#SHOT FRANKY POINT BLANK IN THE FUCKING CHEST

[px-0]

gonna come in here and preemtively let all of you down real quick: as someone who liked Kuma before he was relevant again. i miss when Kuma was a weird cryptic bitch and i dont like how Oda retconned everything he did to make him a soft sweet baby Im Sorry

[juletheghoul]

Oblivius Chapter 4

Am I insane for posting another chapter? Yes. Am I doing it anyway? Yes. Should you message me about how you feel about Spills & Francis? YES!

(Got a song you want added to the playlist? send it to me!)

I've gotten so much love over this series and I cannot tell you how happy it makes me that you guys love these two idiots as much as I do. <3

(Feo means ugly in Spanish but it can be used as a term of endearment between [male] friends)

Likes & reblogs are appreciated

Frankie Morales x F!Reader

Pairing: Frankie x F!Reader

Word Count: 2.2K

Warnings: Angst, yearning, 18+ language, alcohol (Spills gets wasted)(Please let me know if I forget anything)

Masterlist Series Masterlist Part 3 Part 5 Playlist

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Age: 17

“No Francis I don’t wanna watch this - I’m gonna get scared.” It was late, you were both sitting in his cozy living-room, a big shit-eating grin on his face.

“Why, are you chicken? It’s just The Shining, it's not even scary.” He put it on and despite your protests, he settled and let the movie play, You gave him a pout.

“Okay if you really don’t want to I’ll change it you big baby.” He rolled his eyes to grab the remote but you stopped him.

“Promise you’ll walk me home?” You knew it was one of his favourites. He smiled wide.

“Of course! If it’s too much I'll change it.” He gave you most of the blanket that was draped over his legs and you sat very close to him. He was taller than you remembered him being, having gone through a growth spurt over the summer and he towered over you now. All knees and elbows.

When the room scene came on you burrowed your face into his neck and he wrapped an arm around you, you were so pretty. Your hair smelled so good and he buried his nose into the messy bun you wore. You practically clawed at him, trying to get closer - he made you feel safe.

“Is it still scary?” You spoke into his neck.

“Yes - don’t look yet, just a little longer.”

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**Present Day**

Pope was holding up a shot-glass full of something and there were shots lined up for the three of you when you walked in.

“Catfish, I never thought it would happen for you feo, but I’m glad it did. Claudia, he’s lucky to have you.” He raised his shot glass and a chorus of ‘To Frankie and Claudia’ rang out before everyone tipped the liquor back.

The burn in the back of your throat couldn’t just be from the tequila, you’d swallowed a lump. You’d forced back the tears stinging your eyes when he dipped her back to kiss her. With her laughing and grabbing his neck they were the picture of romance and the smile you had plastered to your face must have looked manic. Popes eyes caught yours then and his eyebrows raised, a question in his features that you couldn’t quite read but he looked away and left you with your thoughts.

-

You got very drunk. Fall-down drunk. Forget about everything drunk.

“Spills, I think you should stop - you’re going to feel like hell tomorrow.” He was softly taking the shot out of your hand and you tried to fight him but his grip was iron.

“St-op t-telling me wh-what to do Francisco.” You tried to take it back but it seemed like the floor was coming up to say hi. An iron grip around your middle stopped you from losing a couple of teeth.

“Jesus Spills, okay - that’s enough. I’m cutting you off.” He held onto you and you wanted nothing more than to turn around and kiss him but you also wanted to throw up. Decisions decisions.

“I-think-imgonnabesick…” you brought your hand up to your mouth and part of you expected him to let go but he didn’t.

“Take a deep breath, it’s okay, Pope can you get me some water?” He was holding onto you, rubbing soothing circles onto your back and you tried to focus on his hands on you as the whole room spun dangerously. A few minutes later he was holding a cold glass of water to your lips. “Drink the whole thing, I'm going to hold it because if you spill it I'll kill you.” You chugged it down and he put it on the table.

“When did you get so strong, Francis?” Your words were slurred and you felt his chest rumbling with laughter at your question. “You smell so good.” You said it lower- more to yourself, but he heard and the laughing stopped.

“Oh no! Are you okay Spills?” Claudia was there now, her hands pulling your hair away from your face and before you could succumb to the urge to tell her never to call you that Frankie spoke up.

“She’s okay, just need to get her home. You’re okay right, Spills?” His voice was lower, so soothing you could fall asleep to it.

“Hey Frankie, you and Claudia should stay, tell me where she lives and I’ll get her home.” It was Pope, Frankie must have trusted him immensely because before you knew it he was putting you into the front seat of Pope's rental and buckling you in. Claudia was tying your hair back and putting your purse into your lap.

“Be careful please - this is her address, just make sure she gets in and lays face down. There should be a bucket somewhere in her bathroom - water and some aspirin on her night table.” Frankie was talking as you closed your eyes. When you opened them you were parked in front of your place.

“Hey honey, come on let's get you inside. I’m just going to look for your keys, okay?” Pope was taking your purse out of your lap. You nodded vaguely.

He helped you in and guided you to your bed. You could feel him taking off your shoes and throwing the blanket over you.

-----

Someone is driving an ice-pick into my skull.

The light was intense and you swore out loud when you cracked an eye open. You stretched and felt a piece of paper beside you on the bed.

“I locked your door - keys are in your mailbox. Drink the water - take the ibuprofen. Let Catfish know you’re okay when you wake up- he was worried. - Pope”

You groaned.

[Francis]: Spills, are you okay?

[Francis]: Can you answer me please?

[Francis]: Don’t tell me you’re still asleep? What, are you a teenager? Getting drunk and sleeping until 4pm????

[Francis]: Sorry Spills, just worried - can you please let me know you’re okay before I show up?

You could see the three little dots signalling that he was in the middle of typing another message and you quickly called him to stop him.

“Jesus, it’s about fucking time.” He sounded worried and relieved and it pulled on your heart strings in a way you both loved and hated.

“Stop yelling Francisco, I am begging you.” You threw your arm over your eyes to block out the light as you lay there, in yesterday's clothes. You didn’t even want to know what you looked like right now.

“Feeling all that tequila aren’t you? I haven’t seen you that drunk for a long time.” You could hear the faint smile in his voice.

“Yes yes I know - so fucking embarrasing. Did I do.. Or say anything..?” You were trying to ask him without asking him.

“You almost threw up, but if you’re asking me if you started table-dancing you’re good.” He laughed and you sighed with palpable relief. All you needed was for him to tell you that you’d confessed your love or told Claudia to fuck off.

“Thank god. That would have been all I needed. Can you tell Pope I said thanks? Okay, I'm going to go shower for a million years now.” You wanted to hang up, your head was pounding and you needed a few hours of silence and about a gallon of water.

“Okay - see you in a few hours.” You didn’t want to deal with both of them together, not with how you felt right now.

“No Francis I don’t want to entertain, I already embarrassed myself enough yesterday.”

“It’s just me coming and I’ve seen you much worse. I haven’t been home in a long time so, take a shower and do what you have to do and I'll be there at seven.” He hung up and you could have thrown your phone across the room.

Fuck.

---

The knock at the door at exactly seven didn’t surprise you.

What did surprise you was how nervous you were that he would be coming over.

You were literally attached at the hip at one point, he’s seen you at your worst.

“You’re looking much better than you did last night, Spills.” He laughed as he walked past you and into your home.

“Oh god.” You groaned as he laughed, why had you been nervous? You watched him as he set down the bags of what looked to be way too much food on your kitchen counter. Grabbing napkins and forks - completely at ease within your space. “What did you bring?” moved to peak into the bags.

“Chinese - “ He looked to see your eyes wide and the big toothy smile you were giving him and laughed. “Did you think I’d forget you always get Chinese when you’re hungover?” He laughed as he took out what looked to be all your favourites.

“You’re a lifesaver Francis, truly.” You were practically bouncing on the balls of your feet as you served yourself.

“I know, I’m practically a saint.” He walked over to your couch and plopped down, an egg-roll in his mouth as he turned on your TV and looked for something to watch. This was it - this was how it was supposed to be.

This was easy.

He had come over in comfy clothes and seeing him on your couch in sweats and a soft flannel was almost too much. His hair had gotten longer than he had worn it before he went away and it looked so soft; practically begged for your fingers.

“Are you still a baby about horror movies?” He asked without looking at you, you saw that he had put on some cheesy zombie movie. A big smile on his face.

“No, I’m okay, as long as you check every single corner of this place before you leave.”

“God I love horror movies, Claudia hates them so we never end up watching.” He sighed. Her name cut through the air like a knife. An ice cube casually dropped into your shirt.

“That’s too bad.” You quickly shoved food into your mouth, stopping yourself from saying anything you’d regret but he knew you too well. He looked at you then, eyes narrowing a fraction.

“Do you like her?” He asked, point blank and your eyes widened at him.

Fuck, don’t make me answer this right now.

“Yeah, she’s great.” To your credit, you tried. You really tried to sound genuine.

“Why don’t you like her Spills?” He sighed heavily, putting his plate down onto your coffee table to face you properly.

“What are you talking about? I said she was great!” You could feel the flush creeping up your neck and licking at your face at the lie. She was great, that wasn’t a lie - you just didn’t like her.

“Seriously? You’re going to act like I can’t tell you’re lying through your teeth? Just tell me! I’m going to marry this girl. I have to know why you don’t like her.” He had a little frown on his face and you could see that he was worried, but what would he have to be worried about? Worried you’d picked up on something he’d missed maybe?

“I just don’t know her, Francis, that’s all. There’s nothing wrong with her, you know I'm just weird. She seems really nice and I’m sure I’ll like her once I get to know her better.” You smiled at him sadly, you didn’t want to talk about her anymore.

He smiled back at you and picked up his plate, happy with your explanation.

---

It always seemed to happen this way, ever since you’d been teenagers. He’d put on something scary and you would end up with your face buried into his chest.

“Oh god - that is disgusting!” You shut your eyes as he laughed, his chest rumbling underneath you at a particularly gruesome scene. You felt his hand rubbing your arm, and it was such a comfort that you sighed lightly. The words bubbled up without your permission.

“I missed this.” You felt him rest his chin on the crown of your head.

“Me too Spills, I always missed this while I was away, missed you.” He spoke into your hair, you could feel his breath ghosting along your scalp and your heart raced, you wanted nothing more than to turn and kiss him. His hand stilled, and you felt his heart beating under your ear. You wanted to do it, your whole body seemed to tense with want and you turned slightly to look at him through your lashes. He was already staring at you, his mouth was so close.

His phone rang, snapping him out of his trance and you moved away from him reluctantly.

“Hey babe, what’s up?” He smiled apologetically. “Just take a deep breath, it’ll be okay. I’m on my way.” He hung up and gave you a look that said I’m sorry. “Gotta go, wedding emergency.” He sighed heavily as he got up, taking both your plates to the kitchen with him.

You wanted him to stay, you wanted to grab him and sit him back down on the couch and straddle him. Grab the soft material of the flannel while you kissed him but you didn’t. Instead you smiled and thanked him for coming and for the food.

He made his way through the apartment before he left, opening every door.

“Just checking every corner, so you can sleep.” He smiled.

I love you too.

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[feverinfeveroutfic]

chapter seventeen: spreading the disease

Upon their arrival at the rehearsal space, Marla and Zelda both came up with a way to discern Dan Lilker from Dan Spitz, while lumped together they were the Dans. Spitz was Little Blue Eyes while Lilker was The Fuzzy One; those bright eyes shone within the bright, end of summer sun and the crown of feathery hair upon his head waved in the light afternoon breeze. That long wavy dark hair was rich and even darker against the sunshine. Dan “Little Blue Eyes” Spitz and Dan “The Fuzzy One” Lilker, and together they were the Dans. Scott made a joke about Dave and his bassist both being named Dave.

“So the Dans and the Daves,” Zelda joked as Scott picked a piece of pizza for himself.

Meanwhile, Sam picked her journal out from her bag and rested it upon her lap, but she never did anything further beyond that. She kept her hands upon the hard surface of the journal and she never took out one of her pens or pencils. She leaned her back onto the wall behind her and sighed through her nose.

She was alone on that side of the room, alone with a bit of privacy before she needed to walk on back to school for her final class of the day, at least until Belinda took her seat next to her. Those long blonde waves drifted behind her head all the while.

“Let me see him,” Belinda begged her, but Sam was reticent. The Dans congregated next to the table together and they talked about something in a low voice.

“May I see him?” she corrected herself, but it was for a different reason. The drawing she had mentioned to her didn't exactly exist in full form, but rather as the start of a doodle.

“Like I said,” Sam spoke in a low voice, “it's just a simple little doodle, though. It's not really much of anything.”

“I still wanna see it, though,” Belinda insisted as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Like, I wanna see what you're about to make for yourself. And I also want a shot at redemption, too. I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

“I don't think we did, personally,” Sam pointed out. “But—” She fetched up a sigh. “—here.”

Sam opened the hard cover of the journal and she turned to that page. The beginnings of Joey's black curls as well as his lanky shoulders; she took out her pencil from her purse as if she was about to get to work on it.

“Ooh. Oh, I see him now.” Belinda held her doll-like face close to the page, and she moved her finger along the grain of the paper, right next to the pencil marks. But she didn't touch the graphite so as to keep the integrity of it.

“Yeah—I was trying to do it from memory,” Sam confessed as she held onto the edge of the journal. “It's harder than you think especially with him. Joey and his thick black hair and his dark skin.”

Belinda turned her head and she gazed on at the rest of the room. The Dans stayed by the table with Scott and Charlie; Marla and Zelda had gone off to another room; Aurora was checking over her notes; Frank and Billy had gone outside for something. Neither of them saw Joey walk into the building at any given time, but they knew he was there. Sam brought her attention to Belinda again and her pool like eyes pointed towards something.

“He's over there right now,” she told Sam with a gesture to the other side of the room.

“Where?”

“There—” Sam brought her face closer to Belinda's hand as she pointed beyond Scott, Charlie, and the Dans. Indeed, she looked past them and she spotted Joey tucked in the far corner of the room, near the side door. He had leaned his back towards the wall and he brought his knees close to his chest. His thick jet black curls blanketed the side of his face so they could only make sight of his Roman nose and his dark lips. Every so often, he lifted his gaze and he watched the four men congregated next to the table. And then he looked away from them.

Sam looked over at Belinda, who locked eyes with her.

“I think that's the only view you've got,” she told Sam in a low voice, and she brought the tip of her pencil to the page.

“At the moment anyways.”

“Can you do it quickly?” Belinda asked her.

“I'll try.”

“I should tell you—when you get into second tier drawing, Miss Estes makes you do warm ups at the start of class where you draw a photograph as quickly as you can in five minutes. I think it's five minutes. I caught her saying to another aide where she bumped it down to four minutes, but I could've just been mishearing her.”

Sam locked her gaze on Joey's side profile, even from a distance, and she sketched his black curls a bit better that time around. She ran the graphite over those first bits of the curls and she moved in closer to his face. She moved her hand towards what would be his face, that Roman nose in particular. Even though she looked at him from a distance, she managed to do a straight rendition of him. But how she wished to draw him at a much closer angle, especially when he lifted his gaze again.

“Damn it,” she muttered.

“What?” Belinda asked her.

“He moved,” she replied.

“It's okay—can you draw his body, though?”

“As long as he doesn't get up...” Sam ran the graphite down his shoulders and his upper arms, and then his lower arms. She kept her gaze fixed on his hands, on those long lanky fingers and those big palms. His legs were slender and almost delicate in shape, and his feet reminded her of the feet on a little teddy bear. She managed to sketch out a little bit of his thin body in time for Frank to come right inside.

“Hey, Frankie,” Joey called out to him and he moved his arms and placed his hands down on the floor, on either side of him.

“Damn it,” Sam grumbled, although she had enough of an outline of his thin lanky body upon the paper.

“You got him good, though,” Belinda encouraged her.

“John's here,” Frank announced.

“Big John!” Charlie declared, and he turned to Scott and the Dans. “This is that guy I was telling you guys about, John Tempesta.”

“What're these characters doing here?” a strange voice called through the front door. Sam returned her attention to Belinda, who was still fixated on the paper.

“I have an idea,” she told her in a low voice.

“What's that?”

“You should make a whole bunch of dark drawings for Halloween and for their new album,” she suggested.

“Like—black ink?” Sam glanced down at the journal again.

“Yeah. Miss Estes does something like that for the drawing classes, I think for you guys in particular. I think, anyways. Like, if I remember correctly—Marla and I did some ink drawings for Halloween, but Miss Estes had cancelled some classes so our schedules got fucked.”

“I should make a drawing for each day of the month,” Sam built on it. “I'd have to do it in a mad dash, though.”

“Do you have ink pens?”

“I do, yes. They are black ink, indeed.”

“Do you have thirty one pages in that journal?”

Sam kept one finger on that page with the drawing of Joey and she flipped through the rest of those smooth blank white pages. The journal pages were in fact big enough for a series of drawings, and she counted out thirty after that one of him.

“Just short of it,” she replied.

Belinda ran her tongue along her lips and she brought her gaze back up to Sam.

“You should make this one ink,” she suggested to her in a low voice.

“This one?”

“Yeah. I mean, you have the pieces for it with the simple pencil—your pen is mightier after all. And—don't think now, but I believe your next class is gonna start soon.”

“Do you have the time?” Sam asked her and she knitted her eyebrows together in concern.

“No, but there's a clock right there.”

She turned her head and sure enough, there on the wall stood a little clock.

“Oh, shit, I gotta go,” she quipped, and she closed the journal and put the pencil back into her bag. “Where's Marla?”

“I think she went outside with Zelda. I haven't seen either of them in a while.”

“Tell her about the time, Belinda,” Sam advised her as she slung her bag over her shoulder. “We're both gonna be late.”

“Oh, and call me Bel, by the way. I still wanna make it up to you from earlier. So call me Bel.”

“Okay,” said Sam as she gave her hair a slight toss back, “little Bel.”

Belinda climbed to her feet and she hurried across the floor to fetch Marla and Zelda. Meanwhile, Sam ducked past the Dans and the new man, John Tempesta, a tall black haired gentleman with the first sprigs of a new mustache over his upper lip, and she returned outside to the bright street. She put on her sunglasses with her free hand and she hurried up the sidewalk.

The sun hung at an angle and she knew it was going to be dark soon. It was an odd thing to consider, given she was so acquainted with the summertime, but she knew it was going to be dark by the time she caught the next subway train back up to the Bronx.

Indeed, her writing class lasted the full hour and the whole entire time there in that tiny brightly lit classroom, she thought about Belinda's suggestion to do thirty one ink drawings for the month of October, and in particular a rendition of that sketch of Joey. She thought about it so much that she couldn't hardly focus on the peer workshop that afternoon and she decided to take it all back home with her. But on the other hand, if she did that, there would be no time to plan the drawings she could potentially make for the upcoming month.

Perhaps something Halloween related, or something that pertained to Spreading the Disease.

Then, as she packed in her things and stood to her feet, it hit her like a bolt of lightning. Of course!

She was eager to board the subway and return home to the Bronx. It would prove to be a challenge of sorts, given she had school interspersed between the drawings, but she had to take Belinda's word for it. That time on the ride home, she took a seat next to the window and she opened her binder, to the part with the notebook paper, and she took out her pencil. She knew it would be tentative, but she wrote down the numbers first and proceeded to fill in the blanks from there on out. Whatever came to mind that pertained to the last several months of which she lived there in New York City, she wrote it down.

Diseased.

Madhouse.

Kids!

Soup.

White stripe. Black stripe?

Books. Boots.

Glasses.

Cowboy. Classical.

Rehearsal. Sleeping. Road trip.

Washing. Trees.

She only had sixteen written down by the time she reached the halfway point between school and home. She glanced up to the pale yellow lights upon the ceiling and she struggled to think about what could fill in the rest of the month.

She thought about the tulips Cliff had given her. Yes! She wrote that down, as well as “cherries” and “roses” in honor of the Cherry Suicides.

She also thought about Joey and his black curls, and she wrote that down as well. Twenty now.

She flashed back on that night in the restaurant when Lars and Rosita danced together. Dancing! She scribbled it down, followed by “darkness” given she thought of the mysterious man in her dreams.

Just ten more. Sam glanced about the subway car when the word “ride” fell into her mind.

She flashed on Belinda's serpent pendant and wrote down the word “snake.”

She looked down at the spare pens and pencils tucked in her binder and wrote down just that as a single prompt.

She thought about all the guitar players she had met and wrote down the word “guitars.”

Six more now. Something Halloween related, and thus she wrote down the words “ghost” and “gourd”, as well as “machine.” Just three more.

She wrote down the word “friend” in the thirty first spot and the word “muse” in the thirtieth. Something for that twenty ninth spot however. She sat there in her seat with the binder sprawled open across her lap and she gazed on out the pitch dark window with a blank look on her face. She stared on at her own reflection, at the young woman with the head of dark hair and the matching dark eyes with the blank expression upon her face. So much had happened to her in the past nine months that it felt as though a whole five years had elapsed. But there was one thing that kept on returning to mind and that was the mysterious man in her dreams. She thought about what Marla had said to her about it, but it continued to nag at her, especially since she hadn't had a dream about him in recent days.

Was it Cliff? Or was it someone else? Was Marla right and he just served as a mere figment to assure her that things were going her way? Or was he the literal man of her dreams?

She gazed down to that blank spot on the page, that wide open spot next to the hastily scribbled down number twenty nine. She nibbled on her bottom lip as she wrote down the words “dream boy.” It felt so awkward to write down those words but she had it out before her, down upon a sheet of paper to see for herself.

Sam straightened her spine a bit and she looked over the list of prompts. She would have to do them all on the spot after school, or whenever she snatched a moment given the next day was the first. She set her journal right next to the list. That sketch of Joey was in there and she began to wonder just how exactly she could fit that into the prompt list given he seemed so extraneous.

A challenge indeed.

Within time, the subway rolled into the Bronx and she almost ran back to her apartment: she didn't even greet Emile when she ascended the stairs to her place.

She had hardly any focus on the trio of essays she had to look over for her writing class, but the whole thought of it didn't perturb her in the least, especially since that next day, the first was her day off.

That sketch of Joey served as a guide of sorts and, without a moment's hesitation, she began on thirty one sketches for herself. It was a simple goal: to draw and ink up all thirty one prompts for the month of October in honor of the new record she got to take a taste of when she was new to the Northeast. She focused on getting her characters all sketched down to honor the prompts.

It was much more difficult than she originally assumed to be, given she only reached a drawing of Cliff and his cowboy boots by the time she felt the first tinges of hunger and she realized the apartment was rather stuffy from being locked up all day long. Tomorrow was her day off, as was Thursday. She could resume the sketching as well as ink in the first drawing tomorrow following her review of those essays in her binder, just so long as nothing or no one interrupted her from doing so.

Sam made two more sketches and then she turned in for the night, and she wondered if the mysterious man would visit her again. She lay her head down on the pillow and closed her eyes when he appeared to her in the darkness of her mind. She swore for a second that it was Cliff, but he took off his hat and showed her his solemn, deep set eyes.

Alex? No. No way. He lacked that prominent aquiline nose and that genuinely stoic look, the latter of which came from what she knew about him through her memory. He was also much thinner and lankier, whereas Alex still had a little bit of baby fat on his body.

But he had that big, prominent streak in his hair, one as cold and white as bone china, and one extended all the way back to the base of his head. His deep eyes stared into her soul and she swore she had fallen asleep when the feeling of cold on her feet pushed her awake. She stared up at the ceiling with her own eyes wide open and she realized she had cracked her window open a little bit to let in some fresh air.

The sole light came from the lights on the street outside and she thought about the rest of the sketches she had to make.

The next day was her day off after all.

Sam sighed through her nose and pushed off the blankets. She strode over to her desk and switched on the light.

Twelve done, nineteen more to go.

If she had to go at it all night, then she was willing to do it. She took her seat and bowed over her desk. The late hours of the night proved to give her a bit more inspiration than usual, and yet she fought against the urge to return to the safety of her bed. The number thirty one felt so far away to her by the time she drew a cartoon of Belinda with a snake around her neck and shoulders and she glimpsed up at her clock.

And yet she was almost there. She could feel the end, and she could feel the sunrise on the horizon. She only had the final three left by the time the apartment buildings outside lit up with the soft orange glow of the brand new day. She peered out the window pane at the dark clouds as they formed a blanket across the sky. Autumn was official with the arrival of October, and Spreading the Disease the day before Halloween.

And her day off would begin with the first scratches of the ink as she took off the cap. The little black tip carried with it a touch of that ink smell.

Sam ran her fingers through her dark hair and then she fetched up another sigh.

Her ink drawings began right then at sunrise. Careful not to run the tip over the pencil markings, she gave the first drawing, a cartoon of a man who somewhat resembled to Joey himself with his scratchy curled hair all about his head, and he lay down on his side with leaves and flowers sprouted out of his body, a healthy dose of that rich black ink. She filled in the petals of the flowers and the parts of the leaves with a bit of scratchy hatching to give it all some depth; she used her thinnest tip given the small amount of detail work. The flowers, however, were missing something.

She opened the drawer next to her right knee and she spotted her markers. A bit of blue and some blue green for those big flowers that resembled to the flowers she used to see on cacti back in California.

The fine pen work on his head and his fingers, as well as a series of little markings all about his hands. Leaves nestled in his hair. A big fat rose in his left hip and another one in his thigh. Given it was black ink, she could run the blue marker over the petals and the ink added to the original black.

By the time the sun had risen over the Bronx, she had her first full ink drawing right before her. She let out a long low whistle and signed her initials at the bottom: right next to it, she wrote down “day one”, followed by “October 1, 1985.”

All throughout the day, even though she got right to work on the peer review of her essays, she continuously worked on the ink drawings. At one point, before dinner time, she figured to keep it all under wraps from the others, at least until the record's release date. Every so often, she still looked on at that sketch of Joey and she came up short as to how to fit him into the whole collection. She only did it because Belinda suggested it to her and she had to tell her about it in turn.

She walked right into it and the means out of it was to not share it with anyone other than Belinda herself. She knew she would have to improvise those final three prompts by the time came to turn in for the night once again.

For the next week and a half, she put down the black ink for the drawings whenever she found the chance to do so. During her breaks, she kept the journal tucked away from Marla's gaze and she even told Belinda the whole thing would be a surprise for the ages as well.

“I can't wait to see what you made for all of us, though, Sam,” she declared with a twinkle in her eye.

“Promise to keep it a secret from Marla and Charlie, though?” Sam asked her. “I want it to be a complete surprise, especially for them and Frankie. They were the first friends I made when I moved here earlier this year.”

And just so long as she need not have to write something up for her art history class then she could make it all work out in the end. The times she had to write up something for her writing class, she had to go to the library and use the ramshackle typewriters in there. It took time away from time which could be used to put down more ink. But she kept her eyes on the paper and the keystrokes before her.

A couple of pages and she would have that time again to create until her writing class reconvened that afternoon. She came to the end of the last sentence and she took the page out of the rack and nodded her head.

“Perfect,” she said under her breath. She waved the page a bit to make the ink dry and then she stapled them together at the corner. Out of the corner of her eye, she recognized Marla's head of violet hair as it emerged from the front door. She carried a small glass of what appeared to be mere water.

“Miss, no drinks in the library,” one of the aides called out to her.

“It's just water,” she assured him; Sam turned around in time to find her walking towards her and she knew right away it wasn't water.

“Hey, what's up?” Sam asked her as she tucked her assignment into her binder.

“Just here to tell you that we're all gonna have dinner together again this weekend,” Marla replied as she held the glass close to her body.

“Oh, yeah? What for?”

“Happy birthday, Joey,” she declared as she raised up her glass, and then Sam gasped.

“Aw, happy birthday, darling Joey,” she echoed, and she thought about the drawing of Joey himself in her journal. She had no idea as to how to fit him into those final three ink drawings. “No, wait, isn't today the eleventh? I thought it was the thirteenth.”

“Oh, yeah, his birthday's on Sunday. But, you know. It's the weekend and everything.”

“Right, right, right... so are we all going out upstate or doing something else?”

“Yeah, Charlie, Bel, and I are gonna be driving up to Syracuse later tonight. I think Aurora will, too? I have to ask her. I would totally tell you sooner but the date snuck up on us, though. Neither Charlie nor I realized that until just this morning, and I was like, 'Char, isn't Sunday Joey's birthday?' and he goes, 'oh my god, it is! We gotta do something!' So he told Jon and Marsha about it right after he took me to school this morning.” She took another sip of her drink when the aide scoffed at her.

“It's just water! I assure you. Look, I'm drinking up the rest of it—” Indeed, she downed the rest of the drink in two gulps. The aide pursed his lips and then he strode away towards the card catalogue at the opposite end of the elongated table.

“Was that really water?” Sam asked her in a low voice.

“Club soda. I'm gonna be the designated driver between me and Charlie, and I just feel better without a drink in me, too.”

“I think we all should be designated drivers,” Sam suggested, and she thought of Joey's desire to give up booze for himself.

“What's the fun in that, though?” Marla chuckled.

“So you guys are leaving tonight,” said Sam as she picked up her binder from the table before her.

“Yeah. We're leaving at six so we have time to pack up a couple of days worth of clothes.”

“Well, I just have to hand in this paper to my writing class and then I'm out for the weekend.”

“Oh, good! I can walk with you there...”

The two of them made their way over to Sam's writing class on the other side of campus and she dropped the two page packet into the plastic box next to the classroom door. Marla then led her to the parking lot, where Charlie awaited them at the curb. The sun hung over the horizon, such that it looked as though he had a golden yarmulke atop his head.

The three of them drove back to the Bronx: they dropped her off at her place so she could quickly pack in her things for the weekend. She had set down her journal on the couch so she could pick up her overnight bag and her purse, but she figured she need not have it with her given the weekend was all about Joey. Once she locked the front door, she bowed back outside to the early evening and the waning sunlight. She awaited there at the curb with both of her bags pressed close to her body.

They weren't too far from there. Add to this, the whole idea of a trip upstate made her heart pound in her chest. She didn't get anything for Joey for his birthday: surely there would be something she could pick from up there in Syracuse.

Within time, she spotted Charlie's car up the block, and she was quick to climb into the back seat, right next to Belinda.

“I assume we're gonna have a late night dinner,” she said to him and Marla once they got on the freeway.

“I hope not,” Charlie confessed.

A four hour drive and one where the night fell over the state so much sooner. Sam gazed out the window to the sky as it painted from orange to pink to rich dark violet. She wondered who else was going to be there for Joey's birthday. She pictured it being a big party, especially when she recalled the way in which he sat there in the rehearsal space two weeks before. She hoped they had a big party planned for him.

The four of them stopped over in Binghamton; Sam and Belinda awaited in the back seat for Charlie, Marla, and a drink for the each of them. She noticed something out of the corner of her eye: a man in a black overcoat and bell bottoms. He had grown side burns on his face, but she recognized him within mere seconds and even in the darkness. She rolled down the window and poked her head out to the chilly evening. Belinda opened her mouth as if to say something, but Sam beat her to it.

“Cliff!” she proclaimed, and he turned around and showed her a little Mona Lisa smile in return. She hurried over to him and he extended his arm out for her. It felt like an eternity since she last saw him or felt him: the coat felt cold to the touch, even though he might have been wearing it for a long time.

“Hey, there she is!” Kirk declared right behind them. Aurora emerged from the driver's seat of their car with a smile on her face.

“Hey, Aurora,” Sam greeted her as Cliff kept his arm around her. “We were wondering if you were coming upstate for Joey's birthday.”

“I'm bringing the boys home, actually,” Aurora replied as she adjusted the lapels of her light purple jacket. Then her face lit up. “Oh, I completely forgot it was Joey's birthday!”

“We all gotta get him something,” James called from the passenger seat.

“What do you think, Aurora?” Cliff asked her.

“I dunno—where's it gonna be?” Aurora tucked her hands into her jacket pockets.

“We're going to Syracuse to throw a party for him,” Sam told her, “that's all according to Marla, anyways. Jon and Marsha are probably doing something, though.” It was right then she wished she hadn't left her journal on the couch.

“And it's two weeks from now is the release of the new record,” Aurora breathed out; Sam caught the sound of Charlie's voice and she knew they were about to leave.

“You guys wanna follow us?” she asked them.

“Yes, yes, yes!” Aurora replied, and Cliff let go of her.

“We'll catch you in a bit,” he whispered to Sam, and she started to wonder how she could share the thirty one ink drawings by the time the date rolled around. She thought about the journal and she realized she was only ten drawings deep. Her journal was all the way back home, but she had to finish those drawings.

Marla had paper and pens with her, but she was reticent to use those for something Marla didn't know about. And then there was the whole prospect of having to repeat the sketches. The very thought of that didn't feel right as she doubled back to Charlie, Marla, and Belinda.

It was an itch she couldn't scratch. And yet she couldn't let it interfere with her enjoyment of Joey's birthday, especially once Charlie pointed out the Dans’ cars at the stoplight before them.

[mikeisthricedeceased]

You’re My Home

Catfish x OC

Part 1: Winds Change

Word Count: ~1.9k

Part 2  Part 3

A/N: This is an idea I’ve had for a bit, and it’s been a little easier to actually type out than the Mando fic I’ve been working on. It’s probably because I’m planning for this to be some sappy, smutty fun while the Mando fic is a bit more involved.

Edit: replaced some Spanish lines because I’m nowhere near fluent and have no way of knowing how well they actually translate

Summary: Frankie has had a rough year since the whole heist shit show. It’s been one bad thing after another, leaving him all alone in a dingy apartment and steadily slipping back into old habits. He’s more than a little surprised when a pretty stranger approaches him at a bar and coaxes him into having an actual conversation. Nita guides him into a whole new world that might be just what he needs.

(The last sentence of the summary is more of a hint to the series as a whole.)

~*~*~*~

Frankie sat alone at the bar, nursing his third beer of the night. He could’ve been drinking at his place for cheaper, but the empty apartment just served as a reminder of how alone he’d become in the past year. He’d been able to meet up with the guys a few times since the divorce, but they all had lives. Pope was always traveling to see Yovanna. Will and Benny had each other, even with how often they butted heads. He just had himself, and the few days that he got to spend with little Isabella. He and his ex technically had shared custody, but she kept their daughter most days, afraid of what could happen since he clearly still clung to old habits. He couldn’t really fault her for that, as much as it tore him apart.

He was trying. He really was. But, with all that had happened, it was just so easy to find himself sliding back into shit. And going out to drink on his own so he wouldn’t have to sit in an empty apartment where most of the boxes still sat unpacked because it wasn’t home didn’t come close to his worst night, but fuck, was it sad.

He pulled his hat off and dropped it onto the bar top, running his fingers through his too-long hair. He knew he looked just as much the mess that he felt.

~*~*~*~

“Oh, Boss.”

Nita raised an eyebrow, gaze flicking across the table. “Oh, Ryan,” she said, mimicking his sing-song tone.

He smirked, gesturing toward the bar. “You’re staring.”

“And?” she asked.

He scrunched his nose. “Little rough around the edges, don’t you think?”

Tiff nudged him with an elbow. “Careful, bucko, she’s paying for our drinks.”

Nita leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms with a small smile. “You should listen to her, pretty boy. You wanna insult my taste, you can buy your own shots.”

He held up his hands. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Just trying to bring you back to the table.”

She hummed, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Honest,” he insisted, a grin breaking through.

“You couldn’t kiss ass to save your life, could you?”

Tiff snorted at that and Ryan sighed, clasping his hands behind his head.

“I wouldn’t have the job you gave me if I could, Boss,” he said, giving a quick wink.

Nita rolled her eyes. “Switches exist. You can just go ask Jorge or Monique,” she waved a hand toward the small group of their coworkers on the dance floor. “At least they don’t insult their employer.” She jabbed a finger at him “And fair warning, I am wearing a belt that I’m not afraid to use.”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

She slid off of her chair, straightening her shirt before grabbing her glass.

“Where are you going?” asked Tiff.

Nita held up what was left of her bushwacker. “Grabbing another one of these,” she said. A quick glance at the figure at the bar and she smiled back at Tiff. “And testing my luck.”

~*~*~*~

She appeared next to him, a hand on the back of the stool beside him.

“Hey, is it okay if I sit here?”

He looked over at her. A soft smile and warm eyes greeted him. “Yeah, it’s fine,” he told her, looking back down at his beer.

“Thanks.”

She set an almost empty glass on the bar and slid onto the seat.

The bartender came over immediately, a broad smile on his face. “Hey, boss. Need another one?” He tapped near her glass.

She nodded and jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. “And I think los idiotas in the back need another round, if you don’t mind.”

He pointed to her and grinned. “Claro.”

“Gracias, señor.”

Frankie glanced over at the woman beside him as she rested her elbows on the bar and looked up at the lone tv on the wall.

Her eyes flicked to him and he had the decency to feel embarrassed about being caught, face warming.

He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat a bit, offering a polite, if awkward, smile.

“Hi,” she said softly, gaze now fixed on him.

He sat up a little and met her eyes. “Hey.”

There was a beat of silence before she spoke again. “I’m sorry if this is too forward, but I really just came over here to talk to you,” she told him, lips pulling into a small smile.

His brows shot up. “Oh.”

The bartender breezed past, smoothly placing a new bushwacker in front of Nita before lifting a tray laden with tequila shots and small bowls of lime wedges.

“Just ‘oh’?” she asked, eyes alive with amusement.

Frankie found himself smiling back at her, even as he looked down sheepishly. “I guess I just wasn’t expecting that.”

She shrugged, stirring the chocolate syrup in her drink around. “I do like being unpredictable sometimes. Keeps things fun.”

He turned toward her a little more. “Does it? Probably makes planning a little hard.”

She wagged a finger. “That’s why I said sometimes. I have responsibilities that require forethought on occasion.”

“Like owning a bar?” he asked, gesturing around them.

She laughed, shaking her head. “I don’t, actually. This just happens to be one of my go-to places to bring out-of-towners and colleagues who want to get tipsy on my dime. Lorenzo there has seen me drag a few of my friends outside with the help of a bouncer,” she said, grinning at the bartender.

“¿Los idiotas?” Frankie asked, nodding to the group in the back.

Nita smiled into her drink. “A few of them, yeah.” She took a sip and set the glass down, turning in her seat a bit to look at them. “I’ll probably be doing that again tonight.”

“Someone has to make sure everyone gets home alright,” he reasoned.

She nodded in agreement, focusing back on him. “It’s honest work.”

He almost wanted her to stop looking at him like that. So warm, so inviting. It didn’t feel like the sort of thing that should be happening to him, especially with how life had been treating him recently. He couldn’t believe that he was actually managing to hold a conversation either. He’d been communicating almost exclusively through grunts and monosyllabic words for the past few months.

But, sitting there with her eyes on him, it just made the words a little easier.

“So, what do you do, if you don’t own a bar?” he asked before taking a sip of his beer.

She shifted, eyes sliding to her friends in the back again. “I own a few clubs. One of them is local, that’s where all of them work. There are a few more spread out across the States. I also have a business with an old friend of mine in New York.”

He nodded, eyes dancing over her face as she spoke. “A pretty successful business woman, then?”

She smiled. “Something like that. Being your own boss has its pros and cons.” She lightly bumped his arm with the back of her hand. “What about you?”

It felt like his chest was going to burst with that small touch. It finally clicked that this woman was really, honest to God flirting with him, and he might’ve been losing his mind about it.

“I’m a pilot. Been working some odd jobs recently, though, waiting for my recertification to go through.” He tried not to wince as he thought about it. “Some old buddies of mine have an MMA gig that I help out with sometimes. Adds a little bit of excitement to my weeknights.”

“Sounds like it would,” she said, a hint of a laugh in her voice. “They have some amateur kickboxing tournaments at the gym my business partner’s husband works at. Always a fun time.” She swirled the straw in her drink absently. “Do you fly commercially?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah. Mostly private stuff. Helicopter tours or cargo transport.” 

“Ah, a chopper guy,” she said, pressing her lips together to hide a grin as she nodded.

He raised an eyebrow at her. “What? Do I seem like the kind of guy who wears a suit everyday?”

She bit the inside of her cheek lightly and ran a finger through the condensation on her glass. “You just seem like the kind of guy who’d look really good in one,” she said, tilting her head at him.

He blinked at her, mind going a little blank. He looked down, grinning like an idiot as he picked at the label on his beer. “I don’t— I don’t know about that.”

She waved a hand, her broad smile making his face hot. “Oh, you’d probably look great in all kinds of stuff. Gotta love a uniform.” She studied him as she lifted her drink. “You’d make a good cowboy, too.”

He let out a surprised laugh, a little louder than he’d meant to. “A cowboy?”

She sipped her drink, humming affirmatively, and gestured at his head as she narrowed her eyes. “I’m picturing the hat. It works for you.”

They just laughed for a moment, gazing at each other. At some point in the conversation, they’d both fully turned, each of them resting a single elbow on the bar as they faced one another.

Frankie sighed, lips still turned up in a smirk. “I’ll try to keep that in mind. In the meantime,” he grabbed his old ball cap off the bar and slipped it on, “I think I’ll stick with this.”

“That’s a good look, too,” she said, smiling softly with her chin in her palm.

“You think so?”

“It’s definitely working for me.”

He bit his lip. “Y’know, I feel like an ass, sitting here and getting compliments from a beautiful woman without coming up with a way to return them that won’t embarrass the shit out of me.”

She dropped the hand she’d been leaning on, letting the tips of her fingers brush where his elbow rested on the bar. “I think that one was pretty good.”

It took everything in him not to look down at her hand. “I’ll take your word for it.”

A hand appeared at her shoulder and they both turned to face the newcomer.

Tiff looked between them apologetically. “Sorry,” she said before directing a frown at Nita. “Matt’s had about six too many shots and he’s gonna break his neck trying to backflip off the stage.”

Nita gave a long-suffering sigh, pinching the space between her brows. “And that means that Ryan is two shots behind him and everyone needs to be taken home before more chaos starts.” She shook her head and set her glass back on the bar, gaze lingering on the clear condensation ring it had left on her jeans. “I’ll be back there in a second.”

Tiff scurried off and Nita met Frankie’s eyes again.

She offered a half-hearted shrug. “Idiotas.”

He chuckled softly, hoping that she couldn’t tell just how disappointed he was to see her go.

Her gaze shifted to something over his shoulder. “Lorenzo! Do you have a pen?” she called, making a writing gesture in the air.

Frankie could only watch as she thanked the bartender for the pen and pulled her wallet out of her back pocket.

“All I have are business cards,” she told him, biting her lip sheepishly. She slipped one out of her wallet and started writing across the back. Then, she was handing it to him. “This is my cell number. And I don’t think I ever got your name.”

He took the card in a daze. “It’s Frankie,” he said softly.

“Nita,” she said, gesturing to herself with one hand as she returned her wallet with the other. “Maybe we can do this again sometime, Frankie. Sin los idiotas.”

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

She offered him one last breathtaking smile. “Have a good night.”

“Night. And good luck with the carpool,” he said as she started walking away.

He heard her laugh.

He turned to face the bar again, a smile plastered across his face.

A few moments later, he saw some of her group walk out the door. A few stumbled. The woman who had brought an end to their conversation stopped to talk to the bartender before moving to hold the door open. Then, Nita was half-carrying, half-dragging a chattering man out of the bar, a bouncer following close behind.

Frankie chuckled to himself, shaking his head. It was probably time for him to head out, too. The beer in his hand was beyond lukewarm and it wasn’t going to help him feel any better than he already did.

He waved down the bartender as he reached for his own wallet, carefully tucking Nita’s business card away before thumbing through his cash.

“How much?” he asked.

Lorenzo shook his head, holding up a hand. “You’re covered.”

His brow furrowed in confusion. “What?”

“Boss took care of it,” said the bartender, nodding to the door and offering him a shrug.

“Oh.” Frankie let that process as he slowly put his wallet away. “Gracias, señor.”

He felt a little light-headed as he made his way out of the bar. So much had happened so quickly. He’d started the night determined to wallow in self pity, only to end it with a warm feeling in his chest and the promise of a date in the near future.

~*~*~*~

If anyone wants to be tagged, send me a message and I’ll add you!

Taglist: @zeldasayer @tarrevizslas

~ Mike

[kbstories]

Contingent

con·tin·gent (adj.) Dependent on; conditional.

There’s only one thing Trafalgar Law is truly afraid of.

(Or: Bepo will be damned if he loses Law just when he got him back.)

Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Nakamaship, Amber Lead Syndrome, Medical Inaccuracies, Childhood Trauma, Medical Procedures, Bepo Needs A Hug, Recovery, Law whumps well and I have no excuse

Read Chapter 1 here. Content warning for discussions of medical procedures.

***

Two minutes.

That’s how long Bepo gives in to the panic building inside him, back pressed against engine-warmed metal and his head heavy in his paws. Two minutes in which his lungs struggle under the imperative to keep breathing, and guilt reaches for his heart with clawed fingers and squeezes. One beats, two, stumbling, unable to catch the inevitable fall–

Kikoku is with him, the red string slung across Bepo’s chest and its guard digging into the meat between his shoulders, an unkind pressure that’s not-quite-pain. Behind him, he can hear Law mumbling indistinctly in his sleep even through the closed door.

Two minutes since he sent the distress signal to the other two Pager Snails that exist on the Polar Tang and Bepo tries not to feel disappointed because nothing about this is fair. Shachi is just following orders, getting their guests settled on the other side of the submarine and Penguin knows it falls to him to keep an eye on the helm when Law isn’t there to do it himself.

Of course it’s Bepo who should’ve paid attention, who should’ve realized Law is walking around exhausted and near-delirious from fever – and who knows how long that’s been going on. It’s no secret that Trafalgar Law is a terrible patient for all that he’s a medical prodigy and it’s always been Bepo’s job to counteract that.

None of the excuses bubbling up his throat like bile can change the fact that Bepo failed Law.

And yeah, he’s going to have words with his captain once all this is dealt with: They might’ve spent the past few months apart but that doesn’t mean Law has to shoulder everything himself. Not anymore. Not ever again, if Bepo has any say in the matter.

For now, all he can do is drag in a breath that feels like it’s dripping fire all the way to his gut and–

Footsteps echo down the hallway, sure and carefree and unfamiliar, and Bepo’s gaze snaps to the sound with the intensity of a predator.

“Oh, it’s you”, says Roronoa Zoro with some relief, like he hasn’t wandered by at the worst possible moment. His lips twitch upwards, into something akin to an amicable smile. “That’s our room, right? No offense to your ship but all these hallways look the same to me.”

He wanders closer still and Bepo–

Bepo growls, low and rattling in his throat, fangs bared. With one harsh step, he’s between Zoro and the door, instincts roaring to life as Zoro’s hand immediately falls to his swords and a wave of something hits Bepo.

An eternity passes in the span of a second; Bepo huffs, loud in the icy silence, not to be cowed. Something softens in Zoro’s eye then, and the pressure eases.

“Something happened”, Zoro states, voice calm. His smile is long gone.

There’s concern there, though, meant to be read plainly like lines on a map. Bepo’s ears perk up first, rising tentatively where they had been pressed flat – he tempers the heat in his blood to a dull thrum, shaking the snarl off his face for good measure.

“Sorry, I– You startled me.”

Zoro merely blinks, waiting for more. There’s a careful edge to his gaze that wasn’t there before and Bepo really can’t blame him. It’s shameful, for a mink to lose themself like that.

Bepo rubs at the fluff of his cheeks and then his eyes, noting with grim satisfaction that they’re dry, untouched by the emotions whirling within him. Dragging any of their guests into this is the last thing Law needs right now.

“It’s nothing we can’t handle. This is Captain’s room, though. You guys bunk all the way across, over there.”

Zoro doesn’t track the direction Bepo points to. His look flicks to the door entirely blocked by Bepo, mouth going flat with tension.

“Traffy doing alright?”

A beat of silence follows the question and, well, Bepo never was the best at lying. “He will be”, he settles on, shoulders stiff and hackles ready to bristle despite himself. “Any chance you met Shachi on your way here? Penguin, maybe?”

It occurs to Bepo that Zoro might not have memorized all their names yet; before he can start explaining Zoro tells him, “No”, simple and honest. Then: “They’re coming, though.”

And perhaps Bepo should start believing whatever the swordsman says in that serious voice of his since, not a moment later, the two burst around the corner, all but running towards them.

“Bepo!”

“Sorry! We came as fast as we could.”

It takes everything Bepo has not to catch both of them in a hug and crush them close to his chest. Their presence alone makes the buzz of anxiety in his veins dim to a bearable level.

“You guys!”

Penguin practically crashes into him, followed half an instant later by Shachi. Tears jump to Bepo’s eyes but Zoro is there and so he blinks them away. The embrace is brief but exactly what Bepo needed – while Shachi throws a confused glance at Zoro (“Seriously? All you had to do was turn left once!”), Penguin ruffles the fur between Bepo’s ears and whispers, “You or Captain?”

Bepo gives him an unhappy frown and well, that’s an answer in itself. “It’s just a scare, I think”, he says vaguely, Shachi’s attention returning without a second’s delay and Penguin’s ever-present smile fading. “I hope. I have to do research, find out what’s– Yeah. Stay with him?”

“Of course”, Shachi promises without missing a beat, and Penguin nods emphatically. “Bart is watching Command and Umi’s keeping everyone busy with the suits. Just give us an update when you can.”

Gratitude swells inside Bepo, one big ball of love that makes his throat feel tight. He nods too, out of words to say but he knows there will be time for those. Later, when the desperation on Law’s face doesn’t haunt his every step.

Penguin and Shachi disappear through the door quickly thereafter. A few feet away, Bepo catches Zoro scratching his neck and turning to leave, and he’s taking a step towards the swordsman before he can stop himself.

“Zoro, wait.”

He does, one eyebrow raised. “Hm?”

“You guys – Franky, Usopp, Robin, you – you were there, right? At Dressrosa. You saw what happened.”

And Bepo knew that Dressrosa was a mess, but to see a warrior as infamous as Pirate Hunter Zoro grimace at the mere mention of it is… Well. Not a great sign, all things considered.

It only serves to solidify Bepo’s resolve, though. There, with his captain at his back, Bepo bows his head, ears folded to the side as he humbles himself before Strawhat’s first mate.

“I know you’ve already done plenty – you brought my captain back alive, and I can’t ever repay you for that – but… Please. I need your help.”

There’s a flash of surprise on Zoro’s face, then he shakes his head, slowly. Bepo’s heart clenches, paws turning to fists inside the orange sleeves of his suit.

“Raise your head, Bepo. Did you forget? Without you, Luffy wouldn’t be out there, off to fetch our idiot cook – and I wouldn’t be here. Alliance or no, it would be foolish of me to go back on a life debt like that.”

Bepo looks up and catches a glint of anguish, hidden deep in that singular eye of Zoro’s. It’s been years and yet, the question why the Strawhats didn’t follow their captain into war returns to his mind like an old acquaintance.

There’s a time and place for that, too. Perhaps one day, he will be lucky enough to hear the story from the source itself.

For now, Bepo swallows it all down. He whispers, “Thank you”, and he doesn’t apologize: There is no regret in his heart, for any of it.

*

“I need to know what happened. All of it.”

The Strawhat Pirates share a look among themselves, expressions ranging from mild surprise to sympathy, and Zoro nods at Bepo when their eyes meet. In that measured tone of his, he tells them, “Traffy’s sick”, and it seems to be all the context the others need to comply.

Franky says: “I wasn’t there for most of it. Luffy told me to go all out on that SMILE factory, so I did.”

Usopp says: “Same here. I saw flashes of them fighting their way to the palace and I helped where I could but… Well, I’m a sniper, y’know? ‘s not my job to brawl.”

Zoro says: “Law got shot by that bastard Mingo. Looked pretty gruesome. Lost track of ‘em after ‘cause Captain needed his back free.”

Robin says: “I know what happened afterwards”, and Bepo takes a moment to react because he’s still processing the information that Doflamingo shot Law. He shot him. After all he did, he shot–

Law is powerful but his Devil Fruit is a paramecia-type. Underneath it all he’s still human.

Law is strong but there’s a reason why he flinches at the sight of guns, and Bepo hates Doflamingo.

Robin’s eyes are calm, her smile small but kind. An exhale shudders out of Bepo’s mouth.

“Tell me. Please.”

The story, for all it’s full of heroics and victories all around, is not a pretty one. Bepo remembers Law’s voice when he told Bepo, pretty fucking horrible, he had said but there’s horrible and then there’s that.

Robin speaks, and Bepo detaches himself from the mental images rushing through his brain and focuses instead on the list Law gave him. Viruses, iron deficiency, infection– Amber Lead.

“Traffy was barely conscious for the part with his arm but he insisted on doing his own medical care, afterwards. Chopper wasn’t with us so there was no reason to deny him that.”

Chopper.

Bepo’s head snaps up from the blank-eyed stare he’d slipped into while listening, and Robin’s brow moves with subtle emotion. “Do you want to talk to him? They should be at sea still.”

There’s a choice to be made there, one Bepo never even considered because Law’s past is theirs and nobody outside the original three of the Heart Pirates should ever know, much less without Law there to consent to it. Even thinking about it feels dangerously close to betrayal and Bepo would rather run to the next-best hatch and let the ocean crush him into nothingness than go behind Law’s back on anything.

But.

“Did Law… Did he say why he wanted that asshole dead?”

Bepo is nervous the answer will be a resounding no, and all four Strawhats look a little puzzled by the question. Again it’s Zoro who speaks first, humming pensively.

“Luffy wanted the guy gone, too. That was enough for us but… Traffy told Luffy, I’m pretty sure. Captain was pretty vicious and that only happens when one of us is hurting.”

One of us.

It’s that that makes Bepo clench his jaws and blink rapidly, a few tears escaping regardless. Law didn’t just make allies, out there by himself. He made friends, and Bepo feels his doubts melt away inside him, heartbeat by heartbeat.

“Okay. Let’s call Chopper.”

Countless fathoms deep, the snail takes longer to connect. They use the customized one brought along by the Strawhats – a miniature hat is placed on its shell, crafted with a lot of care – and it awakens with surprised, brown eyes.

“Zoro? Is that you? What happened?”

Nami. Bepo motions for the receiver before Zoro can say much. The man shrugs and complies.

“Nami. It’s Bepo, navigator of the Heart Pirates.”

“Oh, Bepo. No need to be so formal, I remember you. We’re allies, you know?”

“Yes, of course. I apologize. Is Doctor Ch–”

In the background, someone asks, “Bepo?” and suddenly the snail’s expression shifts to one that’s unmistakably Luffy. “Future Pirate King here! Is everything okay with Traffy?”

Bepo’s fingers tighten around the snail. Damn Strawhat and his instincts. Around him, the Strawhats share a round of fond eye-rolls.

“Um. He’s not feeling too good right now. That’s why I’m calling, actually. Is Chopper around? It’s important.”

“Oi, Chopper! Traffy needs your help!”

For a third time, the snail adapts to a new speaker, eyes going round and curious. “Doctor Traffy?”

“Ah, no, sorry. It’s Bepo. I need to ask you something.”

“Oh! Sure, go ahead.”

All eyes fall on him. Bepo takes a deep breath, then: “Do you– Amber Lead. Do you know what that is?”

There’s a sharp inhale close to him and Bepo glances over to see Robin’s eyes go wide. That’s a yes, then.

“Amber–? I… think so. I read a paper about it once? It’s–”

“Poison”, Bepo says, voice flat and allowing no other answer. “It’s an ore that was mined at Flavence, North Blue. If… if you read about it then perhaps you know what happened there.”

A noise of protest, coming from Usopp. “Wait, wait, I’m out of the loop on history stuff. What–?”

“Flavence, also known as the White City.” Robin’s brow is drawn in subtle lines. “The town was rich but the population grew sick from being exposed to the ore for generations. The disease was said to be highly contagious and…”

“The Government locked everyone up and killed them all”, Bepo finishes, that old familiar heartache turning the words into a snarl. “All except for one.”

A stunned silence. Even Zoro looks a little pale at the implication, and Bepo closes his eyes and lets go of the tension in one breath, shoulders slumping.

“Amber Lead Syndrome, it… It shows as white blotches on the skin. The poison shortens one’s life span to nothing, and when I met Law, he should’ve already been dead but he wasn’t. He found a cure and lived.”

The snail is teary-eyed and Chopper’s voice is more wobbly than stable. “That’s… That’s incredible.”

“Bepo-bro… Why tell us all this?”

Franky had been so quiet that Bepo forgot he was even there. The cyborg is wiping his eyes furiously, mouth sloped downward but his gaze shines with the sincere need to understand.

“Because I need to ask. What are the chances of an illness like that coming back years later?”

It’s so quiet that the Tang’s monotone song is the only thing to be heard. Bepo’s vision goes blurry around the edges and he sniffs, the weight on his shoulder almost crushing him then and there.

“Don’t spare me i-if… Please. I just– I need to know. There aren’t any new spots but he’s running a fever and he can barely stand straight. Law said there’s no way to tell for sure without c-cutting himself open again and I won’t let him. Not unless there’s any other option–”

“Bepo. Traffy won’t die, okay?”

Even repeated by the snail, Luffy’s voice is strong, rock-solid with determination.

“I kicked Mingo’s ass so he can be free and live however he wants. There’s no way he’s dying after all that. Chopper, tell him.”

And Bepo knows, he knows that Luffy is aware things don’t always work out just because he wants them to; the man stormed a prison and fought a war and cried his soul out to learn that lesson. Hope lights in his heart all the same, flickering bright against the tears still rolling down Bepo’s cheeks–

“I’d have to examine him myself to say for sure but it is unlikely he’s still affected. Even dormant, chronic conditions tend to flare the worst under duress, not after.” Chopper hmms, pensive. “Did Traffy say anything else?”

Shaking his head, Bepo remembers belatedly they can’t see it. He rubs his arm across his snout, wiping away snot and residue tears. “No. Just that his body hurts and that he can’t focus.”

There’s a tap on Bepo’s shoulder and an hand next to his knee, gesturing for the receiver. Reluctantly, Bepo gives it away and watches it wander from palm to palm until it reaches Robin.

“Chopper.”

“Robin! Hey!”

She chuckles. “Hello. Could those symptoms be caused by an old or badly-healed wound? Traffy was already in quite a bad state before being dragged across the battlefield and fighting his nemesis to near-death.”

All Bepo can do is focus on his breathing. Still alive. He’s still alive. “Sorry ‘bout that”, comes from Luffy and he sounds genuinely somber about it.

Zoro huffs. “You did what you had to do.”

“Bepo”, Chopper talks over them without much hesitation, and Bepo straightens up, makes a noise of acknowledgement. “Traffy’s arm. Have you taken a look at it yet? The wound was healing okay last time I saw it but with those symptoms… Infections can always happen, especially given how the wound came to be. It would explain the fever, too.”

Bepo isn’t a doctor – and neither are Shachi and Penguin – yet all of them have served as assistants during difficult operations, the ones that take hours and leave Law wiped out enough to sleep through the night and the morning after too.

All kinds of things can happen to wounds, and Law’s arm was cut off by strings... It makes sense. The thought takes a moment to settle in Bepo’s mind. It makes sense. It’s not Amber Lead.

We can fix this.

“I haven’t but I will. What do I have to do?”

Through the snail, Chopper crinkles his nose. “You won’t like it. If it really is an infection, he needs a full dose of strong antibiotics and… Well, you have to practically re-do the stitches.”

Distantly, Bepo feels his stomach turn. “You mean…?”

“Yeah. If Traffy didn’t notice the wound festering it’s probably because the infection sits deep in the muscle. The wound needs to be drained and cleaned properly and that means cutting it open again. Sorry, I know it’s… not what you want to hear.”

All this time, Kikoku rested calmly against Bepo’s back but the mere thought of wielding it against its owner makes Bepo hyperaware it’s there. He swallows whatever complaints he might have and says:

“Okay. Whatever it takes, I’ll do it.”

Suddenly, Zoro is there, gaze hard as he murmurs, “Don’t be stupid”, and Robin is offering him the receiver before he can snatch it out of her grasp.

“Captain.”

“Hm? Zoro?”

“I’m gonna cut up Traffy.”

Oh, that’s an even worse idea than anything Bepo could come up with. “What?! No, no, absolutely n–”

“Okay. Be nice though.”

Bepo gapes at Zoro and the swordsman stares back. “Look. You can either try your hand at using that without any experience – or you can leave it to me. Besides: Do you really want to raise a sword against your own captain?”

“… No”, murmurs Bepo, eyes dropping to his feet. He wrings the front of his suit with his paws, unsure what to do with the mix of relief and guilt and hope pulsing in his chest.

“I’m in your debt. Thank you, all of you.”

Zoro just groans. “This again?”

Before Bepo can do more than shoot him a disgruntled glare, Usopp speaks up next. “Man, are you kidding?” He looks at Bepo like he’s grown a second set of ears, lips pouted and brow creased in concern. “Traffy’s our friend. And he saved Luffy.”

“Yeah!”, comes from the snail, its head bobbing enthusiastically.

“It’s in our interests to keep our ally alive. Chopper, how much do we charge for medical advice?”

“Nami!” Chopper is laughing, though. It’s a good sound, full of optimism. “Things will be okay, Bepo. Let us know how it goes?”

“We will”, Franky promises in Bepo’s place, an easy-going grin on his angular face. “It won’t do to cut our adventure short. I still need to figure out how the Tang can dive this deep without getting crushed!”

One of Robin’s hands pushes Franky’s mouth shut, another patting Bepo’s back gently. Robin smiles and despite himself, Bepo does too, taking the confidence he finds in her and making it his own.

“Go back to your captain, Mr. Bear. I’m sure he’s already waiting for you.”

*

It gets worse before it gets better. Those had been Chopper’s words, tinny through the speaker of the snail. The pills should help him sleep through most of it. His body needs to replenish a lot of blood on top of everything else but… The worst is behind him. You did it, Bepo!

A part of Bepo’s brain had soaked up the information like much-needed water in a desert: Chopper had sounded satisfied with their work, relieved even, and on some level Bepo had been aware his previous reassurances had perhaps been more optimistic than the situation truly warranted.

Okay, he’d said, and thank you, and he’d promised Luffy to call in a few days time – after the date of the wedding, but that went unsaid. With Law’s life on the line, Bepo had entirely forgotten the other time bomb steadily ticking towards zero.

Bepo sits at Law’s bedside, eyes unfocused and head filled only with the rush of blood in his ears. The room is virtually unchanged from when he carried Law out (barely conscious, questions a half-coherent rasp against Bepo’s neck) and brought him back hours later, deathly still and arm wrapped in thick layers of gauze.

To call the operation gruesome would’ve been a compliment to it. The image of Law’s blood spilling across the tiles of his own operating room is one that will follow Bepo into his dreams for weeks to come.

Lethargically, his gaze moves from pristine covers to Law’s face. His features are slack with unconsciousness, the rings under his eyes bruise-like against the pallor of his skin.

Out of the three of them, Shachi has the calmest hands and thus he was the one to sew everything back in place while Penguin stayed behind to clean up the mess. For a while after, the captain’s cabin had held all four of them: Bepo at his spot at Law’s side, eyes fixed on Law’s chest that barely shifted with every breath; Penguin and Shachi all anxious pacing at first and nearly collapsing when the adrenaline inevitably gave way to bone-deep exhaustion.

Bepo practically had to throw them out to catch some sleep. That was the second time in 24 hours he’d had to yell at those he considers family, and it didn’t move a single thing in him. His heart hangs limp in its tangle of veins, wrung dry of any emotion Bepo had to give.

Now it’s just him and Law again.

Reaching out, Bepo ignores the tremor in his fingers in favor of pushing back sweat-soaked hair. His mouth twists unhappily at the heat he finds there. The fever has yet to break, Law’s cheeks tinged an uncomfortable pink – his brows draw together at Bepo’s touch, and he hopes the cool press of his palm brings him some relief, at least.

This is exactly what Chopper’s warning had been all about. It doesn’t make any of it easier.

“It wasn’t Amber Lead, Captain.”

The words come unbidden to Bepo’s lips, a rough whisper that is lost to the suffocating silence around them. Swallowing heavily, Bepo keeps combing ink-black strands and imagines that it makes a difference, that it helps ease some of the tension around Law’s closed eyes.

“You hear me? You’re cured, and it’s not coming back. You’re gonna be okay.”

A drop of sweat trickles down Law’s temple; carefully, so carefully, Bepo wipes it away. He rests the back of his hand against Law’s pulse point. Lingering, just to feel the too-quick beat of Law’s heart.

“B’po?”

Bepo’s own pulse skips a beat. “Law?”, he asks, voice hushed with quiet hope. His thumb traces along the line of Law’s cheekbone, paw pad brushing shifting lashes until–

Law’s eyes are molten gold, shining with fever, not-quite-there.

“B’po.”

Bepo smiles so wide it hurts, eyes crinkling with it. “Yeah, ‘s me. I’m here. Welcome back, Captain.”

Law smiles too, the skin on his lips a little cracked.

“’m alive.”

Bepo nods and he’s crying, tears leaving moist dots on the sheets. “You are. You are.”

With a slow blink, Law reaches for Bepo’s face, the tips of his fingers brushing his nose clumsily. “Don’t… Don’t cry, Bepo.”

Bepo holds his hand and presses it against his cheek, nodding weakly. “Okay, Captain.” He feels Law’s fingers twitch weakly against his, trying and failing to hold on to him, too.

“Hey, ‘s okay. I’m gonna be okay.”

“I know. I’m sorry, so s-sorry.”

It’s like he can’t stop saying it, apologizing over and over against the back of Law’s hand that’s wet with his regret, his guilt. There’s a quiet noise of distress and Bepo looks up to see one, then two tears drip from Law’s lashes, trailing down his face in glinting lines.

“I dreamed of Cora, Bepo. I saw ‘im. He… He looked so happy.”

Bepo whines in his throat but Law shushes him, smile growing, showing a glint of teeth.

“I’m glad. I missed his stupid smile.”

“Law”, Bepo breathes, because Cora is dead and so was Law, almost, almost. “Please. Please.”

What he’s asking for, he doesn’t know – Law understands him all the same, like he always does, like he always will. “Bepo”, and his name is so much more coming from Law’s mouth.

“Don’t be scared. Not leaving you behind, remember? I promised.”

And Bepo has long forgiven him for almost going back on his word. The important thing is that Law came back, just as he returns to him now too, rosy-cheeked and glassy-eyed but there, alive. “Honest?”, Bepo asks him helplessly, nuzzling close to Law’s wrist.

Feeling his pulse against his lips, beating, beating.

“Honest”, Law tells him, soft with affection and it sounds like always, like forever. A promise that paints the Polar Star in Bepo’s sky, ensuring he can bring them home each and every time.

[typinggently]

I know you're not taking prompts any more, but I just want to tell you how much I love them— especially the Frank 'n Billy drabbles. Should you ever be inspired to do a "filth special" for them again, I'd go utterly wild. These two are my absolute problematic favorites and the way you write Bill is smoother than cream and sharper than glass. Hotter than a shot of vodka set on fire. Spot on nailing it. I'm in love!

Honestly I keep coming back to this message? Thank you so much for your kind words, I’m speechless. 💜❤️🧡💛💖 I just?? thank you so, so much! I’m so happy that you enjoy my writing!! 

and yes - they’re the ultimate problematic fave and I love them so, so much!!!😭

(Also...I know this took me super long but I’m always open for prompts or questions of any kind!!! I’m sorry that I gave the impression that I wasn’t!)

But without further ado. Please – enjoy this humble little offering of filth!!!

(I took the liberty and just picked something I wanted to write...)

-

8. convincing the other to try something they’re not interested in and then making them like it 

-

Warning: (mild)BDSM, slightly under-negotiated kink (Frank goes with it all and doesn’t even notice that there’s a conversation to be had, but it’s not exactly good bdsm etiquette on Billy’s part.)

-

Honestly, there are a lot of things those two convince each other of, but let’s go with this:

Blindfolds.

And I have to start this by acknowledging that Frank is a nasty filthy beast, but I’m p sure he doesn’t think all that much? Like, he didn’t sit down and google bdsm etiquette. He just does whatever and is naturally decent enough to make it work. He’s the type to get a little wild, but he’s not very educated about the subject.

I’m saying that because while he’s 100% up for a bit of breathplay here and there, some rough shit, some tackling etc etc, but he doesn’t think about it. So when Billy brings that whole thing up, he’s all “hm I’m not sure, I’m not really into that kinda thing.” (Cut to Billy giving him a very blank look)

It takes a lot of soft purring and pouting until Frank finally agrees that alright, sure, I’ll try it, fine.  (and by “a lot” I mean maybe 10 minutes of it, since Billy is very pretty and very convincing and Frank isn’t all that strong. But don’t judge him for it. 10 minutes of Billy with his hands in his hair, kissing his neck and telling him how good it’ll feel is a lot to handle).

Now. Frank on his back on the bed, shirtless with his wrists crossed over his head, blindfolded very effectively and very luxuriously with a silk sleep mask. Truthfully, it’s probably Agent Provocateur simply because Billy’s a creature of luxurious pleasures and the pretty pink box? The silk he gets to tie behind Frank’s head? …nice.

What we have to take in account, of course, is that Billy is a very smart man and he uses his intelligence for evil. Which is to say that agreeing to try new things with Billy means you agree to at least 2 things more than you thought you were agreeing to, because you don’t read the fine print.

In this case, Frank wasn’t aware that agreeing to blindfolds would mean agreeing not only to light bdsm but also to edging.

Billy didn’t tie up his wrists, of course. He’s too smart for that. He told him that no problem, don’t worry, just keep your hands over your head, yeah?

Frank (idiot supreme) was alright with that, because the thought of getting tied up isn’t all that nice but he can keep his hands up, no problem. Except. You know. He didn’t exactly expect how hard it’d be to keep his hands down when Billy’s touching him.

That’s where the teasing comes in. And sure. The whole point of this was to experience touch more intensely, but Frank didn’t really think it would work. Now he’s quite literally in Billy’s hands and at his mercy. And Billy I staking full advantage. The gentlest touches, most delicate – fingertips trailing down his chest, over the quivering-tense lines of his abs and his biceps, just above his waistband, along his jaw. One could think he’s never touched Frank before and now has to make up for it. Not that Frank’s thinking that, because really, he’s not thinking at all. This is way more intense than he’d thought and he’s shivering before Billy even puts his mouth on him.

And that? Poor Frank? He has no real way of knowing what Billy’s going to do, and his mouth is so hot, so soft. A mix of body worship and self-indulgence – Billy’s just wholeheartedly enjoying what he’s doing, taking his time kissing down Frank’s sternum, dipping his tongue into his bellybutton, nipping on his lips, sucking on his throat, slipping his tongue into Frank’s mouth, …

Now, when Billy undoes Frank’s fly, Frank could hope that it would give him some relief but this is Billy we’re talking about. He gives Frank’s cock the exact same treatment – feather-light touches and soft-hot kisses, the occasional, playful flick of his tongue. It’s a lot. Frank’s an absolute mess.

And if he tries to speak up?

“Bill, I swear to –“

“We’re not doing gags today, sweetheart, that’s not what we agreed on. Just shut up now, we can try that some other time. That’s a whole other conversation to be had and I’m not sure you’re up for that right now. I mean, there are many different options.” And here, the bastard just goes off. 5 minute monologue on gags, his personal aesthetic preferences, the in depth-differences, etc.

Talking, of course, means even less attention for Frank’s poor, throbbing cock, which is especially cruel since Billy isn’t just not giving him what he needs, he’s also making matters worse by painting such pretty pictures for him. And with his eyes closed, he has no way of distracting himself from the mental image of Billy, flushed and pretty with dark, hooded eyes, jaw working and chin dripping –

You know, handcuffs would actually make this whole thing a lot easier.

But Billy’s not made of stone. So eventually, he too can’t take it anymore, overwhelmed with how he’s affecting Frank.

Honestly, it would be p easy to go the Bottom Frank route here. I’m not doing it, though, because truly, the Billy sinking down on Frank’s cock after all this teasing? Frank moaning, pressing his shoulders and wrists into the sheets in an effort to keep them there, shivering, writhing, gasping...that’s good shit

Billy may be the one riding his cock, but Frank’s the one getting fucked. He’s a mess. No clear thought to be had, absolutely drunk on pleasure. And he can’t keep still. He tries, but his hips are twitching, he’s throwing his head from one side to the other, abs twitching with the half-hearted attempts of stilling.

Billy’s having a great time. Watching Frank lose control like that, flush spilling down his chest, powerful body shaking and twitching… That’s something indeed.

And to make things worse, Billy won’t let him come. Ranging from “Come on, Frankie, you can do better than that.” To “Don’t you fucking dare”

A (gentle) hand wrapped around his throat to feel his pulse flutter and Billy’s riding him hard and fast, his own voice finally slipping, desire bleeding through until he finally gives Frank permission to come.

I truly think Frank would lose time for a little bit. The whole thing is entirely too intense. The darkness, the heat, the what felt like hours worth of teasing all finally culminating – it’s overwhelming. And it goes ON. Frank’s shaking, he’s moaning, body twitching almost violently.

(Billy takes it all with a glint in his eyes. Frank’s never looked this pretty and he feels so good – a combination that pushes Billy over the edge pretty much immediately, and he get’s to enjoy the heavenly visuals while enjoying his own orgasm, one palm resting on Frank’s chest to stabilise himself)

To make it short: blindfolds are a SUCCESS.

(naturally there’s aftercare – Billy’s very good at soothing and gentling Frank, and he even goes as far as to let himself be snuggled even though they’re both sweaty and sticky)

-

💜❤️🧡💛💖 thank you again for your lovely message!!!💖💛🧡❤️💜

[watchtowerindistress]

Menace - Billy x Reader

Imagine ending things with Billy and your paths crossing when you least expect them to

The Punisher Masterlist

Notes: Okay, I’ll be honest, I had no idea where to take this story, so I decided to go down a road which seems obviously familiar to me, lol! Thanks, anon for your request. Hope you like it! This is a one-shot. I’m currently all tapped-out when it comes to Billy - so, for now, the requests are closed.

Warning: Language

Taglist: here

Words: 814

“I can’t do this anymore, Billy. I thought I could ... just pretend like everything is fine, but...” 

(Y/N) sighed, gazing up at Billy who hadn’t yet said a word. Nothing of the sort that he didn’t want to lose her or anything that showed her he even cared. It all started as a friends with benefits thing but now it no longer benefited her.

His emotionless mask broke her heart. 

Billy shrugged his shoulders. “If that’s what you want.” 

She sighed. “Okay, fine.” She stepped on her tiptoes, putting her hand on his neck as to pull herself up. Regret and sadness were coating her lips as she kissed him goodbye.

A sigh left Billy’s lips. He opened his mouth so he could caress her lips, demanding entrance. He laid his hand on her lower back, pulling her closer. 

Before she knew what was happening and she could stop herself, was Billy tilting his head as to get better access.

A groan left her lips as she wound her hands into his hair, mussing it up.

That bastard was excellent in making her forget everything around her. It didn’t take long until he relieved her of her clothes and his, laying her on his mattress.

“This is goodbye,” she muttered against his lips.

Billy hummed, nodding. “Sure it is.”

And with that, he started rocking into her.

When she woke up the sun wasn’t even out yet. (Y/N) sighed at the reminder of last night. She knew she should’ve just turned around without looking back, but she just had to press a kiss onto his lips.

(Y/N) certainly didn’t expect Billy to sweep her off of her feet to shake her world – again. She should have seen that coming. Billy Russo was a damn menace in and out of the bedroom. 

Turning her head one last time to see him still sound asleep – a rare event since he was usually a man who stirred at the slightest sound – before she pulled on her clothes.

With a sigh, she thought better than to turn around and went out the door.

 ~ One year later ~

“You must have some hairy balls on you, man,” Billy said, leaning back against a table while crossing his arms in front of his chest. “To actually have the guts to come to me, asking for my help.”

Frank sighed loudly, cursing himself for even having to resort to this last alternative. “I’m not going to beg. Are you going to help me find my friend or not?”

Billy tilted his head, wanting to play with him a little bit more. “Say ‘please’.”

Frank frowned. “Fuck you.”

His mouth twisted when he heard him say that. It felt like old times. “You’re welcome, Frankie boy.”

“So, who’s this person to you?”

They had managed to infiltrate the warehouse Frank’s buddy was kept in. Both of them heavily armed. Frank, of course, had to take the big guns with him while he tried to be subtle – more or less.

Well, compared to Frank at least.

Frank sent him a look. “A friend … and a world-class hacker.”

Billy chuckled to himself. “Well, as long as you remember, you know, quid pro quo.”

His former best friend rolled his eyes at him, grunting, “We’ll talk about that after the target is extracted.”

He shrugged. “Fine by me.”

It didn’t take them long until they finally have reached the spot where their target was being kept, a hood pulled over their head and bound against a chair.

Billy just heard him let out a roaring war cry before storming in.

“Jesus, Frank,” he only whispered when he just point blank shot everyone, not seeming to care that the bad guys usually shot back.  “Ever heard of anger management?” He called out, his arms stretched wide while still holding onto his handgun. “Why don’t you cool it a bit, okay?” 

For once, Frank decided to acquiesce to his wishes, pulling in a few deep breaths in the corner.

Billy shook his head, loosening the restraints. “Sorry for my friend. He can be a total nutcase. But I guess you’re used to it, huh?”

The hooded figure shrugged, snorting. “Well, if anything, I’m flattered that he came in with a war cry, guns blazing.”

A furrow formed between Billy’s eyebrows, feeling like this voice – despite being distorted through the hood – seemed familiar. At first, he was surprised that it was a female under the hood. Just the thought that Frank had female friends he trusted was a rare concept. But then there was something else. 

It couldn’t be. 

His hand reached for the dark concealment, slowly pulling it off and sending a few strands of her hair in disarray.

“(Y/N)?”

She blinked against the harsh light before she gazed at him, almost as if she knew who he was, the moment he had uttered a single word.

“Hey, Billy, long time no see.”