it slowly over your bottom lip and down to your chin, leaving a trail of saliva that catches the light and glistens. “You think I can’t see how bad you want it?” 

You shake your head lightly in defiance, murmuring that he’s wrong and dropping your gaze. You’re sat at eye level with his belt and his one hand with the thumb hooked on a belt loop. You study every ridge of his hand, the scars along his knuckles, the sun-tanned brown skin. 

The bulge highlighted by his fitted jeans catches your attention, and you look back up to meet his eyes.  

Joel slips his hand past your face, fingers weaving into your hair, cupping the back of your head. He doesn’t add much pressure, and you don’t have to lean far to rest your cheek along the worn denim on his upper thigh. 

“Yeah,” he growls above you, “take it out.” 

You move hurriedly, dissolving your denial. It’s easy work to unbuckle his belt and pop open the button of his jeans, even with your wrists bound. You wet your lips unconsciously as you tug the band of his boxers down until his cock springs free. Only half-hard, it hangs imposing and proud. So close to your face, you can see the tiniest twitch as he responds to your warm breath fanning over his skin. 

“Get to it,” he orders. 

You blink up at him, resistance fading on the tip of your tongue. “Or get up so we can get a move on; doesn’t matter to me.” he challenges. You curl your fingers around the base of his shaft. It’s smooth and hot under your fingertips. Experimentally, you run your tongue along the underside. His fingers tighten their grip in your hair. 

You open wide, laying your tongue out flat, and he guides you. Joel’s eyes are glued to your mouth as he slides his cock past your lips. You stare back, studying every expression that crosses his face. His hard eyes don’t soften, but you could swear his blinking slows. The hint of a snarl deepens as he picks up the pace. 

Using you. Fucking your wet mouth until he’s pressing into the back of your throat, seeking more. 

Your eyes tear up, but he doesn’t stop, and you don’t resist. 

You quickly acclimate, working in rhythm, breathing, taking it all. When your eyelids flutter shut and a moan buzzes in your throat, Joel laughs darkly. “If you aren’t a whore,” he pauses to make a throaty noise that spears right to your core, “why do you take my cock down your throat just like one?” 

You choke at his assertion, and he pulls out of your mouth, leaving you gasping for air. 

“Not a very good one, I guess,” he says flatly, yet with a particularly pleased expression still faintly etched in the lines of his face. You wipe the spit coating your chin onto the back of your hands. 

He doesn’t reach for you again; instead, he takes his cock in his own hand. Impatient. Slick with your saliva, he strokes himself lewdly, grunting with pleasure as he flicks his wrist. 

“You’re deranged,” you mutter, voice hoarse. 

He doesn’t like that. He moves without a word, shoving you forward onto your elbows and knees. He holds you down against the soft grass with one hand as the other crudely pulls your shorts down. He runs his palm along the curve of your spine, over the contour of your ass. Both hands grip the back of your knees, readjusting you to his liking. 

Then he takes his time. 

Kneading your ass and thighs, landing one firm smack on that has you jolting forward, cheek pressing flat into the grass. The sharp sensation disorients you and leaves you sucking in air. 

Joel is undisturbed by your reactions. He takes both of his thumbs to spread you open wider, revealing the glossy sheen of your core. Your cunt drips, slick and swollen for him. 

“You think I’m so despicable,” his gravelly voice makes your mind fuzzy, “how come you’re so fuckin’ wet for me?” 

You can only manage to whine into the ground, pushing back towards him. “You don’t move,” he says harshly, one wide palm gripping your hip to hold you still. When the blunt head of his cock glides along your seam, you let out a broken moan. His fingers dig into your soft flesh in warning. 

He pauses, with his tip resting at the core of your throbbing pussy, to marvel at the visual before sinking into you. You gasp at the overwhelming sensation of being filled so completely. You don’t have time to adjust before he’s pulling back and slamming into you again. He drags against every nerve inside of you, intensifying every motion. 

Joel isn’t gentle. He holds you firmly and uses your body, fucking into you with rough thrusts that make your thighs tremble. “Take it,” he grunts, pounding into you deeply until his hips meet your bare thighs. 

It’s all wet noises, heaving breathing, and skin slapping against skin. He watches the plush curves of your ass ripple as he drives into you harder and faster. The force of his movement pulls sharp, ragged cries from you as he fucks you so hard it pushes the air out of your lungs. 

“This is all you get.” Joel groans behind you, curling over you with his broad frame. Your bodies are sweaty where your naked skin slips against each other, and you writhe against him, mouth hanging open and eyes rolling back as he fucks deeply into you. 

“You’re nothing to me,” he snarls, punctuated with his hips snapping into you brutally. “Just fuckin’ cargo.” 

“Shit,” he mutters, hips stuttering as you whimper. “You like that. Can feel you clenching around me,” he keeps talking. You’re mindless beneath him. A winded, drooling mess. “Ain’t even worth the hassle to deliver. Better use taking my cock,” he grunts, hips canting more erratically until he stills, pulsing inside of you with a throaty groan. 

You’re boneless, propped up on shaky knees as he pulls out and watches his come leak out of you for a moment. Then he’s crassly yanking your shorts up and ordering you to stand. You’re wobbly when you get back to your feet, and he huffs at you agitatedly. “Figure out how to walk, or I’ll drag your ass the rest of the way.” 

You can’t say how long it takes before you reach your destination. Everything was a blur as you clumsily trotted along, outpaced by Joel’s long stride. You’re breathing loudly through your mouth, a sheen of sweat between your shoulder blades and on your chest. Joel, apparently well-conditioned for the cardio, is frustratingly collected. He holds you tightly as he opens the door and pushes you inside. 

He jerks you towards a makeshift seat on a crate and raps a fist against the wall behind you. You can hear heavy footsteps. Joel ignores you as you try to read his expression. In seconds, the fully armored Mandalorian enters the room. 

He moves swiftly, barely glancing in your direction as Joel meets him on the far side of the room. 

“You were delayed,” the Mandalorian remarks in his modulated voice, his tone unrevealing. Joel steps in closer, muttering in a hushed tone that you can’t pick up. Something makes the Mandalorian laugh abrasively. His voice cracks through the air, fraught with a hazardous edge. 

You sit still, chest tight, as the helmet swivels towards you. Expressionless metal, he gives nothing away. Harsh lights beat down on your damp skin, making it hard to stay still. 

Joel is menacing, but this guy is impossible to read. The Mandalorian stalks towards you like a predator. 

Joel leaves the room, presumably off to shower, pulling his shirt over his head as he walks away. 

“Let’s see then,” the Mandalorian commands as he approaches. 

“See what?”

He pulls you to your feet, a gloved hand jerking your head side to side as he examines you. 

He steps forward, and you back away in synchronized steps until your heel hits something. The Mandalorian has you trapped between the cold wall and his cold metal armor. 

He removes the cuffs that bind your hands, tossing them aside, drawing a confused look from you. Instead, with one hand, he pins both your wrists above your head, causing your legs to spread instinctively. You squeeze your eyes shut as if you can control yourself without looking. 

“He said you’re not worth the fuel to return.” The Mandalorian gestures toward the direction Joel disappeared in with just a subtle tilt of his head. “That you’re a distraction and a whore.” 

“Then let me go.” 

“No.”

The Mandalorian doesn’t say more. He watches you. He is still and statuesque, whereas you’re so human. In the thick air, your breathing sounds too loud. Your heart beats too violently. Your limbs tremble too weakly. You give away so much, just with your body, your face, your eyes. 

“What do you want with me?” 

“I ask the questions,” he negates coolly. 

He squeezes your jaw tightly, “Is it your mouth?” His fingers squish the insides of your cheeks against your teeth. 

“No…it can’t be this needy cunt, hmm?” 

You’re shuddering, soft, and pliant. Warm, flesh and blood. You can’t form a response for him, even when he releases your jaw. Your gape at him with wide eyes and wet lips. 

Then, unceremoniously, he’s shoving his hand into your leggings. Wedging his thick fingers between your slippery, swollen folds. He growls like an animal beneath the helmet.

“You’re soaked,” he says. “Getting fucked full of Joel’s cock wasn’t enough?” He pulls his hand out, letting the band of your leggings snap against your belly. You stare back. Your body trembles lightly, arms straining in his grip. 

“Answer me,” he orders quietly. 

It’s soft. Your throat is still hoarse. “No.” 

Then he’s groping at you with an intensity that makes you writhe against the cool steel wall. 

He pinches at your strained nipples, rolling them between his fingers and making you bite your own lip to distract from the twisted pain and pleasure he’s unleashing on you. You can’t keep back all the noises, though, and he pauses when you moan and arch into his hand. 

“You’re not a whore,” he decides and he wedges his thigh between your legs. You roll along the ridged plate of armor, needily grinding against him. 

Without warning, the Mandalorian tears your top off of your body like a starved animal. Primal and desperate, but with precision. A tremor runs through you at the exposure and ferocity, making you gasp. 

“No. You like this too much to be whore.” He drops your hands and they fly to his shoulders. You wrap your legs around his waist and he carries you across the room dropping you onto the bed. 

He pulls your leggings down, tossing them to the floor. You’re breathing so heavily, anticipating his next move. He pulls his cock out of his pants and you can’t take your eyes off of it. The only part of him exposed aside from his hand. The only glimpse of the true man beneath the metal. 

He taps his drooling head on your clit and you make a hungry sound, spreading your legs wide to make room for him. With a firm grip, he guides himself through your throbbing folds and into your hot, wet cunt. 

You groan as he meets the end of you. Your walls flutter around him as he splits you open, and then he starts to rock in and out and you keen. “Shut up,” he growls and covers your mouth with his palm. 

He saws into you relentlessly and you choke down your cries of pleasure. “Listen to how wet you are,” he mutters. “Such a filthy slut.” Your body jolts with every thrust, breasts bouncing and legs shaking as he keeps your mouth covered. 

“You think she can take us both?” 

You strain under the Mandalorian’s hand trying to turn your head and Joel moves in closer. 

“She’s just cargo,” Joel muses darkly, “she’ll take what we give.” 

…….

You pause the video on your laptop, freezing the scene just as it cuts back to your reaction to Joel. The fucked out smile in your eyes apparent, even with your mouth covered. 

You whip your head over to look at your boyfriend lounging next to you on the sofa. Your brow is furrowed critically, and he can see the wheels turning in your mind. His eyes, though, are clouded with lust. 

“Would’ve been better if we could’ve made a set that looked like the Razor Crest,” you grumble. You chew on your bottom lip as you consider the rest of your critique. 

“Do you think I should’ve kept in more of the dialogue between you and Joel? And the continuity with your gloves—do you really think it’s not that noticeable?” 

“Baby,” Frankie mutters in his thick, husky voice. “I don’t think anyone is worried about the plot or the fucking gloves.” 

You sigh deeply at that, returning to your video editing software with irritation. “You’re just saying that because you aren’t worried about those things,” you admonish him, continuing with your work. 

You play another clip of the scene that the two of you shot. Hearing your moaning and whimpering for him through the laptop speakers drives him fucking crazy. He’s pretty sure he could wear a banana suit and people would still happily pay to watch you get railed by him. 

“I’m not just saying that,” he argues, deciding to hold back on the banana comment. 

“Come here. It’s late, take a break.” He can practically hear your eyes roll as you ignore him and continue poring over details that only you would notice. He doesn’t have much patience left, already desperately turned on both from the video you made and from how sexy you look next to him. So focused. In your element. 

He lowers his voice into that rumbly, bassy register that he knows you can’t resist. “Are you going to make me repeat myself?” Your head swivels, and he gives you a dark glare with a gleam in his eye. He can see the feisty remark swirling on the tip of your tongue. “Come here,” he orders. 

You close the laptop, pushing it towards the middle of the coffee table. “Are you going to punish me?” you murmur, crawling onto his lap slowly. “I can get the helmet back out,” you joke with a playful smirk before you curl into him, pressing soft kisses along his warm neck. 

“Fuck,” he huffs, “I should punish you.” He grabs your hips, guiding you closer to where he wants you. You gasp at the same time as he groans when your core rubs against the long ridge of his erection. “You feel that?” he growls lowly. The friction and heat between you radiates up his spine and down to his toes. “You feel how hard you make me?” he asks. 

“Yes.” You grind against him. He feels huge through his soft sweats. You roll your hips, savoring the pressure of his hard cock teasing you. It sends sparks from your cunt to your nipples, lighting up your nerves. He slips one hand under the oversized t-shirt you’re wearing–his t-shirt– to palm your tits and pinch at your nipples as if he could read your mind or, rather, your body. 

“That’s how hard every jerkoff that watches us is gonna be.” 

His statement makes you giggle softly against his neck. “Yeah?” you ask breathily. 

“Yeah,” he confirms before capturing your lips with a hungry kiss that makes you moan into his mouth. You melt into each other on the sofa. Tongues sliding against each other, hips rocking against each other, and hearts beating against each other through your ribcages. 

He cradles you in his arms as he shifts. Releasing you once you’re flat beneath him on the sofa, “They’ll never know what it’s like to feel your sweet cunt come around their cock, though.” He says as he lifts your legs, sliding off your soaked panties before spreading you open. 

You can only hum in agreement, entranced by the sight of him pushing down his sweatpants. He’s lost in you. The desire in your eyes and the arousal shining on the folds of your core. You wrap your legs around him, hitching one knee up high to give him deeper access. 

“Please,” you groan. He teases you with the wide head of his cock, nudging at your clit as he coats himself in the fresh wave of slick flooding around him. 

“Please, what?” 

“Please, fuck me. Now.” 

A warm puff of air comes out of his nose. Amused with your impatience. But when he starts to feed himself into you slowly, it’s no longer funny. He’s possessed by the same urgency. Gripped by the plush heat of your cunt as you stretch around him. When he’s fully seated, hips flush to your pelvis, his cock throbs inside of you, and you dig your fingernails into the musculature of his shoulders. Silently demanding more, so he moves. 

He fucks into you with a fervor made of possession and pride. Filling you so deeply that it’s like he’s connected to your soul, slotted perfectly into the heart of your cunt. Every ridge of him designed to caress every nerve inside of you. But beyond fitting together physically, he knows exactly what you want. 

He snaps his hips harder. Faster. With a force that makes your eyelids heavy and your head bob limply as he drives into you with such strength that it makes you mindless with pleasure. He gives and gives. And you take and take. You cry out his name when he finds the perfect angle to launch you into a euphoric orgasm. It’s not long before he’s coming, too, stuffing you full and deep as your walls constrict and contract around him. 

Time feels fuzzy as you lay together. Sticky but satisfied. His arm and leg thrown over you weigh heavily as he relaxes. He could drift off like this, and he’s about to say so when he catches that look on your face. You just figured something out. 

“What are you plotting?” he asks in a sleepy voice. 

“I’ve got an idea for our next video.” 

“Yeah?”

“Do you still have those zip ties?” 

pls let me know if enjoyed or hated any of it <3

Dividers by @cyberangel-graphics

ty: to @gothcsz for reminding me that pwp is pwp when i spent days getting hung up on some unnecessary details, and to @magneticecstasy for an idea that didn’t make it in, but will not leave my brain now 

gen tags for some babes: 

@lovely-vamp-princess

@gothcsz

@auteurdelabre

@adoreyouusugar

@swankyorange

@itwasntimethatdidit40

@ivoryandflame

@magneticecstasy

[chibieggplant]

7 minutes in heaven

7 Minutes in heaven with Sanji

Female reader

Fluff and kissing

Nami picked up the empty bottle with a mischievous glint in her eye. "Alright, let's see who gets the honour - or curse - of starting our little game!" She gave the glass vessel a vigorous twirl, watching it whirl around before coming to an abrupt halt, pointing unerringly at you. Gasps and laughter erupted from the others as Luffy exclaimed, "Whoa, looks like y/n drew the short straw and goes first!"

Brook chuckled, his skeletal fingers giving your shoulder a playful nudge. "So, y/n, who'll be sharing that cramped closet space with you for seven tantalizing minutes?" Your cheeks flushed pink at the prospect, and you couldn't help but grumble under your breath, "Figures, why wouldn't I get stuck going first?" Your heart races as the bottle spins on its axis, each second an eternity until finally, it comes to rest. And there, grinning like the cat who got the cream, sits Sanji.

Sanji's triumphant laughter fills the air as he exclaims, "Thank you, God! Thank you, thank you, thank you!" His elation is infectious, making it difficult for you to hold back a small smile. But beneath the surface, your nerves are fraying at the edges. Nami's teasing whisper about the two of you making a cute couple doesn't help matters, her smirk implying she knows about your long-held crush on Sanji. You shoot her a glare, wishing she'd keep such sensitive information to herself. But there's little point in getting upset – Nami's always had a knack for pushing your buttons and stirring the pot.

As you nervously make your way toward Sanji, Nami throws in one final warning: "Have fun, but no funny business, Sanji!" Her words are half-jest, half-serious. Sanji barely acknowledges them, too caught up in his excitement to pay attention to anyone else. With a skip in his step, he eagerly awaits your arrival, ready to make the most of these seven precious minutes in each other's company – and perhaps, ignite a spark that he's secretly been hoping for.

The whispers of the others fade away as you step inside the cramped confines of the closet with Sanji. You try to brush off your growing nerves and focus instead on the warmth radiating from Sanji's presence beside you. It's true, you've often found yourselves lost in daydreams about each other – harmless fantasies, surely. But now, with the doors firmly shut and the promise of seven minutes stretching out before you, the line between reality and fantasy begins to blur.

Sanji's proximity is intoxicating, the scent of his cologne combined with the musty closet air, making your head spin. The cramped space seems to shrink further, pressing your bodies together unintentionally as you both fumble for a moment to get comfortable. Outside, the crew's laughter and suggestive remarks continue unabated, fueling the electric tension building between you and Sanji. Franky's bold assertion – that seven minutes is ample time for ‘super things’ to happen – rings ominously in your ears.

As the seconds tick by, your heart pounds in your chest, matching the frantic rhythm of Sanji's breathing. His gaze flickers to your flushed face, and for a moment, you both hold each other's stare, the unspoken understanding crackling between you like a live wire. Seven minutes may seem like a lifetime when every second counts and the consequences of giving in to your desires could change everything... But at this moment, surrounded by the darkness of the closet and the heat of Sanji's body so close to yours, it's impossible to think of anything but succumbing to the overwhelming temptation that has been building between you for so long.

In the dim closet, Sanji attempts to lean casually against the wall, although his nervously tapping foot gives away his true feelings. *Here I am, alone…with y/n* he thinks to himself, heartbeat accelerating. He takes a deep breath, mentally preparing for the opportunity he'd envisioned countless times – uninterrupted alone time with you. *Don't mess this up, Sanji* he reminds himself internally, fighting back his jitteriness.

“S-so, um...what do you want to do?” Anxiously, you ask, purposely avoiding his gaze. “Uh...well... seven minutes in heaven usually means...” *Usually means what? Kissing? More? Dammit, brain, focus!* He scolds himself. Trapped in his internal turmoil, Sanji trails off, leaving the sentence hanging in the charged silence between you. He steals fleeting glances at your profile, admiring your complexion even in the dim light. His heart pounds louder with every beat, drumming a rhythm of anticipation and anxiety throughout his entire being. Sanji inches closer, the air between you growing thicker with tension.

He clears his throat, attempting to steady his racing heartbeat. Finally, he meets your gaze, his bright blue eyes searching yours. But instead of boldly declaring his intentions, he fumbles for a conversation starter – a question so innocuous, it borders on ridiculous. “So, uh... How's your day been?” Internally, Sanji immediately slaps himself for such a weak opening line. What is wrong with him? Can't he just admit his feelings, wrap an arm around your waist, and pull you in for a kiss? But his nerves get the better of him, leaving him stuck in neutral, unsure how to proceed.

Your gentle smile at his silly inquiry gives Sanji a fleeting glimmer of hope. His heart leaps, a mix of relief and trepidation swirling within him. Was it genuine amusement or merely polite courtesy? He's torn between elation and self-doubt, the uncertainty making his head spin. *Why am I freaking out over a smile?* Sanji chastises himself again silently. *Focus, damn it!* But the torrent of thoughts continues to barrage his mind – Was his question too mundane? Should he just confess his feelings straightaway? Sanji's panic rises anew as he finds himself frozen mere inches from you, the heat of your proximity sending shivers down his spine. He longs to bridge the remaining gap, to wrap you in his arms and let the months of pent-up longing spill out in a torrent of passion.

Sanji's gaze remains locked on yours, desperately trying to find solace amidst the chaos in his mind. He's painfully aware of the heavy air around you both, charged with anticipation and possibility – so thick it could be sliced with a knife. Unable to stand the quiet any longer, he swallows hard, fighting against the lump forming in his throat as he attempts to formulate the perfect words. Breaking the suffocating silence, Sanji blurted out words he hadn't intended to utter yet – not here, not now, and certainly not in such a haphazard way. "I REALLY LIKE YOU Y/N!"

Instantly regretting his lack of finesse, he covers his flushed face with both hands, hiding from your potentially crushing rejection. His heart pounds against his ribcage like a trapped bird desperate to escape. He peeks through his fingers, catching sight of your downcast gaze and the slight tremble of your lips as you mutter something back. "You like every girl..." You murmur, avoiding eye contact and focusing on your shoes instead. Sanji reels at the accusation, taken aback by your sudden sternness. The words slice through him unexpectedly, deflating his fragile confidence like a punctured balloon. He knew his reputation preceded him – the womanizer of the crew, easily flustered by feminine charms – but hearing it from you, someone he genuinely cares about stung more than any insult Nami ever hurled at him. Sanji swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet your gaze once more. He needed to prove himself, to show you that his feelings went deeper than mere infatuation.

“N-no…” Inwardly, he cursed his flustered nature around women – why did it have to rear its ugly head now? Gritting his teeth, Sanji resolved to set the record straight. This chance might never come again, and he refused to let it slip away because of his insecurities. “T-That's not entirely true...” Sanji mumbles, averting his gaze, his embarrassment palpable in the confined space. *Dammit, why couldn't I have phrased it better?* Feeling exposed, he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly as you confirm his worst fears with a small chuckle. “I mean, it's a bit true, right?” Your blush deepens, your eyes locking onto his. “W-well... every girl is beautiful in their own way... but you... you're...” *Just say it, idiot!* His mind races to find the perfect adjective - something unique to describe the whirlwind of emotions you evoked in him since day one. But under the weight of your expectant gaze, his vocabulary fails him miserably. “You're... special...” *Pathetic! That sounds so generic.* Disappointment settles heavily in his chest, knowing that 'special' hardly conveyed the depth of his feelings. But before he can berate himself further, he forces a soft smile, praying sincerity could compensate for his lack of eloquence. Underneath the scrutiny of your penetrating gaze, Sanji felt like a deer caught in the headlights. The silence stretched on for what seemed like an eternity, his mind racing to undo his earlier misstep. *She deserves more than that pathetic attempt at confession*, he reprimands himself fiercely.

With a deep breath and a silent plea to the heavens above, Sanji decides action speaks louder than words. His heart hammering wildly against his ribcage, he closes the minuscule distance separating your faces, his warm breath brushing against your cheeks. He watches your lips tremble slightly, a sight that sends electrical currents coursing through his veins. “W-would... would it be okay if... *gulp*... I showed you how much you mean to me?” His voice trembles with vulnerability. The closet walls seemingly shrink further, entrapping both of you in a cocoon of anticipation. Sanji's eyes plead silently for consent, his every nerve straining for your response. He's painfully aware of the thin line he walks, terrified of scaring you off yet yearning to bridge the final inches dividing you two.

“Show me” You finally murmur just above a whisper, unable to deny that you feel drawn to him like a moth to a flame. Time slows to a crawl as your whispered agreement reaches Sanji's ears. Disbelief morphs into pure elation, and with trembling fingers, Sanji gently cups your cheeks, feeling your softness against his calloused hands – a sensation he never imagined would be so damn soothing. He gazes deeply into your captivating eyes, searching for any hint of hesitation or regret. Finding none, Sanji leans closer, his heart hammering wildly against his ribcage like a prisoner begging for freedom. Your breath melds with his as the gap between your lips shrinks to nothingness. Time now ceases to exist as his lips finally meet yours in a tender collision. The contact sends waves of pleasure crashing through every fibre of his being – a feeling so exquisite it takes his breath away.

Sanji's eyelids flutter shut involuntarily, sealing off the world outside this small sanctuary. All that matters are your soft lips against his, the delicate dance of your breaths intertwining, and the rapid beating of two hearts in sync. Slowly, he wraps his arms around your delicate frame, pulling you closer until nothing separates you except the thin barrier of fabric between your bodies. Every rational thought dissipates like smoke in the wind, replaced by primal desire and raw emotion. As he deepens the kiss, Sanji loses himself in the intoxicating taste of your surrender – in this moment Sanji feels as if he truly has found his version of paradise.

Ever so reluctantly, Sanji parts his lips from yours, the sweet taste of your lips lingering tantalizingly. His eyes remain shut, savouring the blissful euphoria that floods through him like warm honey. When he finally summons the courage to open them once more, the sight of your flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes threatens to steal whatever remains of his composure. *This woman...she’s everything*, Sanji thinks to himself, marvelling at the intensity of emotion coursing through him – a potent mix of desire, gratitude, and unabashed love. A tender smile graces his face, mirroring the one adorning yours. Your nearness feels like a drug he's hopelessly addicted to, and he knows he can never have enough. He tightens his arms around you, holding you securely against his firm chest – an anchor amidst the chaos of his turbulent feelings. He wishes they could remain entangled like this forever, oblivious to the world outside the closet doors. Inhaling deeply, he murmurs, “7 minutes isn't nearly long enough... I need an eternity.” His words hang between you, heavy with meaning and longing.

Your fingertips trace the contours of Sanji's features, sending tingles down his spine. He leans into your touch, craving more of your gentle caresses. Your lips brush against his once more, igniting a wildfire within his chest – a blaze that threatens to consume him entirely. Each delicate press of your lips together sends shockwaves coursing through his veins, intensifying the overwhelming cocktail of emotions swirling within him. His mind reels at the prospect of delving deeper into this forbidden connection, the possibilities tantalizingly within reach yet maddeningly out of grasp.

Sanji manages to tear himself away from the intoxicating kiss, his lungs burning for air. His chest heaves with laboured breaths, his pounding heart threatening to burst free of his ribcage. Through glazed eyes, he gazes at you, his expression a mesmerizing blend of longing, desperation, and adoration. The words struggle to escape his throat, tangled in the mess of feelings choking him. How could he possibly articulate the depth of his desires, the complexity of his emotions? The kiss has awakened something primal within him, a yearning that borders on obsession. “More time...please,” he finally manages to croak, his voice rough with raw need. In this moment, nothing else matters except the promise of prolonging this blissful interlude – losing himself entirely in the depths of your captivating presence.

Sanji peers into your eyes with a bashful demeanor, fully aware of the impropriety of his request. Yet, he finds himself unable to suppress the desperation clawing its way out of him, begging for more of your precious time. The mere thought of breaking this intimate bond between you makes his heart ache with a ferocity he didn't know was possible. *She understands...right?*, he hopes, as he watches the play of emotions across your beautiful visage. He searches your irises for any indication that you share in his insatiable hunger for more. This unexpected vulnerability only adds another layer to the enigma that is Sanji – a man who wears his heart on his sleeve despite his usually suave exterior. Swallowing hard, he whispers, "Please…." His voice drips with sincerity, betraying just how much this simple act of connection means to him. He waits anxiously, his heart lodged in his throat, for your response.

Gently disentangling your fingers from his hair, you hesitantly brings your hand to cup his face, holding his gaze that reflect the tumultuous sea of emotions raging inside him – fear, hope, and unfiltered desire. Sanji swallows hard, bracing himself for whatever answer might fall from your perfect lips. The silence heavy between you, each passing second stretching out like an eternity. Sanji hangs precariously on the precipice of confession. Then, your softest of whispers breaks the silence. “D-Do you...maybe want to...continue this, after the seven minutes? ...As...as a couple?” you breathe out nervously. As the notion of becoming a couple escapes your lips, Sanji's eyes widen in disbelief – as though struck by a bolt of lightning. His face erupts into a radiant smile, illuminating the dim closet with its warmth. He laughs nervously, still finding it difficult to believe that this extraordinary woman would consider sharing her life with him. His mind races, thoughts colliding in a chaotic dance – dreams of future moments together, of holding you close, protecting you fiercely, and cherishing every second spent by your side. "A couple?" He echoes your words, voice trembling with barely contained joy. The concept seemed too surreal to be true, yet the hope blooming in his chest refuses to be quenched. He searches your eyes intently, seeking confirmation amidst the whirlwind of emotions threatening to sweep him off his feet.

You nod, attempting to steady the tremble in your voice. "Y-yeah...a couple. Like together, boyfriend and girlfriend," you confirm, a faint blush colouring your cheeks. Despite Sanji's obvious delight at the prospect, a kernel of trepidation lingers deep within you – the nagging fear that his euphoria might be fleeting, and he could potentially withdraw his interest upon sober reflection. The uncertainty gnaws at you, making it difficult to fully embrace the moment's joyous atmosphere. However, Sanji's radiant expression and the fervent longing in his eyes offer a glimmer of reassurance, hinting at the possibility that this might indeed be the beginning of something extraordinary. You hold your breath, anxiously awaiting his response – praying that the sweet promise of a budding relationship will soon become a reality.

Unable to contain his overwhelming happiness, Sanji nods fervently, eyes brimming with genuine surprise and relief. He couldn't fathom why someone as incredible as you would choose him, but he silenced those doubts instantly, afraid to ruin this perfect moment. Without uttering a single word, Sanji opts for a far more physical answer – he captures your lips with fervent passion, sealing your unspoken agreement with an intense kiss. His arms wrap around you possessively, pulling you flush against his muscular frame until the barrier between your bodies seems nonexistent. In this stolen closet sanctuary, reality melts away, leaving only the two of you entangled in each other's embrace. Sanji savours every detail – the delicate curve of your smile against his lips, the softness of your hair tickling his fingertips as they trace lazy circles along your nape, and the tantalizing press of your curves against his own. This newfound intimacy ignites a fire within him, obliterating any remaining reservations he may have harboured. *Finally*, a triumphant thought echoes in his mind, drowned out only by the erratic rhythm of their intertwined heartbeats.*This amazing woman is mine.*

Lost in the symphony of your shared desire, Sanji deepens the kiss, pouring all the bottled-up emotions into each feverish touch, imprinting this moment permanently onto his very soul. Caught in the throes of passion, neither you nor Sanji notices the soft laughter emanating from outside the closet door. The crewmates' amusement serves only as a distant murmur, easily drowned out by the crescendo of your escalating desire. Sanji's entire world narrows to the exquisite sensations flooding his senses – the gentle pressure of your lips, the tender caress of your skin beneath his fingertips, and the intoxicating scent of your hair mingling with your perfume.

Just as Sanji becomes lost in the depths of the kiss, a sudden tug at his collar jolts him back to reality. With a startled gasp, he finds himself being yanked away from you by none other than Nami. Blinking rapidly, he struggles to regain focus amidst the haze of passion clouding his mind. "Oi!" Nami scolds, her voice piercing through the fog of desire. Sanji's stunned gaze locks onto hers, confusion etched across his features. What just happened? One moment he was revelling in the bliss of your kiss, and the next – Nami was forcibly separating him from you. Still reeling from the abrupt interruption, Sanji stammers, "N-no no..." He trails off, unable to articulate the unfinished sentence burning on his tongue. The lingering sensation of your lips against his only serves to fuel his frustration – he could still feel the warm imprint of your touch, a tantalizing reminder of what Nami so cruelly cut short. Stuttering in defence, Sanji manages to exclaim, "N-no no I was...k-kissing my...my girlfriend!" Heat floods his face as he declares your newfound status aloud, but he stands firm, unwilling to allow anyone to belittle the intensity of this moment.

Nami's eyes widen, initially taken aback by the revelation. After a brief moment, however, understanding dawns upon her, and she grins widely – a genuine expression of happiness for her friend. "Girlfriend!" she exclaims, clapping her hands together. Luffy, ever the enthusiast, leaps into the air, exclaiming, "Finally! You two took forever!" His laughter rings through air, infectious and boisterous as ever.

Regaining some semblance of composure, Sanji puffs out his chest defensively, pride evident in his eyes. "Jealous, huh?" He retorts playfully, wrapping an arm around your shoulders to draw you closer. "Can't blame you though, right? I mean, look at my beautiful girlfriend!" He flashes a charmingly cocky grin, his earlier embarrassment replaced by burgeoning self-confidence.*They don't know half of what I feel when I'm with her*, he thinks smugly, tightening his hold around you slightly. As Sanji's strong arm envelops you in a protective embrace, warmth spreads throughout your body. Despite the blush staining your cheeks due to the attention from the crew members, a sense of pride swells within you. Their curious eyes bore into you both, but beneath his confident facade, you catch a hint of his own embarrassment. You share a secret smile, understanding that this newfound relationship status might take some getting used to. Yet, the happiness coursing through you overpowers any self-consciousness.

The crew's laughter amplifies, but it’s not malicious - instead, it's filled with camaraderie and good-natured banter. Looking down at you, nestled under his protective arm, he whispers, "Thank you." Your confused glance meets his grateful one. "For what?" Leaning in close, so only you can hear over the commotion, he replies sincerely, "For agreeing to be mine." With your heart fluttering against his chest, you whisper back, "Thank you for wanting me to be yours, Sanji." This private declaration seems to electrify the air between you, and he squeezes your shoulder affectionately.*This moment feels so surreal*, you think, still processing the reality of your new relationship. You lean into Sanji's embrace, savoring the comforting warmth radiating from his body. As you exchange bashful glances with him, you can't help but beam with happiness.

Sanji's face lights up, and he leans forward to press a tender kiss onto your lips – a promise of endless affection. "Consider yourself warned," he whispers playfully against your lips. "Because I intend to shower you with love and adoration every single day." Just as your giggles subside from Sanji's declaration, Usopp steps forward, feigning disgust but failing to mask his underlying amusement. "No no!" he exclaims, pushing you both toward the closet again. "We don't need to witness that lovey-dovey stuff! Back in the closet!"

Zoro joins in, lending his strength to Usopp's efforts. "Yeah, keep the mushiness behind closed doors!" he adds, rolling his eyes dramatically. As the two pirates try to force you and Sanji back inside the closet, laughter bubbles up your throat once more. "At least let us go to an actual room to...you know, express ourselves properly!" You retort jokingly.

Chopper, ever the voice of reason, holds the closet door open with a grin on his furry face. "Let them be," he chirps. "They're just excited to express their love for each other."

Nami rolls her eyes but can't help a small smile tugging at her lips. "Don't encourage them, Chopper! Sanji needs to learn to control himself." Sanji bristles defensively at this remark, his cheeks flushing an even deeper shade of red. "I can control myself just fine!" he retorts indignantly.

Usopp snickers from beside him, shaking his head in mock disapproval. "We don't need to see you two making out all over the place!" he teases mercilessly while giving Nami a sidelong glance that makes her giggle uncontrollably despite herself.

Amidst the cacophony of laughter and friendly ribbing, Sanji's arm remains securely around your waist, anchoring you in the storm of their playful banter. He casts an indignant glance at Usopp, though the corners of his mouth quirk upwards – unable to suppress the happiness blooming inside him. "Relax guys, we're not animals," Sanjj huffs, although his eyes sparkle mischievously.

Brook chimes in with a wistful sigh, "Ah~ young love, it's a wonderful thing~" While Franky enthusiastically agrees, "Ow! So true! It's superrr!" Nami rolls her eyes but can't help a small smile tugging at her lips as she imagines all sorts of lovey-dovey scenarios playing out between the two of you.

Tired of the teasing yet simultaneously buoyed by their camaraderie, you decide to put an end to it – at least temporarily. With a sassy smile, you declare, "Alright, alright! Enough!" You gently disengage yourself from Sanji's grasp, lacing your fingers with his instead. "We'll leave you all to your imagination." Nami rolls her eyes dramatically, feigning exasperation. "Thank heavens," she mutters sarcastically.

Ignoring her playful sarcasm, Sanji shoots a final grin at his crewmates before allowing you to lead him away, his heart swelling with happiness. As your bedroom door swings closed behind you, cutting off the raucous laughter, he wastes no time embracing you."Finally, some privacy."

[intheorangebedroom]

Tonight you belong to me, chapter 5

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town. Time flies, in room number 2. How much longer do you have, just for the two of you?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞 see series masterlist for extensive tw.

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange bedroom besties 🧡 It's been a hot minute, I sincerely apologise. Thank you to everyone who stuck around, I hope it was worth it, and thank you to everyone who just passed by 🧡 @frannyzooey my love, thank you for your help on the Americanisms, invaluable as always 🧡

Word count: 13.8k

[prev] * [series masterlist] * [next]

Chapter 5: Time in a bottle

It’s late when you pull into the parking lot. Dusk cloaks the motel in its fuzzy veil, the surroundings fading in diffuse shadows. The single-story building stands out in the twilight, akin to an old ship. Wooden poles for masts, hanging lamps swaying gently in the briny breeze, their lights blurry in the muggy air. Tacky and warm, it wafts in through your car’s open windows, dampening the exposed skin of your forearms and the back of your neck. 

On the passenger seat, your iPhone’s screen glows in the semi-darkness with an incoming call. 

Adrian.  

“What now?” you sigh, through clenched teeth. 

Your eyes dart up to Frankie’s truck parked in front of you. The word FORD stretched in chrome letters on the tailgate, shining bright in your headlights. 

The familiar pull awakens between your constricted lungs. A pounding, greedy little tug compelling you to get out of your car and cover the distance to the room as quickly as your step will carry you. But you want to calm your nerves first. Slow down your heart rate, deepen your breathing. 

That discussion you had with your father, earlier this afternoon, still clings to your frame. The humiliation conveyed by his carefully chosen words like tar, black and viscous. You can almost smell its foul stench. And you don’t want to bring any of it inside. 

It’s only the third time Frankie gets here before you, if you count that very first Friday back in September. And the second, since you came back from Colorado earlier this month. The pressure in your rib cage eases at the memory of that sweet evening. 

All day long, you had rushed through your counting routine. Through the long, icy corridors of your glass prison. Rushed on the 589 northbound. Rushed to strangle the uncertainty of his presence there. 

It was a few minutes past 7pm when you parked next to his truck, his early presence cranking up your anxiousness. You got out of your car with an anguished scowl, and you all but ran toward the porch, toward the brass number 2, shoes scuffing the gravel. 

The door swung open the very second you stepped under the overhang. A flash of dimple, and his arms wrapped around your waist. He scooped you up from the floor, swift and easy, carrying you inside. Hungry kisses, teeth scraping at your jaw, down the line of your neck. A throaty husk of Happy New Year, Lee Abbott, as he tugged your clothes off your body that thrummed with his scent and his voice and his arms and his taste. 

With the density of him. 

He lifted you again, your short, giggly yelp bouncing across the room as he hauled you over his shoulder with an easy force. His steps long and balanced, as if your weight was inconsequential to his strength. 

In the dim bathroom, he put you down directly into the tub. There, he unbuckled his belt and slid down his jeans, looking at you with a mischievous grin you’d never seen before and that fitted his gorgeous face a little too well. 

“Told you I’d fuck you in this shower.” 

Thirty seconds later, you were standing together under an aggressive stream of scalding water, his broad back shielding you from the high pressure, steam blurring the tiles and the mirror. You pressed your face into his neck, hands splayed over his chest, feeling it heave with his low, rumbling chuckle. 

“ That’s the best I could do. This place is trash,” he scoffed, lips grazing your ear. 

“ It’s perfect,” you laughed. 

Another notification lights up your screen, yanking you back into the stifling cab of the sedan, to the nagging cramp poking your rib cage, to your hindered breathing. 

It glowers at you, bold black letters over a steel gray rectangle. 

MESSAGES 

Adrian

Your eyes flicker back to the red truck, your face crunching into a grimace. 

“Shit,” you grit, grabbing the phone and quickly pressing the home button before you can change your mind.  

The lock screen fades as the message app pops open. You squint against the brightness of the glowing white screen. 

I made it, babe. I fucking made it. You’re talking to the new senior partner of Balmer & Steigt.  Fuck yeah. I finally get what I fucking deserve.  

The gray ellipses start blinking underneath the bubble. You frown, bracing yourself. 

I couldn’t have made it without you. This is your victory as much as mine.

You scoff, but the dread-inducing ellipses keep bouncing happily. Fantastic. There’s more coming.

I got you something. Something fancy for my fancy girl.

“Oh, hell no.”  

Leaning down, you pick up the roomy I ❤ NY tote bag Ava got you as a Christmas present and dump your phone into it, before stuffing the bag under your seat. 

If only you could take a full breath. If only your chest would expend. It’s not that bad, really. A few months back, you would have been physically unable to keep going with your day after that conversation with your father. Let alone drive. You’d have suffocated, chocked up on your panic, until you’d been left with no choice other than to gulp down a pill, or two, or three, topped off with a swig of gin. The bitter taste of surrendering. 

Is that what it means, to give oneself some grace? You’re doing good, you’re doing better, you’re doing your best.

Closing your eyes, you exhale through pursed lips and ease down your shoulders. 

He had you called into his office by his secretary, as you were about to leave, bag in hand, counting steps. 

But you were expecting it. In all honesty, you’re surprised it’s taken him this long. Four weeks since you came back from Beaver Creek. Four weeks of defying his strict, outdated, misogynistic dress-code. 

The very first morning, you stepped out of the mirror-lined elevator on the 15th floor wearing high-waisted, wide-legged slacks and a loose button-up, the sleeves folded high on your forearms. And flat derbies.  

Nervousness, sitting heavy and queasy in the pit of your stomach, beating loud against your eardrums. Prickling under your armpits, raising the hair on your nape. 

Kaytee’s eyes widened as she caught sight of you walking by her office, before she remembered to police her expression. The shock on her face turned into something else, something worse. Lurking in the lift-up corner of her lips, in the smugness coloring her cheeks. Something sardonic. Condescension. 

“ You can’t spend your life trying to be someone else. ” Ava’s words through the receiver the previous night were a dizzying swirl inside your head, as you walked down the glass corridors, coworkers and subordinates watching you with a similar shocked expression, that blurred their features into one subdued, frightened face. 

But who the fuck am I, Ava? you wanted to ask, the only sound on the line that of your short breathing. How did you know who you were? Always. From the very beginning of your life. How did you know how to be so unapologetic about it? 

Had it been your gift to her? Does self-confidence require love? Or guidance? Is it innate? 

All you know, at this point in your life, is that wearing clothes that you chose for yourself seems like a sound first measure. One that you can actually undertake. 

And with that in mind, you stepped into your father’s office, your heart pulsating in your throat, to take a seat across from him, his clear desk standing like a wide canyon between you.

Now, your steps are nearly silent on the shifting gravel, as you walk across the parking lot, fingers brushing along the cool metal of the truck as you pass it by. That pull toward Frankie propelling you forward, inescapable, irresistible despite the nasty sensation oozing down along your legs like thick-flowing tar, weighing your gait. 

On the porch, you pause. On Friday evenings, this is when you shed your old skin. Healing wounds, scar tissues. When you set your eyes on the canopy as it swallows the sun, pink-orange dusk fading to dark. Grainy photographs, forgotten vacations. This is when your spine straightens, when you take in the horizon and let it deepen your breathing. When you ready yourself for the life you’ve chosen, between the brown carpet and the yellow curtains and his arms. 

But it’s already night. The darkness has erased the horizon and your old skin won’t shed. 

The door opens, a draft ruffling your hair.  

The first thing you see is the crease between his brow. The tick of his whiskered jaw, and then, his dark brown eyes, appraising the tension that winds up your body, appraising your silence. His grunt, like an echo, distant. 

“You sat in that car forever. I was about to come out and get you.”

The concern in his voice rattles something deep inside your belly. You’re not bringing any of it inside that room of yours, you think, as he pushes away from the door to let you in, as you cross the threshold, but it’s stuck to you. Your father’s voice. The tremendous power it still holds over you. His disappointment. Your failures, plural. All the wrong choices. 

His hat is set on the desk. His suede jacket is draped over the back of the angular wooden chair. Your gaze lingers on it, you can almost feel the comforting softness of the fabric under the pads of your fingers.

He stands a few feet away from you, giving you space. Dark mahogany searching your features, your posture. His hands propped on his hips, like that other night in the parking lot, after he’d seen the fresh scar in your hairline. 

You face away from him. The smell of the room is familiar, in a comforting way. Musty. Dust and the faintest perfume of industrial laundry detergent coming from the starched sheets. He’s pulled the bedspread off the bed. It’s folded neatly on the floor underneath the window. It rises tears along your throat, the idea of him prepping himself, prepping the place, alone in this room where you’ve waited for him countless times and hours. Guilt scrambles your brain, over what, you’re not entirely certain. Keeping him waiting? You failures, plural. All the wrong choices. 

“Lee.”

His voice seeps in through the blackness coating your skin, like warm and persistent little droplets of sweet amber.

You turn to face him, at last. An awkward upper-body twist, feet rooted to the brown carpet, teeth clenched around the lump in your throat. He’s wearing that gray threadbare t-shirt you love, the one with a v-neck, and your eyes find the dip at the base of his throat, the fireworks of freckles between his collarbone. Tears well up, too strong to hold back, and you shut your eyes to the muffled sound of his booted steps on the matted carpet.  

You’re drifting, enveloped in his warmth, his scent, leather and musk. The contact of his skin as he curls a large hand around your nape, tucking your face into the curve of his strong neck. 

His arm wraps around your waist, drawing you closer, flush to his chest, and he presses his chin to your temple. You let go, surrender, honey dripping thick and golden along your loosening limbs. 

His pulse beats solid and steady against your cheek. You breathe him in, a hindered inhale at first, and when your shoulders begin to drop, a deeper one. A single tear escapes. It rolls down the round of your cheek into his skin. Your palms skim up to the plane of his back, soaking in his heat, and he presses you in harder, his forearm aligning with your spine, fingers spreading at the base of your skull. 

Time stretches. He holds you. You lean in. 

Later, after he’s helped you climb into the cab of his truck, you keep your eyes on him as he rounds the red hood.

Sitting behind the wheel, he puts the key in the ignition and, looking at you, tilts his head to the left. 

“C’mere,” he says, and you scoot next to him, biting down a relieved sigh as you slide over the seat bench. 

He leans over your lap, grabbing the middle seat belt, and buckles you in, then himself. You settle in, with your head against his shoulder, and your hand on his thigh, soft cotton, worn denim. Under your touch, his firm muscles ripple as he drives you into the night, into oblivion. The steady motion lulling you to sleep.

Alongside the deserted road, trees and bushes roll out in the headlights as the truck swallows miles and miles of asphalt. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble after a while, fighting drowsiness.

“Don’t be. You wanna talk about it?” he adds after a pause.

“No.” 

You shake your head, your voice so low you’re not certain he’s heard your answer.

��Doesn’t have to be now,” he says. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Your head bobs with his bunching muscles as he releases the wheel to bend his arm at the elbow, fingers threading through your hair. Without lifting his eyes off the road, he leans in, and pecks a pointed kiss on the crown of your head. 

Your eyes close. The image of the bedspread neatly folded underneath the window flashes through your mind. You can’t seem to get used to his tender gestures, to his attentions. You hope they will never stop. You hope you will never get used to them. 

The emotion washes over you, a soft wave, and you float with it. In the cab of his truck, in his scent and his hold, you feel free of all doubts. Fear and pain cannot find you here. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever experienced so far, a strange feeling, potent and all encompassing, albeit one that doesn’t need to be dulled or tamed. 

The words come out of your mouth as a surprise. 

“I think I don't want it to define me anymore. My family, I mean. Where I come from.”  

This is a new state of mind. Or perhaps it’s been there for a while, a mere shadow on the wall, something you couldn’t clearly discern. Suddenly simple to comprehend and articulate.

“Yea. I get it,” he says.

And you know he does. 

You open your eyes, and take in a deep breath, fill your lungs with that distinct old leather scent that clings about him, and the smell of vintage Bakelite from the dashboard, so specific to his truck.  

“Music?” you ask.

“Sure, good idea. You like Jefferson Airplane?”

You nod, brushing your cheek against the cottony fabric of his t-shirt, leaving a little bit of you there, for him to find later.

“Yes. I like them.”

“Jefferson Airplane it is, then,” he answers. 

Gently, he bends forward, mindful not to nudge you too much, and turns on the stereo. His thick fingers push the tape that’s already there into the slot, and your lips curl with an explicit thought, unlike any you used to have before meeting him. Crude, but welcome pictures that now constantly crowd your brain. 

He keeps the volume low, and with the round rumbling of his quiet humming, your mind slowly drifts off again. 

You’re about to fall asleep when a thought surfaces, skirting the edges of your consciousness. 

“Frankie?” you quietly call. 

“Mmh?”

“Are you… Were you in the military?”

The humming stops, his silence abrupt, and his shoulder tenses under your cheek. Pushing away from it, you risk a sleepy glance at his face, plunged in the semi-darkness. It’s not dark enough that you don’t recognize the cocking of his jaw. 

“Frankie?” you ask again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”

“I’m a pilot,” he cuts in, pausing to inhale deeply. “I was in the Army for nearly twenty years. I got a discharge a couple years back.” 

You remain silent. His eyes flicker quickly between you and the road, and you give his thigh a strong squeeze with your left hand, before resting your cheek against his shoulder, eluding his searching gaze.

Volunteers is crackling through the speakers, but you don’t hear the music. Fully awake now, your mind is reeling with those scattered, minute parts of him you picked up Friday after Friday to stash them away in your subconscious. His puzzle of shadows. All the things that now make perfect sense, and the ones you’re dying to unravel. 

His quiet assertiveness. His hands, quick and sure. His silences. His commanding tone. That long, sideways scar etched on his left flank. 

His early rage, and his anger too. The flight forward, dimming his eyes, where deep rich mahogany now glimmers. 

The zip ties. Your eyes grow wide, a gasping sound catching in your throat. You’re not ready to address how much you appreciate this particular skill of his, considering where he picked it up.  

Your imagination produces a clear vision of him in a US Air Force uniform, the fabric stretched over his broad shoulders, and you bite your lip, your entire body covering in chills. 

Frankie has yet to say another word. Something raises your consciousness, something in the scowl sharpening his features as he scanned your face for a reaction. 

Images flash through your head. The 8 × 10 picture displayed in your father’s office in its platinum frame, for every visitor to admire. Smooth faced and confident, his sleeves rolled up high on his lean forearms, your father’s shaking hands with Reagan in front of a colorful assemblage of containers, in the industrial quarter of the Tampa Bay Harbor, during the 1984 campaign. His coldly handsome face split by a smile, larger and more genuine than any of those he ever addressed you, let alone Ava. 

Recollections of those dragging hours you spent in church as a child, beads of sweat dripping along your spine as you sat in the sweltering heat on a hard wooden bench, rigid and still like a marble statue for fear of being reprimanded. 

The hateful, vehement speeches your father would burst into at random, your mother pinching your arm for you to listen, this is important. The uneasy feeling sitting in the pit of your stomach, like bile, like nausea. Wrong. This is wrong. A feeling, not an idea yet. It grew with you, expending, to become impossible to see past by the time you started high.

The list of names in your father’s neat handwriting, scrawled on a crisp piece of paper, that he handed you before driving the entire family to the polls for your very first election. The sheer terror, primitive in its hold over you, prickling on your nape as you systematically disregarded his instructions, choosing the names followed by the three letters DEM. 

The rare political meetings you secretly attended in college, the pamphlets in loud colors and bold letters, that you read hidden from your roommate’s prying eyes, as if they were satanic verses. Reproductive rights! Demilitarization Now! No to privatized prisons! End gun violence! 

Petitions you signed with a shaking hand, because what if your parents found out? What if they heard of it? A dread so profoundly anchored at the very core of your psyche that you have never told Ava any of it, even when she would chastise your lack of interest in politics, your lack of involvement, lest she’d reveal your treason to them in the heat of an argument.

Could this be when you started finding yourself? In your diverging convictions? Could it be enough? Could it count? 

“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask tentatively.

He huffs a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head. 

“You’re a hell of a fast learner, aren’t you?”

“I have a very good teacher,” you shrug, trying to ignore the sharpness in his tone. 

Curiosity overthrowing your ingrained fear to displease, you ask, “What kind of aircraft do you fly? Planes? Helicopters?”

He simply nods, and your cheeks heat again at the notion, your heart racing. 

“I’m very impressed,” you whisper. “I can barely parallel park.”

“I’m sure you got plenty of other skills,” he answers, softer. 

“No. I really don’t.”

—

Frankie walks briskly across the parking lot, carrying a take-away bag and a six-pack of beer. His head hung low to shield his face from the thin, mid-February drizzle. His denim shirt sticks to his back with humidity, and sweat from the drive. It’s pulled uncomfortably taut across his shoulders. 

He steps onto the porch, hands too full to open the door or even knock on it, so he gives it three light kicks. A tiny screw pops out from the curved top of the brass number two. The whole thing swivels upside down, swinging like a pendulum.

“Jesus christ, this fucking place,” he scoffs.

The door flies open, and you’re here, with that bright, earnest smile and your wide, luminous eyes. You’ve tied your hair up in a casual do, but you’re still fully dressed. He likes those slacks on you, snug on your curves, wide on your legs. It fits you so much better than the tight pencil skirts you used to wear when he first met you. Those made you look like an 80s porn producer fever dream. But these trousers transform your gait, your entire demeanor, into something more relaxed. More confident. He could watch you strut around the room for hours. If only there was more time.  

He catches a glimpse of the mesh fabric of your bra, peeking out from the cleavage of your open shirt, and he mentally curses the corporate fucks who get to work all week around you.

“Hey, Frankie.”

The sharp, familiar pang rips through his chest at the sound of your voice, light and cheery. That ache he waits for seven excruciatingly long days to experience again.

“Hey, baby.”

As you let him in, he feels the tip of your fingers brushing his thigh, as if you need to make sure he’s here in the flesh. The miracle of you wanting him, still. 

“What’s in the bag?” you ask, dragging the chipped chair away from the desk, so he can set down his bounty. 

His eyes fall on your graceful nape as you crane your neck to see what’s inside the bag, too well-behaved to touch it without having been invited to do so. 

“Didn’t have time to eat. I took something for you too, I hope you don’t mind. Did you eat? Are you hungry?”

“I don’t usually eat before I come here,” you admit. “I drive in straight from work,” you add, heat visibly creeping up your neck and ears.

He takes off his hat, ruffling a hand through his hair to conceal a smug smile. 

“And you’re not starving, by the time I’m finished with you?”

“Quite the contrary, actually. I feel pretty full when you leave.”

Your lips stretch into a wide grin you’re ineffectively trying to hold back. 

“That so?” he chuckles, propping his hands on his hips. For countenance. 

Pride glimmers in your eyes, as it does every time you make him laugh. He knows it’s mirrored in his eyes. Your levity is his reward. 

Everything about you is unbearably endearing. He’s not sure if he’s hungry for food anymore, or if he’s not going to go straight down on you. You’ve already prepared the bed, that ugly bedspread neatly folded under the window. He could lay you prone on your stomach, lower your trousers to your knees, perk up your pretty ass and eat your sweet cunt from behind.

His hunger for you sizzles along his spine, sparkling in his loins, imperious and distracting. The sensation is delicious, and for once, he takes the time to revel in it. He’s so used to barging in here and just taking. He doesn’t savor, not really, not until after he’s had you at least once. 

He’s not proud of his unbridled hunger, the consequence of seven days’ worth of pent-up frustration, chasing your perfume on his clothes and the ghost feeling of your cool, smooth skin under his palms. That ever-growing obsession for your scent, for your eyes, and that crippling craving for the sounds you produce when he moves inside you. That high he gets when he makes you feel good. Every time he gives you what you want. 

And there’s the absolute black-out on all communications between you throughout the week that drives him out of his mind. He knows that’s the tacit deal the two of you struck at the very beginning. No phone number, no address, no marks. Hell, he didn’t even know your name until you gave it to him at Christmas. Only, he’s left in the dark for seven consecutive fucking days, with no means to check up on you, and no way to make sure you’re safe. 

He understands the necessity for secrecy. But the more time passes, the less it makes sense. 

So come Friday night, he needs to crush you under his weight. Needs to feel your flesh gushing through his splayed fingers and hear you mewl his name, eyes rolling to the back of your head, your body tensing up in his hold before it shatters around his cock. 

He needs to fuck you deep and full, find you in that place within yourself and wreck you there. He needs to make sure you’re alright. Make sure you’re real. Make sure you’re his. 

And his control might be tenuous, but he sure loves the way you lean into it. 

You’re still smiling when he takes a step closer behind you. Lowering his face into the curve of your neck, he inhales you there, that spot behind your ear, where your subtle scent becomes heady. He feels your chest rising with your own deep breathing, and he pictures your eyes fluttering shut. His hand skims the curve of your hip, sliding up to the swell of your breast over the smooth fabric of your shirt, gripping you roughly as he takes your earlobe between his lips and sucks on it. His hips move against your ass of their own volition, his cock half-hard, fucking twitching.

“Frankie,” you whine.

“Yea?”

He licks a broad stride up your neck, collecting the tangy taste of your skin, mixed with the chemical one of your perfume. 

“What’s in the bag?”

“What bag, baby? Oh, right.”

It’s a beat before he can detach himself from you. His cock is beating hard and angry against the confining fabric of his jeans. With a light brush of his knuckles along your side, he reminds himself there’s also pleasure in the anticipation. The word sits in the back of his throat, like a knife ready to bleed him dry. Concupiscence. 

Ripping the paper bag open in the middle, he smooths both sides neatly over the desk, and points at the three rolls wrapped in tin foil.

“Took three burritos, and some fried beans. There’s one beef, one pork, and one vegetarian, in case you don't eat meat.”

You look at him with a twinkle in your eyes, your grin getting wider than he’s ever seen it. He braces a hand flat on the desk. 

“Oh, I eat meat, I thought you’d know that.”

The words have barely left your mouth that you burst into a fit of giggles, covering your face with both hands.

“Christ, woman!” he laughs. “Alright, sit down. Let’s get proper food into that mouth of yours, for once.”

Together, you unfold the bedspread and arrange it over the foot of the bed. The thing is already stained, and you mutually agree there’s no need to make a mess of the white sheet just yet. 

Letting you pick between the two richer ones, he takes the vegetarian burrito, and you start eating together, two open cans of beer at your feet. 

His bites are ravenous, while you nibble gingerly at your food, holding the burrito with two hands, the foil crackling between your fingers. After a few bites, however, you start eating in bigger chunks. 

“This is delicious,” you moan with your mouth full. 

Is he getting jealous of a fucking burrito now? Is that where he’s at?

“What, you never had a burrito in your life?”

You wince, and he immediately regrets the teasing skepticism of his tone. 

Setting the food down, you dab a paper towel to the corner of your mouth, catching a fleck of sauce. There’s grace in all your movements, even the tiniest ones.  

“My mother monitored everything I ate. God forbid I put on any weight,” you explain, a hint of bitterness in your voice. 

He lowers his hands, eyes trained on your averted gaze. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” you tell him, looking up at him.

There’s that quiet resignation painted all over your face. 

“Try me.”

“You’re thinking I’m a grown woman, old enough to make her own decisions.”

He shakes his head. “Was actually thinking your mother sounds like the exact opposite of mine.”

Your mouth curves into a sad attempt at a smile.

“I don't judge you, Lee. We all do what we can with what we got dealt with.”

A slight frown knits your brow, as you seem to consider his words. 

He has spent a lot of time, lately, reflecting over his own choices, and the many places where they’ve led him, for better or for worse. 

Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria. Libya and the most dangerous places in sub-Saharan Africa. Nearly everywhere in South America. Twice over.

Over the fucking Andes, and to Tom’s funeral. 

Choices that also made him Lua’s father. 

Crossroads that have taken him all the way to that shithole bar, last year at the end of August. Conscious decisions that brought him here, into this room. Into your arms. Into your life.

A chain reaction he wouldn’t alter, he knows it now, even if he was given the chance for a do-over. 

He used to consider things as definite. Choices as absolute and irrevocable. It took him becoming a father, and meeting you, to understand his mother’s words. Paso a paso, she’d say, watching him with a tender, knowing smile as he rushed toward his life. Paso a Paso, Francisco. 

You eat in silence for a while, and he keeps watching you. That sharp pain solidly entrenched inside his chest, blooming through his heart, he has to make a conscious effort to breathe around it. 

He bought you the food you’re eating right now. Drove to his favorite place, stood in line and placed his order with you in mind. And you’re enjoying it. In fact, you’re demonstrating an impressive appetite, hungrier, messier with every bite. Sauce dripping down your chin. Pink flashes of tongue licking it from between your fingers. 

He could get used to that. Providing for you. Taking care of you. In more than just one way. Sharing the mundane routine of a daily life together. 

But this is not real. Whatever is happening between the four walls of this shitty motel is not ground for life-altering choices. 

“Do you want to share the pork one?” you ask, crinkling the tinfoil wrapper into a compact ball. 

“I’m good, baby,” he answers with a soft smile. “You can have it. Just make sure you’re still hungry for more meat when you’re done.”

—

Adrian has gifted you a new purse from another French luxury brand. It’s a square-shaped thing cut from some grayish reptile skin, with a matching tag and a decorative lock hanging from its handle. It looks insanely expensive and ridiculously vulgar, its tackiness almost cruelly ironic. Like a rich people’s inside joke.  

Somehow, you’re vaguely aware this model is exclusive and can’t be bought online or even in stores, however high-end. It has to be ordered, and there’s a waiting list. Useless knowledge you probably gathered from one of your mother’s magazines. A family of four could most likely live comfortably for a whole year for the price of this thing. 

Incidentally, there’s a new perfume clinging to Adrian’s clothes when he comes home late at night. The first time you caught a whiff of the heady fragrance, intense vanilla and white musk, it reminded you of the stunning blonde with feline hazel eyes. 

The gift immediately felt less like an expression of gratitude for your support than like a reward for your silent compliance. But it’s of little to no importance. The bag sits idly at the bottom of your walk-in dressing. Unused, containing what’s left of the love and respect you once harbored for the man. 

Every so often, you think about it, as you cruise along the 589. It makes you smile. A wide, Cheshire cat grin, one that bares your front teeth, and you wonder if it’s cruel of you to smile about the end of something that used to mean so much. Something that meant nearly everything. You wonder if you’ve ever been cruel before. Intentionally, that is. 

Then, you conclude you don’t care. This particular kind of cruelty feels far too good. Too righteous. You could get used to it. 

And you keep cruising along the 589 northbound. 

—

“Mark Twain or Lewis Carroll?”

“Oh god, Frankie, I don’t know…” you moan, too distracted to think straight. 

Teeth ghosting a bite over your neck, he wraps a kiss around your skin, sucking on it. Not sharply enough to bruise, but enough for you to clench hard around him.

In the past few weeks, he’s become playful. It’s new to you. Was it always a part of him, constituent but buried underneath the scars and the years, or was it born from your touch? 

He’s become talkative, too. Talkative, and curious. But then again, perhaps he always was. Only, not with you. 

Thus, there are new rituals between you. Secrets exchanged behind the shielding partition of the yellow curtains. Murmurs shared underneath the droning of the ceiling fan, in the golden lighting from the quaint bedside lamps.

Some of his questions can pose a challenge. You’re not always certain about the proper answer. The right one. You were raised to say what was expected of you. Taught to speak to please, not to speak your mind. To wait for your cue, and hold your thoughts in between.

Frequently, you hesitate, afraid to trip on your words. 

But he doesn’t easily relent. He’s playful and curious. But above all, he’s patient and persistent.

“I don’t know,” you repeat.

“You know. Come on.”

“Okay, um… Lewis Carroll. I love– I love Alice.”

“Oh yea? You do? You like following big white rabbits to strange places, huh?”

His chest shakes with his raspy chuckle, and you laugh, until he pulls you in closer, sheathing himself deeper inside you, and your laughter plummets into a throaty groan.

Seamlessly, these new ceremonials have replaced the old ones, the ones that were carried out under wary gazes, in appraising silence.  

Now, you don’t always count your steps on Fridays, but you leave work earlier, and when you arrive at the motel, you try to engage Raul in conversation. His discomfort is obvious, bordering on annoyance, as you disrupt his concentration while he’s busy drawing charcoal landscapes of jagged mountains. But these past two weeks, he seems to have loosened up a bit. Either you’re wearing him off, or he’s trying to get rid of you faster. 

On the porch, in front of room number 2, you watch the sun slowly sink into the canopy of trees in an explosion of tangerine pink. Every week, the sunset creates a different palette of orange, but your emotion continues to be whole and unaltered. 

Before stepping in, you flick the upside-down brass number. It smiles in greeting, swinging on its one remaining screw.

You wish the place carried Frankie’s scent. It never does, of course. As you fold the comforter and prop it under the windowsill, the only smells wafting around are that of laundry detergent, dust, and the faintest hint of mold. 

There’s nothing tangible for you to hold on to in his absence, and this is by far the most difficult. It creates a vacuum, a fertile soil for foul, festering thoughts. Doubt, dread, agitation. During those seven days apart, there is no text or voicemail on your phone you can turn to for reassurance. No photo booth pictures stashed inside your wallet. No clothes of his to drape over your body and keep you warm and safe. Keep you sane. 

Every so often, when you cannot find sleep, you convoke the memory of his gray t-shirt, the one with the v-neck and the pilled fabric. The sensation of the slightly rugged cotton under the pads of your fingers. The immediate comfort gently lulls you to sleep. 

There is one thing, one thing only: the receipt from the burrito place, that you retrieved from the wastebasket after he’d left, that one time he brought you food. It’s tucked between two pages of your Moleskine planner. You’re not sure whether it’s cute or downright pathetic.  

You had thought the want, the yearning, would ease with time. It only kept spreading to every corner of your existence, every aspect of your life. Instead of only missing his touch, you now miss his voice, too. His choice of words, the cadence of his speech, the pace of his gait. His crinkled-eyes, dimpled smile. The way he rolls up his sleeves, leaves the top buttons of his shirt open, and the way he undresses. His three-finger hold on his glass. His long reflecting pauses before he speaks. The freedom and safety you experience with him.

You just became better at handling the longing. Recently, you have become very good at handling numerous things. Quietly but steadfastly defying your father’s injunctions to comply with his dress code. Adrian’s glaring eyes of blue, their silent judgement. Ava living a life of her own, far away from you. 

Reading helps. You hadn’t read in years, and you hadn’t realized how much you’d missed it. Now, you carry a book with you everywhere in your I ❤ NY tote. In these last moments before he walks into the room, you lie on your side across the motel bed, your head propped on your hand, and you read.

And when Frankie arrives, everything makes sense again, everything is justified. 

The wooden door creaks open, the brass number swiveling frantically, and his relief upon seeing you lights up the dim room. Hushed greetings, his large hands curling at your waist, pulling you into him, a husk of Hey, baby, his lips barely leaving yours while he tugs at your clothes, undressing you already. 

There’s rarely any other form of preamble beyond an occasional variation of Fuck, I really missed you, Lee , his teeth trailing down the line of your throat, sinking in just shy of a bite. Out of breath, out of time. 

The wait is over. 

Does he still come here to escape? Does he come here for you? His urgency hasn’t abated. But his intent feels different.

Stop me, skin on skin, chest to chest, the weight of his body covering yours, calloused hands hooked on your shoulders for purchase, pounding into you loud and ruthless. 

Stop me, crouched over you like a devouring beast, his face buried into the crook of your neck, shallow breaths and gripping hands, grinding deep inside your heat. 

Stop me, and what you hear is, I trust you. 

Deep grunts thrumming out of his throat, tumbling from his plush lips into your skin, a searing branding, an invisible mark. 

His plea. Lee.

He comes right after you do, pulling out just in time to spurt hot and thick over your arching body, or inside your wanting mouth. 

Later, when his spend has dried on your skin, when he’s kissed the soreness better, when your breathing has slowed, he brings you a glass of water, and waits until you’ve drank it all to bury his face between your legs, or fuck your throat if you begged him to. 

And on some Fridays, he goes by the desk to sit on the rectangular chair. He positions it sideways from the framed mirror. Says the reflection distracts you. It’s true. 

You could spend hours watching him. Watching him move, watching him sleep. Watch the care he puts in the way he handles his clothes and his truck and your pliant body. Watch him button up his jeans or tie his belt around your wrists. Watch his curls catch the light as he combs his fingers through them, the working of his throat, the pulsating throb of his heartbeat in his strong neck. The dip in his collarbone. The darker scar on his side. The muscles of his shoulders and his back, rippling under his freckled skin. Watch, and map those freckles with your lips. 

You could spend the rest of your life with him.

“C’mere,” he beckons, with a little tilt of his head, and a light pat on his thigh.

You get up from wherever he left you lying, the bed, the rough carpeting, the bathroom tiles, and walk over to him on wobbly legs. There, he draws you into his lap in a face-away straddle, his hands on your waist guiding you, firm and gentle, as he makes room for himself inside of you. The tip of your toes barely reach the carpet once you’re seated, and you have to rely entirely on him for balance. You like that. 

He braces his strong arms around you, and you keep your fingers curled around them, reclining against him, against his warmth. You like the sticky sensation of your combined sweats gluing your loose bodies. Your back molds to his chest like it was shaped for this very purpose. 

Your head tips back onto his firm shoulder, and he props his chin in the curve of your neck. The slight swaying of your hips is languid and slow, barely perceivable, in the same way the earth’s revolution around the sun is imperceptible to its inhabitants. 

Time lingers, in long lazy stretches, infinite moments in the amber lighting of the room, in the friendly shadows. In the heart of the night, and the folds of your existence. The low husk of his voice like honey in your ears, his words vibrating from his chest to your back, to your core. 

You can hear the smile in his tone. If you close your eyes, you can see it.

He asks about your taste in books, music or movies, food and entertainment, and tells you about his. Silly games of Would you rather? and Never have I ever. 

Scrunching up your nose under your pinched brow, brain cells scrambling back together inside your hazy brain, you try to produce coherent answers as his lush lips trace intricate patterns along your skin, your throat, your shoulders, nimble fingertips rolling your nipples into hardened peaks. A scrape of his teeth, followed by the wet glide of his tongue, soothing over your flushed skin.

Sometimes, you feel so full it’s overwhelming. The sensation, the emotion strangles the air out of you. Your cunt flutters around the thick, stiff girth of him, and he lets out a gravelly groan, cock throbbing inside your snug walls. Your slick pools down onto the coarse curls at his base. It’s like a virtuous circle. Everything feels right with him. 

After a while, when you’ve melted inside, when amber twirls in your bloodstream and your thoughts have turned to swirling molasses, his hand slides down along your stomach. His calloused fingers parting your folds, he starts rubbing at your clit, telling you that it’s time to come for me, baby. 

And when you do, he comes with you, shoving you down and deep onto his pulsating length, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips. His mouth pressed to that sensitive spot over your pulse point, his feverish grunts sizzling against your damp skin. 

When he comes inside you, when you come together, you are made brand-new. Anything’s possible. There’s nothing you can’t do. 

The elating sensation is your favorite daydream, sitting at your desk, over dinner, stuck in traffic, or in the blue hours before dawn. It sustains you throughout the week. The promise of it tingles in tense anticipation, from the crown of your head to the tip of your toes, when you watch him walk over to the desk and fold his tall, massive figure into the ugly chair. 

Week after week, question after question, you come into focus between his arms. It’s terrifying, and exhilarating. You keep getting better at it.

It’s a bittersweet ache, tender and addictive, to learn about his existence outside this room of yours. The borderless confines of his life. Of him. The details he chooses to confide in you, about his childhood, his past, and his present, in the dead of the night, his body wrapped around yours, chasing the contact of your skin. Chasing your touch, your softness, your understanding, when he used to grunt away from it. Like a threat, with bared teeth, and a shake of his head. A forbidding. A not yet. 

It makes sense to you now. There’s an absolute about him. An all or nothing. You’re not sure when it happened. The tipping point. Perhaps in the bathroom, on that sunny morning after Christmas, when he crowded you against the sink with a wolfish look turning his gorgeous face dark and threatening. You think it was meant to scare you. One last attempt. Your last chance to recoil and escape. 

You didn’t. You kept blooming, unfurling into your own limbs under the dark depth of his gaze, reflected in the black-edged mirror. You pressed back into him, the solid, steadying bulk of his body, of his broad chest. You pushed back and sunk deeper into his world. 

Today, he had to scoop you up from the floor where you were lying, boneless, in the wet mess he drew out of you. 

When he stormed into the room, you could still hear the engine of the truck revving. A scowl shadowed his face. Fidgety, tightly wound up, he began undressing you without a word. Unceremonious in his need, an echo of those early days, when he was imprisoned in his past, when his strength was unrestrained, when violence was his sole language. 

Fingers digging into the tense muscles of his shoulders, carding through his hair, you sought eye contact, softly cooing, I’m here, Frankie, I’m here, until your voice got through him. Until he heard you, slowing down, drawing you close. His forehead smearing sweat over your temple, his ragged breathing fanning the shell of your ear. His fist clutching the fabric of your shirt in a ball, with a push-pull motion, torn and primal, I need it, Lee. Please, I need you.

You relented, gave into it, lose and pliant as he bent you over the desk with a press of his palm, flat between your shoulder blades, as he pulled your panties to the side and lined himself up, as he thrust into you in one ruthless shove, down to his base. The clasp of his watch biting into your flesh. He was still fully clothed. 

Pulling on your wrists with an iron grip, he drilled into you at a brutal pace, skin catching at your entrance along his length, and you bit your lips through it, nearly drawing blood, until, at the very center of you, the pain turned into something blindingly pleasurable, bright and searing. A shockwave, erupting from your core, fast spreading along your limbs, lighting up every nerve-ending. 

Tensing under his constraining hold, bucking against his grip, you cried out his name, your back achingly stiff. Slick gushing out of you fast and hot, as your legs trembled uncontrollably, and through the din of it all, his rumbling growl, a guttural string of Fuck, before you slumped onto the desk and he fucked his own release into you. 

When he let go of you, he had to lay you on the carpet, where he collapsed next to you, chest heaving with exertion. Time blurred, you might have spent the whole night lying there, staring blankly at the popcorn ceiling, but he got up to undress.

He’s cradling you on his lap now, gently rocking into you. The slow and steady rhythm of his heartbeat aligned with yours, you’re bathed in his warmth, enveloped by his musky scent. You play along, searching your brain for answers. To his questions, and yours.  

There’s no evidence of his earlier outburst, saved for his thumbs drawing circles on your wrists where his fingers left a bruising indent. And of course, the wet spot on the carpet. 

Nuzzling your jawline, he trails a path of messy, lazy kisses down the column of your neck, capturing the tender skin between his plush lips, his tongue peeking through them.

“I should read it again. Alice. Read it so long ago. When I was a kid.”

Humming distractedly in agreement, your head lolls back on his shoulder. 

“Did I hurt you, earlier?”

Your eyelids fly open. His voice is barely a murmur, no more than warm breath grazing your ear, and you feel him throb inside you. 

“I don’t want to hurt you. I never want to hurt you.”

The vulnerability in his words shoots through your heart like a bullet. You free your arms to twine your fingers with his. 

“What happened today, Frankie?” 

His chest stiffens underneath you. 

“Nothing. Nothing happened. It’s more… It’s the date.”

The overhead fan hums over the room, louder than your breathing, louder than his. 

“A year ago, I agreed to a mission. With my former teammates. It was… It was bullshit. From the start. Nothing went as planned.”

He pauses and you wait, still and silent. 

“One of us got killed.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, squeezing his hands with all of your strength.

A chilling, bone-deep dread settles over your body in the sweltering heat, so cold he can probably feel it. You don’t want him to. 

“You said you resigned a couple of years ago?” 

“I did. I worked for the private sector, on occasions. It’s over now.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Fuck no,” he snarls. “But some of my friends did. I– I had to go.” He clears his throat. “I chose to go.”

“Do you miss him?”

He doesn’t answer for a while. Lifting his hand in yours, you give his knuckles a long, open-mouthed kiss. His forehead rests heavy against the back of your head, his eyelashes a fluttering caress on your nape. 

“For a long time, I felt responsible for his death.”

His words are dense with defeat. With sadness, and fatality. They sink heavily into you, into your bloodstream. You don’t need a mirror to know what his face looks like at this very moment. Your body will remember it, even if you live long enough to forget your own name. The pitch-blackness of his beautiful eyes, the stern crease splitting his brow, imploring for your touch. The tightness in his jaw. The downward curve of his plush lips.

That first night at the motel comes back rushing like a flood, like a wildfire. His roughness, the urgency saturating his actions, the anger in his grief. His bleeding wounds, invisible, evident, glaring. He reached for you through his despair, clutching your body, clinging to the idea of you. 

Are you real?  

I don’t know. 

A dry sob wells up in your throat, but you swallow it down. 

“What do you think now?”

“I think it doesn’t matter who’s responsible for his death. His girls are still orphaned.”

Between your lungs, the wild creature curls up into a ball. Its tears fill up your heart. There isn’t any pill or alcohol strong enough to numb this pain of yours. But it doesn’t matter. You want to feel what he feels.

You turn around. You kiss him.

—

“What about this one?”

He should be leaving soon. But your body’s soft and relaxed, curled into his side on the rumpled bed. Pleasantly cool in the muggy atmosphere of the motel room, in the dawn’s indigo hues. Your thin fingers hover gracefully over his skin, tracing the outlines of his scars, and it’s like you’re reshaping his entire body, all of his wounds, and his whole life, with the gentle touch of your fingertips.

“Frankie, what’s this one?”

He should be leaving soon. The sun’s about to come up. 

“Did you save it for last because it’s the largest?” he deflects with a smirk.

Folding an arm over his chest, you prop your chin over it, frowning exaggeratedly with your jaw shifting to the side. He laughs so hard that your head bobbles with his shaking belly.

“That supposed to be an impression of me?”

“You recognized yourself,” you smile, sitting up next to him.

He should be leaving soon. And you know it. You’re giving him the space he needs to get up and get out. He fucking hates it.

“Stay here,” he says, curling his fingers around your arm as you’re about to get down from the bed.

The look you give him awakens the pain in his chest. You peer through the curtains, into the blue morning sky, and your gaze returns to him with a silent question. 

“Come on. Please. Just a little longer.”

It’s not lost on him that he should be the one getting up. Not pleading.

The mattress creaks in protest as you move over it on your knees, sitting in a straddle across his hips. 

“Yea, that’s better,” he smiles, smoothing his palms over your thighs. His left hand slides up to palm your breast, and he notices he hasn’t taken off his watch, tonight. It’s the second time this month.

“What’s this one?” you ask again, entirely undistracted, measuring up your hand to the length of the darker patch of skin. 

“Okay,” he sighs, “I crashed a chopper near– wait, I can’t actually tell you that.”

“Jesus, Frankie,” you gasp, spreading both hands over the old wound, as if to stop a ghost bleeding. Your eyes have grown so wide, they eat up half your face.

“It’s okay, baby, it’s old. Wasn’t a big deal.”

It had been a big deal, at the time. There had been talks of awarding him a Silver Star for that mission.

“Did it hurt?”

“Mostly my pride. It wasn’t that bad, don’t worry. Nothing compared to what my sister threatened to do to me if I didn't leave the Army.” 

“I can’t say I blame her. I would have probably done the same.”

“Ok, my turn. What’s this one?”

His left thumb skims along the thin line on your inner thigh, and he feels you tensing under his touch.  

“It’s nothing,” you snap, taking your hands off his skin as if you just got burnt. 

He presses his thumb into your soft flesh. The pain in his chest accentuates, radiating down to his stomach. 

“You’re cheating,” he says, as softly as he can. 

You face away from him, gaze flickering up to the window again, and you start moving away, but he holds you firmly in place with both hands on your waist. 

“Lee. Tell me what it is.”

Seconds turn into minutes, the only sound in the room that of the ceiling fan’s motor, and the pain grows stronger, pulsating from his neck to his gut. Your eyes remain trained on the window, lost somewhere beyond the curtains. 

���I had several more like this,” you start. Your tone is detached, your voice distant. “Smaller ones. On the back of my arms. When I was 17, my mother took me to a dermatologist. He removed them with laser treatment.” 

You pause, and look down at him. 

“She got me fixed, so I could find a good husband.”

His fingers dig into your flesh. It’s a full minute before he remembers to breathe, through his nose, because he can’t unclench his jaw. The chest pain turns into blinding, white-hot rage. His truck is parked outside and in his mind, the sequence of actions is crystal clear. Get you dressed. Get you in the cab. Drive away with you as far as the road goes, and never come back here. 

“It burnt like hel—“

“You’re perfect, you know that?” he cuts in. 

“I’m really not, Frankie,” you calmly answer. “What I am is a coward.”

He sits up with a cinch, cupping your face so you can’t recoil from him. Somehow, this would be easier if you looked upset. If you were crying. Showing any kind of emotion, really. But you’re far beyond that. 

“I can’t let you say that. Not when you risk everything to come here every week.”

“Alright, so I’m a selfish coward,” you say with a joyless little smile. 

“No. You’re perfect. You’re my perfect girl. Say it.”

It’s there. Your unbending will, your steel-hard determination. In your defiant gaze and your pinched lips. In the distance you're trying to put between your body and his. 

“Okay, fine. Don’t say it. I’ll keep repeating it until you believe me. I can be fucking persistent, you know?” he adds, falling back onto the pillows.

“I know you can,“ you say, lifting a leg off the bed.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he nearly growls, a bruising grip on your thigh, “I’m not done with you.”

His clipped tone appears to be more effective on you. You sit back down, let your shoulders relax, and the palm of your hands find his skin again. Distant gaze, cold touch.

“What’s this one?” he asks, the blunt fingernail of his thumb grazing the grid-shaped scar on your left knee, his tone barely a question, and to his surprise, you come alive with a spark in your eyes. 

“Oh! This one’s a good scar. I like it.”

You adjust your position over him, slotting your folds over his resting cock, and a coiling heat stirs in his loin.

“I had a bicycle when I was a kid. The most beautiful bicycle in the entire world. Red, the exact same shade as your truck. With a round cushion protection on the frame, I don’t know how you call that, and the letters MBK painted in white over it, you know the kind?”

He nods, and you continue talking. 

“I would spend hours riding it. I would disappear for entire afternoons. It was heaven. And maybe you’re not going to believe me, but I was pretty reckless on that thing.”

“Oh, I believe you.”

You’re smiling again. 

“Well, one day, I was too reckless. I hit the brakes too abruptly and I skidded over gravel. I flew ten feet away from the bike and I tore my knee open. I got home covered in blood, my parents were furious.”

A vengeful smile curves your lips, one he’s never seen on your face.

“They confiscated the bike. My mother said it wasn’t ladylike, and my father said– I can’t remember his exact words, probably 'you can’t damage my property,’ or something along those lines. They never let me on a bike again after that.”

“How’s that a happy story?” he frowns.

“I didn’t say it was a happy story. I said it’s a good scar. I got to keep this one. It reminds me of what I’m capable of. Even when I want to forget.” 

The sun is rising. A new day colors the sky in vivid bronze. The light filters into the room through the yellow curtains, dust particles suspended in the air, suspended like Frankie’s life when he can’t be with you. 

He should leave, but instead, he’s going to fuck you one more time. Pump you full of his come. Brand you with his essence, mark you as his in the only way he can before he has to let you go back to face those people who put murder on his mind.

His hands skim along your thighs to the swell of your ass, roughly kneading the round of your cheeks. His grip settles on your hips, and he bucks up into you, ever so lightly, his length hardening between your lips. He sees it on your face, on your profile bathed in the first ray of sunlight. The moment when you register his intention. The shift in your body, the echo to his desire. So powerful, so immediate, it’s almost like black magic. Your mouth parts open, your back arches. You press down on him. 

“That serves him well, your father,” he says, sliding you slowly over his cock.

“How’s that?” you ask, voice laced with lust. 

“Look what you’re riding now.”

—

The pillow is damp underneath your back, sweat exuding from your every pore. The last days of March have been unforgiving. You find yourself longing for a room with a proper air conditioning system, instead of the motel’s weak, outdated fan that only swishes hot air. 

Frankie’s searing touch doesn’t help. Stroking the back of your arm in a repetitive up-and-down motion, he’s laying across the bed, his head resting heavy on your lap, his long hair curling in every direction in this sweltering atmosphere. 

Instead of shying away from the discomfort, you embrace it. With your fingers twined in his locks, you lean into his touch, focusing on his high forehead, and the crease in his brow. On his long eyelashes, the curve of his lips as he speaks, the working of his throat. 

Ignoring the dark blue rectangle of night sky, gradually lightening up behind the musty curtains.

Dawn used to be a deliverance. From your thoughts that the night painted black. From the wait, when Adrian wouldn’t come back. From a forced rest that never really came, another disappointment, another let down, another part of your life requiring the artificial help of chemicals. 

Now, you resent it. Dawn is when Frankie leaves you behind to go back to his family. Dawn is when he’s the happiest, with his child, without you, in a realm over which you have no grasp. 

A rational part of you acknowledges that it’s easier if he leaves before the sun rises. It prevents you from yearning for things you’re afraid to want. Things you cannot have. A life with him in broad daylight. A life without shame. 

Recently, he’s become increasingly reluctant to let go of you. Dawn finds him wrapped around your body. Last week, he stayed past daybreak, and fucked you in the sunlight. 

The brighter tone of his skin, the lighter shade of his curls, the depth of his mahogany irises hit by a sunbeam, everything was like a knife through your chest.

“Lee?”

The caressing timber of his husky voice brings you back to the soft amber light from the dusty lampshades, to the humming fan, and the blue rectangle. 

“I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

“I asked if you like it. Your job.” 

“God no, I hate it! Sales productivity statistics and accounting manager, can you picture me?”

He huffs his breathless chuckle, the one that sends tremors rippling through your chest. 

“Not really, no.”

“I’m terrible at it, and it’s a problem, but no one says anything because daddy runs the company. I don’t understand why he insists on maintaining me in this position. It’s like a power play. He needs me to be miserable.”

Frankie’s hand pauses, fingers digging into your flesh, and he cranes his neck to peer at your face. You give him a reassuring smile. A genuine one. 

“Is that what you studied at university? Accounting and statistics?”

You wipe your sweaty brow with the back of your hand, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Yes. But university was a golden parenthesis. I minored in Russian literature. Not a skill that easily translates to the employment market, but Richard was thoroughly pissed,” you say, wiggling your eyebrows. 

“My little punk.”

His smile is brighter than the midday sun. Your index finger darts to the dimple in his right cheek. 

“I really like this,” you whisper, your voice dropping, thick with heat and arousal. With affection. “And these,” you add, scraping your fingernail over the bare patches on each side of his jaw. 

“Mmh. I’ve noticed,” he says with a smug expression. 

“Oh, you have?” You try to laugh off your embarrassment, but what comes out is a quivering sound, betraying the want that hinders your throat. 

He grabs your hand and brings it to his mouth, closing his plush lips around your index finger, wrapping his tongue around it. Your belly quakes. You clench around nothing. 

He releases your hand, and you hope he’ll get up and move over you, but instead, he reaches for your arm again, resuming his rhythmic strokes. 

“So what would you do, if you didn’t do this?” he asks. 

You sigh, glancing up, and you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror above the desk. 

“I’ve no idea, really. I never allowed myself to consider the possibility.” And before he can prod any further, you add, “What about you? What would you have liked to do, if you hadn’t become a pilot?”

The diversion doesn’t fool him, you know it. You’re acutely aware of his gaze, scrutinizing your face. You picture the familiar, pensive frown. His hand leaves your arm as he suddenly gets up, air hitting your damp skin where his head was lying. 

A few strides, and he steps into the bathroom, disappearing behind the partition wall. The tap runs for a moment, and there’s the distinct sound of wrung out fabric before he comes out, holding the hand towel. 

You watch him walk back toward you, his naked body glistening with sweat, highlighted in shadows in the warm lighting. You think about how beautiful it is, about your extensive, intimate knowledge of it. How it feels under your touch, every single part of him. How this knowledge is now constituent of the woman you have become. 

You know the callousness of his palms that catches at your clothes. You know the silkiness of his curls around your fingers, the smoothness of his chest against your breasts, the taste of his mouth and the bobbing of his pebbled throat between your lips. The thicker skin of his shoulders, tanned and freckled. The coarseness of the darker hairs under his navel, and how they feel rubbing at your clit. You know the weight of his cock in your hand, on your tongue, inside your walls. 

And if you know all this, then, isn’t he yours? 

He circles the bed over to your side, by the window, and sits next to you. 

Delicately, his fingers circle your wrist. He lifts your arm, and brings your hand to his lips, nuzzling the relaxed curl of your fingers open, to press a kiss inside your palm. His eyes briefly flicker shut as he inhales the transparent skin of your inner wrist. 

Lowering your arm, he starts running the towel along it and you jolt at the contact of the cold, wet fabric, letting out a short whimpering sound.

The sensation is sudden, seizing like an electrical shock, but the relief is immediate. The coolness radiates on the surface of your feverish skin, soothing your thoughts. Eyes fluttering shut, you relax into it. 

“Maybe an architect,” he starts, the towel gliding up to your shoulder, “or a carpenter. Build stuff, for a change. Instead of destroying them.”

Goosebumps break out along your arms, on your nape, as he skims the towel over the plane of your chest in slow, meticulous movements. As he rounds your breasts with reverent care, one, then the other, your nipples tightening in peaked buds, the low rumble of his voice filling your mind, his words boring into your heart.

The towel brushes up, tracing your collarbone, left, then right. Higher along the column of your throat, curling to the side of your neck. A droplet of water rolls down between your breasts, running along your stomach to end its course into your navel. You sigh.

“I could… run a small business, building houses or crafting furniture. In a small town, somewhere up north. Somewhere with seasons,” he says. 

The towel wipes over your trembling belly, over your mound, down your inner thigh. He’s slow, precise, thorough. Careful and gentle with your limp limbs. You’re sinking into the mattress, and floating over it all at once. 

You lift a heavy eyelid, your dazed gaze landing on his gorgeous face. He’s solemn, focused on his task. 

He readjusts his position on the mattress, so lightly the bed barely moves, and twists his torso to reach down your leg. 

“You could be my accountant.”

Your eyes shoot open. He’s facing away from you, wiping the towel under the arch of your foot.

“The last thing you want is to have me as your bookkeeper,” you whisper, your heart beating in your throat. 

He turns around, looking straight at you. Soft sad eyes, cold hard stare. 

“That’s all I want for the rest of my life, Lee. Be with you night and day.”

—

Everything seems to hinge on you now. 

His balance, his happiness, his redemption.

You filled a void, a hollowness inside his chest, he carries you with him wherever he goes. A pale shade of yellow and celadon green. 

He tries to convince himself it’s harmless. That he’s not doing anything wrong. That it’s easier this way. Easier than the drugs, easier than placing that burden on his daughter’s shoulders. He tells himself the peace you bring him makes him a better man, and a better father. Makes him worthy again. There might even be some truth to it. 

He’s not so sure if he deserves the second chance. If he deserves the parts of you that you confide in him. Your past, your regrets, your secret victories. Your hindered aspirations and the shores of your inner island, within his reach. The touch of your cool skin. The strength of your embrace. The veneration in your eyes. Your trust, your faith. Your time. 

But he wants to believe it. It’s more of a fundamental need, really. 

And as long as he’s with you, the illusion holds. When you’re sitting next to him in the truck, singing along to the tunes playing on the old crackling stereo as he drives to nowhere, when his body’s wrapped around yours in the dark, when he murmurs against your temple everything and anything that runs through his mind, when you’re coming undone between his hold, with his name on your lips. He believes he can be as good for you as you are for him. 

But it’s a thin fabric. One that tears the very minute he steps outside the room, leaving your sleepy form tucked under the starchy sheet. 

Day after day, until the next week, he’s left on his own to fence off the thoughts that plague him. 

The voice inside him, relentless, somber, asking how much longer this can last. How long before the consequences on your life are irreversible? How long until that man who’s not your husband finds out, and takes action? What repercussions would you face, then? 

He knows what he’d be capable of if he ever met him. He doesn’t like to think about it. 

You won’t open up about your life with him, no matter how much he prods and pry. He knows your strength. And he chose to trust it.

Seven months, and one week. He sat down with the cardboard calendar hanging above Lupe’s desk at work, and counted. His mind crowded, overflowing with what ifs. 

What if he took you out of this shitty motel, for once? Not just to drive into the night, but on a proper date. Dinner. A movie. Fucking lunch. A weekend somewhere. An entire vacation. 

What if he took you out of your life? 

Lupe started dating this Marcus guy back in December. Now she’s staying at his place every other night. The man is decent, one of the best paramedics he’s worked with, honest, reliable and steadfast. The kind of man Lupe deserves, and that he doesn’t mind around Lua. 

He should move out of the house. Lupe hasn’t said anything yet, but it’s just one more grace she gives him that he hasn’t earned. Every time they see each other, Will hints at it, the allusions becoming increasingly less subtle. 

The truth is, he sees no point in moving forward with his life if it’s not with you. If it’s not to take care of you, and provide for you. Watch you thrive, keep you safe.  

A couple of weeks back, when he’d first thought about it, he’d deemed the idea crazy, painfully aware of all the frustrations a couple’s daily life entails. 

Now, it’s the only choice that makes any sense to him. 

—

The airport terminal is bustling with flocks of tourists. Noisy families with children too young to travel, transient businessmen and women, groups of youths of dubious soberness flying out after spring break. 

Ava stands out in the crowd, her tall frame topped with a short bob of bright purple hair, and you spot her immediately. Standing on your tiptoes, you wave at her until she sees you and starts running in your direction.

She all but leaps into your open arms, and you both grab at each other, leaning into the embrace, laughing. You inhale her scent, searching for that baby smell in the crook of her neck.

“Oh my god, pup, your hair!” you exclaim. “You look terrific!”

“Yeah? You like it?” she asks with a broad smile, running her fingers through her locks. 

“I love it! It’s perfect for you!”

In turn, she takes you in, looking you up and down, and lets out a low whistling sound.

“You look good, too. You look better than good. You look gorgeous!”

“Oh shush,” you gesture bashfully, but you can’t hold back your own smile.

The two of you walk to the parking lot to retrieve your car, immersed in bubbly conversation, oblivious to the moving crowds around you.

Driving out of the airport, you glance at the sign indicating the 589 northbound and smile at your precious secret, before making a left turn south.

“Where are you taking me?” she asks, “I’m hungry! Feed me! Feedmefeedmefeedme!” she chants, before breaking into a high-pitched giggle.

“Alright, alright! Hold tight, I’m taking you somewhere special. Do you like burritos?”

“Who doesn’t like burritos? Wait, what? Burritos? Do you even eat burritos? Who are you and what have you done with my sister?”

You had to type the address from the crumpled receipt into your GPS. Until today, you’ve never allowed yourself to go there. Not on your own.

It’s a small cantina with tiled walls and concrete floors, colorful trinkets arranged in pyramidal displays behind the counter, chalkboard menus and an endless list of drinks. Star-shaped lanterns are hanging from the ceiling, and the staff is busy but jovial.

Lunchtime on a Saturday, the place is packed with couples and kids, and your pulse accelerates. You hadn’t considered the possibility of running into Frankie and his family. 

You place your orders, and after a short wait, you secure a spot in the back of the restaurant. Sitting on high metal stools behind a round table, you catch up on the past three months as if you hadn’t texted every other day, speaking with your mouths full, sauce dripping down your fingers.

The life she’s built for herself in New York treats Ava better than anything you could have hoped for, anything you could have helped her achieve, had she stayed here. A job in a cutting-edge art gallery, where her vibrant personality and her flair for networking are not only recognized but valued, a bustling social life, more thrilling projects than you can keep track of, all of it balanced by Polly’s grounding presence by her side. 

Your choices and sacrifices, justified.

Ava puts down the crumbling remnants of her vegetarian burrito to wipe her mouth, and takes a sip of her margarita.

“You sure you don’t want to drink anything?”

“I’m drinking something,” you answer, pointing at your iced tea.

“Whatever you say, girl,” she shrugs.

“It’s too bad you’re not staying with me. It’s idiotic, you’re only here for a couple of days and you have to sleep over at Jules’.”

“Listen, even if your douchebag of a fiancé had agreed to have me, which I know he didn’t, I don’t want to see his ass face.”

“Alright,” you concede, “valid.”

She nearly chokes on her margarita. Setting her glass down, she gives you a pointed stare, emphatically scrutinizing your face.

“Okay, seriously, what’s going on with you? How are you? I mean, that’s obviously the wrong question, you’re fucking thriving. What happened? What’s happening? New medication? Are you finally leaving him?”

“I’m not taking any medication,” you answer with unexpected satisfaction. “But no, I’m not leaving him.”

You catch yourself before you can add another word. 

“Are you still seeing that other guy?”

You nod, dipping your head, heat creeping up your neck. Why are you like this?

“I take it he likes burritos, am I right?

“You are correct in your assumption, detective,” you quip with a grin.

There’s a pause as Ava seems to consider her next question. It’s always so easy for you to forget that she’s a grownup now. That she knows you at least as well as you know her. That she has the capacity to outsmart you. The notion flares pride in your chest.

“Is he married? Is that why you haven’t run off together in the sunset yet?”

“I’m not sure if he’s married or not.”

“What does he do in life?”

“I don’t know.”

Ava throws up her hands. 

“Girl! What do you know?” she exclaims with only half-feigned exasperation.

I know what’s important. He’s a father. He’s a friend and a brother. A pilot and a veteran. He's thoughtful and observant. He’s organized and practical. And a reluctant sentimental. He learned to swim in the Pacific Ocean. He’s capable of cold-blooded violence, but it will break him. He’s capable of infinite tenderness. And it will save him. 

You pull a face, communicating how little you care about what you don’t know. Your sister shifts on the hard stool. She frowns, and when she speaks next, her voice is low, her tone conspiratorial.  

“Adrian doesn’t suspect anything?”

“Of course, he does. Or he did. His attention is elsewhere, for now. Seems serious.”

“Again?”

“Again,” you nod. 

Ava squirms on her stool again, probably trying to restrain her temper. 

Your mind wanders, jumping back through time at light-speed, to when you first met Adrian. To the way he used to hold your hand when you started dating, squeezing your fingers with his. Letting you choose the wine, opening doors for you. To the affection in his smile, and how fast he started calling you babe . The glimmer warming his cold blue eyes when he introduced you to his family. The way he leaves the bathroom mirror splattered in toothpaste every time he brushes his teeth. The way he lets his alarm ring off forever after he’s gotten up even if you’re still in bed, even on weekends. 

The ease with which he admitted to all his flings, whenever you confronted him, but never confessed to the one with his coworker, the ambitious young lawyer. 

Would you admit to having an affair? Would you use that ugly word that make you crawl out of your skin? Would you deny it? Could you answer No, I’m not seeing anyone? Could you bear the betrayal of denying Frankie’s existence? The truth of what you share, but can’t define?

“Your fiancé is a bag of dicks,” Ava finally says, shaking her head. 

“His obliviousness suits me for now,” you remind her.  

“I don’t understand why you don’t leave him,” she snaps back, forsaking her reserve. “He got his big promotion, he got what he wanted! And Richard loves him, it’s not like he’s going to fire him just because you two broke up, right? You don’t really love him anymore, do you?” she adds on second thoughts.  

The words spill out of you unchecked, once more. Just like in the truck with Frankie, back in January. Months, years for the idea to mature below the surface of your conscious thoughts, the reflective process unbeknown to you. 

“I’m scared, Ava. I’m scared shitless. I want to leave. I’ve been wanting to leave for so long. Adrian, the company, that fucking ugly apartment.” 

“Well then fucking do it, Lee!”

“If I leave, I have nothing. No job, nowhere to go.” 

And if you could give up a relatively comfortable life, would you be able to renounce the refuge of your sadness? Of your life between the folds? 

“You have money,” Ava counters. “You have shares. Sell them. Richard can’t stop you. Get a lawyer, if you have to. One that’s not on Adrian’s payroll. And then you can fuck your man Friday every day of the week, how’s that?”

You think about the folded bedspread under the windowsill. About the wet hand towel brushing up your skin. The trucker hat on the desk, and his fingers splayed on the steering wheel. The pleading arch of his brow. 

You think about that space between Frankie’s chin and collarbone, that contains your safety, your desires, and all of your hopes.

“I don’t… I don’t know if I should leave a man for another one,” you whisper. 

Ava’s eyes widen. She sits up straight, a smirk tugging the corner of her lips. 

“I don’t know either, but it looks like this one fucked some sense into you. The irony.” 

She’s withholding something, you realize. It’s in her uncharacteristic pauses, her sideways glances. Surprisingly, human interactions were simpler when pills kept you numbed and oblivious. Being attuned to everyone’s minute expressions is a daily trial. 

“Why don’t you move to New York with us?” she eventually asks. “We can take you in until you find a job there, for as long as you need.”

There’s that we again. People talking about you in your absence, judging your choices, plotting your future. 

“I don’t know how to do anything, Ava. I have zero skills.” 

“First off, that’s not true,” she retorts, relentless with her well-rehearsed arguments. “And then, Polly can help you find something. Lee, if you can leave this company, there’s literally nothing you can’t do.”

Suddenly, you feel exhausted. Weary and old. A bone-deep lassitude. And at the heart of it, the realization that this is a liminal sequence in your life. 

“Is that why you flew here for the weekend? To ask me to come away with you?”

“Are you mad?” she asks with a face. A little girl’s expression, afraid of being scolded. Your little girl. 

“No, I’m not mad, pup. I can’t be mad. You came back for me.”

“Of course, I came back for you. I was never going to leave you behind, silly.”

****

[where-does-the-heart-lie]

Grand Line Crew Modern Au Gang!

i hope yall enjoy, this took a while to get all together, here

ASL post

East Blue Crew post

Friends we made along the way 1 post

Friends we made along the way 2 post

i dont have many additional headcanons for this lot, but i did write a short story with them :) enjoy

Brook only wears the absolute grooviest of clothing at all times.

Brook only wears the absolute grooviest of clothing at all times.

Brook only wears the absolute grooviest of clothing at all times.

That’s just gonna have to be there 👆 tumblr likes to glitch out my posts.

Dont give chopper caffeine. He’ll either have a heart attack or operate on 5x speed, its a gamble every time.

robin and franky love watching home improvement shows, house hunters, how its made, myth busters, and other technical shows together.

When Luffy shows robin memes on his phone, she takes out her reading glasses and holds the phone like a mom does. Ya know that squint. You know.

Jinbei used to be a trucker and had a convoy with s bunch of his truckin’ buddies. They had matching leather jackets with “the sun truckers” embroidered on the back

Franky has a wig closet. It is vast. If you went in there you'd think you were in Narnia or something

Chopper is BEYOND CONVINCED that Sabo is a vampire.

One day, sabo volunteered as an assistant in a medical class chopper was taking. He was acting as chopper’s patient as he was learning the patient procedures of a checkup.

It was all going fine, chopper got all the patient identification out of the way and next was to acquire blood pressure, breath count, and heart rate. But the stethoscope and pressure monitor wasn’t working, and it make it seem like Sabo,,, didnt have a pumping heart,, or blood,,, or really breathed at all(he doesnt take very visible breaths).

Chopper was stricken with fear at this and assumed the absolute worse as he looked in horror at Sabo’s naturally pale complexion and long canine teeth. Chopper simply jotted down the average count of each recording instead of getting new equipment, and tried not to think about it, but

“huh, all of those numbers are usually lower than that. Maybe all that Special Concoction™ i drink is finally catching up to my heart rate.”

“how much have you.. drunk?”

“like for today? Or since I woke up.”

Chopper is fucking horrified. Sabo woke up to being a vampire and drinks blood as a special concoction. He cannot believe this.

”Never mind, I don't need to know, its all normal, you're normal.”

“Wow… that's the first time a medical practitioner has called me normal. My brothers are gonna get a real kick outta this.”

CHOPPER IS FUCKING HORRIFIED. HE HAS BRETHEREN??? Chopper just keeps his head down and finishes up the check up practice as Sabo remarks he has another class in the blood bank, which was lemon in the paper cut for chopper.

For a month or so after that day, Chopper didn’t see Sabo at all, and he forgot about his fear for a little while. However one night as chopper was hanging with Luffy and a few others in the straw hat friend group, there was a knock at the door. Chopper happily said “I’ll get it~” as the rest of the group continued in conversation.

Chopper skips over to the door and when he opens it, he sees the figure of Sabo standing in front of him. Tall and opposing, smiling a big toothy grin with bright blue eyes shining from the overhead lighting. He’s wearing a long trench coat with the collar popped and an ascot was wrapped around his neck.

What chopper was seeing before him.

Was the vampire.

He let out a scream right out of a horror film and promptly fainted.

A minute or two later, he awoke laying on the couch, feet elevated and vest unbuttoned, to his friends looking at him from the foot of the couch.

He goes to stand up, but a strong gloved hand stops his movement and guides him back down

“Don't get up too quickly, little man.”

Chopper looked next to him and saw The Vampire. What was he doing in his house?!?!?

“Are you alright, bud? You opened the door for me, screamed in my face, and then passed out.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Chopper said with the highest voice-crack to word ratio in his entire life.

“Right. Well again, dont get up too quickly, if you need water or anything let your friends know. I just came here to pick up Luffy cuz some family stuff came up. Have a good night!”

“…you too, and thanks for taking care of me…”

“No prob!”

“One last question?” Inquired chopper.

“What's up?”

“Did someone invite you in?”

the end

PS: Sabo's "special concoction" consists of Red Bull and Espresso. He hasn't slept in 72 hours. This will have lasting effects on his health.

thats all for now! thanks for reading~

[sabokunsmalia]

𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐄; monkey d. luffy featuring: monkey d. luffy x straw hat fem!reader content warning: semi-public, cumming in pants, teasing, dirty talk, mdni!! hi it's malia: don't ask how that thought was created but for me it's so inexperienced!luffy coded.

after another glorious victory for the straw hat pirates, the crew gathered in the center of the capital where the folk had prepared a feast. long tables filled with disparate kinds of food and drinks while a small band played slow songs in the corners. it was beautiful, almost romantic with the enlightened laterns and flowers as decorations. for hours, you and your friends witnessed a beautiful festival. people who have never felt freedom in ten years, were suddenly out of the cage. thanks to a certain stretchy boy with a straw hat, who loved to help innocents.

while the crew slowly split as the members followed their own pleasures of the night, you stayed at the table, in the corner with your boyfriend luffy. while sanji followed multiple women and played their dog, and robin left the party to drown in another book, and chopper already went to bed as he was 'too young' for such events in his own words, the remaining ones at the table were the two of you, zoro, nami, franky and brook. a muscular arm draped over your shoulders, your cheek pressed against his naked, toned chest, you smiled to yourself.

the booze of the past hours slowly clouded your mind, allowing the depth of your dirtiest desires to surface without any resistance. one of them being a certain thing, you discussed with luffy way too often. and you got declined way too often because his reputation was important. it was right, he was right. a pirate who wanted to become the king, had to be feared and yet, you couldn't wipe away those reckless ideas. and with the booze in your system, the courage only started to rise further.

legs thrown over his lap, your flat palm placed on his stomach. fingertips slowly started to trace along his muscles, following the deep and hard lines. luffy did not react at first, knowing how much you admired the change of his body since the reunion. but when your hand wandered bit by bit underneath the table, resting just above his crotch, the captain could put one and one together.

leaning down while listening to another of franky's super stories, luffy's wet lips pressed a sweet kiss on the top of your heart. gentle but also with warning words. "don't, we're still in public, we talked about this,"

oh, there was this demanding edge to his soft voice. the syllabeles suddenly sounding much harsher than anything else he said the entire evening. but you did not listen, not tonight. you followed your needs and desires. fingertips caressed over the thin fabric of his shorts, slowly tracing the small bulge his dick made, without being hard. but with your soft hands, it did not take long to harden. your gentle touch, so featherlight it could never be enough for him.

and just minutes later, your flat hand palmed his hard dick through the fabric of his blue shorts, while the captain still tried to remain in the conversation with his friends. you had your cheek pressed against his chest, eyes not visible for the surrounding members of the straw hat crew anymore. almost as if you were asleep against your boyfriend's body. "just talk, baby," you muttered into luffy's skin, trying to conversate with him, without having them others realise what you were doing underneath the wooden surface of the table.

slowly but with enough strength, you massaged luffy's hard dick. stroking along the outlines with your fingernails, almost drooling down on his shorts while watching how eagerly it pressed against the fabric. the pants restrained him but the feeling of your soft hands already pushed him close to a first orgasm. breath quickened, chest rising while the pants escaped luffy's wide smile. he was trying so hard to not make a noise, to not give his friends a glimpse of what was going on right beside them.

"so beautiful, so hard," you mumbled, watching the tip of your pointer finger dance over his hard dick, smiling to yourself while repeating those praises. words, luffy loved too much. words, which made him cum so easily while being in the shared bedroom.

"wanna feel you later," you confessed, pressing your palm hardly against the bulge. your words were doing much more to him, his dick twitching while the waves of ecstasy ripped through his lower stomach. muscles tensing, you could see perfectly how the captain came in his pants because of you.

lips pressed together tightly, the head thrown back and his eyes hidden underneath the brim of his straw hat. a groan slipped out but luffy was quick to pair it with a convincable yawn and your adorable giggle. oh, you would pay later. would definitely clean up his dick from the mess you forced him to make. with your mouth, hands held tightly on your back. oh, you could not wait to be alone with luffy.

and the captain of the straw hats definitely looked forward to having you the entire night, to punish you for putting him into such situation and for the stains in his shorts which were the remains from his cum.

[womenofwrestlingfashion]

Raw 1/29/24

Dakota wore the Replay Lace-Up Corset And Gloves Set from Darker Wavs ($88), Frankies Long Line Short with Ripped Hem from One Teaspoon (sold out) & Apricot Premium Leather Chunky Zip Front Boots in Black from ASOS Design (sold out)

📸: DTF MANIA

[asliceofzosan]

i've seen figure skater sanji and hockey player zoro before. idk if its been explored but i'd love to put it out there:

hockey player sanji (specifically goalie bc he desperately wants to avoid being checked) and then pairs skater zoro.

pairs skater zoro's long time partner has been nami. though many people ship them together a Lot, they just know each other super well. Well enough to try dating and both of them realized they don't swing that way. in fact, it makes them a really good team. they fought long and hard to claim top spots in competitions because they portray a chemistry that's separate from the rest. plus zoro can carry nami like she weighs fucking nothing. so their lifts are so much more dynamic. they even have a whole next to impossible combination that they're trying to get the ISU to name after them officially.

sanji plays for the East Blue Straw Hats in the Grand Line Hockey League – a formidable rookie group that took down lots of big names in the preseason. they want to make it all the way to the postseason playoff finals but always seem to fall short. but theyre so determined. they reignited a lot of old sparks that were no longer there for old fans and brought in new and curious fans. sanji is the starter goalie and a damn good one at that. it makes sense bc goalies are often doing splits on the ice just to make a save. he's perfected the technique that utilizes just his legs to make saves that make the crowd go fuckin insane.

we have the usual "i booked the rink to practice before you did" trope but a little more spice. in actuality, sanji loves watching pairs skating competitions. his favorite pair rn is franky and robin (mostly for robin). and he adamantly does not want to admit to anyone that he watches zoro and nami's routines much more frequently. (and if anyone asks, he always says its bc of nami. its never just bc of nami.) and zoro's besties with luffy so he always watches their matches even if he barely understands the rules. and he definitely does not stare at a certain blond starter goalie most of the match thats fucking ridiculous

one day zoro and sanji are invited to do one of those comparison videos between hockey players and figure skaters. both get to laugh at the other even Attempting to do their sport. zoro frankly looks ridiculous in all of sanji's usual goalie get-up. and sanji couldn't land an euler to save his life. the video producer suggests they try a simple pairs skating routine. sanji is like "oh i couldn't do that–hEY WHAT THE FUCK MOSSHEAD PUT ME DOWN" because zoro lifted sanji and had him sat on his shoulder like it was normal.

zoro smirks, "you might be lighter than nami, actually. wanna be my new partner?"

sanji knees him in the stomach before skating away while blushing so hard he could melt the ice beneath him.

[1000sunnygo]

Hi, I'm the asker with the SJ magazines. I do have those bonus pages! I uploaded them here (tinyurl/3w5ssa3b) & on imgur (/a/EUYFaMt). They're part of a bonus segment included in the volumes - I wrote about it on the wiki (/One_Piece_School#Bartolomeo's_New_Wo_Student_List), but it's pretty short since I can't read it. And no need to force yourself for other chapters! I'm happy for anything OP to be translated, no matter the amount. Similarly, would you want any future Law/School stuff?

😭😭😭😭 THANK YOU!!!!

woah these are some great details??

Longpost ahead, here's a summary of Bartolomeo's New World Middle investigation notes!

SH and friends' favorite school subjects

Luffy and Zoro: Physical education

Nami: Science, Maths, Geography

Sanji: Physical education, Home economics

Usopp: Art

Chopper: Science (Health)

Robin: History, Linguistics

Franky: Chemistry, Engineering

Brook: Music

Vivi: Japanese language and literature

Coby: (Currently improving in) all subjects

(Buggy is mad about not being included ha)

Classroom Layout

The four free seats are for students who randomly join from other grades and classes (ie. Hancock). Upper left features a special corner for Uta to join virtually. (She can also sit beside everyone randomly and make friends, as shown at the bottom)

Yamato is contemplating about where to seat after transferring to NW Middle, Luffy says "come join us ASAP and let's have fun at school!*

Luffy senpai's relationship chart

Other than ones I've previously translated, here are the rest:

Barto -> Luffy: "LU-LU-LU-LU-LUFFY-LUFFYYY SENPAI!!"

Luffy -> Barto: "Do you know me?"

Croc -> Luffy: "I can take you on a great adventure. So come to my side."

Luffy -> Croc: "You come to MY class! (?)"

Kaido -> Luffy: "I'll push you down the pits of hell."

Luffy -> "Try me whenever you want!"

Kaido -> Yamato: "Become Oni Middle's representative!"

Yamato -> Kaido: "I've joined Straw hat Luffy's class!"

Yamato -> Luffy: "I'll stop Oni Middle and then get to your class!"

Luffy -> Yamato: "I'll wait for you in the class!"

-

Luffy -> Sabo: "A really kind big brother!"

Sabo -> Luffy: "Take good care of your friends!"

Ace -> Sabo: "You coddle Luffy too much, man!"

Sabo -> Ace: "And you worry about Luffy just as much, don't you?"

Luffy -> Ace: "Ace is strong!"

Ace -> Luffy: "Huff.. what a high maintenance little brother!"

Lucci -> Luffy: Don't violate school rules!

Luffy -> What is 'school rules'?

Smoker -> Luffy: "All you do is stir more trouble!"

Luffy -> Smoker: "I enjoy the school more than anyone!"

Garp -> Luffy: "I trained your ass off to make you a strong teacher!"

Luffy -> Garp: "I don't wanna be a teacher!"

Luffy -> Aokiji: "He's a cool teacher! Probably!"

Aokiji -> Luffy: "Well.. try to get along with everyone, would you.."

Backpack Sneak peek

Doing the entire page for this one.

Uniforms, emblems

NWS has relaxed rulings on uniforms. Boys are allowed to wear whichever shirt they want under their gakuran, girls can choose the color of their scarves. Teachers have their uniform too but Aokiji (probably all teachers) don't really care.

The section below are rejected school emblems proposed by students. Aokiji was lazily okaying all of them but Smoker kept him in line lol

Luffy's Design

Luffy: The meat turned out lookin' really tasty, right?

Coby: Isn't it an assortment of Luffy san's treasures?

Usopp's Design (the Kanji says "New")

Usopp: Well, this is how it'll turn out if it's Me to decide.

Nami: Great drawing but too self-assertive!

Robin's Design (She wrote "New" and drew a world. Perfect)

Chopper: Scary! What's this? Why a face??

Robin: It's cuter like that.

Chatroom photos

Lowkey contemplating about lettering all of them but I think I've kept the ask hanging long enough 🙈 These are adorable!

Lack of source has always been frustrating, but I don't think Law has a lot of extra contents to miss out on 😩 If I find something I'd like to source-check, I'll make sure to knock you, so thanks again! ❤️❤️

[piracytheorist]

Season Finale, woe is me T_T

Where did time go. It feels like yesterday that the first trailer for the season dropped.

AND THIS EPISODE DARES START WITH YOR HUMMING THE LULLABY

How dare they. Did I ask to be emotionally destroyed like this Yes I did

Bond is so happy to go for a walk with Loid! And Loid isn't exactly reserved with petting his huge dog is he.

I love how heartbroken Bond was over Anya saying she wasn't coming. He even looked back at her as Loid walked him to the exit.

It actually impresses me that Loid is training Bond right out in public, talking to him about where to bite and how much to make sure the target doesn't get too injured. I guess he doesn't expect the SSS to frequent a dog park?

I love the little pat Loid did on his leg to call Bond back. And then of course pet his head :)

Poor Franky's putting up with so much from Twilight, and he doesn't have to. I hope Twilight appreciates that at some point. I'm sure he hasn't developed feelings just for his family.

Sweet cinnamon roll, too good for this world, too pure

Franky talks about how Bond may have associated training with his trauma from getting experimented on, and it sounds like brand new info to Twilight. I guess, despite how much his spy training has scarred him, Twilight has a hard time connecting "having bad memories about something" with "not wanting to engage with that something". After all, he'd spent who knows how long telling himself that he hated children because they're incomprehensible to him, and not because children crying reminded him of his own desperate times. After all, it's easier to do his job and keep training hard if he refuses to accept how soul-crushing that job is, right?

Damn, I got sad again. Because I imagine post-reveal Loid and Yor asking Anya why she chose them, and she says that she thought they were cool, and Loid has a RealizationTM that no he's actually very messed up and it's very sad that this little girl imagined that this devastating way of life could actually look cool to someone from the outside.

Not to worry, there's more angst I'll pull out of nowhere down the road!

Franky calling Loid out for not knowing how to relax and have fun >>>>

I love how after Franky left, Loid and Bond looked at each other like idiots. Old habits die hard, and an entire cruise of Loid trying to relax and have fun wouldn't be enough to break them, I guess XD

She's like "If I can't get real stars might as well fake some" Poor Yor continuing to clap happily even while Anya's origami star fell from her chest XD it taught her how to properly apply tape I guess, for later...

Pretty much everyone around them is wearing winter clothes, even Loid is wearing a turtleneck and a heavy coat. Why are those children in such light clothes eating ice cream? The boy on the left we even see later is wearing shorts

Guess an ice cream was an easy kind of snack for a kid to feel bad about dropping XD

Sweet Bond! He's imagining Loid praising him and telling him he's glad they adopted him, and all while Bond is wagging his tail 😭😭

This family is just four lonely creatures desperate to be wanted (even if Twilight is very far from accepting that) aren't they ;_;

Ice cream goes RIP and Bond has his (probably) first experience of a self-fulfilling prophecy. Look at him he's so 🥺

Later in the episode, Twilight goes all strict with himself for a laugh. Here though, he actually expresses distress and guilt for Bond ruining the kid's ice cream. He could have gone for a simple "I'll buy you a new one" without showing that much emotion in his expression and voice. In the manga he even has a typical "cold sweat lines" expression.

Or however you call that.

I don't know, maybe it circles back to any "starving war orphan" trauma he may be trying to tell himself he doesn't have...

I'm just saying, he was very expressive here, and he didn't have to. It wasn't a conscious choice.

Bond is really such a good boy. Every time he acts on his visions is to help someone else. From something as trivial as dropping a snack to something as important as saving someone's life, whether they're a kid, an old man, or a puppy, Bond is truly a very empathetic and caring creature.

However, the silly music playing over the vision of the old man getting hit was... a choice XD

Yet another example of the anime putting details to help the narrative: the old man is hunched, making him short enough that the corner of the wall/fence to his side is actually covering him. Which makes the biker not seeing him make sense, since he was behind the fence and appeared at the last second.

I actually felt shivers with the tone Twilight used here. Bond's behaviour is making no sense and is actually a first.

But also, Bond is probably only now realizing that unlike Anya, Loid cannot read his mind and cannot see his good intentions. He knows Anya would jump for joy for what he did, but since two of his efforts to help were met with reprimands, he's hesitant to try again because his trauma rears its ugly head and he fears he'll get kicked out. He probably doesn't understand that Loid doesn't know anything about his special powers, and so he can't let Loid's reprimands pass by him unaffected.

It's a bit similar to how he probably connects bad food with bad intentions, and thus fears that Yor will be mean to him, since she makes such horrible meals.

And so he allows the woman to get bird poop on her, but he jumps to action when he realizes someone's life may be in danger of the fire.

And first, I know we talk about how strong Yor is, but can we for a moment talk about how Loid held back this absolute beast of a dog?

Like, Loid allowed him to carry him around twice, but when he felt things got serious, he actually had no issue holding him back. It was only when Bond looked legitimately scary that he let go.

And that was... a shock. Have we ever seen Twilight like that before? Cause he genuinely looks like he hesitated out of fear... and maybe realizing that no, this time Bond is actually dead serious.

Bond probably didn't know what he would be looking for once he stepped inside the burning building. I'm pretty sure I wasn't the only one who thought that that "Daisy" was a child... but maybe Bond is more attuned to scents of other dogs, especially little ones that need help, so he could find the puppy amidst all the burning smells.

Badass Loid saving his doggo!

Loid doesn't hesitate to run in after him, either. Even the idea that Bond could be rescuing someone is enough for him to take that risk. I love how, after two attempts of what Loid thought was Bond attacking innocent people, he still believes Bond would have a good reason to run into a burning building and runs after him to help.

I mean, you also ran into that building to save your - for all you know, disobedient - dog, so maybe it's the pot calling the kettle black XD

How sweet is he, though. He really doesn't believe in reprimanding someone after the fact - Bond running into fire was dangerous, but it helped save an innocent life... and Twilight's priorities are very clearly shown in that reaction!

I love how man saves dog, dog saves man, and then Twilight is like "Wow your nose is incredible" because of course he can't think of another explanation, and Bond's affirmative borf there sounds like "Yeah sure, buddy. It's my "nose" alright."

Even though it's only Bond with him, Twilight uses "Twilight voice" as he assesses the situation, and "Loid voice" when he talks to Bond. Is this him putting on a mask... or feeling a little more comfortable around Bond?

I'M HOLDING OUT FOR A HERO TILL THE END OF THE NIGHT

That was so badass! But then!

Miserable creature

Exactly how much water was in that bucket to make Bond's entire massive fur soaking wet XD

This is both so wholesome and, me being me, so fucking heartbreaking at the same time. Like, the other guy let himself laugh his heart out at how Bond looked, but Twilight barely allowed a single sound out of his mouth that he couldn't control. And again, angst is my wont, so it really ruins me that he's not even letting himself laugh over something ridiculous, because he can't let his emotions show... even if it would be totally understandable for him to laugh at that moment.

I mean, as I said, he showed genuine distress when Bond caused the boy to drop his ice cream, but he stopped himself from laughing even when the other guy next to him was laughing too. As in, he allows negative expressions when it's appropriate, but not positive even when it's appropriate and understandable.

I mean, he has been smiling at his family and looking at Yor like the besotted simp he is... but he doesn't realize just how much of his real feelings pour through his face, exactly because he hasn't realized said feelings. Wet Bond was a much clearer example of something funny, so he knew that laughing would be a loss of control...

Anyway what I'm saying is it's sad. He shouldn't feel he has to repress his own laugh like that.

Kinda sad the anime omitted this still-trying-not-to-laugh expression Loid has as he sees Bond sniff around.

Bond's voice adafhgdsfdgfdgd

Arsonist guy is watching sneakily from a corner while wearing a hat that has "Fire" written on it.

Dude couldn't have been more suspicious if he tried.

Pretty sick how he got even more excited at the idea of someone dying from the fire, when he heard the woman say how Daisy was still trapped inside.

Vigilante Bond! Arsonist guy takes out his knife and tells Bond to not be disrespectful of humans and my dude you're the one setting people's lives at risk and having a blast about it

We haven't seen Twilight in such action in a while, have we! Ngl it was kinda, uhm... 😳😳

LOOK AT HIM! So proud of his doggo 😭😭

He then says how it would be bad if either of them were in the news... and you're reminded that this is fictional but still pretty accurate 60s-70s so Twilight has really avoided getting any picture of him published. But also Bond could indeed be recognized by any of the scientists... and it's actually sweet how Twilight cares for Bond's secret not getting out. He helped Bond with his "revenge" and now he's acting to protect him from getting targeted again.

I love how Bond fears he'll get reprimanded for biting the arsonist's leg and not arm... when in the beginning Twilight very clearly said he can bite either a leg or an arm XD

BUT THEN

He tells Bond how "someone" will be sad if anything happens to him (Bond), (and we get a sweet af montage of Anya and Bond having fun together), how Bond is first and foremost a part of the family, how his working duties should come second and he should look after himself...

Oh it's gonna hit him like a brick wall when he realizes the exact same things apply to him 😭

SHUT UP AND LET THE BESTEST BOI LOVE YOU 😭

He's not gonna tell anyone, promise 🥺

And he ends with a promise to go to the dog park the next day so that Bond can have some long overdue fun. Yeah definitely a very detached, cool-headed spy who only cares about the mission not destabilizing. Sure.

The anime did offer us some extra stuff, though!

I love one (1) gremlin

I actually saw it as a knife, too XD

I love her.

I fully expected to see the paper puppets (or whatever you call those) fall apart like Yor's victims' bodies do XD I was not disappointed XD

Anya is still working on accepting that her mother is not very capable of not sprinkling "murder" on anything in her life XD

Loid isn't wearing his coat when they return...

I am amazed that they've had Bond for, how many months has it been now? And yet neither Loid nor Anya had ever seen him wet.

Anyway, Loid appeared back without his coat because his excuse was that someone had sprayed water all over them, so he took it off XD

But where is his coat even XD

Her heroes!

And of course Loid doesn't know Anya knows about the puppy rescue, so he's not that affected by the "Stella" and is instead going like "Yo but could you get going with earning those stars already". He's not used to getting recognition for his hard work and he's not about to start... yet...

The closing montage was so sweet! Especially with the holidays around the corner, it was very fitting to see the children having fun and relaxing, Yuri being very NormalTM, Nightfall and Franky having dreams for the future, and the Forger family having their celebrating dinner!

I love them so much.

And thus, the season has ended, and this anime only will start wondering how her Saturdays will pass from now on :')

I am thinking of doing more crack recaps, finishing my character screen time project, and probably starting on some fics... but for a very specific reason, the completion of those will have to wait until the next season ;)

This was a wonderful season! I may have rewatched every episode almost three times, but I do wanna do a "recap" full rewatch of the season at some point, and share my overall thoughts. I certainly have a lot of time on my hands for that XD

[berryispunk]

10 Minutes

summary: 10 Minutes is all it takes to spiral. tags: (former) drug addiction, Frankie being his pathetic puppy self, struggling Frankie, inner turmoil, angst and more angst, a little sprinkle of fluff, Frankie's POV, established relationship, no smut notes: If you're uncomfortable with heavy topics like addiction this may not be for you and it's absolutely fine. Just be aware of possibly triggering topics.

Word count 1,1 k

After my warning, enjoy reading 🤍

He’s wandering restlessly through his dark apartment. He doesn’t need any lights for trailing up and down like a caged animal.

The walls of his apartment suddenly threaten to crush him any minute.

Ten minutes. She said she needs ten minutes to get here.

The cravings were bad, hitting him out of nowhere.

He fidgets with the keychain she gifted him a while ago. A photo of them, smiling and in love.

Happier times.

Something to hold onto.

10 minutes feel like a lifetime if all you can think about is your next fix.

He looks at the keychain again, tilting it in his hand. Pressing its plastic edges hard into his palm.

It hurts, a sharp sting. But he needs that, needs the distraction.

His mind is clouded, his throat dry.

As he musters the photo again he sighs.

She’s his everything. She is everything he dreamed of. He can’t fuck this up.

He promised to stay clean.

For a while he didn’t even think about their promise because the cravings weren’t strong enough to notice.

9 minutes and the world around him keeps spinning, the addiction screaming his name.

He was so caught up in her orbit, her presence grounding him, pulling him into the light when he had been in the shadows for so long, that he forgot the ugly side of being a recovering addict.

8 minutes and the monster extends its claws to drag him down. Down into the abyss she had finally found him in.

He had been happy. God damn, so happy.

He can’t remember the last time he genuinely laughed like he did in the last months.

She is his everything. His reason to show up. His reason to be better. She deserves nothing less than the best version of him.

7 minutes and his leg bounces restlessly while he sits on the sofa.

But how is he supposed to be his best version right now?

6 minutes and he’s contemplating if just one line would be that bad.

No, it would be.

He couldn’t stand the disappointment seeping out of her.

5 minutes and he starts sweating, his breath coming out in short bursts, his hands too slippery to hold onto the keychain any longer so he throws it onto the couch table. He can’t stand looking at the photo anymore, either.

Happier times reminding him of what he is about to lose. What he could lose if he fucks up.

4 minutes and he’s standing again, cursing under his breath.

“You’re a fucking loser Frankie. She deserves better.”

3 minutes and he’s punching the wall, gritting his teeth.

What does it even matter? She will move on quickly, find someone who’s not this big of a mess.

2 minutes and he can’t see straight. The call for the next high is too loud to ignore.

Everything is screaming at him. His body is aching and he feels like he’s about to vomit any minute.

What kind of sick joke is this? Is this the universe's way of telling him to stop believing that finally everything will fall into place?

That he’s worthy of a happy life? That he deserves to be loved exactly like he is, flaws and all?

1 minute and he’s a bundle of pain and self-pity on the ground.

He’s so pathetic.

He knows exactly where he hid his emergency stash. If she hasn’t found it yet.

Being high would fix this, he decides. Being high washes away all his self doubt and anger. A high Frankie is the best Frankie. He’s on top of the world. He is the version he so desperately wishes to be when he’s sober.

But he isn’t.

He is weak, so weak.

How can she even love him like this?

Finally his front door flies open, bringing in some light from outside, illuminating the dark room.

“Frankie?” Her voice echoes through the walls. It's soft and comforting. It’s his favorite sound.

“Here,” he whimpers from the ground, still bundled up.

“Oh my god, baby…” Her voice is laced with panic immediately as she leans down next to him, pulling his head into her lap.

Soft and warm. A stark contrast to the cold he’s feeling inside.

“Are you okay?” she asks, gently brushing some damp strands of locks out of his face. She’s handling him with so much care, almost as if he could shatter any minute.

Which he might have, if she wouldn’t have made it in time.

“I am okay,” he murmurs, his voice strained and hardly more than a whisper.

She scoffs, her hands still caressing his tousled hair.

“Are you sure about that?” she asks as if she doesn’t know the answer already. But he doesn’t even know what else to say.

“I am sorry…” he whispers and the words hang heavily in the air.

“No need to be,” she assures him.

His eyes are filled with tears.

He’s too weak to hold them back. Too weary to pretend.

So he just cries it out, silently. But the sobs shake his whole body and all she does is hold him, kissing his temple and his hair repeatedly. Comforting him without saying any words.

When the tears subside he feels lighter but still dizzy in his mind. The feeling of impending doom not quite shaken off.

“I would understand if you leave me now,” he finally breaks the heavy silence.

“Why should I?” she asks. He feels her questioning eyes on him even if his own are closed.

“Because I am a mess. You deserve better than this,” and he means every word.

He wants her to be happy, even if that means she breaks up with him.

Even if it’s breaking his own heart.

She is all that matters to him.

"I'm a mess too, Francisco. I am far from perfect myself. But you… you bring out the best in me.” Her tone is sincere. Even in his broken state her love is unwavering, he can feel it.

He finally lifts his head from her lap, his eyes finding hers. He swallows, his throat is dry.

He laughs sarcastically.

“Whatever I did to deserve someone like you in this life. Because hell, we know I did enough shit to be damned to eternity.”

She laughs softly.

He leans forward, her head in his hands now as their lips meet in a gentle kiss, filled with all the love and devotion for each other.

And maybe this is all the reassurance he needs to believe that, despite everything, she’s chosen him.

Feedback highly appreciated 🤍

Thanks so much for reading !!

[cartoon-buffoon]

Short fanfic that I randomly made when being bored outta my mind during classes:

"ROUND 2"

Featuring: Monster Frankie & The Lucky Contestant!

Lucky burst through the doors out of one of the play areas into the maintenance tunnels used by staff. Despite currently being winded from parkour, this season was off to a great start. Unlike last time where they were chased at every opportunity by mascots, their only respite being puzzles which they would have to exercise their authentic skills to use, Lucky had ran into no such obstacles. The starting line was an honest to God starting line that all four contestants used, Lucky actually competed with three others this time around rather than being a sole survivor. Well, they competed at first.

For some reason the further they got the more strange occurrences occured. Certain puzzles were already finished, vent openings were busted open and some parkour challenges like the rotating logs were turned off and stagnant. Now this could have been all dismissed as a simple case of the other Frankie forgetting to reset everything but Lucky couldn't help but shake the feeling something sinister was afoot. One by one each of the other contestants vanished, at first it was contestant 2 who they assumed just wondered off but after contestant 1 went missing it became clear something wasn't right. Lucky and contestant number 4 continued to run side by side by each other but not to long ago in a section where they had to crawl through the vents did Lucky find themselves all alone. Just like the previous season they were now running along, by themselves with their only company being the occasional directions from Frankie over the intercom. Of course any questions asked to the rabbit would be simply dismiss so they didn't even bother. Instead they carried on, running just for the sake of the game.

"Long time no see"

Lucky stopped running, a voice oddly familiar interrupting their train of thought. They couldn't make out who was speaking but the voice came from all the way down the hall. With both the mask obstructing their vision, and the general darkness of the area they could barely make out a vague silhouette, no bigger than three foot.

"Who's there?" Lucky asked, their voice reverberating off the walls.

"Aww come on, don'tcha recognize lil ol' me?"

Lucky could finally see who was talking, their body coming partially into view. They could only see the red shoes and floppy ears that protruded from the shadows but it was more than enough to deduce who it was. It was Frankie—but not the one watching the cameras. The voice was all different and while the other Frankie was small in comparison to the monster this one was small. By what they could see, it was a version of the rabbit similar in appearance to the proper mascot of the place.

"uhh.." Lucky struggled for words "I mean... you're a Frankie? Not one I've met yet at least..."

"Oh you've met me alright, I think we're all too acquainted if you ask me!" The rabbit spat.

The words were spoken with such harshness that Lucky was taken aback. So far his tone seemed eerie but held a sort of warmness but it was clear whoever this Frankie was he was no friend. Lucky pondered who on earth this rabbit could be, was this the obstacle the other Frankie said? After Henry's head popped and the killer was incinerated they needed something to make the game interesting once again. Lucky thought nothing of it, after all what could be worse than being chased by a 10 feet tall killer rabbit? Whatever the new obstacle would be would be a major upgrade in safety and easier to manage.

At least that's what they thought.

The Frankie had stepped into the light showing himself proper and it suddenly made so much sense all of a sudden. With a crazed smile and coated in blood ear to shoe they stood, glaring at Lucky with nothing but contempt. Red shoes and gloves held a much darker hue than what they should have been, grey fur was frizzled and messed, even the black top-hat they wore looked like it was partially torn from a struggle that had happened. The most striking part of this Frankie was his eyes, they glowed a bright red and held the fury of somebody craving vengeance. The fury of somebody who had lost at their own game. The fury of somebody who was burnt to a crisp and came back with even more murderous intent than the first time.

"Those other three put up quite the fight" Frankie said with a chuckle and finger wag "This new body ain't as strong as my old one but it DEFINITELY does its job" Frankie stretched one of their robotic limbs back into the darkness. Like a snakes body it slithered into the black until he found what he was searching for "I understand the issue though, I understand it all! Hehehe"

SPLAT

A line of disembodied heads with their faces covered by rabbit masks were thrown at Lucky's feet. A chain had been plunged right through all three keeping them in a neat row, from the top of the firsts' skull down to the third's neck-hole the bloodied metal made a soft rattle next to the loud splat that the heads made when they were thrown. Even though they were masked Lucky could tell who the heads belonged to, the lifeless eyes that hung open barely visible through the black of the mask's pupils was a perfect match to the previous competitors who went missing suddenly.

"Ya see–they fought! They prolonged it, I didn't WANT to do that to them but they just wouldn't accept it and tried and tried and tried, and tried to fight back all because I'm SMALL!" Frankie grasped at his ears and tugged them down, his words frantic and rushed as he grit his teeth and glared down at the heads "they didn't play the game right! They tried to cheat! DIRTY FUCKING CHEATERS EACH AND EVERYONE OF THEM!" His eyes snapped up to Lucky, their trembling body making him smile "but you? Noooo, you play the game right! That's what I like about you!" Frankie walked forward as one of his arms searched for something else in the darkness "one of my favorite things about you is how you don't try to fight back! You know the rules and your role, I chase, you run, I try to catch, and if I do catch you tyen I get to rip out that heart that should have stopped beating LONG AGO!"

shing

Lucky stepped back, finally seeing what Frankie had grabbed a hold of.

"But it's fine! We can fix that heartbeat of yours" Frankie said as he brandished the bloody steel of an axe. With a smirk on his face he pressed the blade to his face, letting the sharp edge drag against his synthetic skin causing a mysterious black liquid to dribble out "now I think we've talked enough, what say we get started on that rematch that I'm just DYING to have!?"

Lucky took a step backwards, their heat racing in their chest. They couldn't believe it, they didn't want to believe it. After the first time they believed they would never see that Frankie again, well I mean they weren't seeing that Frankie exactly but whatever this was was way worse! Why the hell did he get a new body? Who the hell gave him a body? Lucky didn't know, all that they knew is that their legs were carrying them in the exact opposite direction the second they realized the space between them and Frankie was minimal. They prayed that this new body of his was as slow as the old one although by the murderous chuckle that the rabbit gave it was clear he was more than capable of covering distance. Still, Lucky ran as fast as their legs could take them while Frankie laughed and laughed.