#ford every stream

[arloissomething]

it took me three watch-throughs to process how funny it is that god apparently regularly quotes the sound of music. like omfg that's amazing

[avoicebehindthestars]

Are we ever going to talk about how in GO!god's favourite film:

the protagonist is told it's okay to abandon her religious calling to pursue romantic love

the family flee the country so the father isn't forced to serve in forces that are obviously evil?

Yes? No? All right then.

[godsfavoritescientist]

I picture this against my will every time I hear the song "Dream a Little Dream of Me" and now you all have to picture it too

[dorkorder]

[dixons-sunshine]

Pregnant Pause | Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Summary: Your life was the epitome of a mess. You had just witnessed two of your friends get brutally murdered, your community was forced to serve an antagonistic group called the Saviours and your partner was taken by the same group, undoubtedly being tortured to try and force him into submission. It wasn’t the best moment of your life, and it definitely wasn’t the best time to start suspecting that you might be pregnant.

Genre: Angst to a little bit of fluff.

Era: Alexandria, Saviour arc.

Warnings: Swearing, blood, mentions of death, typical TWD warnings

Word count: 6.9k

A/n: I had so much fun writing this! To the person who requested this (they asked to remain anonymous), thank you so much. I really hope you like this and I really enjoyed swapping ideas with you for this fic.

—

Tears were streaming down your face with no sign of stopping anytime in the near future. In front of you, you could see the disfigured and maimed bodies of two members of your group, two of your friends. Glenn Rhee and Abraham Ford, brutally beat to death with a wired baseball bat. It was a fate that nobody deserved, especially not somebody as kind and pure as Glenn, or somebody as caring and courageous as Abraham. But they were gone, and with them, the remaining group member’s goodwill and hope.

Their deaths weren’t the only things that weighed on your shoulders. Negan, the leader of the so-called ‘Saviours’, had taken Daryl, your partner and love of your life, hostage. You had pleaded to them to let him go, but your pleas had fallen on deaf ears, and with one last tearful look at your archer, the doors to the truck had closed and taken off, taking a huge chunk of your heart with the retreating vehicle.

You could vaguely hear the sound of voices conversing and the shuffle of footsteps around you, but your attention remained fixated on the dirt beneath you. Your mind was racing at the speed of light at that moment, and yet simultaneously, you struggled to think of anything at all. It seemed that with your partner’s involuntary departure, your ability to function evaporated into thin air. You had no idea what to do.

You barely registered when Rick shook your shoulder, desperately trying to snap you out of your daze. “Y/N, look at me.”

You hesitantly looked up to meet the striking blue eyes of Rick Grimes, his eyes bloodshot from the tears he had shed earlier. He was tired, that much you could tell, and he seemed to be consumed by grief, the prior events to that moment taking an obvious toll on everyone, including your fearless leader.

“We have to go. It’s not safe here,” he whispered, gently urging you to stand. He was patient and caring, knowing full well that the events that had just transpired bore down into your soul. This would traumatize each and every one of the people present, of that much he was sure.

You remained silent, refusing to say anything until you’d had time to fully process everything. The remaining people in your group wordlessly split, Maggie and Sasha heading to the Hilltop and the rest of you heading towards the Alexandria safe zone. Aaron dutifully walked beside you, glancing over at you in concern every few seconds. He opened his mouth to say something, but you cut him off before he could utter anything.

“Please, don’t,” you whispered weakly, furiously wiping at the tears in your eyes.

Aaron frowned. “Are you okay?” he asked quietly, careful not to alert the others who were walking in front of you.

You shook your head and let out a bitter laugh. “No,” you admitted, pursing your lips. “I’m pretty sure none of us are.”

Aaron’s frown deepened, but he ultimately left it at that. The rest of the trek back to Alexandria was spent in a deathly silence, the only audible sounds being footsteps and animals scurrying around in the forest. When you all finally reached the safe zone, dread filled in your heart, because with the Saviours now fit to come knocking at the gates whenever they pleased, the safe zone would never truly be safe ever again.

—

Four days had passed. Four days since Glenn and Abraham had been brutally murdered in front of you. Four days since your partner had been taken hostage by the hostile group who claimed to be saviours. Four days since your world turned upside down.

The fellow survivors in the community had not taken well to the news of the Saviours’ deal with Alexandria, but you had expected that much. They weren’t there. They didn’t know what could happen if you rubbed the Saviours the wrong way, but you did, and they would figure it out soon enough.

You sighed as you laid on the bed in the basement you shared with Daryl, staring up at the ceiling with a frown on your features. For four days, you had tried to think of a solution to the problem at hand, but you had shot point-blank each time. And anytime you had even attempted to talk to Rick about retaliating, about fighting back, he had shut you down in an instant. You couldn’t blame him, however. You had witnessed the brutality that Negan possessed and didn’t wish to anger him again. You just wanted to find a way to get Daryl out of his clutches and back home, safe. You needed him there with you, especially if your suspicions about something proved to be correct.

For the last two weeks, you’d been way more tired than usual. Your body had grown accustomed to the short hours of sleep or no sleep at all, but now it seemed as if you couldn’t function even if you’d slept ten hours. You’d been getting nauseous quite frequently and although you had no way of keeping track between your periods, you were pretty sure it was late.

You weren’t stupid. You knew what those implications meant and what they were leaning towards, but the possibility of it being true scared you. You and Daryl were as careful as you could be, but there were times when you weren’t careful, when you were reckless, so the possibility of motherhood could be an impending thing.

You and Daryl hadn’t ever really discussed having kids before. The topic came up once or twice, but that was during the earlier stages of your relationship back at the prison when neither of you were ready for that kind of commitment just yet. And with the whirlwind of chaos that ensued, from the Governor’s wrath in Woodbury, to the Governor’s annihilation of the prison, to Terminus and then to the fall of Alexandria when the walkers infiltrated, the topic never got the chance to come up again.

And now the possibility of you being pregnant was high, and there was a chance that you’d have to raise the baby without their father.

You quickly shook your head to rid the thoughts from your mind. Groaning in frustration, you got up from the bed and headed up the stairs towards the kitchen. There you found Rosita, who was seated at the dining table, her features contorted into a frown while she was fiddling with a gun in her lap. She glanced up at you when she heard your footsteps and offered a silent nod of acknowledgement.

You gave her a nod back and headed towards the kitchen. You retrieved a glass from one of the cabinets and headed over to the sink, filling the glass with water. You leaned back against the kitchen island and slowly sipped at the water, your eyes trailed on one of little Judith’s drawings that were stuck to the fridge. It was a picture of stick figures meant to represent everyone in the group, and your heart sank when your eyes trailed over the figure meant to represent the archer.

“What’re you looking at?” Rosita asked, grabbing your attention.

“Just this picture that Judith drew of all of us,” you responded, half-heartedly motioning at the drawing stuck to the fridge.

Rosita walked over to you and positioned herself on your right, leaning back against the kitchen island as well. She smiled weakly at the drawing.

“Back when we were happy.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, averting your eyes from the drawing to the woman next to you. “Now everything’s just gone to shit.”

“All thanks to that Negan puto,” she spat, her tone holding resentment and anger. Her anger was justified—she had witnessed Abraham getting beaten to death, and afterwards Negan had taunted her about it. He found what he did justified. You knew that Rosita wanted him dead, and you did, too.

“Yeah,” you replied with a heavy sigh, placing the empty glass down on the countertop. The two of you stood side by side in silence for a few moments, before Rosita broke the silence again.

“What’s up? It seems like something has you down.”

“Yeah. Daryl is being held hostage only god knows where and we have three days to find shit for those assholes or one of us dies,” you stated matter-of-factly, crossing your arms over your chest.

Rosita sighed. “I know, but that wasn’t what I meant. It’s something else, I can tell.”

You fixated your gaze on the ground, suddenly finding the tiles more interesting than anything else. “No, I mean... I don’t know. It might be nothing, but...” You trailed off awkwardly.

Sensing your awkwardness, Rosita quickly tried to reassure you. “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it.”

You shot her a grateful look and she gave you a small smile. You brought your hand up and lightly patted her on her shoulder before pushing away from the counter.

“Where are you going?” Rosita inquired, raising her eyebrows in question as she watched your retreating figure.

“I need some air.”

Without waiting for a reply from the woman, you closed the door behind you and leaned back against it momentarily, before pushing away and setting off towards the infirmary.

After a short walk, you arrived at the infirmary. After opening the door and seeing that nobody was inside, you breathed a sigh of relief. You wanted to get this done without anybody knowing. You didn’t want people kicking up a fuss when there were bigger problems at hand.

Moving towards the cabinet you knew held the object you were looking for, you could feel your heart racing. When you retrieved the small box with the test that could quite literally change your life, you felt overwhelmed. You never thought that a small box would intimidate you, but that particular one did.

Wanting to be extra sure of the results, you grabbed another test from the cabinet. Slipping both tests out of the boxes and into your waistband and letting your shirt fall over them to cover them from prying eyes, you quietly slipped from the infirmary before anyone could notice that you were there. You walked with a haste in your step back towards the house, but the sight that awaited you at the gates quickly drew your attention. You quickly made your way over, where you saw none other than Negan beyond the gates, taking out an approaching walker.

You walked up next to Rosita, who looked over at you, anger dancing in her eyes. You were sure that your eyes mirrored the same emotion.

“Easy, peasy, lemon squeezy!” Negan laughed. His eyes strayed to his right, and you could see Rick following his gaze. From your point of view, you could see surprise spread across his face.

“Alright, everybody. Let’s get started. Big day,” Negan started, talking to people who were out of your line of sight. “Hey, Rick. You see that? What I just did? That is some service! I mean, we almost get turned away at the gate. Who is that guy, anyway? Do I get mad? Do I throw a fit? Do I bash some ginger’s dome in? Nope! I just take care of one of these dead pricks that could’ve killed one of y’all. Service.”

Your gaze strayed downwards when Negan locked eyes with you. He chuckled before walking through the gates, handing Rick his baseball bat. “Hold this.”

As Negan walked in, the rest of the people he brought with him followed behind their leader. However, you looked up when Rosita let out an almost inaudible gasp. You followed her line of sight and locked eyes with Daryl, and your heart both soared with relief and filled with dread. You were relieved that Negan hadn’t killed him, but you could see that he wasn’t being treated fairly, either. He was dirty and his face was cut and bruised, and he wasn’t wearing any shoes with his ‘uniform’.

You frowned, your eyes not straying from Daryl. Your partner kept his eyes locked on you until Negan spoke up again.

“Hot digidy dog!” Negan exclaimed, his eyes sweeping over the community. “This place is magnificent. An embarrassment of riches, as they say. Yes, sir, I do believe you are gonna have plenty to offer up.”

You looked away from Negan and took a step towards Daryl, hoping to at least say something to him. “Daryl—”

“No. Nope. He’s the help. You don’t look at him, you don’t talk to him, and I don’t make Ricky here chop anythin’ off of him,” Negan cut you off, his eyes shifting to Rick.

When Rick averted his gaze, Negan turned to you, his eyes holding a certain malevolence as he gazed down at you. “Do I make myself clear, darlin’?”

“Yeah, you’ve made yourself transparent. I can see right through you,” you spat bitterly, refusing to meet his mocking gaze.

Negan chuckled wickedly. “Careful. We don’t want anythin’ to happen to your little lover boy over there.”

You slowly looked up at the man, your jaw clenched as you glared at him. A few beats of silence passed, until you broke the stare first, angrily walking away from him and back towards the house. Tears of frustration welled up in your eyes, but you willed them away, refusing to let them fall. You wouldn’t give that tyrant the satisfaction of your tears, no matter if he saw them or not.

When you reached the house, you practically flung the door open, storming into the house. Carl, who had been sitting at the dining room table, looked up at your sudden appearance and gave you a concerned look.

You mustered up—what you hoped was—a reassuring smile and sat down on the chair opposite him. He gave you a questioning look, silently asking what was wrong.

“Negan’s here,” you plainly stated, not missing the way his jaw tightly clenched in anger.

“He said a week. He’s early,” Carl grumbled furiously, curling his hands into fists.

“Yeah, but he’s here anyway. And he brought Daryl.”

Carl perked up at the mention of the archer’s name. “He’s here?” When you nodded, he continued. “Is he gonna stay?”

“I doubt it. Negan said that Daryl’s here as the help, so I’m pretty sure that Negan’s taking him back as soon as he’s done here.”

Carl's mood visibly deflated. He sighed and shook his head. “We can’t live like this. We should just kill Negan.”

You shook your head. “Believe me, I want Negan dead, too, but even if we kill him, one of his other goons will step up and take his place. We have to kill all of them, not just Negan.”

“I don’t know.”

“How? There’s too many of them.”

Carl shook his head before standing up, pushing the chair back. “I’m gonna go check on Judith. Make sure she’s alright.”

At the mention of the small child’s name, you suddenly remembered about the two tests that were stuck in your waistband. You got up, too, and nodded at the teenager. “Okay. I have to take care of something real quick.”

With a parting nod, you headed up the stairs and into the bathroom. Quietly locking the door behind you, you inhaled deeply, trying to ease the anxiety that had started to build. You took the two tests from your waistband and held it in front of you, knowing that the results that would show in a few minutes were going to change your life.

Shaking your head and inhaling deeply, you went over to the toilet, two tests in hand. You quickly did your business and placed the two tests on the countertop. You paced around in the bathroom, trying to work up the nerve to see what results awaited you. However, just as you were about to look at the potentially life altering results, a loud banging on the door startled you.

“Hey, hurry up in there! We don’t have all day to wait on you!” A voice you didn’t recognise bellowed from beyond the door, and you could only assume that it was one of Negan’s men. Sighing, you grabbed the tests without so much as peeking at them and slipped them back into the waistband of your jeans. You walked over to the door and opened it, coming face to face with a Saviour.

“What were you doing in there that took you so long, huh, pretty lady?” The man asked, eyeing you up and down with a primal intrigue.

Suddenly, a gunshot rang through the house. Startled, you sprinted towards where you heard the sound and saw Carl holding two Saviours at gunpoint, the Saviours in question holding crates with all of your medication.

You shivered in disgust, shooting him a glare. Without a word at the man, you walked off, needing to clear your head. The pregnancy tests in your waistband pressed against your skin and reminded you that you had to look at them, but you decided that would have to wait. You weren’t about to look at them around prying eyes.

“Put some back,” Carl started, pointing the gun at one of the men. “Or the next one goes in you.”

“Carl, what’s going on?” You questioned, moving to stand next to the teenager.

“They said that they were only taking half, but now they’re taking everything,” Carl explained, keeping his gun trained on the man in front of him.

The man simply laughed, wickedly smiling at the boy. “Kid, what do you think happens next?”

“You die,” Carl stated matter-of-factly, death glaring the man.

You looked over at the sound of approaching footsteps and saw Rick, his eyes meeting yours questioningly. You simply shrugged nonchalantly and put a gentle hand on Carl’s shoulder. He looked over at you and you gave him a small, tight-lipped smile.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” you advised, before leaving Rick to calm his son down. You passed by Negan, who shot you a teasing smile, but you ignored him, moving out onto the porch.

You leaned over the railing, observing the people quietly. You could vaguely hear the voices from inside, but you paid it no mind. After a couple of minutes of just standing there and attempting to calm your racing mind, you saw Aaron walking alone, a frown on his face. You walked down the porch stairs and hurried to catch up to him.

“Aaron, hey!” you called, stopping the man in his tracks. He turned around and saw you approaching, and he offered you a weak smile.

“Hey.”

“Let me guess, the Saviours are ransacking your house right now,” you asked with a heavy sigh.

“They took our mattresses. Why the hell would they need that? And our coffee tables? What could they possibly need those for?” Aaron asked, exasperated. He ran his hand through his hair in frustration, his shoulders slumped to show his exhaustion.

“I think they’re just taking them because they can,” you started. “They’re trying to prove that what they say is law. They’re trying to prove that we have no say, that they can take whatever they want simply because.”

Aaron sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping even more. “I hate this.”

“Me too,” you agreed, nodding sagely, “but what can we possibly do about it now? We’re outnumbered and outgunned. We can’t take them on even if we wanted to.”

Aaron shook his head. Silently motioning for you to walk with him, the two of you set off, walking to nowhere in particular. “I’m glad to see that Daryl’s okay.”

You slightly flinched at the mention of the archer’s name, and flashes of his current state flooded your mind. He looked awful, not just from the filth on him but from the bruises as well. He was being tortured and you wanted to do nothing more than to kill Negan for making the love of your life suffer like that.

“Define ‘okay’,” you sighed, walking up to Aaron’s house with him.

“Alive,” he said simply. The two of you sat down on the porch steps, keeping your gazes ahead on the Saviours who bustled around the community, taking whatever they pleased.

“Yeah, well, let’s hope it stays that way,” you whispered, feeling tears well up in your eyes. However, you wiped them away in frustration.

Aaron placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, giving you a small smile. The two of you quietly sat side by side for a while, simply looking at the chaos of the afternoon. You’d catch glimpses of Daryl from time to time, and he’d shoot you nervous glances as well, before returning to whatever task he was meant to do. Your heart shattered at the thought of what Negan was doing to the love of your life. You silently vowed to yourself that you would find a way to get Daryl away from them, one way or another.

“Aaron, Y/N, meeting in Gabriel’s church in five,” Rick’s voice called, snapping you from your thoughts. He appeared at the bottom of the steps, his tone holding a frantic urgency.

“Rick? What’s wrong?” You inquired, getting up from the steps, Aaron following your lead.

“The Saviours, they’re takin’ all of our guns, but we’re two handguns short. They’re threatenin’ to kill Olivia if we don’t find them.”

“Who would have them?” Aaron asked, his eyebrows furrowed.

“I don’t know. That’s what we’re trying to figure out. Like I said, meeting in the church.”

“Nuh uh. Not so fast.”

You clenched your jaw at the voice that sounded behind you. Turning around, you came face to face with Dwight, his mouth upturned in a mocking grin. He was nonchalantly leaning against the wall of the house.

“The missus over here is gonna take me back to whatever hole she and Daryl calls home, and then she’s gonna give me his shit,” he stated, pushing away from the wall and walking over to you.

You stepped back, glaring angrily at the man. “You already have his crossbow and his vest. What else could you possibly want?”

“His bike, but Rosita’s already taking care of that,” Dwight said, crossing his arms over his chest. He turned back towards Rick and waved him off. “Go on, go find out where those guns are.”

Dwight moved forward and gripped your wrist tightly, wordlessly tugging you behind him. You exchanged a nervous glance with Aaron before turning your attention back to Dwight. You ripped your wrist from his grip and glared at him.

“Touch me again and I’ll fucking chop your fingers off one by one.”

Dwight chuckled and walked ahead, expecting you to follow him. When he realised that you remained still, he turned to you with a warning glare. “Just so you know, I’m basically Daryl’s primary caretaker at the moment. Your behaviour today can either persuade me to make his stay with us better, or make it so much worse. Your choice.”

You hesitated for another brief moment, before sighing and walking ahead. Dwight’s footsteps could be heard from behind you as you silently lead him back to the house, your jaw clenched in anger as you stared ahead.

After a short walk, you lead Dwight up the porch stairs and into the house. You opened the door and stepped inside, the man following closely behind you.

“This is your home?” Dwight questioned, slowly closing the door behind him as he looked about the house in slight awe.

“Mine, Daryl’s, Rick’s, Michonne’s. We all live here,” you confirmed in a bored tone, walking forward until you reached the door that lead down to the basement. “Our room’s down there.”

“You live in the basement?” Dwight asked dubiously, staring down the stairs in question.

“Daryl and I do. We wanted our own space away from everyone where we wouldn’t be bothered, hence why we chose the basement.

“Well, then,” Dwight started, lowering his upper body down in a mocking bow. “Lead the way, m’lady.”

You rolled your eyes at him and descended down the stairs. You opened the second door at the bottom of the stairs and pushed inside, the warm air of your shared space with the archer suddenly feeling overwhelming. You disregarded the feeling, focusing instead on the man that followed you down. The sooner you helped him, the sooner you would be rid of him.

You motioned over to the dresser that held most of Daryl’s things. “There. You’ll find it all there.”

“Daryl doesn’t own a lot of things that hold sentimental value to him,” you voiced and shrugged, sitting down on the bed as you watched the Saviour rummage through the dresser, carelessly tossing pieces of clothing over his shoulder. “Jesus, can you stop? He doesn’t have anything else you could want.”

Dwight raised his eyebrows. “All of it? In that one measly dresser?” When you nodded, he continued. “That can’t possibly be it.”

Huffing in frustration, Dwight turned around to face you. However, just as he was about to let out a string of crude remarks, he stopped, spotting something poking out of your waistband. “Stand up.”

“What?”

“Stand up, before I make you,” he threatened in a low tone.

You hesitantly stood up. However, you nearly stumbled back when he lunged at you. “What the hell are you doing?!” you exclaimed, trying to push him away.

Dwight simply ignored you. Before you could stop him, he pulled the two pregnancy tests from your waistband, taking a few steps away from you. He eyed the tests, and a look of surprise spread over his features.

“You’re pregnant?”

Time stopped. Your heart started pounding against your ribcage, and your eyes widened. You were pregnant. Both tests came back positive. Words completely eluded you as you simply stared at Dwight.

Dwight shook his head and threw one of the pregnancy tests back in your direction, and you hastily caught it. He quickly pocketed the other one. “Congratulations. I’ll be sure to tell Daryl the good news.”

Before you could deny or force him to hand it over, Dwight hurriedly left the room. You sank to your knees on the ground, tears starting to well up in your eyes. You felt helpless, completely and utterly helpless. Sobs wracked through your body as you clutched the pregnancy test in your hand, wishing more than ever that Daryl was there to comfort you, to reassure you that everything would be okay.

But with him being in Negan’s malicious clutches, you knew that wouldn’t be a reality anytime soon.

—

“Hell of a place you got here, Rick,” Negan told Rick, turning around to face him as you all walked towards the gates.

Roughly two hours later, the Saviours were done ransacking your homes and taking whatever they pleased. You had gotten your feelings under control and walked with your leader towards the gates, hoping above all else that you could persuade Negan into letting you at least give the archer a hug.

“Give me a second,” Rick replied, his eyes shifting between the hostile leader of the Saviours and the building beyond the gates.

Negan followed his gaze, before turning back to him. “No.”

“Please, can you just... Give me a second,” Rick pleaded, looking up at Negan, the height difference very noticeable when he did that.

Negan finally agreed, giving him a nod, a malicious smirk on his face. When Rick jogged over to the building, that left you in Negan’s sights, and the man let out a low chuckle.

“Well, darlin’. I see you’ve actually listened to me. No interactions with your loverboy whatsoever. I’m impressed,” he complimented, taking a step towards you.

Standing your ground, you simply glared up at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a sarcastic retort. That simply elicited another chuckle from the man.

“You know, there is a way the two of you could be together again. You could always come work for me. Be one of my soldiers, so to speak,” he began, eyeing you up and down. “Usually, I wouldn’t offer that straight away, but for a looker like yourself, I’d make an exception. Or you could make Daryl’s life a hell of a lot easier if you want. You could become one of my wives.”

Unable to resist the urge, you drew your hand back and slapped Negan across his face. Taken aback, he stumbled, but that grin of his soon returned. His eyes raked over your form hungrily. “Just so you know, I’m so much more attracted to you now.”

You could hear a scuffle behind you. Glancing over your shoulder, you spotted an angry looking Daryl being held in place by Dwight. The archer glared daggers in Negan’s direction, the urge to attack him evident on his face.

However, before anything could happen, Michonne came marching through the gates with a small deer hung over her shoulders, Rick hot on her tail. She wore a blank expression, refusing to meet Negan’s stare.

“Look at this!” Negan exclaimed, eyeing the deer on her shoulders.

“I thought she was scavengin’. She was huntin’,” Rick explained to Negan, handing him a gun. “This one never came inside.”

Negan took the gun and smirked. “Look at this. This is something to build a relationship on. Good for you, Rick. This is reading the room and getting the message. I said it before, Imma say it again. You, sir, are special.”

Rick looked at you, sympathy clear in his eyes. “Now that you know we can follow your rules...”

“Yes?” Negan drawled.

“I’d like to ask you if Daryl could stay.”

“Not happening,” Negan refused instantly. However, he turned around to look at you, a smirk on his face. “You know what, just to make the missus happy, maybe he can stay. Maybe Daryl can plead his case. Maybe Daryl can sway me.”

Negan turned to Daryl. The archer remained quiet, his eyes shifting between you and Negan. It was evident that he wouldn’t beg to stay; Daryl’s pride would never allow him kneel to the likes of that tyrant. Although a part of you wanted Daryl to just drop his pride this once, you were proud of him. Despite what he was going through, he remained steadfast in his beliefs. He would never bow to Negan, no matter what pain it could inflict on him.

“Daryl?” Negan pressed, amused by the archer’s silence. When Daryl remained silent, Negan turned back to you. “Well, Rick tried. Sorry, darling.”

You looked down, missing the apologetic look Daryl sent your way. Unbeknownst to you, Daryl had wanted to do nothing more than beg Negan to leave him here with you, but he couldn’t. Not when Negan had threatened to hurt you if he tried to return to Alexandria. Not when his hostage situation could ensure your safety.

“Now what you gotta do, is get over that tall wall of yours and try harder out there,” Negan began, looking at Rick. “Earn for me, because we’re coming back soon. And when we do, you better have something interesting for us, or Lucille? She’s gonna have her way. I want you to hear that again. If you don’t have something interesting for us, somebody’s gonna die. And no more magic guns. Arat, grab that deer. It’s getting late. Let’s go home.”

Michonne angrily dropped the deer and turned around. You shot one final lingering glance at the archer, your partner and love of your life, before following suite. Michonne put her arm around your shoulder and together the two of you walked back to your shared home, ignoring Negan’s mocking laughter.

“Something’s wrong, I can tell,” she whispered quietly.

You shook your head. “I wouldn’t necessarily say something is wrong,” you denied. “I just really need Daryl more than ever right now.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“Yeah,” you confirmed. “But not without Rick. I need his opinion too.”

—

“You’re pregnant?”

You physically winced at the incredulous sound of your leader’s voice. For the second time that day, someone had asked you that pivotal question, but this one finally made it register in your mind. You were pregnant. And Daryl wasn’t there to help you through it.

Michonne wrapped an arm around you, allowing you to lean into her side for support. She rubbed your arm, hoping to bring you some form of comfort under Rick’s disbelieving stare.

“Rick,” she scolded, sending her partner a pointed look, as if telling him to read the room.

“Sorry,” he apologized, shifting his attention back to you. “When did you find out?”

“Today,” you whispered, your voice hoarse all of a sudden. “Right after Dwight took me down to the basement to rummage through Daryl’s things. He saw the tests and took one. I think he’s gonna use it against Daryl. How could I let that happen?”

Michonne pulled you tighter against her side, allowing you to cry into her shoulder as she whispered reassuring words into your ear. “It’s not your fault. Hey, it’s okay. We’ll figure it out, I promise.”

You hesitantly nodded against her shoulder, withdrawing from her hold and standing up. You began to pace the room, anxiously fiddling with your fingers.

“What should I do?”

“Go to the Hilltop,” Rick advised, effectively stopping your pacing. “They have a doctor there who can ensure that you and the baby are okay. And you’ll have Maggie and Sasha by your side. It’ll be safer for you there.”

“I can’t just leave,” you shut him down, shaking your head. “Negan is fit to come knocking at the gates whenever he pleases. We need more supplies, and soon. We need more people going out there.”

“Like hell I’m letting you out there,” Rick argued. “Daryl would never forgive me if I let anything happen to you or the baby, whether he knows about it now or not. The best thing you can do now for yourself and your baby is to go to the Hilltop. It’s safer and it’s relatively out of harm’s way. Please, if not for yourself, do it for Daryl. Do it for your baby.”

Sensing your hesitation, Michonne stood up, facing you head-on. “Rick’s right,” she began, capturing your undivided attention. “Go. We’ll be okay here. Your primary focus should be your wellbeing right now. Once things cool down around here, I’ll come get you myself. I promise.”

You remained quiet for a few moments, pondering over their words, before nodding. “Okay,” you whispered. “I’ll go.”

“We’ll have a car ready for you in the morning,” Rick responded, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. “You’re doing the right thing. Daryl would’ve wanted this.”

“I know,” you sighed. “It doesn’t make it any easier, though.”

The next morning came way too soon for your liking. Packed up and ready to go, you exchanged goodbyes with everyone. You were busy hugging Carl, the teenager clutching to your shirt tightly.

“Don’t die,” he told you when he pulled back from the hug.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” you retorted, playfully pushing his hat down over his eyes, successfully coaxing a laugh from him.

After a few more exchanges, and another hug from Carl, you got into the car and drove off, heading towards the Hilltop Colony. The drive was spent in an anxious silence. You were wondering if you’d made the right choice, if leaving Alexandria for a while was really the best decision, but as your hand drifted to your abdomen that would soon grow, to the life that fluttered there, you knew that Rick and Michonne were right. Your primary focus should be your baby right now, and you’d be damned if you let anything happen to them.

After a while, the gates to the Hilltop came into view. You got out of the car as the gates opened, soon being engulfed in hugs by Sasha and Maggie. Jesus stood off to the side with a smile on his face.

“What are you doing here?” Maggie asked, pulling back from the hug.

“It’s a lot to explain,” you said, giving her a tight-lipped smile.

“Come inside. We’ll get you something to eat,” Jesus offered.

You smiled at him and nodded. “Sure. That sounds great.”

—

“That Gregory guy is such an asshole,” you spat angrily, sitting on the bench outside of Jesus’ trailer.

Sasha rolled her eyes. “Welcome to my world. We’ve been dealing with this prick for a week now and he still hasn’t gotten better.”

You shook your head, your hand absentmindedly rubbing over your stomach. A mere two days with the Hilltop’s leader breathing down your neck and you were just about ready to shoot him. He kept on sending crude remarks in your direction, voicing his obvious disdain that he had yet another Alexandrian he had to keep hidden from the Saviours. Thankfully, Jesus was there to put him in his place whenever you were the object of his distasteful glares, and since the day before, Enid as well.

Suddenly, shouts could be heard from the gates, before they were opened. You perked up at the rumble of a motorcycle, standing up to move closer and get a better view, instantly spotting the familiar glint of a familiar motorcycle coming to a halt, and an even more familiar man getting off of it. Your heart started pounding against your ribcage, and before anyone could stop you, you started running.

“Daryl!” you called, running as fast as your legs could carry you.

Daryl turned around at the sound of your voice. As soon as he saw you, he started running as well, meeting you halfway. You practically flung yourself into Daryl’s arms, and he instantly reciprocated the hug, burying his face into your shoulder. You hugged him to you tightly, holding the back of his head as you tried to withhold the tears flooding in your eyes.

“C’mon,” Jesus urged gently, prompting you and Daryl to pull apart. “There’s a room in the Barrington house. You can use it to get cleaned up and changed into something else.”

Daryl hesitated, but you nodded. “It’s okay. I’ll be there with you.”

You took Daryl’s hand in your own and followed behind Jesus. The two of you were soon in the aforementioned room, Daryl sitting down on the bed while you cleaned up one of the cuts on his face. He remained silent, his eyes locked on your face. He lifted his hand and cupped your cheek, halting your movements.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, placing a hand over his one that rested on your cheek.

“M’jus’ remindin’ myself that this is real. That this ain’t some trick my mind s’playin’ on me. That this ain’t another dream.”

You gently took his hand and lead it to your heart, placing his hand over it to feel the steady beating of the vital organ. “I’m here,” you whispered. “You’re here. This isn’t a dream. It’s real.”

Daryl swallowed and nodded, before letting his hand trail down to your stomach. “Is... S’this real? Are ya pregnant?”

Your heart dropped. The only way he could know was if Dwight did what you suspected—he mentally tortured the love of your life with the knowledge that you could’ve been pregnant.

Your silence confirmed it for the archer. He sighed and swallowed heavily. “You are. You’re pregnant.”

You nodded slowly, guilt creeping up in you. “I am. Did Dwight tell you?”

“He showed me the test. Said it was yours, that he found it with ya that day we were at Alexandria. I didn’t wanna believe him at first, but the more I thought ‘bout it, the more I started believin’ him,” Daryl replied. “When did ya find out?”

“The first time Negan showed up with all of you,” you admitted. “Dwight took one of the tests from me before I could stop him. I’m so sorry. I should’ve tried harder. You were already going through so much shit with the Saviours, and then he had to go put more shit on you because of me.”

Daryl pulled you into his arms, hugging you tightly. “Don’ blame yourself. What do ya have to be sorry for? Findin’ out you’re pregnant?”

“For allowing him to take the test and use it against you.”

“You’re really pregnant?” he asked with a slight laugh, rubbing your stomach affectionately.

“Don’ be sorry. S’okay,” he whispered into your hair, stroking your back softly. Once you had calmed down, Daryl allowed one of his hands to travel back down to your stomach.

You laughed in wonder and nodded. “Yeah. There’s a tiny you in there.”

“Nah, they’re gon’ be a tiny you. Sweet, kind and a badass, jus’ like their mama,” Daryl countered, placing a kiss against your forehead. “Our baby. Our lil’ peanut.”

“You really wanna do this? Are you ready to start your own family?” you questioned, leaning your head against his shoulder.

“With you?” Daryl began, pulling you closer to him. “M’ready for anythin’.”

[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

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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.”

****

[kiryoutann]

Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

TW: self-harm (reader scratching herself as a coping mechanism to calm her emotional distress).

A foreign language fills your ears, but the high-pitched, rapid sound feels awfully familiar. Your eyebrows furrow in your sleep as you try to make sense of the noise. You blink open your eyelids, your half-conscious mind struggling to piece together the source. Oh, birds. The melodic chorus drifting through the window is a sweet birdsong that rouses you from slumber.

Slowly, you become aware of your surroundings, along with the warm sensation surrounding your naked body. The breath of another person tickles the back of your neck. Bleary eyes flutter open to find yourself nestled in the embrace of a pair of strong arms. Light streams over the corded muscles of his forearms, picking out the golden hairs dusting his skin and his intricate tattoos.

Carefully, trying not to wake him, you twist in his arms and start to slip away. But before your toes can reach the floor, a tug forces you to fall back onto the mattress.

“And where do you think you're going?” He said, rough morning voice rumbles next to your ear.

Simon buries his face in your shoulder, and you laugh at the ticklish stubble grazing your skin. He plants a kiss, turning you to face him.

Gently, you run your fingers through his short locks. "I have practice early, remember?" He acknowledges your comments with a grunt, but remains unwilling to release you. You chuckle lightly, tracing the shell of his ear. “Your hair's gotten longer. Time for a cut, don't you think?”

Simon hummed, nuzzling into your chest. “You should do it. Last time turned out decent enough.”

“Well, first, you’ll have to let me up.”

Once more, you try to slip out of his arms, only for Simon to wrap them around your waist even tighter. He presses his face into your skin again. In this comfortable silence, your eyes become heavy once more. A mischievous voice in the back of your head tells you to go for the phone and call in sick so you can spend the whole day with him. Five more minutes, you tell yourself.

“Stay with me.” His words were muffled, barely audible to you. But, after years of being with Simon, your ears had become accustomed to hearing even his whisper. “Just like this, forever. You think that’s possible?”

Forever. As in: to many more walks and giggles with you, to many more sunrises and sunsets. The image of Simon leaning the ladder against the wall of a remodeled old house, as you directed the picture frame to be set straight. With ballet performances every weekend, and he would come to pick you up in his Ford. And after more years with him, he'll paint the blue you handpicked while his head kept turning in fear that you would enter the fume-filled room.

To stay forever is to outlive the sun. To lie down and be shaded on your lap as he listens to your story.

“It can be,” you whispered, a shy promise but one that you intended to fulfill. Your lips parted again to say the next words, “Fore—”

CLANG!

The crashing sound startles you awake, eyes snapping open only to be greeted by darkness. For a moment, disoriented, you recognize the same bedroom, except for the presence of a certain man behind you. The cold air hits your skin as reality sets in—it was all a dream.

Behind the curtains, the dark sky still stretches; the pale silver light of the moon creeps right into the long hand of the wall clock. It's three in the morning. You sit on your bed, trying to gather more consciousness while listening for any further sounds. When you hear another—this time louder—you immediately jump out of the blanket to check.

The floor lamp in the living room area is on, casting long shadows. But, the rest remains cloaked in nighttime gloom. Glancing around, you nearly let out a scream at the massive figure hovering over the open cabinet.

“Simon?”

Simon stands in the kitchen, peering at you nervously before relaxing his stiff shoulders. You reach over to turn on the light switch. He's holding the dolphin mug you purchased from IKEA with his left hand, and his right hand is stuck in midair.

“Just after some water,” he says, holding up the broken mug in his hand. You glance at the shards of ceramic on the counter, and Simon notices. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you. Or break the mug.”

At his explanation, you do a quick scan of him. “Are you hurt?” you ask.

“I’m alright, just clumsy is all.” Simon bends down to pick up his dolphin head piece. He places it on the counter for you to see. “Pity about the mug, though. Dolphin didn’t make it seem.”

You let out a small laugh at his lame joke. Stepping closer to examine the mug, a familiar sweet scent enters your nostrils. You look up at him, noticing that his tall form looks surprisingly put together despite the late hour. His hair is half-damp, having been towel-dried a little before leaving the rest to the air.

“Did you use my shampoo?” you ask.

“Didn’t have much choice, did I?” he says, turning to pick up the broken ceramics on the counter.

When his back is turned to you, you notice more details about him. His shirt, while wrinkled, seems freshly smoothed. And there, on the stool, sits his leather jacket, as if just waiting to be tucked back in at a moment's notice. The two combine and prompt an assumption.

“Are you leaving then?” The question slipped from your lips easily as an eel.

He looks back at you. “Captain needs me back at the base.”

A hollow ache bloomed in your chest at his words. Though separation was expected, some selfish corner of your heart wished to keep him here, beneath your gaze, within the reach of your hand. But, there was always a world to snatch him away—a world he had to save. He would return to being a ghost, coming and going as he pleased through the grip of your fingers.

“A busy man, you are.” Despite the burn, you try to force lightness into your intonation.

Simon huffs out a chuckle, and you consider that your temporary compensation. “Not as busy as you, from the looks of it.” He nods toward the fridge where your scribbled schedule hangs on a magnet.

As he steps past you, your eyes follow his movements. He retrieves his leather jacket from the stool, shrugging into it. Your fingers ache to reach out and smooth the material over his form, but you simply tighten your grip on yourself instead. He searches his pockets; he digs out a cigarette and his black face mask, but a puzzled expression creases his forehead.

“Phone’s missing.” He mumbles, scanning the kitchen and retracing his steps to where he had been standing. Nothing.

You offer, “I could try calling it, if you’d like?”

Simon nods, and you rush to the bedroom to retrieve your own phone from where it’s charging on the nightstand. You’re back at his side in a flash, thumbs dancing to type in the passcode, and you open the call app.

“What’s your number? I’ll ring it so we can hear where it’s hiding.” Your fingers hover eagerly over the keypad as you watch him expectantly.

He rattles out his phone number, and you swiftly tap it in. Your phone starts to dial; the two of you wait in silence, attempting to listen carefully. A muffled ringtone draws both of your attention to the living room, and Simon extends his stride to collect the small device hidden between the couch cushions.

A flip phone. Simon snaps it open to silence the call, and you can't help but note how small it is in his palm. He presses the thin buttons with his thumb, gaze fixed on the retro screen, reading the text message.

"I didn't realize they still make flip phones." You teased.

Slipping it into his jeans pocket, he shrugged. “It gets the job done,” he said. “Lot harder to trace than one of those newer ones.”

“You sound like some wanted criminal on the run.”

“Well, maybe I am.”

Simon turns and fully faces you, locking his gaze on yours. Those brown eyes, deep and intense, hold you captive like the pull of the moon on the tide, like rain on your parched soil. You wish him to stay, to not walk through that door and return to a place where he believed he belonged, so he wouldn't have to get hurt again. So that he wouldn't add more bumps and bruises to his already battered body.

The human heart swells with the desire to be reciprocated for all its longings. The urge to stretch onto your tiptoes and press your lips to his overwhelms you.

But before you could act on it, Simon had put a polite distance between the two of you once more. That moment, whatever it held, was over, and reality had returned to its uninvited seat.

“Best be off then, love.” He said, slipping his mask into place, ready to leave.

“Will I see you when it’s over?” Simon stopped walking when he heard your question. Shifting uncomfortably between your legs, you licked your dry lips. “Your duties, I mean. Do you know when you might return?”

Turning to you once more, he let out a sigh. “Can't say for certain, darling. You know how it is.”

"Will you at least call?" You ask again. “Or text, if you can. You have my number now..."

Simon stared at the distant wall as he considered your request. “Yeah, alright. I’ll send you a text.”

A smile came across your face where hope had once been extinguished. "Okay."

Interpreting your response as the end of the conversation, he turned and headed towards the door. Like fog dissipating into the air, Simon disappeared behind it, leaving no trace except the broken dolphin mug lying discarded in the trash, the only reminder of his presence. You lingered by the door for a while, secretly hoping he would come back, but deep down, you knew he wouldn't be returning anytime soon.

Simon’s disappearance period always leaves a bitter taste on your tongue—a sensation of longing for something that is out of reach.

In an attempt to distract yourself, you drag your feet to tidy up the little messes around you. You straighten the cushions again after fluffing them, then fold the blanket and set it on the sofa arm. Simon must have spent the majority of the night sleeping here. It's baffling that, despite seeing you naked multiple times and uncovering ecstasy-inducing parts of you, the idea of sharing a bed is where he draws the line.

Perhaps it’s the sense of belonging—he doesn’t feel like he deserves to belong on the other side of your bed any more than you do in his arms. If you say you’re not disappointed, you’ll just come off as a big, fat liar.

However, that promise. That first promise he made to you—the “Yeah, alright. I’ll send you a text,” promise that he uttered acted as some kind of hazy, ephemeral illusion that dulled the ache in your heart chambers. You view it as more than an oath—symbolic of something growing strong; roots taking hold. And like a diligent gardener, all you can do is patiently wait.

You drift to the kitchen to continue tidying up. After placing the bottle of bourbon in the cabinet, you return to the stool and shove it under the counter. Glancing around the room, your eyes fix on the spot where, just a few hours ago, you were laying on your stomach with his tongue buried deep inside you.

A secret smile grows across your face, but the warmth that comes with it goes unnoticed as you walk to the bathroom. There’s about three hours until the alarm goes off. You consider making sure everything is in its proper place one last time before going back to sleep.

Taking a deep breath, the scent of your shampoo lingers in the air, and your sight shifts to the shower drain. Bare feet touch the damp tile as an empty thought forms. Though longer than last time, Simon’s hair is still considered short—a military regulation he has to follow—so none could have been caught and tangled there.

The man has been exceptionally dedicated and consistent in never leaving anything behind on his visits other than longing and the need to see him again. It’s silly, sentimental, maybe even pathetic, but the urge to search for crumbs—for even a strand of his blond hair—compels you to kneel and check the shower drain, your hands spreading the grating to verify what your irrational mind has been fantasizing about.

Nothing. There is nothing left behind except a phone number that is certainly inactive most hours and an ever-widening emptiness—as if it's gradually spreading, searching for what once filled it. You feel irritated, almost angry—but you realize that you have chosen this, willingly signing your name and scribbling your signature on something uncertain, something wild that keeps drawing your gaze to the door.

As you rise from your crouch, planning to turn back to the bedroom, something catches your eye in the living room.

There, on the coffee table, sits the ashtray you bought two months ago but never found a use for. Ash scatters the rim in the most unsatisfying manner. But instead of being empty, now in its ceramic bowl are the butts of about three cigarettes. Your breath catches in your chest, and your heart skips a beat. This is clear evidence that Simon was really here.

Your fingers itch to tidy it up, to scrub the ashtray until it sparkles like you always do. Yet another part of you resists. This is the sole memento you must cling to in his absence until he returns to leave more behind. With a last glance, you tear yourself away and rush to your room, leaving them untouched.

“And one, plie… two, tendu to the side… three, rise up… four…”

The coach's count serves as a consistent metronome during morning class, allowing your warm muscles to fall into a familiar rhythm as you flow through the opening combinations. You focus on your reflection in the mirror, striving for perfection in your stance. Lean muscles extend and contract. Your hair is tied neatly back, not a strand daring to escape the tight confines of your bun.

“Thomas, keep those arms rounded; don’t let them drop.” She corrects someone behind you. You take the opportunity to glance at the clock on the wall – ten minutes until class ends and rehearsal begins.

“Claudine, you’re late again. This is the third time this week, you know punctuality is important.”

The coach's scolding causes you to glance around, and you see Claudine murmuring an apology as she rushes to find a spot. She turns her gaze to you, eyes filled with a venomous twist that churns your stomach as she takes up position at the barre next to yours. Determined to keep your focus, you fix your gaze on your reflection in the mirror and the coach's voice in the background.

However, Claudine has a knack for spotting vulnerabilities, even in your attempt to appear emotionless. “How’s Odette coming along? Still not feeling her yet?” she says, voice saccharine.

“It’s fine.” You replied curtly.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice her smile widening, as if she’s found a tender spot to poke with her weapon of choice. “That’s not what I’ve heard from Jacob.”

Jacob. Of course. Your dance partner, and no doubt her latest beau. You blink away the stinging sensation in your eyes, your shoulders heaving slightly in your attempt to take a subtle breath. “I’m working on it.”

Claudine lets out a derisive chuckle as you move through plies and tendus. When your eyes meet in the mirror once more, hers are sparkling with challenge.

“If you can’t cut it, you know I’m always ready to step in,” she turns her head to you, lips curling into a mocking smirk. “All you need to do is say the word.”

Your chest heaves as humiliation climbs up your throat. Before you could form a reply, the coach called an end to the class, announcing a ten-minute break before rehearsal began. With a smug smirk, Claudine's sly eyes returned to you as she pursed her red lips together and blew a parting kiss in the mirror reflection. She swept out of the room with a rustle of tulle and lace. Out of sight. She won the competition of having the last word.

Dancers line the long, dim hallway, lined with doors, as they take this opportunity to rehydrate before diving into another round of rigorous dancing. However, unlike them, it seems you have your own agenda. Instead, you briskly stride towards the restroom, push open the door of one of the empty stalls, and hastily drop your duffel bag on the floor.

Your head is tilted up, and your eyes are blinking incessantly in an attempt to clear your blurry vision. The thumping in your heart persists. Feeling your legs start to buckle, you close the toilet lid and sit down. The grimy bathroom floor tiling is the last thing you want to concentrate on, but anything other than you seems more appealing right now—your way of escaping the awareness of your own existence, of being a being who cannot conform to anyone's expectations, anywhere.

The words uttered by Claudine aren't new; this is hardly the first time another dancer has taken a jab at you. “Robot Ballerina” is a title you’ve been given since you joined, courtesy of the gossipy whispers that trail you wherever you go. It has always been so.

And yet, something has shifted, tearing away the veil that shrouded you, pulling you forcefully out of a long, empty dream. Suddenly, everything is overwhelming, and you become hyper-aware of every stare, every criticism, every scrap of talk thrown from one to another—from your dance partner to the person who could potentially replace you if you still fail to live up to the director's expectations today. One side of your head is throbbing with pain.

Your breath hitches as a sharp pain shoots up the back of your neck. Instinctively, you reach back to massage the area, your fingernails digging into your skin, leaving faint crescent shapes and a momentary calm that smothers the burning sensation within you like water dousing a flame.

In the next second, the turmoil was back under control, and your mind was clearing from the thick red fog. Breathing felt so much easier.

You dig around for your phone in your duffel bag. The screen lights up automatically, and your eyes wander to look for a text message or missed call.

But, of course, there’s nothing. He just left this morning—he couldn't possibly text like he promised in such a short amount of time. You swipe to your call history, his number staring back at you from the brief call you made when he misplaced his phone.

A sigh escapes you. Rehearsal begins in three minutes. You took your duffel bag and rose up. You turned on the faucet and ran water over your hands, scrubbing under your nails to make sure there were no stray bits of peeled skin left underneath.

Casting a final glance at your reflection in the mirror, you swiftly removed the smudge of mascara and tended to a few stray hairs before making your way out and into the rehearsal room.

The same music resounds once more, harmonizing with the same steps. Following your pre-practiced movements, you and Jacob take your own positions. Yet, something about the room feels quieter. As muscle memory guides you through the motions, your mind sinks into a tiny bubble of awareness—of each piano note, of the curl of your fingers coming out with precision, of Jacob’s slender fingers intertwined with yours.

Which then distorted into a pair of calloused hands belonging to someone. Your eyes widen, and you stare right into brown irises shaded by pale lashes.

Simon lifts and spins you through the act, the warmth of his palms sending goosebumps down your vertebra. You let yourself to feel –your lifeless spine arching against him. Higher, he lifts you into the pale light, and you stretch your wings like extensions of his very being. His lips ghost your brow. You feel exposed—an unveiling of a girl with grand, sweet dreams. You twirl like a ballerina in a music box.

A man in love—and like all men in love, Simon took your hand in his as he bent his knees before you. Brown eyes stared at you expectantly; on the tip of his tongue was the sacred confession of his devotion to you.

Your heartbeat thunders as the music swells to a crescendo. The moonlight touches his bottom lip as he sputters out a brave vow. Yet, before you can comprehend the words, a force separates you from him. You feel Simon’s arms loosen reluctantly from you.

Your fingers stretched to their maximum in their attempt to reach for him again, and yet it was all in vain—something was yanking you apart from him, opening up a gaping chasm between you and Simon. Alarms blared in your head. Hopes were starting to rot in the lake, swept away by glittering silver and erased from existence altogether. Know your place, my silly little girl, something seemed to whisper. Who put these sickening ideas in your head? I knew this would happen—this is exactly why I told you to stay where I could watch over you, because I know the kind of girl you are.

Simon persisted in his pursuit, desperation in his eyes. His face was twisted with anguish, body extended taut as if bridging the distance between you two. But you were drawn too far now to return to him. The mocking laughter surrounded you; her cruel voice hissing in your ear.

As if the coalescing of the melodies infuse her with fresh determination, the cruel presence’s hold around your soul tightens, her hold tight and oppressive. Your limbs move of their own accord, stretching out your imitation swan wings. Despite the blurred features, you can sense her satisfied smile. The tug of the puppet master pulls you further from the light, a hapless marionette in its malign grasp. 

In a flicker of a moment, your eyes meet his across—an unconfined determination written on his face. You’re caught like a captive moth on a funeral pyre, your wings aching to be saved. The shadows thicken and thicken. Before you know it, they’re engulfing you.

“Finally! C'est ça que je parle!"

A loud voice snaps you back to reality. You peer up and find Henri's face, his features illuminated by a smile so wide it hurts your jaw. He claps his hands together as he walks towards you.

“This is what I have tried to tell you, non? You BECOME Odette! C’est magnifique.” he gave a hearty cheer, and everyone around him began to clap as well.

But, how?

Almost deriliously, you glance around, half expecting to see Simon standing there, answering confusion. Only Jacob watches you with a small smile that brings a flush to your cheeks. You are flustered, but in a nice way, for the first time. And if Henri is right, then this is a good thing—a major breakthrough.

Henri declares, “Ten minutes break!” as the dancers begin to disperse with chatter. You stagger dazedly towards your water bottle.

The mineral water slides down your parched throat, its slightly salty and earthy taste slowly sharpening your focus. Yet something felt amiss. As you dart your eyes around, first toward Jacob and then toward Henri, you notice the two engaged in an inaudible conversation. Then, Henri catches your gaze and responds with a broad, relieved smile—the first you've seen in a long while. From his expression, it's evident that whatever he's witnessed has pleased him.

A few hours later, the rehearsal is over, and you go through one more routine before calling it a day. Facing the mirror, you relive the results of the previous private coaching, spreading your arms wide imagining wings of feathers flapping from your shoulders.

“Good extension… keep the line… reach further." Your coach’s voice guides you as she scans your form from behind. “Alright, that'll do for today. Keep practicing that fluidity.”

You empty your lungs with a sigh of relief. Turning your head, you walk over to the chair where your duffel bag sits and start gathering your things. Your coach takes out her journal, scribbling a few notes before shoving it back in her tote bag.

“You're getting there, sweetheart. Just need more flow, like the swans in the park. You might need to observe more.” Your coach said from behind.

"Okay," you affirm, placing your water bottle back in your bag and preparing to zip it closed.

“Heard from Henri you finally sorted it.”

You paused, and you turned to face her, finding her gaze fixed on you, waiting for confirmation. For a moment, you considered your response. It felt oddly undeserved, as if the praise was misplaced—because despite Henri's approval, you still weren't certain what had changed, what had “sorted”. This... breakthrough, you couldn't promise it would last.

“Maybe.” You said.

The older woman gave a gentle smile. She walked towards you, giving your shoulder a light squeeze. “You're going to do great things, my darling. Just don't lose what's making this happen, alright? Keep nurturing it.”

Oh.

You try to put on a thin smile. “I’ll try.”

With a casual wave, she takes her leave early, mentioning plans with friends to go out for drinks. Must be nice, you thought. The dance studio falls silent in her absence. Soft evening light filters through the window, gilding the mirrored walls in a mellow glow. Returning to your duffel bag, her voice continues to echo in your mind.

The zipper of your bag remains open, presenting an opportunity to take a furtive peek at your phone, still sitting atop your pouch. The screen is dark and silent—tempting. Infused with agitation, your fingers, almost of their own accord, close around the cool metal. Taking a steady breath, you swipe it awake.

Nothing.

Disappointment settled like a heavy load on your chest, only this time it felt just a touch lighter than the first. The dull ache settled in your heart, teaching it to adjust to his absence, even in something as simple as a text. He's a soldier, not unemployed, you reminded yourself. Another rationalization, another excuse—and what you allow is what will continue.

Slipping the device back into your bag, you shoulder it and flick off the last lights. You walk down the dim, empty hallway, passing slowly through echoing corridors alone. Ahead is the overly familiar, dull street you always take to get to the station. Craving a bit of variety, you decide to grab a coffee before heading home.

But it was the tech store a few blocks away that caught your eye.

The newest models of devices, boasting advanced specifications, gleamed beneath the bright lights. Advertisements for durable aluminum phones with promises of long-lasting performance. However, it was the memory of Simon's voice that held your interest instead. The things he had mentioned about his flip phone—how it was harder to track, harder to find.

He's not wrong, of course. New technology offers possibilities—subtle ways of leaving breadcrumbs.

And you, like a hungry pigeon, are eager to follow every trail you can unearth.

You take a deep breath, firming your determination, then stride towards the shopfront. The employee greets you with a sour face—a long day at work, you assume. No matter. Your mind is made up. It'll be a swift transaction.

@strawberrygato @aprosiacperson

SUPPORT ME THROUGH KO-FI! CHECK MY WRITING COMMISSION.

[cosmicdahlias]

Here For You

MINORS DNI

Your stalker ex has been relentless as of late. You found a threatening note on your car and no longer feel safe at your place. Your research partner offers to let you stay with him and the two of you grow incredibly close.

warnings: abuse, stalking, HUGE age gap (reader is in their 20’s), premature ejaculation, oral, p in v, creampie, knives, blood, suicide mention, unplanned pregnancy, birth

holy shiiiit this one is long for me, over 7k!!! i included my cat in this fic, beans! he’s my darling little man who I love very much!!! his name comes from his paw pads looking like little coffee beans. obvious juno reference at the end is obvious, love that movie to death.

You awoke to sunlight streaming through the gaps in the blinds of your apartment window. You stretched and rolled out of bed, making your way to the bathroom to brush your teeth and shower. You dried yourself off and returned the bedroom, pulling out a t-shirt and a pair of jeans from your dresser and putting them on.

As you bent over to put on your shoes, your siamese cat, Beans, weaved his way in between your legs. You reached out to scratch behind his ears and he leaned into your hand in approval. You grabbed your keys and locked the door behind you, heading down the steps to your car. A note lay on the windshield.

Expecting it to be some sort of scam, not unlike the ones your research partner’s brother was famous for, you picked it up to inspect it. As you read, you recognized the handwriting and felt all of the color drain from your face. This was anything but someone looking to make a quick buck.

“Y/n

You can’t shut me out of your life forever. Just because you keep calling the cops doesn’t mean I’m giving up. WE HAD SOMETHING! Try calling them again and see what happens, I don’t care. Nothing is gonna come between us and if I find out you’re fucking anyone else I’ll make sure no one can ever have you again.”

This unfortunately had become the norm for you, your ex boyfriend had been relentless in pursuing you. This note however was aggressive, even for him. You had called the police so many times that you’d lost count. Due to his father being a lawyer, an incredibly good one at that, he always seemed to beat the charges. At this point you didn’t even bother with getting the law involved, you knew he would always come out on top.

You had met him in the year your research partner, Stanford Pines, was off at sea with his brother. You broke up with your ex a week before they returned, so at the very least he didn’t know where you worked. Despite being a kitschy tourist trap, the Mystery Shack was one of the only places you felt safe. You stuffed the threatening note in your pocket. If something happened, you might as well have the evidence to incriminate him.

You got in your car and turned your keys, making your way to work on the outskirts of town. The entire drive you struggled to fight back tears. As you pulled up to the shack you felt yourself begin to spiral. You slammed the car door, sat down on the couch on the front porch and sobbed. You were so exhausted and terrified. You seriously didn’t know how much more of this you could take. You began to shake when you heard the front door open and you quickly attempted to wipe away your tears.

“There you are, y/n. I was worried when you weren’t in the lab at your usual time. It’s incredibly unlike you to not be punctua- oh dear, is everything alright?” Ford said with great worry.

“I- I’m fine, it’s nothing.” You said, trying to hide a sniffle and failing.

He sat next to you on the couch.

“If it were nothing you wouldn’t be crying like this. Now tell me, what’s wrong?”

“It’s- it’s just… my ex again. I found this on my car this morning.”

You handed him the note and watched as his eyes scanned the words. His face fell, expression serious.

“Y/n this is horrible, you need to go to the poli-“

“You know nothing ever comes of it! His fucking lawyer dad gets him out of it every time!” You said, beginning to sob again.

“I’m so sorry, y/n. I know firsthand what it’s like to have someone you once loved turn against you, threaten to hurt you for breaking things off. I promise I’m here for you.” He said, putting a reassuring hand on your shoulder.

“I- I don’t know what I’m going to do. He knows where I live and I can’t just move out, I don’t have the funds for that. What if he decides to do something? What if he hurts me or, god forbid, Beans?”

He took his chin in his hand, thinking. You could tell he was trying to come up with a solution. If there was one thing you knew about Ford it was that he was a fixer.

“How about this? You can stay here for a while. He never got to know that you work here, right? Tonight after we finish up in the lab we can head to your place and I’ll help you pack the essentials.”

You felt your heart thump in your chest. You had secretly harbored a crush on Ford for quite some time, since the day you first met. So the idea of living with him, possibly growing closer, seemed like an incredibly shiny silver lining.

“That sounds grea- wait, what about Beans?“

“Of course he can come with you! I’ll have a word with Stanley if he tries to give you grief over it, but I’m certain once I fill him in tonight on the situation he’ll understand.”

That night you drove with Ford to your apartment. Thankfully your ex was nowhere in sight. You led him up the stairs and unlocked the door, as you swung it open Beans greeted you with a long, loud meow. Ford smiled.

“Ah, so this is the little scoundrel I’ve heard so much about.”

Beans circled his legs and rubbed his head against them. Normally when men came over he acted incredibly aloof, so to see him be so affectionate, especially a man he’d never met, did something to your heart. You already felt safe with Ford beforehand, but now even more so.

“Alright, let’s get started!” Ford said, rolling up his sleeves.

-

You finished loading the last of your things into the trunk of your car. Beans sat in his carrier in the backseat.

“Are you sure you have everything?” Ford asked.

“Positive.”

“Good, let’s head back.”

You made the drive to the shack along winding, pine tree flanked roads. When you arrived Stan was waiting on the front porch. He and Ford helped move your stuff into the room their niece and nephew shared when they came to visit.

You let Beans out of his carrier, he laced himself between Stan’s legs and any possible hangups you might’ve had about staying in a house with two old men quickly vanished.

“Heh, you know I used to have a cat once, Freeloader. Found her digging around in my trash.” Stan chuckled.

“Alright, Stanley, let’s give them a chance to settle in.” Ford said.

They turned to leave the room.

“Give us a holler if you need anything, kid.” Stan said as Ford shut the door behind them.

You flopped back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Beans hopped onto you, sitting in a loaf on your chest. You gave him his favorite thing, a scritch behind the ear and he purred happily. Between the gentle rumble of your cat and finally being able to relax in a place that felt safe, you began to drift off. You awoke an hour later to a knock.

“Y/n?” Ford’s voice called from behind the door.

You made a motion to get up, Beans leapt down and you crossed the room to open the door.

“What’s up?”

“So, there’s a documentary about Yellowstone that’s going to start in a few minutes. I know it’s something that would be interesting to you and I figured it might be a good distraction from the unpleasantries of this morning. Just a suggestion though.”

He fidgeted with his hands and looked at the floor… was he blushing? You smiled, taking him up on the offer.

“Sounds good.”

He smiled back. “Perfect.”

You both descended the stairs to the living room, Beans trotting behind you. Ford gestured to the recliner.

“I figure you deserve the better seat.”

“A gentleman as always, Ford.” You said, sitting down.

He pulled a chair from the nearby table and sat next to you. Beans jumped into your lap and curled up. You leaned back into the chair as the documentary opened with a scene of wolves hunting in the wintertime.

As time passed your mind began to wander to memories of past relationships. Sadly, men like your ex were a pattern in your life, you always seemed to attract the worst of the worst. You wanted so badly to just have a happy and healthy relationship like all of your friends. Yet no matter how hard you tried to find a decent one, they always turned out to be awful. Tears started to fall as these thoughts ran through you. Ford could see it out of the corner of his eye. He turned to you, face full of concern.

“Y/n? What’s the matter?”

“No, it’s stupid.” You sniffled.

“Whatever it is, if it’s making you feel this way, then it’s not stupid.”

You took a breath, looking down. “I just… I feel like no matter what I do I bring horrible men into my life. I try and try so hard to make sure I find one that’ll treat me right, but just as I start to feel safe they betray me in one way or another. I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong. It feels like I’m cursed. Maybe I just don’t deserve any of the good ones.”

He took your cheek in his hand, wiping away your tears with his thumb and turning your head to face him.

“Hey, look at me. Don’t ever think that you’re not worthy of a good man’s time. You’re incredibly brilliant, creative, and compassionate. You have a fantastic sense of humor and your beauty is breathtaking.”

You turned bright red.

“You think I’m beautiful?”

“Absolutely, without question. Were I a younger man I would’ve-“

You leaned in and cut him off with a kiss, he pulled back.

“Wh- what are you doing?”

“Ford… I like you, so much. I think I always have.”

“I- I have too, but… I can’t. It wouldn’t be right. You’ve been through so much lately, I feel like I’d be giving you whiplash.”

You set Beans down on the floor, standing and moving to straddle Ford’s lap. You felt him grow instantly hard against you. He stared at you, eyes filled with a primal need. He was doing everything he could to hold himself back, keeping his hands at his sides.

“I want this, Ford.”

“N- no you’re so much younger than me, I feel like I would be taking advantage of you. You don’t want an old man like me.”

You laced your fingers in his hair, kissing him far more passionately than before. He didn’t pull back this time.

You whispered into his ear. “But I do though. I really, really do.”

He let his hands travel to your back, bringing you closer. He pressed his lips to yours and moaned softly into your mouth, then broke away to pepper kisses into your neck.

“Oh, Ford.” You moaned.

He returned his lips to you and began testing the waters with his tongue when he heard a loud clearing of the throat. Both of you turned your heads to see Stan in the doorway.

“Look uhhh, I’m happy for you two and all, but… c’mon get a room.”

Ford huffed. “Stanley, there is such a thing as looking the other way.”

“Hey! I live in this house too!” Stan retorted, crossing his arms.

Ford shot him a look that said “I’m in the middle of something here.”

“Fine, fine. Just try not to make a mess on the furniture.” Stan grumbled, waving a hand and turning to leave.

Ford waited until Stan was out of sight before picking you up underneath your thighs and moving to sit in the recliner with you in his lap.

“Now, where were we?” He purred.

He kissed you deeply and you slipped your hands down to the hem of your shirt, beginning to lift it up. Ford put his hands to yours.

“No, not now.” Ford said between kisses.

“But… don’t you want this?”

“More than anything, just not tonight. Making love with you is something I want to work up to.”

“You’d be the first man in my life to do so.”

“Well, no offense, but I think I can do far better than the brutes who dared to think they were worthy of your affection. Someone like you deserves respect.”

You kissed him again, grinding against the bulge in his pants. He buried his head into your neck and whimpered.

“Oh god- ah- it- it’s been over 30 years since I’ve been with someone. Even just feeling you against me is almost t- too much. Hhhnh.”

You leaned down and bit his neck, this was apparently more than what poor old touch starved Ford could take. He cocked his head back, giving an exceedingly loud moan and bucking his hips as he came.

“Ford… did you-“

He turned beet red, putting a hand to his forehead.

“In the name of- I’m so sorry. Like I said it’s been so long and you’re incredibly gorgeous, I couldn’t help it.”

You pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“It’s okay, I’m kind of flattered that I could work you up this much.”

He kissed you and stood, lifting you up and setting you on the recliner.

“Well… I need to take care of this. I’ll be right back.”

-

A week and a half had gone by with you and Ford growing incredibly close. On this particular early spring afternoon Ford led you on a hike to one of his favorite spots, a meadow that lay at the base of the mountains. The sun hung low in the sky, turning it a mix of orange and pink. Ford pulled out a blanket from his rucksack, unfurling it and setting it in the tall grass. He sat and patted the spot next to him and you sat next to him as he pulled out a bottle of red wine and two glasses.

“Ford Pines, look at you being a romantic.”

“I spent 30 years away from all possible comforts of another human being. It gave me a lot of time to think about how I would treat my love should I ever have the chance again.”

You put a hand to his cheek and kissed him.

“I’m glad to be yours.”

He uncorked the bottle and poured it into both glasses, handing one to you. You clinked them and as his eyes met yours you couldn’t help but notice how handsome he looked in the light of the golden hour.

After you finished your glasses, Ford moved in closer, kissing you passionately, the sweet taste of wine on his breath. His hands wandered up and down your body. You had become very familiar with his touch in the short time of living with him, but this time the way he moved his hands on you felt different, a strong feeling of desire.

“If I didn’t know any better I’d say you wanted to do more than just drink wine.” You said.

“Why do you think I brought you out here? With Stanley in the house we’d have to be quiet. But here?” He said between kisses. “Here you can be as loud as you want. That and I’ve always wanted to make love in the beauty of nature.”

“Stanford Pines, how dare you have an ulterior motive!” You said, playfully swatting him on the back of the head.

“I’m sorry, love. I’ve been planning this for days, since that first night we shared. I wanted things to be perfect for our first time.”

“You? Having meticulously thought out plans? Never would’ve guessed.” You teased.

Ford’s hands wandered south and began to tug up at your shirt.

“Is this okay?”

You nodded.

“Good girl.”

You turned bright red and Ford gave a devilish smile.

“Oh? Do you like that?”

“I may or may not have a praise kink.”

“Duly noted.”

He lifted your shirt over your head and wrapped his arms around your back to unhook your bra. He slid the straps off your shoulders and stared longingly at your chest.

“Dear moses, your breasts are incredible.”

He took one in his hand, stroking your nipple with his thumb. You moaned softly at his touch.

“Does it feel that good?” He asked.

“No it’s not that, I’ve just wanted your hands on me like this for so long. You don’t know the things I’ve imagined about you since we met.”

He kissed you deeply.

“I think you’ll be pleased to know our fantasies aligned. Not long after we met I would spend my nights stroking myself to the thought of you. God, there were times you’d be down in the lab and you would unintentionally brush up against me. I’d grow hard instantly and have to head upstairs to my room to take care of it.”

“So that explains why you’d come back down all breathless and red-faced.”

He chuckled. “And I thought I was doing a good job at hiding it.”

Ford returned to undressing you, sliding your shorts down your legs. He traced the delicate lace of your panties with his fingers. He hooked his thumbs underneath them and slowly pulled them off you. He looked down, you were dripping.

“So wet for me already, dear god you’re perfect.”

Ford lowered himself down your body, leaving a trail of kisses in his wake. He reached your pussy, his warm breath felt incredibly good. He locked his lips around your clit, licking it, somewhat ineptly, with the tip of his tongue.

“You taste so good, far sweeter than semen.”

You couldn’t help but giggle at his choice of words. He stopped, looking up at you.

“W- what? What did I say?”

“Just you and your need to use scientifically accurate terms.”

He cocked an eyebrow.

“Would you prefer I used ‘cum’?”

“Well quite frankly if you say ‘I’m going to ejaculate’ later I think I might never fuck you again.”

He chuckled. “Fair enough, princess.”

He returned his tongue clumsily to your clit for a moment before pausing again.

“Am I doing okay?”

“I mean… to be blunt it seems like you don’t have much experience with this.”

“Oh dear, I’m sorry. This is all new to me. It’s embarrassing to admit at my age, but you’re the first person with female anatomy I’ve ever had sex with. So quite frankly I have little idea of- mmf!”

You silenced him by gripping is hair and shoving his mouth to your clit.

“You’ll find it’s pretty intuitive. Just treat it like the head of your cock.”

He heeded your advice, sucking and swirling his tongue around your clit sloppily, you shuddered in pleasure. If the first thing you knew about Ford was that he’s a fixer, the second was that he’s a fast learner. He growled against your clit and you whimpered loudly, tightening your grip on his hair.

“Did that feel good, love?”

“Dear god, t- the vibrations.”

He sucked furiously, rolling his tongue against you. You arched your back. The pleasure started to feel overwhelming, you weren’t going to last much longer. You started to buck your hips against his mouth.

“Good girl, cum for me.”

His words of praise completely undid you, cumming all over his face with a loud moan. He didn’t stop, coaxing a second orgasm from you, then a third. You shook, completely overstimulated.

“Oh jesus, F- Ford.”

“Sorry, sweetheart. I’ve read the female orgasm can happen in multiples and I couldn’t resist testing it for myself.”

You giggled. “I’d expect no less from a man of science.”

Ford stood and removed his trench coat and sweater. Scars covered his body, you assumed from a mix of Bill’s abuse and years of trying to survive in different dimensions. Somehow his scars made him hotter. Ford noticed your eyes wandering back and forth along his scarred torso.

“Sorry, I know it’s not the most appealing to look at with all of the damag-“

“No, no! I like it actually.” You interrupted.

He blushed.

“Y- you do?”

“It makes you look tougher.” You purred.

“God, you know just how to make this old man feel attractive.” He said, returning to taking off his clothes.

He undid his belt and slid his pants down his legs. His cock strained in his boxers, from the outline alone you could see he was huge. He slipped his thumbs into his boxers and pulled them off. You couldn’t help staring at his cock, you bit your lip. Ford sat and pulled you onto his lap, kissing you. You could taste yourself on him. He laid back on the blanket.

“Ready? I know I can be kind of big for some, so take it slow. I don’t want you hurting yourself.” He said softly.

You nodded and lowered yourself slowly on his cock, letting your pussy adjust to being stretched by his intimidating girth until you reached the hilt.

“Oh dear god, I’ve n- never felt anything like this. You feel incredible, stardust. So warm and- nnnnh- wet.”

“Did you just call me stardust?”

“Do you not like it?”

You leaned down and kissed him.

“No, I love it.”

You began to move yourself on him, lifting and dropping your hips.

“A- ah yes, that’s it, good girl. You feel so perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

Ford let his hand travel between your thighs, stroking your clit with his thumb.

“How does that feel? Good?” He asked.

“U- uh huh.” You whimpered.

You rested your hands on his chest, moving in a motion to slide Ford’s cock fully in and out of you. He tilted his head back.

“G- god, you don’t know how long I dreamed of this, of you.” He whimpered.

“As have I, and… I have a confession to make. I used to touch myself while thinking of you too, I did it the that night after we met. And I- oh god, this is so embarrassing- I ah, stole one of your sweaters once. I’ve always loved your scent and I would make myself cum while taking it in.”

He chuckled. “So that’s where that went, but it’s good to know I wasn’t the only one unable to resist the urge of touching oneself to the sole thought of their research partner. You drove me absolutely wild, you still do.”

You started to move faster, your breathing becoming shallow. Ford could sense you were close, so was he.

“M- may I cum in you? Will you cum with me?“

“Please.” You said through shaky breaths.

He tightened his grip on your hip and began to buck into you while increasing the speed to your clit. You felt the pressure within you build, you were right on the edge. You cocked your head back.

“Oh god, I’m gonna- hhnnn.”

He reached up to cup your chin and tilted your face down to look at him.

“Look into my eyes. I want to see your eyes when you cum.”

You looked down at him at the exact moment you felt your body ignite in pleasure. The feeling of your pussy spasming around Ford’s cock immediately sent him over. He released your clit, both hands holding firm on your hips as he slammed you down on the full length of his cock, shooting every single drop of cum inside you. The warmth flooded your insides.

“Oh god, y/n!” He moaned.

His hips slowed, the only sound either of you made was heavy panting as your pleasure subsided. Ford pulled you down into a kiss. You got off of him and laid with your head against his chest. You both lay in silence until you remembered something he had said minutes ago.

“Ford, can I ask you something?”

“Sure, anything.”

“You said I’m your first person with female anatomy. So… who was your actual first?”

Ford smiled, you could tell the question had brought back memories.

“It was so long ago. He was my old college roommate, then years later became my research partner. It seems I have a habit of developing feelings for my coworkers.” He chuckled.

“Wait, McGucket?”

He laughed. “Yes, you wouldn’t know it now, but back then Fidds was quite the catch. I’ll have to show you a picture sometime. We experimented heavily during college, neither of us willing to admit that we wanted something more. Then, after he came to work with me on the portal, we were mature enough to confess our feelings to each other. It was perfect, just the two of us, but then I-“

He let his words fade, looking off into afternoon sky. His eyes seemed wistful.

“I don’t know… between how I treated him at the end, most likely being the straw that broke the camel’s back in his marriage, and sending him down a spiral that would destroy his sanity… I still harbor a lot of guilt. Bill was using me, but I used Fiddleford too. I know he and Emma-May had been on the rocks for quite a while, yet I still feel responsible. After Weirdmageddon we rekindled our friendship and I apologized for ruining his life, but I live with knowing I can never undo the damage I caused.”

He turned his gaze to you, taking your cheek in his hand.

“Y/n, I never want to hurt you like I hurt him. I want to be a better man, a better partner than I ever was for him.”

You kissed him.

“Ford, I trust you. I can sense the effort, and that’s all I could ask for.”

He kissed you back.

“What did I ever do to deserve someone as perfect as you?”

-

Two weeks had passed. You were once again spending a late evening with Ford in the lab. He set down his pen and stood from his chair, coming behind you and putting his hands on your waist. He kissed your neck.

“So I was thinking we could call it early tonight. There’s supposed to be a meteor shower. How about you and I hike to the nearby hill where we’ll have a good view of the event?”

You turned to face him and smiled.

“Sounds perfect, Ford.”

“Fantastic. You can head outside and wait for me, I just need to speak with Stanley about something first.”

“See you shortly, then.” You said, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

You made your way up the stairs, walking through the shack and out to the front porch. You stared up into the night sky and caught a glimpse of a few bright streaks. You couldn’t have asked for more perfect weather for something like this.

You smiled and thought to yourself. “For all of the chaos I’ve been through, things are finally starting to look u-“

You froze as a dark figure crept out from the side of the shack.

“Thought I wouldn’t find you, huh? You’ve been busy, whoring yourself out for some old man. It’s fucking pathetic. You know what has to happen now, I warned you what I’d do if I found out you weren’t being faithful to me.” Your ex threatened, brandishing a knife.

You wanted to run, but your legs wouldn’t move. You did the next best thing and screamed.

“FORD!”

He pounced on you and sunk the knife into your chest, you tried to scream again, but all of the air in you left. He had punctured your lung.

-

Ford stood in the empty gift shop with Stan. Soos counted the day’s profits at the till. The brothers were in the middle of a discussion.

“Yes, but what I think is important is that-“

“FORD!”

Stan and Ford looked at each other, silently agreeing by your tone that something serious had happened and booked it outside, Soos followed. Ford swung open the door to see you collapse to the ground, your ex boyfriend standing over you. He looked up at Stan and Ford in the doorway, but before he could turn to run both men were on him. Stan managed to land a punch square to his jaw before he and Ford tackled him to the ground.

“What did you do? WHAT DID YOU DO TO THEM?” Stan barked.

Your ex spat out a tooth. “What that fucking bitch gets for being your brother’s whore.”

Stan shoved your ex’s face into the gravel and turned to Ford.

“I got it from here, sixer, this scrawny kid ain’t going nowhere. Go make sure y/n is okay.”

Stan turned to Soos who stood in shock on the porch.

“Soos, call 911!”

“O- on it, Mr. Pines!”

Ford hurried quickly to you. You lay motionless on the ground on your side, struggling to breathe. He could tell by the pool of blood that it wasn’t good. He gently turned you over on your back and his eyes widened at the sight of the knife stuck in your chest.

“Y/n! Y/n!”

Your eyes struggled to focus.

“F- Ford?” You murmured faintly.

“I’m here, y/n. We’re going to get you some help, it’ll be okay.”

“It h- hurts.” You gasped.

“I know, just try to breathe.”

“I can’t, the knife.” You struggled out.

“I’m so sorry sweetheart, but if I remove it you’ll bleed out.”

“They’re on their way, Mr. Pines!” Soos shouted.

Your attempts to take in a breath were becoming increasingly labored and shallow.

“Stay with me, y/n, just hold on for a little longer!”

You put a hand to Ford’s cheek.

“Ford, I-“

Your eyelids became incredibly heavy, your hand fell to the ground and you went limp. The last thing you heard was Ford calling your name.

-

Your eyes slowly fluttered open.

“Mmmnh.” You groaned.

“Sixer! Sixer! They’re awake!”

You turned your head to see Stan shaking his brother who had been sleeping in a chair next to you.

“Huh? Wha- y/n!” Ford said, taking your hand, which you noticed had an IV placed in it.

“I’m gonna go get the doctor, be right back!” Stan said, already at the door and slamming it behind him.

“Ford, what happened? Where am I?”

You made a motion to sit up, but an intense pain in your chest protested. You hissed out a sharp breath.

“Easy, stardust. You’ve been through a lot. You’re in the hospital, you’ve been in a coma for two weeks. Do you remember anything?”

Your brow furrowed as you tried to recall your last moments. It was nighttime, you were outside the shack, there was a meteor shower and then… your eyes widened as the memories came flooding back.

“Wait, what happened with-“

“It’s been taken care of. He’s in custody and from the looks of it he’s most likely never coming back out, not even that lawyer of a father can save him this time. They found a note in his apartment, he had been planning this for a while. He was going to flee the scene and commit suicide if Stanley and I hadn’t been there to stop him. From what I’ve looked up, in Oregon aggravated attempted murder can carry a life sentence.”

You gave a sigh of relief that quickly turned to anger.

“It never should’ve come to this.” You said through gritted teeth.

He looked away. “I know, I’m so sorry. If I hadn’t stayed back to talk to Stan this never would’ve happe-“

“Don’t. Don’t you dare blame yourself for even a second over this. The law failed me, not you.”

“Still, I should have known better than to leave you alone.” He said, a tear ran down his cheek.

You squeezed his hand.

“You still saved my life, I wouldn’t be here right now if it wasn’t for you.”

Stan returned with the doctor. He did a quick assessment of your vitals and asked you questions to determine if you’d suffered any cognitive impairments or memory loss.

“Well despite the circumstances you appear to be in good health. Your vitals are stable and your memory and cognitive functioning seem to be in order. However, there was something we picked up when we tested your blood. I’m just going to be blunt, you’re pregnant.”

You looked at Ford, he looked back at you and squeezed your hand. The doctor turned his attention to Ford.

“Now, are you the patient’s fath-“

“Partner.” Ford corrected.

The doctor raised an eyebrow before continuing, his eyes back on you.

“I would recommend getting yourself in with an OBGYN. If you need anything, press the call button and a nurse will be with you.” He turned on his heels and left.

Silence hung in the air for a moment before Stan broke it.

“So… I guess I’m getting another niece or nephew. I’ll uh… I’ll leave you two alone to talk.”

He shut the door behind him. You turned your gaze back to Ford.

“Ford, I- I promise I was on birth control. I don’t know how this happened.”

He cupped your cheek.

“It’s alright stardust, these things happen. What do you want to do? No matter your choice, I promise I’ll support you.”

“I- I want to keep it. I’ve always wanted kids and with the way you treat Dipper and Mabel, I know you’d be an amazing father.”

His face lit up.

“You really mean that?”

“Absolutely.”

He pressed a deep kiss to you. When he pulled away he looked at you like he wanted to say something.

“What is it?” You asked.

He took a deep breath. “I know it’s soon, but after almost losing you and now with this I don’t see a point in hiding how I feel. I love you, y/n, with every single cell and atom of my being. I will do all I can to be a good father to our child, and the best partner I can be for you. No matter what, I promise to always love you. You’re my everything, stardust.”

You were speechless. Out of all of the men that had come in and out of your life, no one had ever said anything close to this. No one had ever promised their love and utter devotion to you like him.

“I love you too, Stanford Pines.” You smiled.

-

When you finally discharged from the hospital Ford immediately made a trip to the library, returning with a stack of pregnancy books in his arms. He pored over the material for days.

He was very insistent that you follow a strict prenatal vitamin regimen. He became incredibly attentive to you, any complaint of symptoms was immediately met with a solution. Nausea? He’s brewing you a pot of ginger tea. Your back hurts? He’s running you a warm bath with lavender oil.

At your 18 week ultrasound it was finally time to determine the sex. You had both originally agreed to keep it a surprise, but the curiosity was too much for either of you to handle.

The technician ran the probe across your stomach as a grainy picture of a fetus formed on the screen. Every time Ford could get a glimpse of his and your child he savored the moment, not wanting to even blink as to not miss a single second. He kept the first ultrasound picture in a frame on his desk.

“Alright, let’s get a good look here.” The tech said.

Ford held your hand tightly.

“Congratulations you two, it looks like you have a girl.”

You watched Ford’s face light up just as it did when you told him you wanted to keep the baby.

“A girl, we’re having a little girl.” He said softly.

As the months passed Ford would find any reason to hug you from behind, his hands caressing your stomach. During one particular instance, he rested his head on your shoulder after wrapping his arms around you when he felt something press against his hand.

“Wait a minute, I think she’s kicking!” Ford said, completely ecstatic.

“Yeah! I can feel it!” You said, matching his energy.

Ford moved to stand in front of you, his hand never leaving you.

“Fascinating, truly fascinating.” He whispered.

Mabel, who was visiting along with her twin for the summer, burst into the room.

“DID I HEAR THAT MY COUSIN IS KICKING???”

“Yes! She-“ Ford began before Mabel cut him off by speeding over and unintentionally knocking him aside.

She placed a hand on your stomach and felt the kick of a tiny foot.

“Whoaaaaaaa, this is so cool! I mean I knew it already obviously, but there really is like a little person in there.”

-

After the trauma around your last hospital stay, you opted for a home birth with a midwife. Ford did extensive research and insisted on a water birth. You were hesitant at first, but he managed to convince you after stating that it reduced pain, shortened labor time, and gave the baby an easier transition into the world.

Your water broke late into the night and labor started around the same time the next day. Half a day passed with the contractions becoming longer and more intense. The midwife arrived and set up the birthing pool in the bedroom. Every so often you entered the warm water to ease the pain and felt your muscles relax. Ford held your hand in his, you squeezed it tightly enough to break it. The midwife checked your cervix.

“You’re fully dilated, it’s time to start pushing. Mr. Pines, do want to help deliver?” The midwife asked.

“Yes, absolutely.” Ford answered, moving himself in front of you.

You pushed as hard as you could, the baby slowly moved through you and it felt like you were being torn apart. An hour and a half later and you were at your limit.

“I- I don’t know if I can keep going.” You said, tears falling.

“Yes you can, y/n, you’re so strong. Breathe.” Ford said softly.

“Alright, the baby’s crowning. You’re going to need to support the head once it’s out.” The midwife instructed to Ford.

“Got it.” He said.

You screamed, your lower half might as well have been on fire.

“You’re doing so well, y/n, she’s almost here. Just breathe.” Ford soothed.

“If you tell me to breathe one more time, I’m going to fucking strangle you.” You growled through clenched teeth.

Ford took the baby’s head in his hands, guiding her out. Once the head passed, the rest came quickly. You felt two more contractions, and she finally arrived. Ford stared in awe at the crying baby in his arms.

“My god, she’s beautiful, y/n.”

“Mr. Pines? Do you want to cut the cord?” The midwife asked, offering a pair of scissors.

Ford nodded and took the scissors, cutting the umbilical cord two inches away from the baby’s navel. As he held her he caught sight of her clenched little fists. Six fingers on each hand, just like him. He looked at her in pure adoration, he would have loved her and given her the world regardless, but now he felt connected to her on a cosmic level. A childhood of being bullied was entirely worth it just for this moment. Tears streamed down his face, he was completely enveloped in a sea of love and emotion until the midwife spoke up.

“Uhh, do you maybe wanna hand her to-“

“O- oh! Yes, of course!”

As he passed the baby to you it was immediately obvious why he was so enamored with her. You held her against your chest.

“Oh Ford, she’s perfect. And you’re right, she’s absolutely beautiful.”

He leaned down to kiss you.

“I think I know where she gets it from.” He smiled.

Time passed and you handed the baby off to Ford so you could shower. As you dried off and began dressing yourself in a comfortable pair of pajamas you heard a cry from down the hall. You quickly buttoned up the top and made your way to the bedroom.

“She must be hungry.” Ford said.

You got into the bed you had convinced Ford to purchase once you officially moved in with him after you were told you were pregnant. Before that he slept on the couch and it drove you crazy. He handed your new baby girl to you and you unbuttoned your top. It took a few attempts, but eventually she latched and began to nurse.

“So, I know we’ve already settled on your mother’s name for her middle name, but we still have our list of first names to pick from. What are you thinking?” You asked.

Ford smiled. “Well I do have one that I’ve grown really fond of.”

“Me too. How about we both say our choice on three?”

Ford nodded.

“Okay. One, two, three-“

“Juno!” You both said in unison.

You stared at each other before bursting out in laughter.

“Well I guess that’s settled then. Welcome to the world my little Juno.” Ford said, holding her tiny hand.

Beans hopped up on the bed and approached Juno cautiously, sniffing the top of her head.

Ford chuckled. “Hmm, I don’t think he knows quite what to make of her.”

“That’s pretty on brand for cats. When my parents brought home my siblings, our cats were terrified of them.”

You gave Beans a scritch behind the ears and he relaxed at your touch, purring and curling into a ball on your lap. You felt complete, you had your little family all together. Juno finished nursing and you begin to grow sleepy. The adrenaline from pushing out a small human left you and exhaustion took its place. Ford noticed immediately.

“It’s alright, I can take her. You need your rest.”

Ford gingerly took Juno in his arms, holding her against his chest. You snuggled up against him as you felt yourself drift off to sleep. You awoke to Stan entering the room two hours later.

“Everyone’s favorite uncle is here! How’s my niece doing? What name did you guys end up going with?”

“Juno.” Ford responded.

“Heh, I wouldn’t expect anything less from you two nerds. Now c’mon, let the best uncle ever hold her.”

Ford handed Juno to Stan and he took her in his arms. She grasped his finger in her round little fist.

“Would you look at that, we got another sixer here!”

Stan’s phone rang in his pocket.

“I think that’s Mabel, I texted her that you had the baby.” Stan said.

You sat up as Stan gave Juno to you. He answered his phone.

“Hey, kiddo! Yeah! Yeah they’re doing great, so is the baby. Juno. That’s what I said! Oh believe me, I’ll make sure she’s spoiled rotten. Of course! I’d love to have you two over for the break! Sure, I’ll let you talk to him.”

Stan handed the phone to Ford.

“Hello, Mabel. Yes! It’s incredibly strange to say, but I’m officially a father. Correct, from Greek mythology. Eight pounds, five ounces. Oh she’s absolutely beautiful! Thankfully she didn’t inherit my nose, but she does have my fingers!”

You heard Mabel’s shriek through the phone and an excited “DIPPEEEEERRR! SHE HAS HIS FINGERS!”

Ford laughed before continuing.

“I know, all twelve! It’s perfect, truly meant to be. Caryn. Yes, after your great grandmother, she would have loved her. Y/n? I’ll let you talk to them.”

Ford passed the phone to you.

“Hey, Mabel!” You said.

“Hiiii, y/n! I already asked grunkle Stan this, but how are you doing?” Mabel asked.

“Great, exhausted, but great.”

“Duuude I bet! Giving birth to a tiny person must be like soooo crazy! Oh! Did grunkle Stan ever tell you when I was born that I punched the doctor right in the face?” She said, almost boastful.

You laughed. “Somehow that sounds like something you’d do.”

“You know, I always thought you and grunkle Ford were perfect for each other. You’re both huge nerds who like weird stuff. If you two get married, promise you’ll make me a bridesmaid!”

”Of course Mabel, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“I feel like you’re already a part of the family though! You might as well be my grauntie at this point!”

You smiled. “I’m honored.”

“Oh hey, Dipper and me are thinking of visiting during winter break later this month, so hopefully I’ll get to meet my new little cousin soon! You can give the phone back to grunkle Stan, I wanna say bye. Make sure to give Juno lots of kisses for me!”

“Will do!” You said and handed the phone to Stan.

“Thanks for checking in, pumpkin. It’s good to hear from you. Say hi to Dipper and your folks for me and keep me posted on if you and your brother are coming to stay for the break. Alright, love you, bye.”

Stan turned to you and Ford.

“So I was thinking of ordering pizza to celebrate. Would you be down?”

“I haven’t eaten since I went into labor so that sounds fantastic.” You said.

“Great! I’ll give you two lovebirds some alone time with her.” Stan said, giving Ford a wink for some reason and shutting the door behind him.

Ford turned to you, he had the same look on his face as he did in the hospital right before he told you he loved you.

“Everything okay, Ford?”

“Y/n, there’s… something important I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“Yeah?”

He pulled a small black velvet box from his pocket, your heart thumped in your chest. He opened it, revealing an absolutely beautiful ring.

“Since the day you came into my life, you’ve fundamentally changed it for the better and I’ve loved you ever since. I promise to cherish you and stay by you and Juno until my last breath. If there is a life beyond this one I’ll wait for you on the other side. Y/n, will you marry me?”

You kissed him deeply.

“Yes, absolutely!”

He took your left hand and slipped the ring on your finger.

“Oh Ford, it’s gorgeous.”

“It was my mother’s. Many years ago she passed it on to Stanley, thinking he was me, and told him to give it to the love of his life when the time came. On the day you and I became an item, Stanley gave it to me, insisting I’d need it. He said I should do it for tax purposes.” He chuckled.

“Of course he did.” You laughed.

You admired how the stone caught the light.

“What are the odds that your mother and I had the same ring size?” You said.

“Well… about that. I may or may not have measured your ring finger in your sleep. I had the size adjusted, I wanted it to be perfect for you.”

You kissed him again.

“I’d expect no less from Stanford Pines.”

You rested your head on his shoulder and once again felt your eyelids grow heavy. Ford too felt the exhaustion of the near 40 hours of helping you bring Juno into the world. It wasn’t long before the two of you and little Juno fell asleep. Stan opened the bedroom door.

“Hey, guys, pizza’s he-“

He smiled at the sight of all three of you sleeping peacefully. He took out his phone and snapped a picture.

“Yeah, that’s a keeper. Mabel’s gonna love this.”

[the-universal-sun]

little stan crying for his mom and ford/fidds having to try and comfort him 🤞🤞🤞🤞

Nonny, I had a hard time deciding on whether I wanted to do Ford or Fidds as Stan’s caregiver, but I decided there wasn’t enough Stan and Fidds! Forewarning, there is mention of death of a loved one and some minor cursing! So, please don’t read if this is sensitive, uncomfortable, or triggering for you!

Stanley’s had a rough day. No scratch that, he’s had a rough week. No, scratch that, he’s had a rough life. But he thinks today might just take the cake for how damn shitty his life is. He got a call from Shermie today, technically Ford did because he, Stanley, is literally dead to his family. And now normally he likes his calls with Shermie, the updates on his nephew and his eldest brother's life are a nice reprieve from the tourists and the portal work, but he wishes he never picked up the phone today. Shermie didn’t call to update him on his son's college life or how California is. He called to tell him that mom passed. Their mom. His mom. She’s gone, going into the ground and he’ll never see her again. Hug her again, never talk to her again. Or taste her Latkes, she’s never going to send him Sufganiyots every holiday season.  He’s never going to be around his Ma’ ever again. He hasn’t been around her since the fake funeral, and now he’ll never get the chance to again.

He slid down the wall he balanced himself on when he first heard the news, the telephone hanging by the cord, he didn’t even realize he dropped it, were his hands shaking? He’s on the floor, but his knees still feel so weak, why? He lifts his shaking hands up to his face, wiping off the tears that keep streaming down his face, his white shirt already darkening where the missed tears hit. His chest hurt and his head felt tight, or was that the other way around? He doesn’t know, he doesn’t think. He doesn’t want to think. He can’t think. He just wants his mama, to be held in her arms again like he used to, before he got too big and grown up to be held and rocked, with her stories and lullabies. He can’t even stifle his sobs, and he hates himself for it because he’s a man and men don’t cry. He didn’t cry when Flbrick passed. Hell, he didn’t even show up to the funeral, so why is he sobbing like a baby now?

“Stanford? Stanford are you there? I-I know this is a lot to process, but I need your help planning her funeral. Can you-” At Shermie’s mention of a funeral, Stan let out a wail before he clasped his hands over his mouth, not wanting to alert Fidds or Shermie to his aching chest and furthering fuzzy head. He’s so in his head that he doesn’t hear Fiddleford’s footsteps or register his voice.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

“Stanley, are you alright? I heard a noise an’ I-” Fiddleford stops short at the scene in the kitchen. He takes a moment to process what he’s seeing. Stanley’s sobbing on the floor with the phone off the hook. He can hear someone’s tinny voice coming through the hanging phone. He walks over to Stan, kneeling down and trying to see his face.

           “Stan? Hon, are you alright? What happened?” He asks quietly, voice panicked. Is Stan hurt? He doesn’t see anything indicating that, and Stan’s usually so strong against pain, he’s only seen him cry when regressed….Oh dear. Oh this isn’t good. Stan was having a good day, a really good one, until he briefly stepped away from dinner to take a phone call and now he’s on the floor sobbing and most likely regressed. Fiddleford pulls at his hair, not as hard as he used to before Stan but still hard enough to get him to focus. Focus and be calm is what he needs to do. He’s a Father, a Big Brother, and a Caregiver, he can deal with tears. He can do this. He takes a deep breath in, exhales it out, and stands up, grabbing the phone on his way. He’s going to see who and what just upset his baby.

“Stanford! C’mon man! I need you to talk to me here-” Fiddleford heard from the telephone receiver as he brought it up to his ear.

“Dr. McGucket, who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?” He asked coldly, not liking the angry tone of the man on the other end. This is the one who probably upset his Pumpkin, and he will not stand for that yelling or anything as such directed towards his family. It doesn’t matter who the man on the other end is, he will shut down any and all attempts to strong arm or deride Stanley.

“Dr. Mc-What it? Listen, I need to speak with Stanford right now, so just-put him back on the phone. It’s important family stuff, so, none-ya-business-” came the irritated reply from the man steadily making an enemy out of a one Fiddleford Hadron McGucket.

“I’m Stan’s research partner, Dr. Fiddleford McGucket, and Stanford is currently-” he looks down at his boy, still sobbing, but now wrapped around his legs, and his eyes softened, “-indisposed at the moment. I assure you, Sir, that I’ll be sure to relay any messages back to him. Now, I ask again, who are you and what’s your business with Stan?”

“It’s Shermie, his big brother. Listen, I’ll call back whenever he’s not uh- “indisposed”-” Fiddleford can just hear the air quotes, “and all. Just let him know that I need help with Ma’s funeral, okay, Dr. Whatever? Bye.” Fiddleford hears that dial tone and his heart feels heavy in his chest. Oh no, oh his poor, poor baby. He loved his mama so much, always smiled for hours after talking to her, and now she’s-

Fiddleford lowers himself to kneel beside Stan, whose arms are still wrapped around his leg, and gently lifts his face to look at him. He sees Stan’s tear stained face, his lips in the biggest and wobbliest frown he’s ever seen on his boy's face and he finds himself at a loss for words.

“Oh Honey, I’m so sorry about your Ma’.” Is the only thing he can think to say at the moment.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Hearing those words, Stan feels the ache in his tummy get worse, his throat burns, and he can’t stop the new tears as they go down his face. He wasn’t dreaming it or thinking wrong, if Fidds’ is saying that, then Mama must really be gone, but he doesn't want her to be gone! He wants to hug his Mama now!

He buries his head in Fidds’ chest, sobbing so hard he finds it hard to breathe. He knows he’s gettin’ tears an’ snot on Fidds’ nice white shirt, but he doesn’t say anything. He just rocks them and rocks them, and pats his back and talks to him. Stan can’t hear what he’s saying, but he always likes to hear his voice, Stan’s always found it so nice to listen to his Fidd speak to him, even though he can’t understand what he says.

He feels Fidds chest rise and fall in a big way, and matches it because Fidds taught him that to calm him down when he’s feeling these big emotions, when he can’t swallow and his tummy hurts like it does now. He looks up at Fidds, and he can’t say what the look on his face is, but it makes Stan's tummy ache worse, so he just buries his face in the shirt again.

He feels himself being lifted up and walked somewhere. He doesn’t want to walk anywhere, but his knees were hurting sitting down, so he guesses this is fine. He blinks when a bright light turns on and he’s sat down. They’re in the bathroom? He sniffles, bringing his hand up to rub his eyes and looks around, he’s confused on why they’re here, he doesn’t want to take a bath. He doesn’t want to do anything but lay down with Poindexter and cry and miss Mama. Except he doesn’t want to do that either because it hurts to cry and miss her, it always does, but there’s no more calling her when he misses her any more because she’s gone! His lips wobble and he can feel the tears in his eyes again, but he doesn’t want to cry again, he’s a big boy and big boys don’t cry! Stan startles when he feels a warm and wet washcloth gently touch his face, wiping away his snot and tears. He looks at Fidds, who’s kneeling in front of him with a serious look on his face.

“Now, Stanley, I know what you’re going through is hard. It’s the toughest thing anyone can go through, so it’s alright to cry. Ah!” Fidds cuts off when Stan shakes his head, “None o’ that, Love Bug, crying is healthy and good for the soul. Lord knows I’ve done enough crying to know how it can feel like a release. So it’s okay to cry, you loved your Ma’, and it’s a painful feeling, that loss. I lost my momma when I was about to graduate high school, and it was the hardest thing I’ve been through. I cried like a baby every day for weeks. Does that make me less of a man?” Stan quickly shook his head, feeling dizzy from the force of it. Fidds was one of the manliest people he knows (excluding the entire Corduroy family), he’s super duper smart, and he can cook, and he can chop woods, and Stan saw him tackle a Deer once! Fidds is so cool, smart, and manly!

“Exactly, crying is nothing but a human emotion, and you’re a human, you can let yourself feel your emotions, Stanley. I promise you, I will not make fun of you, no teasing, no nothing of the sort, ya’hear?” Stan nods his head, “Good. It’s okay to grieve, I want you to grieve, I want you to remember your Ma’, all the good she’s brought in your life and how much love she filled it with, I want you to always remember her, okay?” Stan feels more tears fall down his face, his Fidds is so wise. He knows how to help Stanley, what to say and do, even when Stanley doesn’t know why he’s feeling a sort of way, or can’t find himself to speak or think. He loves his Fidds, he wishes he had him as a dad instead of him, then life would’ve been super better, probably great even!

“But, don’t get stuck in your feelings, you can remember and love your Ma’ all you want and need, but you need to remember there’s other people that care about you. I care about you so much, so many people in town care about you. So when you find yourself feeling too much about your Ma’ or your past, remember your present and the people here that love you. Remember me, Stanley, remember how I love you as much as I love to breathe. Remember that you’re my baby, that I love taking care of you, that I love being here, in the now, with you. Can you do that for me, Sweetpea?” Stan sniffles and throws his arms around Fidds’ neck sobbing into him. He also loves his Fidds! He loves how he cuts his sandwiches just right, how he does the voices when he reads to him, he loves how Fidds doesn’t call him stupid or girly. He loves how he can just be small around him, that he’s allowed to cry. Fidds would be such a good Pa’.

Stan feels Fidds softly pat his back as he cries again, for what feels like forever this time. When he feels his tears stop, he sniffles and leans back, wiping his nose on his hand. He giggles as he feels Fidds swipe at his face with the cloth again, covering his face from the ticklish feeling of the cold water. He softly pushes Fidds’ hands away with a soft spoken “stop”, breathy from his giggling. 

“There’s my boy! Now, I think we both need an early bedtime, hmm? What do ya’ about getting in your comfiest pajamas-I’m thinking your Whale long johns-and getting cozy in bed with Poindexter and “Goodnight Moon”? How ‘bout it?” Stan nods his head slower this time, crying always makes his head hurt. He doesn’t want to think anymore right now, he just wants to cuddle his Fidds, Poindexter too of course, he couldn’t leave out his bestest friend, and fall asleep under a warm blankie. Fidds helps him off the toilet seat and into their room, helping him step into his fuzzy whale pajamas and tucking him tight into bed. All the way up from his feet to his neck, just how he likes, and finishing with a forehead kiss that has scrunching his nose up into an adorable smile before settling under the covers with the book open. 

“In the great green room there was a telephone and a red balloon…” Fiddleford began reading.

And, as he drifts off to sleep surrounded by warmth and love, he lets out a whispered “G’night, papa”, which squeezes Fiddleford’s heart, which in turn means he squeezes his boy even tighter, resting his head on top of his Stanley’s. Promising, to both himself and the little nestled right here in his arms, that he’ll never waver in love and devotion to his little family.

[a-clown-with-wings]

🍉🍉🍉 VERY IMPORTANT!!! 🍉🍉🍉

I know that I usually post about silly robots and my OCs, but for once, this isn't a silly fun post about my hobbies.

Palestine and Gaza are still very much under attack, and their people need our help in order to survive the malicious and hate filled violence that's claiming lives every day. It hurts to know that literal children are being torn apart and being separated from their parents, their homes for nothing. There is no reason for any of this to be happening, but since it still is, it's never too late to take action and help out. Whether it's donating to Palestinian charities to help with removing them from the hostilities being forced on their homes, or if you simply repost this post, you are helping with spreading a message and are bring us one step closer to helping these people and free them from this one sided war. It's not over until they are safe.

For those with money to spare, here are some charities to donate to in order to help out:

Every penny counts, so don't dwell on only donating so much. One dollar is better than nothing.

Slight relation: Companies that support Israel.

(I get that it's impossible to boycott everything, but even reducing the amount of money you give to these companies is spreading a message.)

KFC

McDonald’s

Starbucks

Pizza Hut

Dominos

Kit Kat

Burger King

Häagen-Daz

Costa Coffee

Aroma

Subway

Nestle

Walmart

Hardee

Mars

Pepsi

Coca Cola

Minute Maid

Fanta

Carnation

Smarties

Nerds

Laffy Taffy

SweeTarts

Alpo

Lipton

Tropicana

Dasani

Perrier

Sprite,

Twix

Nike

Addidas

Puma

L’Oréal

Estée Lauder

HP

American Eagle

The Body Shop

Tommy Hilfiger

Lancôme

Ralph Lauren

Johnson and Johnson

Chanel

Kyle Cosmetics

Garnier

Olay

Clinique

Urban Decay

Neutrogena

LifeBuoy

Wix

Motorola

Nido

Giorgio Armani

Victoria Secret

Maybelline

NYX

Revlon

Siemens

Skims

Goop

Marks & Spencer

Smartwater

Aveda

Tom Ford

Covergirl

Nesquik

Papa Johns

MAC

The Ordinary

Disney

Bobbi Brown

Honest

Sabra

Nokia

Nido

Walls

Tom Ford Beauty

Summer Fridays

Soda Stream

Ahava

Keter

Strauss

Danone

Tivall

AXA

Teva Pharmaceuticals

Airbnb

TripAdviser

Again, our society relies on most of these companies, so I'm not expecting you to just live off of air and hopes, but consider your favorite brands you like to shop from and think to yourself if it's worth the harm they are causing. Remember, at the end of the day, they only care about your money, not you.

[swisccfinds]

Flowfit Mod by SimRealist

This mod is great if you really hate the base game equipment and enhances fitness in your sims life!

creator's notes-

Mod Summary

This mod enhances the fitness experience for Sims in the Sims 4. Bringing to life some of the common activities we do in everyday life to get in shape and become healthier.    

Summary of Changes

We added/changed the following:

NEW OBJECTS: Bringing in an Elliptical, Rower, Climber, and a new Treadmill as a first step towards expanding the FlowFit experience

COMING SOON! - FlowFit Cycle

FlowFit Ellipticore 

§1,275

The Ellipticore is the ultimate elliptical machine for anyone looking to get a full-body workout from their home. With its sleek design and advanced technology, the Ellipticore is perfect for those who want to stay fit and healthy without having to go to the gym. 

FlowFit Row 

§2,250

The perfect way to stay fit and feel like you're on a relaxing rowing trip at the same time! This machine is so realistic you'll swear you can hear the sound of water lapping against a boat. But don't worry, there's no chance of getting seasick on this machine - just a great workout and a lot of laughs when your friends ask why you're singing "Row, row, row your boat" at the gym. Plus, with adjustable resistance settings, you can choose to row upstream or downstream depending on your mood. So hop on board, and let's row our way to fitness!

FlowFit Summit  

§3,500

Introducing the Summit Climber, the ultimate workout machine for those who love to climb but hate the cold! With Summit, you can now climb the highest peaks from the comfort of your living room. No more frostbite, no more altitude sickness, just pure, unadulterated climbing fun!

FlowFit Tread  

§3,500

Hop on the latest and greatest that the fitness industry has to offer with the FlowFit Tread! This simple yet advanced fitness equipment will help you reach new heights in your fitness journey. It will help you climb every mountain, I mean hills. It will help you ford every stream or, ya know, rivers...allow you to follow every rainbow. Maybe there's gold on the other side? Till you find your dream of a fit new you! I mean, we can all dream, right?

FAQ

Do I need to activate this mod for it to work?

No, as soon as you load up a save, this mod becomes active in that save. No action is required. 

I have a suggestion for making this mod even more; where do I leave that suggestion?

Please post your suggestions while this mod is in Development in our Discord channel - #patrons-forum (https://discord.gg/x6bFyNT)

Compatible With: 

Patch 10/31/2023 PC: 1.102.190.1030 / Mac: 1.102.190.1230

Conflicts/Issues/Notable Items Observed:

None that hasn't already been noted.

Credits:

thepancake1: SR Animator

vidavic: SR Modeler

Nichole: SR Mod Producer

Thanks to the SR Linguists Team

Please show all your love and support to SimRealist and the credited creators above in the creator's notes!

download

[spicy-pears]

Hi!!!

I saw you were in the middle of writing a series. So I'm not sure you'll even take this request. But I saw the Maxxxine trailer and I really want a 80's themed johnny smut.

I know it sounds weird but just hear me out! 🤣

𝟙𝟡𝟠𝟞

𝚆𝙲: 1.4 𝚔

𝚃𝙰𝙶𝚂: 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝙲𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚂𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝙲𝚑𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝙱𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝙳𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐/𝚂𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚟𝚞𝚕𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚢, 𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢, 𝙾𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚁𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑/𝙰𝚗𝚐𝚛𝚢 𝚂𝚎𝚡.

𝚆𝙽: 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊 𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚞𝚗 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚒 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚞𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚎-𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚏𝚏 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚋 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝.

𝙸 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 80'𝚜, 𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚕. 𝙸 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚏 80'𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒 𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚋𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚗 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙸 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚜 𝚒 𝚍𝚒𝚍❣️

"This is channel 8; WCAT- TV, West Lake, Austin. This is the beginning of our nightly broadcast-" 

Colorful luminescence painted your small face. As the humid night breeze kissed your soft skin, adorning your soft angelic features with a rosy hue. The Texan air remained oppressive and dry even with the swelting sun shrouded under the starry horizon.

Yet, there you firmly stood. Attentively drawn to one of the many neatly stacked TV screens. Displayed behind the unclouded storefront window. Obnoxiously advertised with oversized retro price tags.

You almost felt guilty as you stood there. freely observing the news, with no intention of buying one. 

Nonetheless, your fingertips anxiously reached out for your chest. Seeking comfort from the gold cross, hanging from your beloved prayer necklace. petrified by the ominous name stretched across the screen, “Night stalker”. Looking upon the name was enough to make your stomach churn.

While fear held you still on that little crowded strip of sidewalk. Your round lips skewed with abhorrence, as uncensored crime scene photos were flashed upon the screen. 

Each brief photo was more unnerving than the last. Some were more gruesome than the last, prompting your gaze to deter. 

For once you were thankful for living in a small southern town. Leagues and miles away from surreal Hollywood horrors. 

Little did you know, Texas had its own slasher.

Maybe you should've turned your nose up at him, judged him solely off his roughed-up denim and torn-up blackened tee. 

Hell, you could've told him to piss off. After pretty boy "conveniently" bumped into you for the third time tonight.

But you were too kind, an element his chaotic life lacked much of. An element he felt he deserved.

"Hey there, You alright? I can give you a ride home if you need it doll." 

Dark jade metallic paint, worn and embellished with bubbling surface rust. The timeworn appearance of Johnny’s beloved Ford pickup didn't alarm you at first. Most four-wheelers in Central Texas were also well-loved. Some were practically tin cans on wheels, worse for wear. 

 Thus, you foolishly continued to trust him.

Until you were met with the pungent scent of sickeningly sweet, aged blood. Radiating from inside his raggedy little pickup. 

Nonetheless, the stale scent was soon overshadowed by the addictive signature of your fresh crimson. As it seeped into the truck's dark vinyl leather seat. Collecting every drop of blood that Streamed down the plush of your thigh.

Leaking from the dark scarlet void, Pierced into your hip. Repayment for the pristine mark of your teeth, deeply embedded upon Johnny’s scar-kissed hand.

While you battled with the intense pain, Johnny’s blackened leer studied your body. Although you were raised to behave and dress modestly, the Texan heat truly did you no favors.

Your dewy skin rendered your once modest sun dress, skin-tight. The soft cotton grew translucent as it snuggly hugged around your gorgeous waist. Presenting a tempting view of your plush thighs.

“That was real cute doll…” Johnny’s aggressive southern twang caused every word to rumble down from his chest to his core. With his dominant hand pressed on the small of your back, Pinning your pain-struck body down in place.

Callously forcing you to rely your weight and stability upon your elbows. And injured leg, while pressing your small face against the blood-stained vinyl.

The way your gorgeous gray eyes glimmered with each wave of pain, fed Johnny’s sadistic desire to hurt you further. Thirsting to see your small frame broken and trembling under him.

“Since you want to bite like a bitch, I’ll treat you like one.” His vague threat and condescending tone made you realize the precarious position he forced you into.  The increasingly rough grip upon you your ass acted as your only warning.

Before abruptly lifting your plush ass upwards. Mercilessly rocking your body downwards, flush against his navel. Carving his way through the soft plush of your inner thighs. A breathless moan escaped your lungs, as his tip playing against your sensitive clit. Was enough to send you over the edge alone, your body instantly falling into submission. Your back now lax, lewdly arching downwards.

Your cries were the sweetest, as they brought a heartless grin playing across his lips. Sadistically drowned in your symphony of angelic whines and pained whimpers. His thrusts grew slow and subtle, his smokey gaze examining his cream covered length. Glistening with each stroke against your needy cunt, embracing the fat middle of his cock between your wet slit.

Suddenly, you’d let out a pained cry, which hitched into a stressed hiss. “That’s it…” Johnny’s charming voice began to taunt you, as his dominant hand grasped your injured hip. Your addictive crimson pooled upon his palm, wasting through his fingers. Your knuckles began to turn white, as you dug your fists into the leather for comfort and stability.

Regardless, with thick cock-dunk tears clouding your view. Your body still refused to go limp, denying him the satisfaction of seeing you broken. All the while shooting a defiant glare toward him.

Promptly his rhythm would come to a pause, while inconspicuously moving your panties to the side. While letting out a short dry chuckle into the night air, “Don’t worry, I love a bitch with some fight left em.”.

Your precious eyes would widen, accompanied by a soft gasp. Feeling his tip prying at your tight gummy entrance, causing a series of sweet whimpers to fall from your full lips. ”Aww, come on I know your tougher than that!” Johnny's tone grew husky with lust, His aggressive twang now deeper.

 Mercilessly jerking his hips, sinking his thick length deep inside your unprepared cunt. His size overwhelmed you, as an intense flutter climbed up your spine. Stretching you out more than you’d ever been, his tip kissing your gummy cervix.

Your pathetic scream was drowned out, as his blood-soaked hand covered your mouth. Yet, with tears multiplying on your lash line. You’d shamelessly let out a whine from stifled pleasure.

“What? My bitch can't wait?” Johnny cruelly barked, addressing your desperation with a mocking tone. All the while slipping off his torn-up shirt, making sure to keep his cock warm and buried deep in your cunt.

Although his scar-kissed frame was now free of his shirt, he continued to deny you. Giving you tortuously slow strokes, enjoying how your face skewed with desperation and frustration.

“P-please- “Your round lips parted, spilling out needy cock-drunk pleas. Only to be rewarded with a firm grasp around your neck, his hips setting a rough rhythm. You barely had time to brace yourself for his unbearable pace. Your eyes would squeeze shut as your voice began to wear out from singing his praises. Soft wails and angelic screams rippled through the air, filling the isolated car park.

His chest rumbled with a low moan, bouncing you off his thick length at an erratic pace. Watching your plump ass ripple with each thrust, while your breasts bounced in unison. Relishing the lewd symphony of your plush ass roughly meeting his hips and your wet pussy squelching as you milked him. Your hot slick traveled, coating the veins that ran from the base of his cock, down to his balls.   

His pace never faltered, regardless of how your cunt spasmed and clenched around him tight. Your tear-glazed eyes opened wide as your body brutally jolted forward. His erratic pumps grew deeper, slamming against your weakening cervix, pulling at the knot built up at your core. Your breath now staggered and short, gradually growing weak under the firm gasp around your neck.

“I-I can't.” Your body would fall limp, lying down obediently, as your edge came rushing through your small frame. You’d feel Johnny’s weight on top of you, his bulky arms embracing you his impaling thrusts grew languid and sloppy. His frustrated grunt echoed through you as your cunt swallowed around him, milking him dry.

A choked exhale would squeeze out of your bruised vocal cords. Leaving your mindless, with little stars dancing upon your gaze.

“Fuck- “his toned stomach tensed in unison with his contracting balls. Johnny was damn near mindless himself, unknowingly choking you beyond your threshold. Releasing a pleased groan, as he painted your empty womb with thick hot milky ribbons.

The grip on your neck would loosen, prompting you to take in short puffs of air. Doe-eyed you stared back into Johnny’s velvet brown eyes. “I’m afraid yer mines now, I’ll take real good care of you.” His thumb caressed our cheek, painting your small face with your own blood. His lips would uncharacteristically seal his promise with a tender kiss on your cheek.

[bradshawssugarbaby]

Making Love Out of Nothing At All - Nick Bradshaw x Reader

A/N: I've been sitting on this for a month since I left San Diego and now I'm finally doing it. We're calling this an AU fic where Carole's just non-existent and everyone lives happily ever after.

pairing: Nick "Goose" Bradshaw x reader

warnings/content: p in v sex (unprotected/no mention of protection - he's a silly goose, ok?), fingering, oral (f receiving), public sex, car sex, goose goes down on you like it's an olympic sport, praise kink, body worship/compliments but no mention of specific appearance really?

word count: 1.3k

minors dni below the cut!

Every time I see you all the rays of the sun are all streaming through the waves in your hair, and every star in the sky is taking aim at your eyes like a spotlight.

The dim street lamps illuminated the parking lot of the club in a dusky glow, the cool Pacific breeze licking at your bare legs as you hurried behind your boyfriend to his car, a 1983 Ford Mustang that he’d been saving up for since graduating from the Naval Academy last summer. He had whisked you out of the club so quickly that you were almost certain you spilled the contents of your drink on his best friend, Pete in your hurry out the door, rather than simply handing him the glass as you’d intended. 

Nick turned to face you, his infamous smirk spread across his lips as he placed a hand firmly on your waist, drawing you in closer to him. He leaned his back against his car, easily towering over the convertible’s frame as he stood. At an impressive 6’4, Nick’s body engulfed yours as he pulled you in, ducking his head down to leave hungry kisses in a trail from your jaw to your neck, his hands feverishly roaming over the outside of your dress, finding anyway he could to gain access to what was underneath. 

“Mhmm,” you giggled, shaking your head, “Slow down, baby. You can’t just do it in the middle of a parking lot,” you protested.

“Says who? I don’t see anyone around? Besides, that’s what the car’s for, honey.”

Nick opened the door for you before playfully pushing you on to your back across the backseat. He placed his palms flat against the seat as he hovered himself over you, his lips once again making contact with your skin. A series of hot, open-mouthed kisses peppered your neck and collarbone as his hands palmed at your breasts, grasping them over the fabric of your dress. He grinned as he hummed against your skin, taking delight in the way you squirmed and giggled with every kiss.

“You smell like heaven, you know that? Whatever this new perfume you’re wearing is, I love it.”

“Coco by Chanel,” you teased, raising an eyebrow as your hand guided his face to look at you. 

Leaning up, your lips met his in a tender, yet playful kiss, grinning against his lips as his hands continued to explore your body. His long, slender fingers ran along your leg, brushing against you in a way that made your skin feel like it was on fire, burning with passion at his touch. You took in a sharp breath as he hiked the skirt of your dress up your thighs, the fabric pooling at your waist. His hand slid in between your bodies, brushing his fingertips against the soft, delicate lace of your underwear, that was quickly becoming dampened with arousal.

“Someone’s already worked up, isn’t she?” He said as he flashed you a wicked grin, chuckling to himself at how wet he’d made you without really putting in any effort.

“Shush,” you protested, shaking your head, “I could say the same thing about you.”

Nick grinned as he pulled himself up to his knees, spreading your legs slightly to make room as he hooked a finger into the waistband of your underwear, lazily dragging them down off your leg. He tossed them aside, discarding them somewhere in the front seat before quickly leaning his head down, his tongue flattening as he licked a long, slow strip against your sex, a groan of pleasure catching in his throat as he tasted your arousal. You panted his name, a sigh of ecstasy escaping your lips as his tongue slowly began working at your clit, concentrating on soft, yet precise movements as he encircled the sensitive bud. 

“Tastes so fucking good, honey,” he husked as he lifted his head up slightly, his dark brown eyes looking up at you with a lustful stare as he delved two fingers into your dripping wet heat, curling them slightly to hit your spot. 

“Nick, fuck,” you hissed, your back arching as he effortlessly pumped his fingers into your spot, his tongue lapping at your arousal, “Getting so close.” 

“I know baby, I know, let it go for me,” he encouraged before dipping his mouth back down between your folds, sucking on your clit harshly before running his tongue over it again.

You whimpered as your thighs began to shudder and shake in pleasure, your back arching further as Nick drew you closer to your orgasm. You began moaning out his name over and over, saying it as if it was a spoken prayer as he dragged your orgasm out, his tongue lapping at you, cleaning up the arousal that dripped and threatened to stain the seats beneath you. He grinned up at you as he pulled the neckline of the white t-shirt he was wearing underneath his brightly coloured Hawaiian print shirt up to wipe your juices from his mouth. 

“Have I told ya how pretty you look?” He hummed, his fingers tracing circles on your abdomen, admiring you as if he saw you as a work of art.

“No, but I like hearing it.”

“So fucking pretty, honey. Just look at you,” he gestured to you with one hand while the other palmed at his tightening jeans, the denim fabric becoming more and more restricted with his touch, “I’m not done with ya yet though, honey.”

He grunted as he got out of the car, taking you by the hand and marching you around to the hood of the car. After a quick glance around to ensure no one would be able to see, he gently guided his hand across the small of your back, spinning you around before pushing you down over the hood of the car. He shimmied his jeans down off his waist, just enough to free his cock from the strain of his boxers. 

He stroked himself a couple of times for good measure before flicking the fabric of your dress up off of you, lining himself up with your entrance, he pistoned himself into you, causing you to lay your palms flat against the cold, grey metal of the car. He paused to let you adjust before drawing his hips back and thrusting forward again, causing you to choke out a gasp as you felt your walls stretching to allow him to fit. 

“Nick, shit,” you panted, balling your hands into fists as you tried to keep your emotions and feelings in check as he fucked into you. 

“That’s it sweet girl, takin’ me s’good,” he purred, his hips continuing to crash into yours, hands guiding your ass to make contact with his hips with each movement. 

“Fucking, Jesus Christ, baby, I’m so close, right fucking there,” you sputtered, your thoughts becoming cloudy and incoherent with each passing second.

Nick’s controlled movements began to grow sloppier as he drew closer to his orgasm, unable to focus his precision any longer, his rhythmic thrusts devolving into clumsier, yet just as hard, movements. He moaned your name loudly, the syllables ringing out like some sort of sweet melodic praise as your walls clenched around him. You rode your orgasms out together, harmoniously as you both fell apart. His large hands caressed your body, pulling you gently to stand up and lean your body against his. He held you close for a moment, kissing at the nape of your neck breathlessly, his skin hot to the touch and slicked with sweat. 

A laugh escaped his lips as he shook his head, almost in disbelief as he looked at you. 

“God, you’re incredible, you know that? Absolutely fucking incredible,” he purred, stroking your hair as he held you close.

[ford-between-dimensions]

So Ford.

Gonna put it all on the table. One stream of consciousness done as neatly as one can at 11pm after a distressing day of my own.

To start,

You are a traumatized man. Plain and simple.

From familial trauma to making a deal with a literal demon to familial trauma AGAIN, mentally speaking you are not well.

I don't care how much you deny it. It's the truth.

You're a golden child, someone who could supposedly do no wrong, put on a pedestal ever since you were a child.

And that causes a disconnect between yourself and others in terms of empathy and understanding.

Now, to Portal Incident #1.

As you've said, you were in the wrong. Fiddleford warned you against testing/using it several times and you dismissed him on every occasion. You didn't even ask him if he was okay when you pulled him away from the portal after he almost got sucked in. Yes, you were not the one who put the memory gun to his head and made him use it over and over until he lost his sanity, but you still inadvertently gave this man intense trauma for the sake of your hubris.

Also, I may be misremembering, and please correct me if I am, but the portal was for Bill, yes? He's the reason you were building it in the first place. That adds another layer of complexity and nuance into the situation given how you were heavily manipulated into doing so.

You were in the wrong. And while an apology is a bandaid on a beheading, it is certainly a start.

Whether you realize it or not, you are incredibly selfish and vain as a result of your upbringing, and while it does not excuse your actions whatsoever, it does explain it to an extent. You are a broken person, one who needs to relearn empathy and actually thinking about other people. You think so highly of yourself yet you're incredibly lonely and that, for lack of a better word, fucks a person up.

This isn't even touching on everything with your brother. Because frankly the current topic isn't about that. But oh boy do I have thoughts on how fucked up that all was for BOTH of you.

Now.

With all that being said.

Why the fuck do you keep shooting children? Like?? You do realize that's WRONG???

(Ooc did any of that make any fucking sense omg I just did so much word vomit I am so sorry)

…I’d…rather not discuss this any more.

[waddlewaddlewaddlewaddle]

ᵤₙfₒᵣₜᵤₙₐₜₑₗy ₛₘᵢₜₜₑₙ ₍ₘₐfᵢₐ bₒₛₛ! Gₒⱼₒ ₓ ᵣₑₐdₑᵣ₎

*　　 　　✦　　　. *　　 　　✦　　　. *　　 　　✦

Summary: Life leads you to treacherous roads after deciding to enter the dangerous life you knew well not to follow.Having gojo by your side inviting you deeper and deeper into all that’s wrong in the world, inciting you to be selfish and carefree wasn’t supposed to be to your liking, so why do you shiver with adrenaline every time he decides to be the devil on your shoulder?

Contents: Mafia boss gojo x secretary reader.(civilian au ig)

-Secret crush Gojo!

-Yandere Gojo

-Physical altercation I guess.

-angst.

Gojo being an egocentric bitch! Wealthy gojo! X no nonsense reader.

Warnings: trigger warning if you’re not interested in anything mafia like drugs or violence related. The narration of this story is inspired by Latin and Asian mafia.

Wc:3k

🏷:@busyreader17 @starlight5cat @xavlyzn (I love y’all for tuning in I appreciate your comments🫶🏻🫶🏻)

Chapter 3

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Some dew drops are seen sliding down the windows of a custom Gulf Stream jet ;due to the rain as it lands on a clandestine pathway in the city of Shanghai, China.

As the wheels below the jet deploy you feel a soft warm hand tap you on shoulder waking you up out of your slumber, as you feel the jet tremble due to the landing;you gasp yourself awake due to the strange circumstances of your awakening.

-“Good morning Miss, I hope your flight with us has been lovely. I’ll leave you a cup of coffee ,a bottle of water and some ibuprofen in the case that you require them. Mr Gojo and Mr Geto are waiting for you outside the jet so you can all head to Báisè de huā villa. Now if you’ll excuse me I’ll be taking my leave.-“ Said the flight attendant before taking a bow then leaving.

You wink your eyes in hopes that I’ll help you understand what the fuck she just said,since you slept too little, you were still a bit drunk from all the whiskey from a few hours ago. You popped an ibuprofen then exited the master bedroom which you don’t remember getting into. You notice that your top is now lingering a scent of a mens cologne, but you shrug the thought off and conclude that the alcohol is just messing up your senses.

As you strut through cabin corridor,you quickly spot the jet door.Which leads you to an unknown country full of posibilites or new found problems. You tip tap down the jet stairs in hopes of finding warmth in one of the 5 Ford Everest parked by the path way, but you soon notice that in front of you is your boss and his god mother standing proudly before 2 lines of 20 men , 10 on each side forming a hallway to the vehicles while respectfully bowing down to them. Out of instinct you decide to take a step back to process the power demonstration being held before your boss, you knew he was a shady man but you’ve also never thought of him like anything else but a coworker; as you take a step back you also realize you’ve stepped out barefoot and now you have an un pleasantly wet foot.

-“Fuck.”- You comment making heads turn your way as you practically announce your arrival, as their workers noticed you ;one of them ran over to you to place and umbrella over your head.

As your presence is known; Gojo swiftly turns around and looks at you with slight amusement sparking his blue orbs.

-“How shameful,I should fire you.”-He recites while walking over to you, while making some weird hand gestures tu one of his men.

-“Be my guest.”- you reply as you gather your hair up in a pony tail to look more presentable.-”Lovely weather isn’t it?”-You comment as you rub your feet together trying to fend off the cold.

He scoffs strolling over to you ,knowing he wouldn’t fire you in his wildest dreams, a few seconds after ;the assistant whom he was signing to handed him a box. He then proceeded to crouch his tall figure to the ground , it looked as if he was bowing down to you, then he took some slippers out of the box to then grab an ankle delicately to slip then on. As of you weren’t already nervous due to this unexpected action,the look of his men piercing you made you anxious.

-“I can put them on myself you know. Stand up you’ll get your suit dirty.”-You mumbled squatting down to take the slippers from his hands.

-“Don’t tell me what to do.”-He expressed looking you dead in the eyes as he snatched back the fluffy slipper from your hand putting them back on your other foot.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

3 figures could be seen sitting down in the main dining room of the Báisè de huā villa, it is currently 2 pm and all of you just woke up from a few hours of sleep after you guys arrived from the landing site.

You were now in an impromptu business meeting as your boss explained to you your obligations as his secretary while on this very important work trip.You timidly smiled as you see how the passion for his work ( truthfully power hunger) sparked a passion in his eyes ,as he explained to you how he wanted to add Chinese territories to his reign; starting with Shanghai.

Todays meeting was very important ,here he would be meeting with a very noteworthy drug supplier that worked with very few clients due to the quality of its goods and mainly to avoid getting dragged in between gang wars, the goal for today is to be accepted to the client list and negotiate prices.

You were perfect for the job

He knew that from the moment that Geto and he started stalking you, after seeing how you built wonderful companies from zero, that you were the only one capable of fulfilling their expectations. Yes, you were young, and many people may associate that with immaturity, but your age only highlighted your strategic thinking and endless energy.

You started to supervise some work your underclass men sent you to Japan when you noticed a clothed reflection on your computer screen.

-“Do I bore you?”-The deep familiar voice questioned.

-“Sometimes.”-You snapped back in annoyance due to his stupid questions.

He frowned from your unexpected reply , your tone making him a little sad. He knew you were a woman of firm character,a quality he admired about you ,so he started to worry of what would happen if you found out about what him and geto did.

-“Are you being sincere?”-Gojo asked in a more serious tone.

-“Dead serious.”-You reply as you smile from ear to ear at his “playful” questioning.

As soon as he realized you were playing ,the stress left his shoulders , he sighed and cackled at himself due to his behavior. He barely recognized himself, the guilt is eating him alive, he needed to makeup for it fast.

-“Want to go shopping?”

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

The busy Nanjing road if full of locals and tourist.The infrastructure of the shopping districts is breathtaking , the afternoon sunset is reflecting beautifully on the buildings decorated by big led screens and beautiful compositions of glass.

In the big sum of people, Gojo and you found peace due to the fact that, to the naked eye, you were no different from any tourist. Your boss stayed close to you as he scanned the environment with his icy blue eyes; he hid his hands in his cashmere pockets as he looked down on you.

-“I have a surprise, c’mon, follow me, princess.” - Your heart skipped a beat as you heard those sweet words come out of his pink lips. For some reason unknown to you, your boss only let out those teasing words in front of you. You decided not to think much of it since you knew he had his fair share of good-looking girls behind him. You knew your place, his secretary, nothing more.

His calloused, cold hand grabbed yours as he calmly walked through the crowd; he looked ahead so calmly. You felt embarrassed for thinking anything of his nonchalant attitude. But to him, oh man. His heart was running a thousand miles per hour; the only thing he could do to hide his blushing cheeks is to look ahead. Your hand felt so warm, so soft, so small against his; that only led him to wonder what the rest of you feels like. For a woman with such a small frame, you surely had too much attitude. He’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t fantasize about all the ways he could tame that cheeky attitude of yours. In the end, that white-haired man decided it was better for him to stop such wild thoughts before he started having issues controlling his breathing.

When both of you arrived at the store, the sales assistant immediately recognized the tall man beside you and promptly led you to a private room. It seemed to be a private dressing room; it was composed of a luxurious cream sofa, a extravagant white wood table, and what seemed to be another small room to dress in. On top of the table was a black suede box with a red bow that screamed open me!

You look over to the grinning figure beside you for permission, and as soon as he gives you the green light, you scramble to open the mystery box, which reveals a beautiful turquoise Qi pao with tiny white flowers detailing the side of your hip. The cloth ended at mid-knee and seemed like silk; it glided beautifully under your fingertips, and the stitching was impeccable. Once the sales assistant noticed you were satisfied with the dress, she took her leave.

-“You shouldn’t have.”-You gasped.

-“Oh, but I did.”-He sweet-talked as he started getting closer to your face.-”How about you model that piece for me as a thank you.”

-“Model for you?”-you giggled.-“I’d rather pay credit.”- You say as you searched your purse.

-“Fuck.”- He mumbles under his breath as he drags one hand on his face.-“I’m starting to think you get a high from contradicting me, when will you stop playing dumb, my dear.”-he taps your forehead with his index finger as he mutters this sentence.

You grab his hand, catching him off guard.

-“I don’t know if fooling around with me is your source of entertainment for today, but please consider that it’s not normal for a man such as yourself to grab my hand and plan surprises for me and take me to foreign countries. I’m aware it’s all for business reasons, so I beg you to keep this as strictly professional as possible.”

With a swift movement; your hand still in his, he turns you around to face the mirror as he positions himself behind you, towering over you as he hugs you with the arm you're both holding hands with. You gulp at the sight of his broad shoulders contrasting your own back, at the way you're engulfing yourself with his aroma, sweating at the way he dared to rest his head on your other shoulder just to whisper…

-“What if it wasn’t for business, what if the absolute truth was that you drive me crazy.”-He groaned as he looked intently at your cute expressions through the mirror.-“The way you walk, the way you talk, the way you make me want to have some damn morals just so I can have the right to talk to someone like you.”

You shake your head as you refuse to accept the reality of the situation you're in.

-“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Gojo.”

He bit his tongue in anger and frustration; all he could do is tighten his jaw in hopes he wouldn’t say anything stupid.

-“Good, cause all that’s not the fucking case.”-He left the room after spitting that out in resentment at the way you turned down his feelings as he was a beggar. He knew it; he’s a fucking idiot for ever having hope; all he’s done on this trip is embarrass himself in front of you. Having to swallow his feelings these 2 years drove him to insanity; all he wanted was to include you in his life’s plans, why couldn’t you accept that?

Oh, he clearly knew why.

It’s because you deserve better.

You deserve a Prince Charming who will offer you peace and warmth, someone who works a 9-5, someone who has a family life to offer you, probably someone who doesn’t have to carry a gun in his waistband to protect himself from all the bad things he’s done in the past, someone not crazy enough to kill for you or even better someone who’s not masochistic enough to live with the burden of his unrequited sentiments towards you.

But in the end, he knew he was selfish; that’s how he got to where he is today. He knew damn well you deserved better, so why did he still have the irresistible urge to steal you away, to drown you in his feelings to the point where you couldn’t deny them.

He laughed, no cackled at himself outside of your dressing room; you had no idea what you had coming.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

Three champagne glasses clicked in celebration of a newfound business project. Tonight’s meeting has been a success, even though you’ve been burning your brain cells trying to decipher what the hell happened at the boutique this afternoon. You were clearly distracted but not to the point you forgot why you were here in the first place.

You sat back into your seat, participating in idle chit-chat with the supplier. Meanwhile, your tight turquoise Qi pao emphasized your waist, the slit by your thigh earning some stolen glances from your boss as he still acted indifferent towards you after today's spectacle.

Geto could already smell what was happening between you two, but in reality, he didn’t care one bit to even ask about it. So all he could do was stand by the door, keeping watch for any potential danger.

The meeting concluded wonderfully, so you said your goodbyes to the supplier to excuse yourself to the bathroom, allowing yourself to think straight for a few minutes before returning to your chaotic reality.

As you finished washing your hands, you touched your nape with your cold hands with the hopes of cooling down your body heat. After fanning yourself a few times, you exited the bathroom.

But to your surprise, you found a familiar face in the hallway.

-“Miss! You’re Gojo’s secretary right?”-The supplier asked, waving his hands at you to come over.

-“Yes, sir, can I help you with anything?”-You answered with a grin.

-“If you’re so very kind, I’d like to know what kind of jet you both traveled here in, because I’d also like one that can hold as much cocaine as yours do.”

You chuckled at the poor guy in front of you, too drunk out of his mind to comprehend what he’s saying.

-“Sir, we didn’t bring any cocaine; the only thing the plane carried were the three people that were in the room with you.”-You smiled as you explained the situation to him.

-“Don’t try to act sly with me, young woman! Your boss just told me that he secretly brought over 400 kilos in that jet of his; he brought them to sell over here while I released some of my product to him.”

As he uttered that sentence, your heart dropped to the bottom of your stomach. This morning you were used as a drug mule, and you didn’t even notice it.

You truly thought he would respect your boundaries.

How foolish.

You start to tremble as you start to imagine what could have been if the navy or the immigration officers wanted to inspect the plane and found the three of you with all those drugs in it.

You run back to the bathroom feeling sick, thinking that by slim chance your hard-worked career was almost over. No, your precious life was over if they decided to try you for drug possession in a country as strict as China, all because of his stupid greed.

You dried your sweat as you quickly mapped out an exit back to Japan without your two business partners finding out about you knowing their dirty little secret. Now you knew you couldn’t trust them; it was idiotic of you in the first place to do so.

You quickly ran to the entrance unbeknownst to the fact that Geto was trailing after you since the moment you left the dining room. Sure, he could have prevented the supplier from telling the truth, but that would’ve been even more suspicious in your eyes, so he finally had to let the truth break free.

You signaled over one of the cars that Gojo put at your service; all you hoped for was to get your passport back from the villa and take the first flight back to your home country and maybe even treat yourself to a little crying session in the taxi.

But the moment your hand met the car door handle, a cold force pulled you back by your free hand.

-“Please, baby, let me explain.”-Gojo stated out as he felt his heart rip to shreds due to the liquid pearls forming in your eyes.-“You weren’t supposed to know; I knew we weren’t gonna get caught, so I didn’t want you to know since I knew you’d get nerv-“

A smack was heard echoing the Shanghai streets as Gojo held his red cheek after his sentenced was slapped into the air since you decided to give him a taste of what a liar like him deserved.

-“I fucking hate you!”-you yelled out while pointing a finger at him while wiping your tears with the back of your other hand.-“ I wish I never met any of you motherfuckers!”-You said as you pointed to Geto and his crew.

What surprises all of them next was your ability to get lost in the busy Shanghai streets after crossing a simple street.

Gojo didn’t hesitate to chase after you into unknown territory wishing he could turn time back, unbeknownst to himself that some threatening enemies were watching close by.

*　　 　　✦　　　. *　　 　　✦　　　. *　　 　　✦

A/n: Holy fucking shit man , i hope you all enjoyed the chapter and I hope sacrificing my spine for the time I edited this in one sitting is worth it. Any suggestions or comments let me know!! Have a good day 🥸🫶🏻💋

[fordtato]

I am happy to announce this year's Project Six-Eighteen video lineup!

Every year I make a series of video projects related to Gravity Falls. These videos tend to be shorter than my main video essays (which tend to be between 1.5-3 hours long), and usually are between 20-60 min.

All of the dates above are subject to change, but a couple have been in the works for about a year! I will tentatively say that if a video does not come out in the allotted time, you can expect something to be bumped to July. But please be patient if something does not go according to plan. It is difficult to juggle this project with my workload, but I will do my best.

Subscribe to my YouTube to stay posted

Support my work, AND SEE EXCLUSIVE CONTENT on Patreon

Last year's Project 618 playlist

[Text from image can be found in alt text, also below cut]

Image 1: Project 618 2024 Video #1 - June 4 Interview w/ Rob Renzetti

Video #2 - June 11 A look back at Musical Falls - My favorite fan project that you‘ve never heard of

Video #3 - June 18 A Scene-By-Scene analysis of A Tale of Two Stans

Special stream - DATE TBA Giving myself an all-star tattoo* while playing GinJuiceTonic’s Ford Dating Sim (For a future video In July on GF Dating Sims) (Celebrating 50 Patrons, 10k Subs)

Video #4 - June 25 Gravity Falls AUs: (Some of) The ones I missed Last Time

Video #5 - June 30 Defending Stanford Pines: A look back at the Stan Wars Note: All dates are tentative. Watch all of these videos on Hana Hyperfixates’s YouTube channel. *It’s an inkbox temporary tattoo, though if i reach 1000 patrons, then we’ll talk.

Image 2:

Project 618 PATREON EXCLUSIVES

Video #1 - June 5 Behind the Scenes of my interviews with Alex Hirsch and Rob Renzetti

Video #2 - June 17 A Scene-By-Scene analysis of The Last Mabelcorn*

Video #3 - June 23 A Patron-Only Zoom Call! (Future video discussion [Mystery Trio vid essay, etc.), Channel Updates, Chat with me, Join me in Celebrating Sonic the hedgehog’s birthday, and More)

Note: All dates are tentative.

*This will replace the current Patreon-exclusive video “Where is Gravity Falls?”, which will be re-edited and posted to YouTube later that month.