#god I love mike crew so much

[potato-lord-but-not]

assorted tma doodles because I love my disaster gays 🫶

[phoenixandtheash]

uhhhh hi

was told i should post my art to tumblr so yay

mike crew my beloved <333

not entirely happy with the hair but we live

[probablyintensemuses]

Tiny Little Good Things-

A. Aretas

PAIRING: ARMANDO X READER

synopsis: You and Armando get sent on a mission to stop a vicious drugs and arms dealer. Chaos ensues and you two find out why the lines between love and hate are constantly blurring for you both.

theme(s): eventual smut (+18), gore and blood, cursing, graphic imagery, angst, enemies to lovers, Armando is a dick and really hot when he speaks Spanish.

warnings: there is smut in this fic as well as many bloody scenes, if you can’t handle either, I wouldn’t read on!

authors note: hi, yes I know this fic is long as shit, but I felt it was necessary for what unfolds. There is more than 12k words here, so sorry to all my short attention span people. ❤️love you, k bye!

word count: 12.5k

“Ramos Malik, age thirty-seven and Miami’s biggest up and coming arms and drug dealer.’ Kelly says, fingers gracing her iPad as she swivels through pictures, displaying them on the plasma screen ahead.

“He’s a big fucking problem. 3D printing' slugs that are hitting the streets faster than crack in the seventies.’ Mike Lowery, head of AMMO, interjects. “Shells the size of a thumbs, sharper than lions teeth, are being pulled out of rival gang members, bystanders, and law enforcement all around the city.”

You turn in your chair, pushing away from your computer screen. “So, how do we stop him?”

Dorn rounds the steel table, a slab of guns, gear, and tech, gently taking the iPad from Kelly’s hand, and you don’t miss the way she blushes. It’s cute, those two. Kelly and you had grown close ever since you joined AMMO as their new technical analyst months ago. Dorn gave up the position, wanting to be present in the field—mostly to have Kelly’s six—he and his therapist had been making great progress and he felt it was time to be more than the brawny guy in the chair.

So that lead to you taking over and eventually many girls nights full of red wine, cheese, and pillow talking. A slip of a wine-jaded tongue later and you were the first on the team to know of their love affair. Sometimes you desired to have that of your own, but life and fate, as Marcus would say, hadn’t given that to you yet.

“Good question, followed by an even better answer.’ Dorn sails and the screen changes and a new scene plays. “This is Moxy, a new club on the strip. It’s where Ramos Malik and his crew hang out. Rumor has it he’ll be there tonight, and we're going to bind him with a sting.”

Intrigued you stand. “You need me to make inconspicuous body cams, don’t you?’ You gasp and breath deeply, a smile spreading on your face. “God I love it when you guys want me to make inconspicuous body cams.”

Dorn coughs and Kelly looks off to the side, biting at her nails. Mike walks over slowly, slapping a hand onto both your shoulders.

“Now, we know how much our sweet little, non-violent, girl here loves to just stay in her lane and chill here while we get into all the bloody action.’ Mike massages your shoulders, displaying you off to the group like a fresh piece of wagyu. You scan the crew's faces—mischief, panic, fear—but the one that snipes you the most is the one of Armando Aretas. He sits perched on a table on the far side of the room, combat boot clad feet planted on a chair as his brown eyes pierce into you, sending tiny, invisible sparks flocking on your skin. You suck in a sharp breath and look away. He always stared, so why did it bother you now?

When your ears finally stop buzzing, you dial back into Mike's speech. “But this time, it’ll be different. You’ll be out in the field.”

As if you were just tased, you jut away from his grip. “What?”

“Ramos can sniff cops a mile away. It’s what makes him so good at what he does.’ Marcus cuts in. “He knows our faces, too. The only face he doesn’t know, is yours.”

You take another step back, heart racing, completely stupefied. “So you want me to go and trick that bastard…by myself?!”

“No! Never!” Mike says. “Armando will be with you.”

A clatter echos through the room, all eyes snapping to where Armando was sitting, the little black stool wobbling on the floor. “The fuck I will!” He growls.

Your eyes narrow and you jut your chin up. What the hell was he so mad for?

“Okay, son, calm down. It’s a simple sting operation. If you’re careful, it’s an in-and- out kind of thing.”

Armando circles close, and out of habit you cower behind the wall of Mike and Dorn. You may have a high IQ but you’re no match physically for anyone on this team, especially not Armando. You’ve seen what he can do countless times. He was the silent beast, he always just stared and hardly spoke. No matter how much you tried to warm up to him, make him feel accepted, you two just never clicked.

You thought it might just be his past, how he was manipulated by his father and lied to by his mother, that made him so closed off, but with the way fury rumbles off of him so strong right now, pushing you deeper into Dorn and Mike, it makes you think there’s more unspoken. And if so, what?

Caged between Mike and Dorn Armando finds your eyes again, scolding your cheeks hot with his glare. It was as if he needed you to not only hear his words but feel them too. “I’m not going on any mission with the princesa. All she does is type and sit in that fucking chair all day. It’ll be suicide.”

Mike takes his son's shoulder, massaging them similar to how he’d done your own. “She’s the only choice right now, okay? She’s just the arm candy to fill out the picture we’re setting for Malik, alright?”

For some reason his words— “just the arm candy?”and “the only choice right now,” —sting. You may not be skilled in the field or in combat, but you were vital to this team and you spent months trying to prove your strengths otherwise. When you first joined the team, everyone insisted on making you their baby bird, some wounded thing they needed to protect in a gilded cage. You were the new young and stary-eyed cop, and they are all jaded-old bags who need someone to shelter. It happened authentically and you still couldn’t shake the box they put you in. You aren’t helpless, you are capable and strong and maybe this is what you need, an opportunity outside to finally prove yourself.

“If he doesn’t want to do it, I’m sure there is someone else in the field we can find.’ A surge of confidence flushes through you as you push past the Mike-Dorn barricade, chin help up high with defiance as you brush past Armando. “Whatever the case, I’ll do it. I can do it. I’m capable Mike, so let’s see my cover.”

A smirk peels on Kelly’s face as she passes you your file. “Okay, Ms. Bad-ass. I’m loving this energy.”

Armando scoffs, planting himself next to you, his broad shoulders brush up against your frail ones. The slight gesture sends a hear through you. Quickly you scoot away, no need to sweat through a perfectly good cardigan over mean-ass Armando Aretas.

You flip through your file. You’ll be playing Jenna Combs. A twenty-six year old dancer and model who is the new girlfriend of—

“You hijos de puta’s got me playing myself?” Armando argues. “What kind of shit disguise is that?”

Dorn shrugs. “It’s not. That’s the point. The Aretas name is still feared and no one knows you’re in with the cops. It’s a pretty believable story, you need new armory and he can supply it.”

“Last anyone in this circles heard, you was killing cops and slinging a new dope empire. Just get em’ to confess to making this bullets and where he does it, so we can get em’ off the streets for good.” Marcus chimes in with a smile.

Armando’s grumbles a few curses under his breath before his attention turns and latches onto you. Suddenly you feel hot again, like a solar flares are swallowing you whole. Armando’s eyes rack over your form, slow and tentative.

His gaze latches onto your lips before he says, “And she’s supposed to be my date? Suicide mission.”

“For who? You or me? Because the way I see it, with your attitude you’ll be made in minutes.”

The gap between you and Armando closes in an instant. Your faces mere inches from each other. His cool breath trickles down the crest of your neck and frosts the tips of your ears when he whispers, “Careful when you speak to me, Princesa. You’ll be alone out there with me, and anything could happen to you.”

Was he…threatening you?

Your balls must have really dropped in the matter of minutes, because instead of keeping quiet and apologizing, like you normally would if you managed to anger Armando, you bite back.

“Stop calling me that.” You grit your teeth.

“¿Por qué, eh?’ Armando whispers, pulling back from you and taking a seat on a nearby stool. His eyes are drunk with a flavor you can’t distinguish. “Only princesas get to sit up in their castle all day, shielded, while everyone else goes out and does all the heavy lifting.”

“I never asked to be shielded!’ You stamp your foot, moving in on him with a swiftness. Armando invites your challenge with grace, folding his muscular arms slowly over his wide chest, watching you stalk nearer.

You don’t know how, but you find yourself in between him, his legs two thick gates around you. Where it should bother you, in the moment it doesn’t because It’s your turn to invade his space. In this moment, the great Armando Aretas doesn’t scare you.

You poke at his chest with each syllable. “Rather you like it or not, Aretas, this princesa is going on this sting with or without you, and I don’t give a shit what you think, not anymore. Cool?”

A small smirk pulls on his face as he peels your finger off his chest, the digit so small in his his hand, his movements making you keenly aware of your closeness.

“Cool.” He stands, boxing you in with his large build before brushing past you and walking out of the compound.

You watch as the last bits of daylight leave with him as the door slams closed. This confidence was like adrenal coursing through you and suddenly you felt tired and zapped, being strong is exhausting. You take a seat, pulling at a loose curl atop your head, thoughts burrowing into your mind like a splinter.

To this day, you couldn’t understand the hatred he had for you. In the begging, when Mike had negotiated a deal with the D.A’s office and the department to allow Armando to work for AMMO, not wanting his raw talents to go to waste, no one trusted him. But still, you gave him a chance, because you knew how it felt to be the underdog and you didn’t want the same for him. Still, in his own fashion, he warmed up to the others…but never to you. But maybe he was right, everyone else here has put so much of themselves of the line, risked it all for the greater good, and what have you done? Nothing. You haven’t saved anyone or changed a life. You’ve sat and watched from the comforts of the compound. Their eyes and ears, that’s all.

You push to standing and gather your file. You may not be the strongest, or fastest on the team, but you had strengths and you’d make use of them tonight for once, no matter what.

Suddenly snickers and chuckle fill the room, bouncing off the walls of your mind and bringing you back to the room glazed with the smell of oil and pinesol.

Marcus breaks through the laughter. “Next time you two want to engage in some foreplay, ask for the room first.”

Your skin nearly peels off at his words. You could burn alive right now.

You and Armando?

“Never would that ever happen.” You shiver at the thought of being with any man, let alone him.

Armando is a mean man. A mean man you suddenly have to trust you life with.

But if that’s the case. Why does your heart not fall to your feet at the thought?

###

“You’ve memorized your role, right?” Kelly asks, tightening the final fixings of your dress.

“Yes,’ you nod. “I’m Armando’s new girlfriend, Jenna. I don’t speak, I just sit quietly and listen. I shadow him, basically. Anything he does, I do.”

“Good girl.’ Kelly winks. “One last thing.’ She digs into her pockets before brandishing a small knife. “Here, just in case things go south.”

Your eyes widen and you nearly flinch. “I thought you and Mike said this was an easy in-and-out kind of deal.”

Kelly sighs. “Nothing like this is ever easy. All things have the potential to go south.’ She grabs your face in her hands. “I just want my girl safe, that’s all.”

Reluctantly, you accept the knife, shoving it into your purse. “What about Armando? Isn’t he supposed to protect me—I mean Jenna?”

“And he will,” Kelly assures. “But you can never be too sure.”

You nod. “Right, whose to say he won’t abandon me if shit oops off,” your snicker is laced with fear.

Kelly walks you out of the compound and toward the front where you’ll be meeting the rest of the team. “He won’t. Trust me.”

“He did allude to it early, Kels.”

Kelly rolls her eyes, stopping you and giving your curls one last fluff. “Aretas is all talk when it comes to you, don’t take him for a grain of salt.”

You frown. “What’s that supposed to be mean.”

Kelly smirks. “See for yourself.”

She steps out of the way and in the shinning exterior of Mikes Ferrari, you see yourself.

Do you look like a slut, yes, but nonetheless gorgeous.

Your curls are loose and defined, a cascade of shea butter and hibiscus around you. Your makeup is layered, yet light, elevating your high cheekbones, wide lips, and honey-brown eyes. And your plum colored dress pops against your warm-brown skin, somehow making even your thin body look full and figured.

You look fucking hot.

And for the first time in forever, you feel fucking hot.

Apparently you’re not the only one who thinks so as a whistle breaks loose in the yard.

“Goddamn girl!’ Mike claps. “If I wasn’t some old dog, I’d ask you on a date myself.”

“I’ll keep my comments to myself,’ Marcus smiles. “You know Theresa be listening.” He looks over his shoulders, head on a swivel.

“Dorn don’t say a word.” Kelly scolds her boyfriend, Dorn holds his hands up in defense.

“Staying silent.” He whimpers.

Your cheeks flush. “Stop, you guys.” You giggle. “This was all Kelly, besides you know I look better in a cardigan and jeans.”

“I agree.” A voice emerges from the darkness. A wide berth breaks before you as Armando strolls over.

Your throat goes dry and suddenly your head is dizzy with a feeling hard to explain, as you take him in.

He’s fresh with a new hair cut, faded low on the sides and thick, raven black up top. His beard is full and more manicured, enunciating the sharp cuts of his jaw.

He’s graced in a suit, black-on-black. The undershirt unbuttoned exposing much of his chiseled chest and the gold, cross necklace that dangles there. His suit jacket fits perfectly over the swells of his biceps and his pants expose every aching muscle in his thigh.

Like gravity, it’s hard to pull your eyes away from him. But somehow you become the void of space and manage to.

You can’t say the same for him though, because despite his insults that same burning, tingling sensation finds its way tip-toeing down your back and to the swell of your ass. One quick spin and you catch Armando’s eyes lifting from your backside to face you.

“I thought I looked better in a cardigan?” You say, breathing heavy.

Was he just? No…

Armando swings open the passenger door for you. “Get in.” He grumbles.

Not wanting to test his patience, you oblige, taking a step into the Farrier.

Armando closes the door behind you before climbing into the passenger side.

At the window, Mike approaches.

“Get in ask Ramos about the bullets, say you heard about them from word of mouth and you’re interested in them. You’ll pay top dollar. Once he confirms he can give them to you, we’ll move in. Got it?” Mike explains to Armando before turning his attention to you. “And for you, just be silent, pretty, and say nothing, okay?”

“Won’t be hard for her.” Armando grumbles as he starts the car.

You roll your eyes, ignoring his comment. “You guys will tail us, right.”

Dorn nods. “You should be fine though, you’ve got Armando.”

Armando reeves the engine, slowly idling off and away from your friends. And for some reason, when you whip off, you can’t help but wonder if he was right. This was a suicide mission, just not for him.

Fuck.

###

The drive is silent and smooth. You really could see why Mike insisted on such expensive cars, they rode well.

Your heel-clad feet tap against the bottom of the car, humming a tune in your head, making you realize just how much this ride needed some music.

Slowly, you turn to face Armando. His eyes are focused on the long road ahead, his jaw is clenched and he doesn’t seems to be paying you the slightest bit of attention.

As smooth as you can be you carefully lift your hand up and turn on the radio. Soon enough Ariana Grandes, The Boy is Mine, blasts from the radio.

You squeal and find a small groove with your fingers against your purse, humming the lyrics and bopping your head to the beat. The song is just reaching its second run through the chorus when the radio goes dead.

You turn, seeing Armando’s hand leaking from the controls. Annoyed, you give him a look before turning the radio back on, louder this time.

Armando’s jaw clenches tighter, like he might actually collapse through it with his bite force. He slams the radio off…again.

This time you don’t bite your tongue.

“Would you stop doing that!” You shout.

“No.”

“Why not? I was listening to that.”

“I don’t care. I need to focus.” Armando grumbles.

“Focus on what?”

“I don’t know, Princesa, making sure we both come out of this alive, because I damn sure can’t count on you to do that.”

His words bite, but if he wants to play a snake you have venom for him. “Why don’t you like me, huh? What have I ever done to you?” You hide.

Armando stays silent, his knuckles whitening as his grip strengthens on the steering wheel.

You snap at him. “I’m not talking to myself, Armando. Why do you hate me, huh?!”

“Cállte!” He shouts

You don't know much Spanish, but you’ve heard him say it enough to know it’s time to walk away from the conversation.

So you do, resting your head against the window seal, counting the number of streetlights you see flash and shimmer as you zoom by.

When you were younger your mother couldn’t afford fancy candles so she used a flashlight instead. You imagine the streetlights as just that, wishing that one day you’d know what you did to anger Armando so much.

Not soon enough, the car comes to a halt. The only sounds filling the cabin are those of Armando undoing his seatbelt.

Annoyed, you don’t even look at him as he speaks. All he’s done is tear you down in the past few hours, you’re done giving him the energy you need to conserve.

“When we go inside, don’t say a word. I don’t care how many questions he throws your way, you don’t say shit. Am I clear?”

Slowly, you turn towards him. Your mouth is scrunched and your eyes filled with no sympathy for the devil in front of you.

“Crystal.” You whisper, venom leaking off your tongue as you speak.

Armando’s chest rises and falls as he takes in your anger. He squeezes Mikes keys between his hands, and you you really do your best to ignore the heat that unfurls inside of you when he bites his plump lip between his teeth and runs a hand over his dark, full beard.

You adjust in your seat, because despite his constant cold front, It looks as if he has something to say. You wait in contemplating silence, the only sounds in the cabin being your breathing and Armando’s hesitant taps on the keys.

Part of you just wants to go in a get this over with and never speak to him again, but another part is desperate for him to say something meaningful to you. Something like the things you say to him before a mission.

“Don’t die.”

“Come back in one piece.”

“Be careful.”

“We should all have pizza when you come back.”

You knew how scary things could get on missions and you just wanted your team to know you were there, to take away even a slither of the darkness clouding them in that moment. And for your first time, you thought Armando might do the same—say something meaningful—but he doesn’t.

In a flash he’s out of the car, handing the keys over to valet, threatening them about what will happen if any scratches and dents are found.

You take in a deep breath and look down at the camera, disguised as a gold necklace resting above the cut of your breast.

“You guys getting all this?” You whisper, stepping out of the car.

“Do you mean Moxy, or your fight with Hotmando?” Dorn says over the earpiece.

You come to a halt. “Shit, I’m sorry guys. I’ll keep it professional, okay. From here on out, I won’t let him get to me…that’s not what’s important.”

“Good, get in and come back to us. I need my girl and our wine down Sundays.” Kelly says.

You smile, making your way over to wear Armando stands at the mouth of the nightclub, hoping he heard your words.

The sour look on his face as you walk through the door he holds open for you—sure to flip my hair as you do, giving him a nice taste of your leave in conditioner—tells you he certainly did, and perhaps he didn’t like what you had to say, but nonetheless…

He wont bother you anymore. Not tonight, at least.

Inside Moxy tore hit with a wave of a scent that nearly makes you gag—weed, sweat, and criminal activity. The club its self is large in scale, high ceilings with rope dancers stringing off the tops and flashing red and blue lights melting to make a purple haze over the club. Smoke and bubble guns are in constant effect and you’re pretty sure you can feel the bass of Wiz Khalifa’s Black and Yellow in your thoracic cavity.

From what you can see there are three floors, the first and second appear to be where the actual clubbing takes place. You watch the sweaty bodies corralled into dance floors, babbling nonsense either too drunk or too high for their own good.

But above, on the third, it is caged in and covered by glass. Yellow lights, different from the multi-colored ones below, remain at a halt and big , burly men with guns at their hips wander the halls. No doubt looking to take out any threat that comes for their boss—Ramos Malik.

“The glass. It’s bullet proof.” Armando says, eyeing the scene above, just as you do.

You would praise him for the impressive catch. But you’re Jenna now, and Jenna doesn’t speak.

“Any sign of Malik?” Mike asks.

“Not yet,’ Armando places a hand on the small of your back, making you flinch. “But we’re about to find out.”

Never moving his hands from your waist, Armando guides the two of you through the sweaty pillage of bodies and towards the elevators.

The ride up is quick, quiet. That’s not shocking. But what is shocking, as soon as the elevator comes to a screeching halt, Armando grabs your hand in his, completely engulfing your own with his size.

The burning sensation wraps up your wrist and shoots straight to your cheeks where you flush.

“What are you doing?” You gasps, trying to pull away. You did not sign up for this kind of role play.

Armando turns to look at you. “If you’re my girlfriend, we’ve got to play the part. Other than that you just look like someone who I brought out on a hit with me.” He squeezes your hand.

You suck in a deep breath at the motion, looking away.

“What’s wrong, princesa? This too much for you?” For a second, you thought he meant the fact that he was holding your hand, and in that case he wouldn’t be wrong, but soon enough the doors open and you shortly realize what he means.

The two burly men from early, dapper in black and white suits, wait outside the elevator, fingers in the triggers of their guns.

“Aretas.’ They nod, tuning your attention to you. “Whose this?”

“My girl, Jenna.” Armando says, gruffly.

One of the men nods, motioning you forward. You swallow, backing up a bit, hesitant on what to do.

Armando nudges you forward. “Esta bien bebe.”

You nod and walk towards them. They grab you up, calloused hands running up and down your body, and your pretty sure they linger to long on your untouchables on purpose.

Sweat begins to pile in your hands as a thought burst into your mind. What would happen if they found the knife Kelly gave you? She’d shoved it in a pretty good spot, but still, these guys were being thorough…and not in a good way.

You make eye contact with Armando as one of the guards continues to fill you up with what feels like excessive force.

In a blur, Armando pushes off the wall with his foot, slapping a hand on the guards shoulder.

“She’s clear, eh?”

The guard nods.

Armando grips his collar and pulls him in close. “The why the fuck are you still touching her, hm?”

The guard swallows, fear evident in his eyes.

“Just covering the bases, that’s all, sir.” He whimpers.

“Cover the bases again like that with my girl, and I’ll cut your fucking hand off and feed it to your other fat fuck of a friend.” Armando notions to the guard behind.

The guard nods and swallows, caressing his hand.

“The boss is this way,” he guides us with a motion.

Armando grips your hand once more, leading your down the long hallway.

“You okay?” He asks, holding his gaze forward.

You look up at him, even in heels he still manages to be taller than you. “Don’t pretend to care.” You scoff.

That makes him halt, conjoined with him you have no choice but to face each other. His mouth opens and closes like a fish, yet no words come out.

You roll your eyes, looking past his shoulders. Inside the bright room, you can see a shadow of Ramos. “Let’s just get this over with.” You say.

Armando’s gaze lingers on your longer than you’d like, giving you the shivers despite the fire leaking off him.

Soon enough, he pushes open the door and you follow behind him.

The room is small, club girls linger around either serving drinks or being felt up on. Ramos’s men, stand at each corner of the room searching for the next threat to their boss. Luckily they haven’t figured it is you yet.

“Armando Aretas,” Ramos claps his hands, jumping off of the white couch he’s sat on.

He stalks over, cigar between his lips, and you take him in. He is nowhere near as stalky as Armando, and his curly blonde hair is put up into a bun, exposing the undercut beneath. You can’t catch the colors of his eyes because they are covered by dark, Fendi shades.

His business definitely makes money, and lots of it. His three piece black and burgundy suit screams it all.

“To what do I owe such great pleasures?” He bows, lifting your hand up and placing a kiss on the back. “That goes for you too, sugar.”

Armando squeezes your hand a bit tighter at the pet name. You want to bite back and tell him to go easy, but you’re on stage now, and for your own safety and his, it’s best if you don’t break the act.

“I’m in the business of buying something from you. Streets are hot down in Mexico right now, and I need to establish some new territories…with a little force.” Armando says smoothly, sometimes you forget he was a hardened criminal not too long ago.

Ramos clicks his tongue between his teeth. “Ah. Come sit.” He motions you two over to one of his coaches.

“Good job. Keep em’ talking.” Mike says over the coms.

Armando takes a seat across from Ramos and you do the same.

A chuckle leaves Ramos’s lips. “I don’t think your pet likes you very much,” he motions to the space between you two.

Armando smacks his lips. “Nonsense. Ven aquí, bebé.”

You swallow and scoot towards him. When you’re close enough, in one swift moment, Armando’s slips you in his lap, running a rough hand up and down the exposed parts of your thigh, sending shivers down your spine and goosebumps all over your body.

What the hell was happening.

Ramos chuckles, pouring himself and Armando a drink. He pushes it across the glass table, just out of reach.

Armando gives your ass a light slap, you turn and flare your nose, giving him your best “don't push it,” it glare.

He ignores it.

“Tráeme eso, mamá.” He says, motioning towards the glass.

You pick up the tumbler, suddenly realizing what he’s playing at. Ramos is watching because he isn't convinced. So you suck up your pride and do some convincing.

You grip Armando by his chin, rubbing the pad of your thumb in circles over his gruff beard before putting the glass against his lips, assisting him as he drinks.

Never once do his eyes leave you as he swallows the amber liquid, and the shivers that were once in your spine travel lower, much lower. You have to blink away the awful, dirty thoughts of you being in place of the glass out of your mind as you swipe away the spillage off his beard and plump, pink lips.

When you turn, Ramos’ shoulders drop and his smile is so wide it’s nearly reckless.

“So you’re in the business of buying my most popular product from me?”

“That’s right.” Armando says, a hand still caressing you slow and smooth.

“I am curious, though,’ Ramos takes a swig of his drink. “How did you hear about it?”

Armando shifts, the movement forcing you closer to his center. Your eyes go wide as saucers, your new position doing nothing for the growing pain massing within your heat.

“I’m an Aretas. Nothing in the streets goes past my ears…nothing.” Armando's confidence radiates off of him.

“Very well,” Ramos chuckles. “Let’s establish two parameters of this deal, then. One, you pay me before I give you any product. Two, you get caught with my product, you don’t tell a soul who you the fuck got it from. Sounds good?” He smiles.

Armando nods. “Just one thing,’ his hands enclose over your hips, sliding you off to the side, as he leans forward. “How do you make them? The bullets.”

Ramos frowns. “Why? You trying to steal my swag or something, Aretas?”

Armando chuckles. “Nah, just curious.”

“Feed his ego, he’s going to talk.” Kelly says.

“I mean, they're sharp, large, fast, quiet. It’s impressive. I just want to know how you do it before I invest any of my money into it.” Armando leans back, arms spread in a wide arch on the back of the couch.

“In our world now, with a little money, the right connections, and a fuck ton of fortitude, anything you can think of is a possibility.’ Ramos says, lighting another cigar. “It’s rare and hard to get everything right. But if you really want to know how I do it,’ he leans in, voice dropping to a whisper.

Armando does the same, you make the conscious effort not to. Instead you play with your necklace, making sure the camera catches his face and his face only when he confesses.

“It’s a three—,”

A sudden buzz swallows the conversation whole, swirling it down the dirty sink it had come up from. The buzz echoes once more before you realize where it comes from…your purse

Fuck.

Ramos straightens, likes a dog on guard, eyeing you fiercely. Your chest rises and falls with a weight heavier than gravity as your ringtone continues to blare out for everyone to hear.

Ramos licks his lips, like he’s hungry for what comes next. “Well don’t be shy, Ms. Jenna, answer the phone.”

You swallow and tuck a curl behind your ear. “I don’t think that’s appropriate right now. Let’s just finish up the deal—“

In a blur of fury, Ramos stands brandishing a gun, pointing it right at your chest.

“Make you perra answer the fucking phone, or I put holes in you both.”

“Answer the phone,” Mike calls to you. “Do what he asks.”

Armando gives you a cautious look as you slip your phone out of your purse. Your fingers are shaking, so answering takes a few tries but when you finally do get it, you see that it’s your sister calling.

“Make sure it’s on speaker too.” Ramos demands, clocking his gun.

You inhale deeply, press the speaker button, then answer, “Hey, sister, this isn’t really a good time.”

“Hey, I know you’re probably working late and all, but this is kind of important. My routers are not really working and I have a date with that guy, David, I told you about and I really need my tv to work.” She explains.

You bite your lip and lick the sweat that forms around them. “Have you tried turning your tv on and off again? You know I’m not really a whiz at that tech stuff.”

A pause, then your sister erupts in laughter. “Girl, are you high?’ She laughs. “You’ve been messing with wires and the internet since we were kids. That’s the whole reason twelve wanted you anyways”

Your hear sinks the moment she says those words, you hang up because the last thing you want is for your sister to hear you die.

“Well fuck me, Jenna, I’ll be damned.” Ramos growls, pushing his gun into your skull.

You pierce your eyes shut, brace for the burning impact of the bullet and pray for a quick death.

But it never happens, instead in a swift motion Armando pushes you off to the side causing you to collapse onto the ground. He makes a quick sweep of his leg, sending Ramos crashing onto his ass and the bullet that was meant for you soaring up and hitting the rafters, lodging into some wood.

Your breath is heavy as you watch all out war unfold before you. Armando takes on five men at once. The first man takes two tumblers over the head and one shard of glass to the neck, scarlett liquid oozing from the wound before he drops like dead weight beside you.

You let out a scream, backing away from the scene that moves like a riptide before you.

“Get out of there, now!” Kelly screams in your ear.

“I—I can’t just leave him!” You shout back.

“You have no training! We’re coming in, go, now!” Mike yells.

You gather yourself, undoing your heels, still watching Armando skillfully take out guys and keep clear of the gunshots that ring in the tiny room. You watch as he dropkicks one man, then shoots him in the face before stalking over to another man, dishing out a few punches, before finally gutting him with a knife.

He’s still on the move when you finally slip out of your heels. More of Ramos’s men are filing in and the fight expands,moving from the small room you were just in into the hallway where any innocent person could be hurt.

Unlike most times you weren’t in your gilded chair. You were in the field and you would help as many people as you could. So, you don’t think, you let the adrenaline cloud you as you bound down the hallway in hopes to get back downstairs and direct clubbers from the chaos.

Setting the golden elevator in your sites, you push faster. People below were already screaming, running wild. Who knows what could happen? How many people could be trampled and hurt. This only fuels you, quickening your stride. You nearly make it but a gunshot slows you, and the body of a bleeding girl drops before you, putting you into a full halt.

“Oh my god,” your voice is breathy and shaky.

“Why are you still in there!” Dorns’ voice becomes a far void as you rip at the bottom of your dress and use the fabric to compress her wound.

Two gunshots to the chests. The girl, who can’t be any older than yourself, gurgles blood which sprays onto her porcelain skin and leaks into her brown hair, sticking strands to the marble floor.

The girl coughs, sending blood splattering onto the side of your face, and claws at your arms, streaks of crimson standing out against your brown skin.

She murmurs, but it’s hard to hear.

You press deeper into her wounds. “Shh, it’ll be alright,’ You tell her “guys, I need a medic on the third floor when you get here. She’s…she’s in really bad shape.” You whimper.

The girl whines again, her eyes open and closing in two second intervals.

she raises her arm pointing a shaking finger in the direction behind you.

You wipe your eyes, blood no doubt trailing on your face now.

“What?” You croak. “What is it?” You turn around and see Ramos Malik limping over to you, a large knife in his hand.

You stand, putting distance between him, yourself and the girl.

“You’re a real bitch, you know that?’ An injured Ramos says, limping toward you with his knife pointed. “Trying to get me caught up in some trap, but you weren’t even smart enough to shut off your phone!” He screams, lunging at you with the knife.

You tumble backwards, your back and head hitting the marble floor with the weight of you both. You cry out as pain sears through you, especially your hand.

It takes you a moment of readjusting to the bright lights and sounds to realize why. You caught the fucking knife in your hand.

You scream, as Ramos pulls it from your palm in a slice. Your hand open and bleeding, you cry out and roll away from another vicious attack by Ramos.

He growls and lunges at you again, grabbing a tuft full of your curls. You beat at his legs with your good hand, squirming in his grip. He pulls at your hair, making you scream, lowering his knife to your neck, pressing inward.

You let out an animalistic scream, pressing your thumb into the oozing wound on his leg. He screeches, falling to his knees.

Wasting no time, you crawl away.

You think you’ve gotten far enough.

You rise up on your knees and push the elevator button, but the cold hand on your ankle snatches you back.

You claw at the marble floors, leaving a trail of blood, as Ramos drags you like a rag doll. He stops, flipping you over and planting his weight on top of you.

You flail, kicking the ground and scratching at his face, desperate for him to let go. But he doesn’t. Instead, he cages you with his legs and wraps both hands around your neck, applying so much pressure that your vision blurs.

Under his grip, your breaths become distant and faint. Your muscles relax, and your eyes bulge. Turning your head to the side, you can barely make out the flashing blue and red lights from outside.

The team is here. But you're not sure they'll find you in time because Ramos is relentless, and the air in your lungs is vanishing. Your skull feels like it’s being crushed, the pressure intense.

You feel yourself slipping away, losing focus on your surroundings. Ramos moves your head to face him, and he’s a mass of incoherent clouds above you, the only clear thing are his dark, empty eyes.

“Look at me, baby. I like my victims to look at me before they die,” he growls, spit slipping from his mouth. “I hope Aretas finds you like—”

Ramos drops, and oxygen rushes back into your lungs like a clap of thunder.

You shudder on the ground, scraping at your neck and slapping your chest.

Warm hands engulf your cheeks, and it takes a minute for the blur to leave your vision. When it does, you see Armando before you, a smoking gun at his side.

“¿Estás bien, mamá?”

His voice barely registers before oxygen slips from your lungs again, and you slump over, hitting the ground.

Armando scoops you up, and even though it should be a relief, you can’t help but be saddened by the way your team jumps over the girl you couldn’t save.

Darkness swallows you whole as your team swarms you and Armando.

###

“The stitches will dissolve on their own in time as your wound heals itself.’ Kelly says, tightening the last of the bandages on the hand Ramos had sliced.

“Thanks, Kelly.’ You smiled softly, rubbing at the soreness that still lingered all over your body, especially your neck.

Ramos and his men had been arrested, not on the charges the team had planned, but still, getting him locked away for attempted murder of a police officer and soliciting drugs would have to be good enough for now.

Kelly rubs your shoulders, a soft sigh leaving her lips. “I’m really sorry this happened to you,’ she says, eyeing your injuries, the bandages on your knees and hands, the purple-ish bruise on your neck, and the small scratches and scrapes all over your body. You definitely weren’t as hot as you were that night.

“It’s okay.” You smile. “I’m still here, so.” You shrug.

“You were brave that night, saving that girl. We’re all so proud of you.” Kelly says.

You shake your head. “But I didn't save her, Kels. She died. Right there, she bled out.’ Tears start to rim your eyes as the memories of the girl and her blood in your hands flare in your mind. “Fuck,” you cover your eyes with your palms. “I could hardly save myself that night…if it wasn’t for Armando, I’d be dead.”

You sniffle, taking a seat on a nearby stool. “I’m not cut of for the field, and I don’t think I should ever do it again.”

Kelly swarms you. “No. Don’t say that.’ She shakes her head. “We’ve all been there, helpless, but that’s why we’re a team. We cover each other's six when shit gets rough. So don’t feel bad, we won’t let you.”

You nod slowly, trying to let her words penetrate your soul so that you could really believe them. But right now, you couldn’t. You put everyone at risk because you made a rookie mistake by leaving your phone on.

You were to blame for all the carnage, all the bloodshed and chaos.

Armando was right, it was a suicide mission. And it was all your fault.

Kelly’s phone ringing thrusts you out of your thoughts.

She reads the screen number and looks at you. 'I got to go,’ she motions. “But if you need me, call me, seriously.”

You nod and wave her goodbye. You turn and fully expect to hear the compound's heavy, steel doors slam shut and lock, but they never do.

On high alert you turn and meet eyes with Armando. He’s in his typical black on black, head to toe. The only thing different about him is the white bandage covering the bulge of his arm.

You try not to stare too hard at the way his black shirt clings to his body, flexing every taunt muscle as he strides down the steps and towards you with a force.

Refocusing, you work on the project at hand—Dorns broken drone. You mesh wires together and a spark comes alive, something like the sparks you feel when Armando takes a seat next to you, leaving up against the steel work table.

“So that’s it, eh?” He says, staring at you. “Gonna ignore me.”

You keep fussing with your wires. “Not sure there is much to say.”

Armando chuckles bitterly. “I’m sure I could find some words. How about we start with, lo siento or soy un maldito idiota.”

You slam down your tools and turn to face him, fire blazing in your eyes. “I don’t even know what the fuck you just said.” You growl.

Armando stands, towering over you. “I’d be happy to translate for you, princesa. It means you fucked up and cost alot of people their lives.”

You flinch at his words, more reality of your mistake clouding over you. “You don’t think I know that? I’ve regretted my mistake every night when I cry myself to sleep because all I can see is that girl's face.

Your voice wavers. “Her blood.”

“If you feel like that then you should have listened to me when I told you that mission was suicide.” He growls.

“Fuck you.” You spat, walking away.

Armando catches your forearm, pulling you back towards him. “I’m not done, so don’t walk away from me.”

“Let me the hell go!” You try jerking from his grip but it’s no use, you’re stuck, stuck taking his abuse.

“No, you need to know that it was your fault out there. That your place is in the chair,’ he motions to your desk behind you. “You can’t handle the field, you’re not built for it.”

The need to prove him wrong boils in your gut causing you to lift your hand and swing it out towards Armando’s face.

Bad idea.

He catches your arm with ease and now both your limbs are in his hands. You try to snatch away, but Armando keeps you steady, pulling you closer until the two of you are breaths away from each other.

The heat in your chest spreads like wildfire as you watch Armando’s eyes linger on your bruised lips, then trailing down slowly to your hands and legs, accessing all your injuries as if they matter to him.

“Besides,’ he trails on, his index finger glazing cautiously over the ring bruise on your neck. “If it wasn’t more me out there, princesa, you’d be dead.”

“I didn’t think…”

“That’s the point,’ Armando holds you steady. “You didn’t think, and you not using your head almost got you killed. And if you would have died I—.”

There's a quivering pause in Armando’s voice, his eyes slam shut tight. You don’t know what to make of this, one second he hates you and the next he cares if you’re dead or not. Armando is a mystery you’re too tired to decode.

You jerk from his grasps once more and this shocks his eyes back open.

“Are you done?” You manage to say.

Armando licks his lips, slowly releasing you from his grasp.

“I’m done,’ he says, backing away from you.

You hold onto the steel table for support, the scorch of his touch slowly fleeting.

You hear the steel door crack open and turn to watch him leave, but he’s halted at the precipice, “One last thing, stay in the chair next time. It’s where you belong.”

With that he leaves, the steel door slamming shut and your confidence crumbling down.

You tried your hardest to not let Armando affect you, but he does. His words cut you deeper than Ramos’s knife. Maybe he was right, maybe you should just stay in the chair. But what if there was another time they needed you in the field? Could you just say no without feeling immense guilt? Probably not.

So when you write your resignation and leave it on your desk and walk away from the compound, you do it because you can’t stand to see the people you care about get hurt, all because you’re not a good enough cop.

###

“Okay, seriously! Are you really going to be that stupid and go back into the house where you know the killer is! Come on Noah!” You shout at your television screen.

It’s been a week since you put in your resignation and the amount of discourse behind it has resulted in you shutting off your phone and locking yourself inside, watching shitty horror movies to pass the time.

Because if you step foot outside, you’ll be mobbed by friends from the department and your friends from AMMO who, to say the least, weren’t happy about your resignation.

All but one.

Not that he mattered anyway.

They all hated that you quit, saying you needed to come back immediately and talk this out. But you couldn’t.

How could you face them when you were such a coward and created all that chaos? They worked so hard to save lives and keep order and you did nothing but fuck shit up.

It was time to jump ship before someone else got hurt in the crossfires of your neglect.

The thought pushes you deeper into your plush green couch that sits far back into your home, well renovated garage. But hey, Miami is expensive, and this place was renting out, so you just renovated it. A little love all around and it became an actual home.

You let loose a small smile looking around, the walls, once bare and industrial, now are splattered with a lively palette of bright yellows, deep blues, and playful greens. They are decorated with framed posters of all the things you love: vintage video games, classic sci-fi movies, and beloved comic book covers, each one a nod to your past. Strings of fairy lights crisscross the ceiling, casting a soft, whimsical glow that contrasts beautifully with your high-gear equipment scattered throughout.

Your floor is a patchwork of colorful rugs, each with its own story. Some are intricately patterned, those are the ones your parents gifted you, while others are simple yet bold, adding a splash of color to the room. Together, they might be your favorite part of the whole place, just because they keep your bare feet warm on lazy nights like these.

In one corner, a plush, oversized bean bag chair sits next to a low coffee table cluttered with all your retro memorabilia – old gaming cartridges, Rubik's cubes, and a couple of well-worn graphic novels.

The heart of your home garage is the tech haven. Your large, custom-built desk stretches along one wall, supporting your impressive army of monitors in various sizes. High-end computers hum quietly, their cases glowing with neon lights. Cables and wires, though numerous, are neatly organized, snaking their way through the room in an orderly fashion.

Shelves above and around the desk hold a treasure trove of tech gadgets and components – everything from VR headsets and drones to soldering kits and spare parts. A 3D printer sits in a place of honor, its latest creation still cooling on the print bed.

Your home made you feel complete, but still after you quit you do feel a little empty. You miss the small talks at work, the laughter, the bickering, the teasing. It just wasn’t the same alone. But again, it was for the best, because if there is one thing you know—keeping your family safe is the most important thing, above all.

And you’d hate to be their reckoning.

Flipping open your laptop you continue to scroll through your job search.

“What do you think, Chester?’ You say to your golden retriever. “Tech support job? Or maybe we go dark and get into hacking for higher companies.”

Chester whines, fidgeting in his spot next to you.

“You’re right, no going bad. Tech support it is.’ Chester rummages around a bit more before springing over your coach, darting towards the door. “Hey, I can work from home with this one!” You say.

Chester’s barks ring out, bouncing off the walls relentlessly.

You stand and make your way over to what’s got him so riled up. At the door, you bend down and pet him, still doing nothing to soothe his barks.

“Chessy, what’s wrong, huh?” You grab his collar, pulling him towards the door and opening it.

You stick both your heads out the door, turning them left and right, the only thing you see and hear is darkness and the bad storm slamming outside. You pull back inside and Chester sticks to you like glue. “See, nothing to worry about.’ You squat down to love on your dog, who's growling like crazy right now. “We aren’t like Noah, we don’t go into scary houses for fun. We’re safe here, Ramos is gone. ” You pat his head, but that only makes him bark more.

“Chester, enough already.” you stand, moving towards the kitchen and getting yourself a glass out of the cabinet, flicking on the sink, and filling it with water.

Your just about to take a sip when a loud crack of lighting explodes, illuminating your dark house, revealing a cloaked figure behind you.

You scream and drop your cup, shards exploding on the ground around your feet. Chester is in a full on frenzy right now, and rightfully so. Could this be Ramos’s men, did he send them to finish you off?

“You’re one crazy bitch, you know that?”

“Look at me, baby. I like my victims to look at me before they die.”

You scrape at your neck, the tender bruise making you hiss as if the pressure of Ramos choking you has never left.

The figure steps forward and you screech, ripping a butcher knife from your kitchen sink, and pointing it at them.

“Back the fuck up!” You scream. “I’m a fucking cop!” You take wobbly steps back, watching Chester go up the figure and sniff them…then roll over?

Chester by no means is an aggressive dog, but he loves you, and if he sensed you were in danger he’d protect you with his life. So when he begins to receive pets from the intruder, you lower your knife.

“Kelly?” You say, she knows Chester, you’ve brought him to the compound many times before, but she’s the only one on your team who has a key to your place.

The figure doesn’t answer, they just move over to the corner of the kitchen, flipping on the light.

Your shoulders drop the moment you see his thick beard and warm-brown skin peeking from underneath his black hoodie.

Armando.

“How the fuck did you get in?” You cross your arms over your chest.

Armando shrugs off his jacket, tossing it onto your kitchen stools. “It’s not exactly a place with state of the art security.”

“I could have killed you, Chester too.”

Armando snickers. “You and your pooch wouldn’t have done a thing.”

You grumble, crossing the kitchen landscape and moving towards the coaches. “What do you want, you're interrupting my movie night.”

Armando follows, hot on your trail. “I can see that. By the way, is that hello kitty on your pajamas?”

You look down and groan. Of course you’d be wearing something totally embarrassing when your least favorite ex-coworker breaks into your house.

“Stop switching the subject. Why are you here?”

Armando rustles in his pocket before pulling out a paper and shoving it into your hands.

You’re careful to unfold it because there is rain damage from the storm, but when you get it open, despite the smooshed ink on the page, you see it’s your resignation letter.

“Okay, and?” You shrug.

“Okay, and, take it back.” He says.

You chuckle. “You’re joking, right. Like you have to be joking.”

Armando’s face is straight. “I’m not.”

You plop down on your couch. “I’m not taking it back, I'm already looking at different jobs.”

A scoff leaves his lips. “So that’s it, eh? You’re just going to run away.”

You close your eyes and let out a deep sigh. “Weren't you the one who told me I should quit?”

“I never said that. I said you needed to stay in the chair, and still, you did the opposite of that.” He says.

You stand. “What’s the point of saying I’m a cop, if I don’t actually save people. You said that entire night was on me, so I backed away from the situation and now you’re mad?”

Armando sits quietly for a moment, tapping his leg against the ground. “I never said quit.”

“It doesn’t matter what you said. I did what I felt I needed to do.”

Armando scoffs, turning in his seat. “Yeah I can see that, real egoísta if you ask me.”

You stand, marching over towards the kitchen. “You know I have no clue what you’re saying.”

Armando turns, follows you, taking a seat at the bar. And before you know it, just like that compound before, you're caged between his legs.

“I called you selfish.”

You let out a gasp. “How the hell am I selfish?”

“Because you left the team!”

“I left the team to keep everyone safe! Not because I’m selfish!”

“We're safe! And we’ll be safer knowing that you’re safe, too, especially with some of Ramos’s associates still out there! I—we need to keep tabs on you.”

You stumble back. “What?’ You swallow. “Are you telling me my life is in danger? That Ramos will send people after me?”

“It’s a possibility we’re considering,’ Armando says, his eyes never leaving you as you sit across from him. “But if you come back to work we can keep you safe.”

“And what’s to say they won’t come for me any other time?” You croak. “Being in that compound doesn’t guarantee my safety.”

Armando rubs a slow hand over his face. “But I can.” He says, hardly above a whisper.

“You. Protect me?”

“Why is that so far-fetched?” He says.

“Armando, you hate me.”

“You keep putting words in my mouth, princesa, and I don’t like it.”

“I’m not putting words in your mouth. It’s just, actions speak louder.’ You shrug. “Ever since you got into AMMO, we’ve been the least close out of everybody. No matter how hard I tried, we just never connected. So yes, I’m sorry if I find you putting yourself on the line for me, unprovoked, a little hard to believe.”

Armando stands, his frame opposing against yours. He lifts his shirt and you hiss at what you see. Bandages, dried blood, and purple bruises litter his torso.

You look away but he catches your chin with his thumb, pulling your attention back to him.

“I wouldn’t put myself on the line for you,’ he said, pulling his shirt back down. “I already fucking did.”

“I never asked you too.” You mutter, looking away ashamed that you caused that.

“You didn’t have to.’ He sighs. “I couldn’t stand to see you get hurt.”

“What?” You turn, slow tears building, blurring your vision now.

“I didn’t want you to go out there because, as much as I try to hide it, I care about you.” Armando says, hot brown eyes melting into you.

You blink, stalling and stepping back. Armando…cares about you? Those two things shouldn’t even be in conjunction and your brain can’t process that they are.

The man in front of you has never been anything but harsh towards you, now he comes to your home in the middle of the night begging you to come back to work and confessing his feelings for you.

You truly must be dreaming…this can’t be real. Not that you’d be mad if it was. Despite all your bickering and misunderstandings, you still held a soft spot for Armando. You could see he was trying to be a better person, a more open person, regardless of his flaws.

And there were moments when he was kind to you, like opening doors for you, walking side by side with you to your car late at night, never forgetting to get your lunch along with the teams if you couldn’t make it. You knew he had a nice side to him and that’s why you showed him yours time and time again. Showed him it was okay to be vulnerable, but now he is, truly is, and you can’t even compute it.

“Why would you say something like that?” You swallow, something weird stirring inside of you, making you step closer towards him.

Armando does the same, closing the gap between you two. “Say what, princesa? The truth.”

You don’t mean to, but you whimper as the nickname leaves his lips. You look down, heat flushing in your cheeks. “Please don’t call me that.”

Armando scoops your chin with his index finger, your eyes latching and twinkling under the soft glow of your house's lights. “¿Por qué? no puedo manejarlo.”

“No.” You breath, studying every bridge and sharp angle of his face. This close, his beauty is unbelievable.

Armando’s thick, kept beard, is just as dark as his hair. His brown eyes are surrounded by a shade of full lashes, and his plump pink lips, glistening in the soft light. Armando Aretas was hard to resist and that’s why you feel yourself falling closer into him.

Like your mind is on autopilot, your hands fall to his chest, resting there and feeling every muscle he’s worked so hard for.

“I can see that.” Armando smirks. “I can also see that you care for me, too.”

“I—,”

“Want me to show you how I know?” He whispers, lips touching your ear and making you gasp.

You nod. There was no point in resisting him at that moment. Not that you wanted to either.

In one swift motion, Armando bends down and then you're airborne. His hands rest underneath your thighs as he carries you to your bedroom.

Walking over, your eyes never leave each other. You open your mouth to speak as a thought holds you captive.

“Is this why you said all those mean things? To discourage me because you didn’t want me to get hurt?” You ask, caressing his face in your hands.

Armando leans into the touch, nodding his head just as you two pass through the door of your bedroom.

He sets you down gently and you cling your arms around his neck.

“Why didn’t you just tell me that?” You ask.

Armando’s hands encircle your waist as he sighs. “I didn’t know how. I was just so angry that they’d even ask you to do something like that anyway.”

“And you were angry because you liked me?”

Armando nods.

“And when I was pretending to be Jenna…were you acting then, too?”

Armando chuckles, biting his lip, you look away to keep from melting. “You mean when I smacked your ass? I might have taken advantage of the situation then.”

You hit his chest and laugh. “I can’t believe you. That’s a violation!”

Armando leans in close. “I’d be happy to violate you some more, princesa.”

You chuckle lightly and wither out of his grip, taking a seat on the bed.

Armando frowns, sitting next to you. “What’s wrong? Was it something I sa—,”

“No. It’s fine. It’s just…I’ve never actually been with anyone before.”

Armando stills. “Oh. I was just joking with you,” he stands. “I can leave.”

Quickly, you grab his wrist, pulling him back. “No. I don’t want you to.’ You stand, taking his face in your hands and pulling him close. His lips are inches from yours and you can feel his nose brush against yours. “I want you to show me, just like you said.” You moan, placing your lips onto his.

Armando shutters, placing a hand on the nape of your neck. He opens his mouth, swiping his tongue over the bottom of your lips, asking for entry. You oblige and he slips inside, turning the kiss hot and fierce.

Armando swallows every moan you release, gripping your hips and pushing you back against the bed, his weight gently hovering on top of you.

He uses his legs, he spreads you open, you gasp at the motion allowing him access to your neck.

Like a man starving, Armando attacks your neck with hot-trailed kisses, lingering sucks and suckles, and licks that drive you wild, the heat between your legs pulsing now with desire.

“Fuck,’ you gasps and he palms over one of your breasts, sucking on the tender spot beneath your ear.

“Te gusta ese, bebe?” Armando whispers against your skin.

You shake your head “Yes.” You whimper.

Armando leans back, pulling at your top. “Let’s get this off of you, eh?”

You sit up just enough, allowing him access to pull the fabric off of you.

In a flash he peels your shirt off of you, leaving you bare in front of him.

Impulse has you covering yourself, but Armando reaches out, slowly moving your arms away from your chest.

“Don’t hide from me, mama.” He says, eyes darkening when he finally has a full view of your boobs.

“Mierda, you’re so beautiful baby.” He moans.

You shutter as he talks one breast in his hands, rubbing circles with it, while the other he latches his plump lips onto, sucking at your nipples.

The sensation causes your head to snap back and a deep, repressed moan to fly from your lips. Armando was doing the lords work with both his hand and tongue.

You squirm, squeezing your legs together and stimulating your spot, making your pants leak with want.

You had never had to opportunity to be with a man before, but in this moment you wanted nothing more than to fuck Armando.

“Fuck me,” you moan out. “Please.”

Armando chuckles, the sensation against your nipple makes you hiss. “Estás tan impaciente, princesa.’ He smacks your ass. “But eh, if that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll get.” He smirks, pushing you down against the bed.

He hovers on top, snatching his shirt off. All of his rippling muscles on display before you. You bite your lip at the site, hoping to see more and soon.

“If you want me to fuck you, will have to get rid of these, no?” He pulls at the strings of your pajama bottoms.

You nod, eager to have him inside of you.

In a blur, Armando pulls off your pants, tossing them to the side.

If you thought you saw darkness in his eyes when he saw your boobs, the look he has now is nothing in comparison. His eyes are nearly pitch black as he takes in what is soon to be his.

Armando spreads open your legs, hissing once he gets a glimpse at your glistening cunt.

You moan just at the thought of bearing it all in front of him.

“God, fuck.” He says, pulling down his pants and revealing a surprise of his own that makes you gasp.

Though covered in boxers, you can see just what he was working with. And to say the least, he was huge, and thick.

“Come here, baby.’ He moans, pulling you by your thighs to the edge of the bed. “Let me taste you.” He says.

You watch as Armando’s head lowers between your legs and the second his mouth touches your pussy, you fell back into the bed.

His mouth makes quick work of you, versing between sucking on your clit and licking your slit in a rhythm that builds a euphoria inside your gut.

The force of his tongue against your pussy and the pressure of his lips wrapped around your swollen clit has your back arching and screaming out.

Your toys had nothing on Armando.

“Please,” you whimper and try to squirm, but Armando holds you in place, slapping your ass twice as hard as a repercussion.

With each pass of his tongue, circling arcs on your pussy you can feel yourself climbing to the edge. Armando must feel it too because he puts the cherry on top when he sinks a thick finger inside of you.

“Oh my—ugh!”

You’re a whimpering, whining mess. The sheets beneath you turning a new shade of green as you soak them with your slick.

Armando adds another finger in for good measure only adding to the build up in your stomach. Each pump, suck, and lick causes a buckle to snap inside of you and a high only the man eating you out right now can give you is climbing.

You reach higher, and higher. Your orgasm just around the bend.

One last pump and suck, and you come undone, all over Armando’s face.

Armando comes back up from the floor, crawling over top of you. With the little moonlight that shines into your bedroom you can see yourself covering his beard, droplets of cum covering most of it.

“Taste yourself for me.” He growls, lowering his lips into yours.

You latch on and a sweet, yet neutral, flavor slips onto your lips as you and Armando kiss in a harmonious rhythm.

You never let go from his grasps as your hand travels down. You grab a hold of his massive, bulging cock.

Armando hisses and whimpers as you begins to stroke it with a various pressures: soft, hard, slow, the soft again. He shutters above you, his faces desperate and pleading.

“You’ll make me come like that.’ He breaths, gripping your hands. “I thought you were a virgin?”

“I am,’ you hiss, still squirming. “But I think it’s a bullshit construct. I’m still highly sexual,’ you say, pulling at his cock, bringing it forth. “And I want to be highly sexual with you.”

Armando bites his lips, pulling you into his lap. “Eres un problema, princesa.”

“I know,” you say, kissing him once more.

You rock back and forth, feeling his cock press against your needing pussy. The pressure making you both shake in anticipation.

Armando breaks the kiss. “Do you have a condom?”

You shake your head. “No, but I’m on birth control.”

He nods. “Good, you’re going to need it.”

He flips you over so that he is on top. Finally, he reaches down and slips out of his boxers, his cock, thick, long and full, springs to life and you can’t help but moan. Your pussy is aching with the need to be filled.

Armando spreads your legs open, angling the tip of his cock with your pussy’s pulsing entrance.

“Are you sure about this, baby?” He asks.

“I’m sure. Now fuck me, please.”

Armando obeys, slowly slipping his cock inside of you.

You hiss at the burning, stretching pain, digging your nails into his back as he pushes in, your pussy swallowing him inch by inch.

“Mm,” you croak.

Armando stops. “Are you okay?” He shakes

You grip at his ass, forcing him inside deeper, despite the burn you’re desperate to feel all of him. “Don’t stop.” You moan. “Please keep going.”

Armando pushes in further and deeper, tearing you open, until you’re fully stretched and he’s reached the depths of your ocean.

You two stay still for a moment, him allowing you time to adjust to the new stretching sensation and his size.

You lean up to kiss him. He deepens it, molding his mouth to yours, before slowly moving.

You moan, holding onto him as he picks up the pace, thrusting into you faster.

You can feel the pain melting into pleasure the more he pounds into you.

Harder and faster you begin to feel yourself loose control, your euphoria coming to hit its second peak.

“Fuck me, ugh! Please, Armando!” You shot, lifting your legs, granting him deeper access.

Armando grips the tiny mound between your hip and leg, using it as leverage to drive his thick cock deeper into your soaking wet pussy.

Animalistic groans leave his lips as he drives into you at an unholy pace. The sounds of skin slapping and drawn out, breathy moans fill the room, reaching a devilish peak when you scream out, coming and pulsing around his cock.

Armando follows you not shortly after, his dick pulsing and pumping his spillage into you.

He rolls off of you, taking you in his arms and placing a sweaty kiss on your forehead.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.” He murmurs on your forehead.

“Okay.” You smile, your legs sore and your middle aching.

Armando lifts you up bridal-style and carries you into the bathroom.

Soon you’re surrounded by steam and soap as you two bathe each other down.

Showered, you two snuggle in bed, a burning question still at the forefront of your mind.

“Armando?” You say.

“Hm,’ he is hardly awake at this point.

“When did you realize you cared about me?” You ask, angling your head to head to get a good look at him.

Armando chuckles, stroking your curls you have yet to put in a bonnet. “I think I always did. I was just scared.”

“Scared? Of what?”

“Maybe that you wouldn’t see me the way i see you.” He sighs. “I see only the good in you, and maybe that makes me a blind man, but I’m certain you’re a woman who can see through facades, and you wouldn’t see any goodness in me.”

You sit up. “That’s not true. Armando, of course you’ve done terrible things, but that’s not what I see when I look at you.”

Armando takes a hold of your bandaged hand, placing a small kiss on the palm. “So what do you see?”

“Now? I just see you, and all the tiny little good things that I love.”

A small smile graces Armando’s face before he leans in, kissing you softly. You sigh against his lips, not wanting this moment to end.

Though you two had some struggles, you wouldn’t have this pairing any other way.

You just wished you’d checked your blind spot early to see all the little signs you were missing.

[michaelsfavgirl]

not like the movies

Pairing: Michael Jackson x fem!reader

Synopsis: it's a cliché love story isn't it? The global superstar and a die hard fan who manages to catch her idol's attention during a concert. it's that simple, right?....right?

Warning: none

Word Count: 2.1k

Requested: yes/no

Author’s Note: I changed the req a bit, put a little twist on this trope to make it more interesting. I hope you like it. :)

Links: navigation | masterlist | taglist

“Is the mic working tonight?" Michael asks Frank DiLeo, his manager. his eyes sparkle with mischief as they walk towards the wings, closer to the stage.

Frank chuckles, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "God, Mike, You'll never let us live that down, will you?"

Michael throws his head back in laughter, recalling a not-so-distant memory when the crew accidentally messed with the tech. “You guys cut off my mic during she’s out of my life! I had to fake cry to trick the fans into thinking all that was a part of the show.”

Frank, shaking his head in slight embarrassment, adds, "We learned our lesson that night. It won't happen again."

"Of course, it won't. Or else, I’ll cut your check in half.” Michael says with a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. As much as Frank likes to have some form of authority over Michael as his manager he’s still not the one who calls the shots. 

Frank's expression shifts from amusement to a momentary flicker of concern. "You wouldn't..." he says as his voice trembles. 

Michael bursts into laughter, the carefree sound echoing through the backstage corridors. "Just kidding, Frank. Can't you take a joke?"

Relieved, Frank lets out a chuckle, feigning a scowl. "You know, you give me a heart attack every time you say something like that."

Michael, still grinning, pats Frank on the back. "Come on, you know I wouldn't mess with your money."

As he sees his manager’s face relax Michael can’t help but tease him again. "Or would I?" he says as he leans down slightly to Frank’s height, watching Frank's face momentarily shift from relief to uncertainty again. Before he can respond, Michael strides onto the stage, leaving Frank bemused, with his jaw on the floor. 

As Michael smoothly transitions between his iconic songs, the energy in the stadium is electric. The sea of fans undulates with excitement, but amid the frenzy, his attention is inexplicably drawn to a girl in the front row. 

The second his eyes land on her he feels like he’s in a trance of some sort. There's an allure about her, something that tugs at the edges of Michael's consciousness. It's not just the way she sways to the beat or how her eyes light up with each note; it's an inexplicable connection that he can't shake off. Lost in the spell of her presence, he fumbles the lyrics of a verse, drawing giggles from the audience. 

Michael Jackson, the perfectionist, is momentarily thrown off, a rare slip in his otherwise flawless performance.

Shaking his head to clear the distraction, he attempts to refocus. Yet, as the music continues, his gaze involuntarily drifts back to her. It's a puzzle, a mystery that unravels with each passing song. Why does she captivate him so? Why does she stand out in a crowd that's usually a sea of screaming adoration?

The realization dawns on him—she's different. Amidst the fervor of fans who've camped out for days, who've screamed themselves hoarse, in contrast she remains remarkably composed. She’s not crying, screaming, or fainting. Her demeanor is an enigma. It's not that she's unaffected; on the contrary, she radiates genuine enjoyment, but there's a serenity to her reactions that sets her apart.

Michael can't help but wonder. He knows the type of fans who are usually in the front row. They tend to be the wildest, most infatuated with him, having created an imaginary world in their heads where they’re in a romantic relationship with him. 

But her? She doesn't seem like that at all. 

How strange.

As he moves from one hit to another, the questions linger in his mind. His eyes continue to find her in the crowd, drawn to her like a moth to a flame. There's an intrigue. He thought he knew his fans inside out—their dedication, their unbridled passion. Yet, she challenges his assumptions.

Midway through his performance, Michael decides to playfully engage with the mysterious woman in the front row. He winks at her, not once but a few times, expecting a typical fan reaction—screams, swoons, or at the very least, a blush. To his surprise, all he receives in return is a serene smile. Just a smile.

The bewilderment creeps into Michael's expression. What's going on here? Is she immune to his legendary charm or something? Huh, he’d never in a million years admit it, but he feels his ego deflate a little. 

Refusing to be discouraged, he takes it up a notch. He points directly at her, a playful challenge in his eyes. Surely, this will elicit a different response right? But no, she remains composed, smiling and silently mouthing the lyrics. This is unheard of for Michael, and he can't shake off the perplexity. 

Jesus, what is she doing to him?

Unable to wait any longer, during a break where the band continues to play to give Michael a moment to breathe, he rushes backstage to his manager, Frank. He grabs onto Frank's shoulders tightly which surprises him. 

“Look, you see that girl over there? No, not her, on the left, her. Bring her to me after the show, okay?” The urgency in his voice is palpable as he hastily says, instructing Frank to bring the mysterious woman to his dressing room after the show. Frank, usually the composed one, is taken aback by his client's sudden insistence.

"What's gotten into you, Michael?" Frank asks, trying to make sense of the unusual request.

Michael, in no mood for delays, shakes Frank's shoulders, emphasizing the urgency. "Just get her here, Frank. It's important. You got that?"

Frank, still a bit shocked by the unexpected outburst, manages to nod in agreement. He watches as Michael walks away, leaving him to process what’s just happened.

The final notes of the last song resonate through the stadium as Michael wraps up his performance. The crowd roars with applause, and Michael, still riding the high of the show, takes a moment to thank his fans. "Thank you, I love you all," he declares, his eyes scanning the audience one last time. 

In that fleeting moment, his gaze lingers on the mysterious woman in the front row. Without giving it another thought, Michael dashes backstage, not even sparing a moment for his manager, Frank Dileo. He quickly instructs Frank to bring the woman to his dressing room and disappears, leaving Frank with his jaw on the floor.

After a refreshing shower, Michael reenters his dressing room, his mind buzzing with anticipation, heart beating unbelievably fast. And there she is, the enchanting woman who has captured his attention. Her back is turned to him as she admires the tour costumes on the rack, gently tracing the metal pieces with her fingers. Before Michael can utter a word, she turns around, her eyes meeting his. 

With the most angelic smile, she introduces herself shyly, “oh, uh, hello, i’m y/n. Someone told me to come to your dressing room, I swear I'm not a crazy fan.” As her sweet, slightly trembling voice fills the room, Michael feels a sensation akin to his legs turning into jelly. 

“I know don’t worry” he reassures her with a gentle smile, trying to keep his excitement in check. 

“I asked them to bring you here”

“Oh…do you often bring your fans here?” she asks with a little smile on her face, teasing him. 

Michael's eyes widen slightly, realizing how his previous statement sounded. “No, no, I’m not like that.” He defends himself. 

“Please y/n take a seat.” he gestures to the cozy couch. Her name feels familiar on his tongue, unfortunately, he cannot remember from where so he lets the thought go.

Casual banter flows initially, words revolving around music, the pulsating rhythm of the crowd, and the enchanting atmosphere that wraps around every live performance. Michael can't help but be drawn to the woman's composure, a serenity that stands out amid the usual fervor of his adoring fans.

As the conversation meanders through the afterglow of the show, the woman pivots with a sudden turn, shifting gears towards more personal territory. "How do you deal with all the relentless media during the tour?" Her question hangs in the air, curiosity etched in her eyes.

A contemplative sigh escapes Michael's lips, the weight of the question temporarily lifting from his shoulders. "It can be daunting," he begins, "But the music, the fans, that's what keeps me going."

Her eyes linger on his face, searching for something more profound beneath the surface. Unsatisfied with his somewhat evasive response, she persists, "But what specifically bothers you? There must be something that digs deeper."

Michael hesitates, a brief moment of vulnerability flickering in his eyes before he decides to share, "The…the rumors about me bleaching my skin. It's hurtful, and it affects me more than people realize."

“Do you though?” 

His eyes furrow, a mix of annoyance and anger flickering across his face. The probing nature of her questions stirs a cautious wariness within him.

She notices this and leans in, "You're so misunderstood, I just want to know the real you."

Silence hangs between them for a moment. Michael, caught in the whirlwind of emotions, contemplates the woman before him. Is she just a genuine fan seeking connection, or does she harbor ulterior motives beneath her calm exterior?

Gazing into her eyes, his hungry desire to be vulnerable and open his heart to some outweighs his concern. "No," he responds firmly, the word resonating with a quiet strength. "I don't bleach my skin. The rumors are just that—rumors."

Nodding in compassion she gently lays her warm palm on top of his in a soothing manner, this makes michaels senses spike. 

"I hope I haven't crossed any boundaries," she offers apologetically, her eyes reflecting a genuine concern for a split second.

He looks at her with a hint of confusion, not quite grasping what she means. "No, no it’s…fine." he says.

Taking a moment to choose her words carefully, she ventures into more personal territory. "I mean, after what happened... Do you feel lonely on tour?" The cryptic nature of her question leaves Michael momentarily puzzled.

"What do you mean, 'after what happened'?" he inquires, eyebrows furrowing inquisitively.

She takes a deep breath, her gaze steady. "In the media, you know the whole Brooke Shields turning down your proposal. It must be difficult for you."

Michael's sigh echoes through the room as he dispels the misconception. "Brooke never never said no because I never proposed," he states, a touch of exasperation in his voice. "That was just a story she made up to get attention for her new movie."

As Michael clarifies the misinformation, the woman subtly slips her hand into her handbag, a movement that goes unnoticed by him. Maintaining an air of compassion, she continues, "It must be tough for you, dealing with the constant scrutiny."

"Yeah, it gets hard sometimes," he admits, a weight apparent in his words. "She’s been leeching off me, leading me on since we met." he says and feels guilt creeping up on him, but he’s been bottling up his emotions for so long he can’t help but vent.

Her expression remains composed, her eyes attentive. "I’m sorry you have to go through that Michael," she commiserates, though the glint in her eyes suggests a hidden agenda.

Michael, relieved to share his burden, continues, "I just want someone who's genuine, can’t you understand that girl? Someone who understands me for me, not for the image they've built in their mind."

As the admission hangs in the air, the woman's hand tightens around an object in her bag, a subtle signal of her concealed intentions. 

After a conversation, well, more like Michael opening his heart while she nodded, the peculiar woman stands up abruptly and straightens the creases on her clothes. She grabs the doorknob and turns to face him.

“I hope you won’t be too surprised when you see yourself in the papers tomorrow morning Mr. Jackson” she says with one foot out the door.

Michael cocks his head to the side and hums in confusion, why is she speaking so formally all of a sudden. “What do you mean?” 

“Haven’t you read that article about Princess Diana?” 

Before Michael can open his mouth she’s already left the room and shut the door behind her. 

Panicking slightly he rushes to the coffee table and gets a hold of the newspaper from last week. He swiftly flips through the pages until he stumbles upon the tabloid junk he’d read on a plane half asleep. The title reads:

“IS PRINCESS DIANA A MASTER MANIPULATOR?”

          — By y/n y/l

Fuck, she’s a journalist. He  should’ve guessed from the get go. She was a little odd but he brushed it off as her being shy and awkward, and now look at what he’s gotten himself into. 

© michaelsfavgirl 2024

Taglist: @heartss444mj @yeriminist @yeaiamme2 @helloaugustmoon @cinnamoncunt @theladyofmylife @minekarina @kionaaa @theskinniestjackson-denny @youronlyonenini

[blerb-f1]

„Pimientos asados“ – A roasted Spaniard

Fernando Alonso x NonBinary!Medic!Reader

I'm aware i already used this trope. I think i just like my drivers sweaty :D

Read more on my Masterlist.

-blerb

„Pimientos asados“ – A roasted Spaniard

„Stupid fucking Security Rules“, Y/N mouthed, buttoning their shirt up. The crisp blue and yellow fabric would soon be entirely sweat through, that was for sure. Their black linen trousers were the most airy thing allowed under safety rules, yet felt still too covering and heat retaining. They sighed once again, placing some bobby pins between their pursed lips. Coarse fingers grabbed each of them, in use of pinning their fringe up and out of the way. With the heat coming, sticky forehead hair would only be an issue. A load of hairspray that was sufficient to destroy the earths ozone layer, was the last step to get their hair out of the way. Seeing that the familiar team cap would rest on their head anyway, Y/N didn’t bother more in that regard.

They placed their badge around their neck, visibly reading “Renault Formula 1 Team Medic Y/N L/N”.

Knowing what was to come, Y/N were not jumping around in joy as they entered the car of another crew member, ready to head to the Track. Bahrain was hot, incredibly hot. Temperatures edging the 40°C Mark were announced before the race and definitely the truth currently. The team member sighed as well, emptying another water bottle.

With 2005 looking like a Championship Year for Renault, Y/N had to make sure their drivers would survive the race. Reaching the race track was however war in itself, with fans crowing outside. Y/N would tiredly wave their hands out of the window in hopes of shooing them away. “Shit”, proclaimed the car’s driver – Mike, the breakguy. Mike was tasked with all things breaks, he had to weigh them before and after races to measure their corrosion, to watch them during the race and tell the mechanics of breakage and measure their temperatures during the stops. He’d always tell Y/N that break discs were nicer than caring for Humans. Afterall, they didn’t rebut advice or act unnecessarily careless with their own bodies. He had taking a quick look in the rearview mirror, though just a second to late.

Some ‘fan’ had stolen the team cap of Y/N’s head, unveiling the bobby pins that were messily strung together. Y/N just scoffed, rolling the window back up before leaning back. “Stupid fuckers”, they cursed, patting down the now ruffled strands. ‘Hopefully the team has some laying around, otherwise Flavio’s gonna be mad again. He hates things that aren’t good appearance wise.’

Mike parked the car as close as could, shuffling around the boot to get out his backpack and Y/N’s workbag. Slinging it over the shoulder, he huffed loudly. “God, these fans are getting out of hand. We’ve had so much teamwear stolen by now – I wonder how other team’s are coping. I bet Ron Dennis is unhappy about them getting crumbly and muddy”.

As they approached the garage, an unhappy face already stood aside. Pat Symmonds, their Technical Director was talking angrily to a few of the mechanics. Apparently he had screwed up quite badly with something – not that it was of matter to Y/N. They fumbled around their bag to fish out a towel. Renault branded of course. Pouring water on the towel provided it as lovely cold recourse once placed on their own head, but also hid the hat-lessness from Flavio if he were to appear out of nowhere. A skill the otherwise loud Italian man knew better than one would expect him to.

Y/N ducked in the back of the garage searching through the shelves in hope of finding anything. A hat was important as team gear but also as sunshade in this demanded climate. The garage proved to be fruitless however, so Y/N made their way over to hospitality, still hidden under their fluffy frotté  head covering. The ladies behind the coffee counter were positively buzzing, their updos looking good despite the horrible weather. Flavio always had beautiful ladies work there and many mechanics would appear in hospitality, trying to fight for their numbers. Y/N on the other hand was a happy sight as they’d usually just ask for an Latte Macchiato and chatter about recent drama.

“Nice to see you Y/N!” the fronting one exclaimed.

“Nice to see you too, Monique!”, Y/N expressed before leaning onto the counter.

“Has Flavio passed by recently? I hope not.”

“If it has to do with your fancy new headdress, he hasn’t. Might want to ask Zanarini whether there’s still a cap ins storage. He just got one for Giancarlo. His got stolen as well apparently.”

The medic sighed before downing a cup of coffee given to them by Monique. “I’d better hurry, I’ve got to check Fisicella and Alonso over soon. Bye Monique!”

“Bye-Bye Y/N!” she waved cheerfully before giving her colleagues a snicker. Something bad must be going on they’d hear of later.

Trotting through hospitality with tired feet, Y/N soon spotted Enrico Zanarini standing to the side, his phone perched up. Being Fisicella’s Manager must have been a tiring job for sure. They approached the hard working man slowly, making sure he was not in a call or anything.

“Ah, Y/N. I presume you also got caught by the hat thieves, am I right in that assumption?” was his greeting. The medic just nodded. “I’m sorry to ruin your day now, but I got the last one out of storage. It seems someone snuck in overnight and emptied our warehouse here. I wonder what’s wrong with the people today.”

With their head hanging low, Y/N trotted back to the garage, knowing that Flavios scolding was inevitable by now. On the way the bumped into another person, blinking twice to notice they had run into Fernando.

“Good Morning Y/N, you’re late to the check-up.”

“I know, I know, Fernando. I’ve been on a treasure hunt the last hour. Some idiot stole my cap but we don’t even have a single one left.”

The driver lifted his eyebrows. “Not a single one?”

“None. The others all seem to have theirs so I’m the only one getting chewed out by Flavio.”

Fernando seemed to ponder for a while before settling onto Y/N’s office chair.

“Doctor, please proceed with your check-up.”

Y/N started their work, taking measurements and jolting down Fernandos health data.

“Please remember to drink a lot for this GP, I know the heat is horrible. It’ll be worse after the Race. I’m going to check up on you and get you both hydrated before the Press conference. Can’t have you fall on your face from heat exhaustion.”

“Us both? How are you so sure I’m landing on the Podium?”

“I just know, Fernando. Trust me. But something is telling me it’s not going to end well for Giancarlo…”

“You sure you aren’t Magic Alonso with these visions?”

“Maybe. Now zoom off. Fisi is waiting and I still gotta report to Flavio.”

Fernando stood up from his chair, eying the medic again. Finally, he lifted the cap from his head and placed it on theirs. “Look. Problem fixed, right?”

“Fernando, you’re our face! Wear it yourself!”

“I won’t” he chuckled while crossing his arms. “I can’t stand you looking so sad. Especially if I can fix it so easily, no?” He turned towards the door. “I’ll be going now. See you later!”

Y/N settled onto their chair with another sigh, though one team cap richer. Fisi was already standing in the door with his trademark grin. “Enrico told me you were looking for a cap. Seems you stole one yourself?”

This day would only grow longer.

As the race started and Y/N sat in the garage, monitoring stats and news relayed to them from the Pitwall to check on their drivers. With Fisicella coming in after Lap 3’s engine failure, work was sure to arrive. They took his stats again, got him equipped with nutritious drinks and snacks while also handing his Manager stuff for a bath. Exact instructions regarding temperature and procedure were added along with it. Since the race was still ongoing, they couldn’t care for the driver themselves which was unfortunate but Fernando needed full attention now. Soon after Michael Schumacher overshot a corner with apparent car issues, leaving one of their top contenders ouf of the race. Y/N was on the edge of their seat, attention at it’s peak. Fernando was doing well, staying cool despite the horrible heat. He kept drinking which was very good. His pitstop on Lap 20 went very well, he looked all right in the car as well.

As the race progressed and Fernando stayed on top of the Leaderboard, his victory lap around the track was lovely to watch. Seeing him do that bunny ear gesture in the car was always an amusing sight. Y/N rushed out with the Crew towards Parc Fermée to catch their lucky driver exiting his car, stepping on top and gesturing towards the sky. His race suit was entirely sweat through, his face red but his smile was real.

He headed up to the cooldown room, with Jarno Trulli and Kimi Räikkönen behind him. Y/N was following along as well, equipped with a coke can and some wet towels. Their exasperated winner slid tiredly on the floor, leaning back but still smiling like the sun incarnate.

“Here, Fernando” Y/N said, handing him the Coke Can. He deserved such a treat after this tiring race. They took the towels, helping Fernando get the sweat of his face and hair while also stopping it from burning. After a while, the call came to step outside. Fernando headed towards the Podium, pumping his arms and cheering loudly while Y/N kept looking from beside, happy for their driver.

Getting shooed off to the press conference afterwards kept Fernando away from Y/N who meanwhile prepared everything to get him going again.  Watching the conference on TV was quite amusing – Jarno looked like a wet dog, Fernando lost his color and Kimi was beet red.

As the conference finally ended, Fernando tiredly stumbled into his driver’s room. His steps had gotten weaker as he finally arrived, sinking onto his sofa. Y/N was quick to arrive, smiling at him with their teeth showing. “Congratulations Nando, that was a good race!”

The tired driver faintly nodded as he leaned back, just breathing in. The adrenaline was slowly leaving his body as Y/N handed him his sports drink. “Let’s get you back in shape, right?”

Shortly after, Fernando was bathed, properly dressed and back on his sofa, looking way less haggard. Y/N sat behind him, bobby pins placed between their lips again. A soft brush was holding his locks back as they got put into a short ponytail, barely enough to keep it out of his neck from scrubbing at the now very sensitive skin. Y/N placed a few Bobby Pins in strategic fashion to keep the shorter hairs out of his face, to stop it irritating his eyes. Fernando just sighed in relief as the hair stopped bothering him. “You were right with your prediction” he said.

“Hmm?” Y/N mouthed, still busy.

“With Giancarlo not finishing and me winning. You truly are the real Magic Alonso.”

Y/N laughed softly, patting his shoulder before placing his last Bobby Pin.

“It was your work as much as mine.”

As they were finishing, Y/N lifted the cap from their head, wanting to place it back on Fernandos. The driver however grabbed the medics arm, stopping them from finishing their action.

“Don’t. Keep it. It’s yours now my friend. I know you’ll bring me luck wearing it.”

He lifted the blue Fabric before placing it on the crown of Y/Ns head again. “Please, bring me more luck in the future.” He said, his grin cheeky.

Y/N turned to the side, not wanting him to see their reaction. “Shut up you stupid roasted Paprika.”

“Pimientos asados, eh? Sounds like a great Idea. Let’s get some” he laughed, getting up and pulling Y/N behind him.

[svtskneecaps]

dude how the fuck is it that everyone on this server has insane chemistry with each other. my brain just fuckin bounces between dynamics like wow foolish and bad, wow baghera and forever, wow baghera and bagi, wow philza and etoiles, wow fit and pac, wow pac e mike, wow favela five AND six (bagi screeching "DON'T MESS WITH FAVELA" paraphrased had my mental hamster wheel hitting unprecedented rpms), wow the french and the french + bebou, wow antoine and mouse, wow bagi and tina, wow tina and forever, wow morning crew, wow slime and mariana WHO I'VE SEEN INTERACT LIVE O N E TIME, wow rivers and roier wow, wow rivers + the vaca crew, wow girl town, wow jaiden and roier, wow baghera bad and forever, wow forever and cellbit, wow cellbit and tazercraft, wow cellbit and roier, wow quackity and etoiles, wow phil and forever, wow bad and etoiles, wow tina and etoiles (fucking love them), wow aypierre and maximus (what the fuck, love it), wow foolish and jaiden (and also bad), wow missa and phil, holy shit jaiden and cellbit, jesus christ antoine and maximus and SEE

I AM MISSING A MILLION INTERACTIONS THAT I HAVE ABSOLUTELY GONE INTO MY SIBLING'S TEXTS TO SAY "GOD I LOVE THEM" AND I GUARANTEE I WILL ADD TO AND UPDATE THIS LIST WITH MORE (bc wit of the staircase) there is so much enrichment in my enclosure my brain literally doesn't know what to do with it. i've stalled out. i'm so happy. how the fuck did they do this.

additionally, bc i KNEW i'd forget something: foolish and vegetta (HOW), cellbit and baghera, baghera and fit, mouse and cellbit

[keirawantstocry]

Morning crew and Greek mythology, anything that suits your taste

TIA I LOVE YOU SO MUCH I HOPE I DID THIS JUSTICE <3

-

The twin gods of science, near identical in nature despite no blood relation. It baffled humanity but to be honest most of the gods didn't care. Minor gods had plenty of quirks, the twin souled gods were the least of their worries.

So Fit didn't mind. It wasn't his jurisdiction as the god of battle. What he cared about was the rush of adrenaline in his veins. The blood splattering at his feet as his battle axe swung itself through soldier after soldier.

What he did care about though was whispers of a newborn god of creation. It had been centuries since a new creation god had stepped in and taken the helm over the mortal world. He heard rumors of a brunette with blonde tips. A god with crazy blue green eyes that sparked alive with a look of the inferno as he created and created. As he dropped ideas into human's heads and encouraged them to make machine after machine.

Creation gods were dangerous. They grew drunk with power far too quickly for the other gods’ tastes. So Fit did what he thought was best. He called up the twin soul gods of science.

Pac e Mike answered his call as quick as lightning. They both wore bright identifying clothes and had wicked grins on their faces.

“Why call on us now, god of battle?” Mike asked in a teasing tone as he circled around Pac, who stood stone still staring at Fit with a curious expression.

“Surely you've heard of the god of creation?”

“A new one has popped up?” Pac asked, raising an eyebrow.

“So you haven't heard?”

Pac shrugged. “We keep to ourselves, me and Mikey. Don't need anybody else.”

“I want someone to come with me to investigate.”

“And you picked us?” Mike asked curiously.

“You're the strongest of the gods which are the least volatile. Wasn't a hard choice.”

“You flatter us,” Pac cooed. He flicked his fingers and Mike straightened, stopping his pacing instantly. “I'll go with him.”

“Really?” Mike asked, not looking at Fit. Pac nodded.

“I've been itching for an adventure and hey, he's kinda cute.” He winked at Fit and laughed as the gesture made the god's face flush.

“Okay, Paccy. Be safe.”

“I always am.”

Pac was a nice traveling companion, over the next few months tracking the creation god, they grew close. Incredibly close. Flings weren't unknown among different types of gods but something about this felt incredibly different.

They learned each other's every move in a way that Fit had never ever felt with anyone else before. So during those months they became something. Something lovely and precious. They learned to move in sync, Fit learned to see in Pac's eyes when Mike was peering through to get a grasp on what was happening. They got so close that they almost forgot their end goal.

Before one fatal day as the sky cracked open over a small human town and the smell of godhood clung to the air like smog. They ran in, every moment synced with the other. There in the midst of a thunderstorm was the man, a god. Electric eyes that could be seen through the chaos of the storm. “Hello!” his voice called out. “Do you see the wonders these humans can create with my power?”

Pac and Fit pushed deeper into the storm. “We've been looking for you,” Fit said calmly and the man's eyes lit up impossibly stronger.

“Is that so? Well you found me, boys. The name's Tubbo. Can I have the pleasure of yours?”

“Fit.”

“Pac.”

The god of creation hummed. “Why have you been looking?”

“You have to know that your kind is dangerous,” Fit pressed.

Tubbo raised an eyebrow as he lowered his hands and the storm began to subside into the ground. “I'm not a killer if that's what you're implying. If I had to bet the most tame creator you guys have ever met.”

“What do you want to do with your power?” Pac asked, shooting for the heart of the issue.

“Create, of course,” Tubbo said. “Do you know how many amazing things these humans are capable of? The factories? Fuck it's amazing.”

Fit and Pac exchanged a look. He didn't seem dangerous. But it was probably best to watch him more carefully. Very carefully.

Very carefully turned to hanging out every day which turned into arms that wouldn't stop brushing which turned to all three of them knowing each other better then they knew themselves. It turned into long days and learning Mike's antics and the way he and Pac could push into each other's minds and tane control. It turned into rooms in each other's houses before it turned into just cuddling each other to sleep. And suddenly what was three gods who had nothing to do with each other became the most feared group in all of the skies and earth. But to each other they were just them. They were their passions and loved ones. Something good and simple and pure.

[thisismeracing]

bonnington-schumi kiddos 

pls include the bono-schumi mood board i sent ya over email in your response

ok i’ve mentioned them enough, lets dig into the bonnington-schumi kiddos

history has a funny way of repeating itself and for bon and mick it manifests in their kids birth order and gender

because much like when corrina had gina and mick, bon had her daughter first and son second. and both came out looking like two more schumacher clones to add to the collection 

but bon isn't complaining because how could she be mad when her two babies share those unmistakable blue eyes 

their first born is named: Eloise “Ellie” Suzanne Bonnington-Schumacher 

and their second born is: Mike “Mikey” Sebastian Bonnington-Schumacher 

imagine bon and mick introducing little ellie to susie in the hospital and when susie asks what her name is and bon goes “eloise suzanne” susie just melts because this little bundle of joy is named after her. 

and the same goes for sebastian when mikey is born 

the f1 crew just going though the cycle of watching another kid grow up in the paddock start up again with miss ellie. but this time it’s the kid of the original kid you watched grow up, and this time around there’s two of them because mikey is born a few years after 

and everyone jokes about how “oh ellie is going to be an engineer like her mama” and “oh mikey is a future f1 champ like his papa” 

but the opposite happens where ellie is the driver, and mikey is an engineer 

And imagine the timelapse of the headphones to protect their little ears and how they look so giant on them cause they’re so small, but give it a few years and now they look proportionate to their bodies 

(i feel like that would make a lot of people just so soft and heartbroken because their favorite little kids are growing up and so fast, like pls make it stop 😢) 

[also the people who watched bon grow up just get deja vu whenever they are interacting with ellie, because wow does she act just like bon when she was this age]

and best believe these two are championship babies. you can't tell me no on this one. 

When they announced they were pregnant with ellie, people both in real life and online are so quick to do the math on when she could’ve been conceived, and they all land on the fact she was conceived around the time of abu dhabi 

and after mikey is born, toto sits the both of them down and says “i love that the team is winning championships with mick, and i love the kids. but next time you two do it after winning a championship please for the love of god put a condom on. because two little kids are going to be enough with them running around the paddock.”

and mick is just mortified, while bon is laughing her ass off and she’s the one to reassure him that they wont be having anymore kids anytime soon

[i told myself i had to finish this before showering and i did! also it breached the second page of the google doc so quickly]

☕

skjgksdjg OMG I LOVED LOVED IT!!! <3<3

totally agree on mikey engineer and ellie driver!!! espec bc I think ellie is more of a social butterfly while mikey is a bit shy like mick, he's funny and friendly, but usually he'll only talk if you talk to him first (the paddock experience helps it a little with this, but he keeps a bit of the shyness, its so cute and bb loves it bc he's such a momma's boy - its makes up for ellie being dada's girl)

adding more: ellie's first word will be angie while mikey's will probably be something from bb's work because she'll work with him on her hips sometimes so his big blue eyes are always watching the engineers go around and listening to everything, she'll only connect the dots bc he says it right after a meeting (to which he was silent throughout it all, only munching on a pencil and grabbing things from the table to curiously analyse)

[zabala0z]

This season is making me hyperventilate a lot in a fangirl sort of way (but also in a panicked way BECAUSE WHAT??)

Hi! I got 5 episodes that I freaked out over. Come and hear my thoughts. You have to.

MAG 87: The Uncanny Valley

Circus. That girl is named like Nikola Orsinov which is the same last name as the ringmaster of The Circus back in like the mid 1900’s? So I’m assuming she’s a descendant and taking up the mantle of traumatizing people. Gertrude mentioned “The Unknowing” which Not Sasha mentioned before and like Leitner. In this context, it sounds less like a title and more like an apocalypse: not a good sign. ALSO THE MUSIC.

Not much to say for MAG 88: Dig besides I don’t wanna dig. Also the calliope organ is gone. Oh god. Feels like this circus is gonna be the main antagonist this season. Unfortunately I despise clowns

MAG 89: Twice as Bright

I went insane over this episode guys. I love Jude and hate her. The description with her coworker and his new house and baby and wife, I was just screaming, “no dont kill him!! 😭😭”. And she did. Not surprised. Like every word she spoke made me viscerally uncomfortable but she’s such an interesting character.

Also she like…likes Agnes, yeah? I clocked that after reading over the transcript. I’m assuming the entity shes under is like The Desolation cause I think The Lightless Flame is just the name of the cult. Poor Jon. Bros hand is not gonna be the same. Im hoping she appears again. Interesting that Michael Crew hangs around the Fairchilds. Makes sense since like every situation they’re involved in is the whole empty/alone/open area thing. I’m still thinking the entity they’re under is The Vast because that’s what Michael said before jumping out that window and I think I’m right

MAG 90: Body Builder

JARED HOPWORTH. Why did you open a gym, bro?? Like the moment I heard, “large guy-“ my brain, “oh yeah that’s Jared”

The whole flesh torso things, I guess used to be humans but Jared decided “I think they’d look cool without their arms” so that’s why he said “too soon” towards Davenport. Marie probably stole those femurs so I’m wondering if she got the whole bone altering power???

MAG 91: The Coming Storm

Holy shit. Jesus. Oh my god. First off, Mike was so polite??? Like he offered tea and stuff. And then that kinda changed when he like full of astral projected Jon or something. Or I guess he raised the air pressure. Props to the sound effects, I love them. I liked hearing Mikes story but holy shit DAISY. I love Daisy. But girl calm down 😭 actually I can’t even blame her

I was at the temple by the way, making garlands, and listening to this was a nightmare because I couldn’t make any outward reaction. So that’s why I went to a bathroom stall and freaked as Daisy kicked the shit out of Mike. Couple things though; the fact the tape recorder keeps turning on is def a concern. Pretty sure it’s The Eye. I don’t know if it can physically do much since it…watches but that’s what I’m thinking. But why? Is it breaking the 4th wall?

Basira coming in clutch ‼️‼️ Also, Jon getting info out of people is apparently not a natural thing. Makes sense why Jude and Mike told their whole story and even remarked on how strange it was they did at the end of it. It makes sense actually. Jon is truly the main character but utilized in such a great way. Oh he doesn’t die? It’s not plot armor, it’s just the all seeing entity protecting him. Everyone tells him everything? Yeah that’s kinda his power. Love it.

So yeah! That’s everything. Pretty terrified because there’s powerful entities and I’m scared someone is going to die. If Basira or Daisy die, I will cry. Actually if anyone dies, im a very emotionally attached person

[thatpodcastkid]

Magnus Archives Relisten 17, MAG 17 The Boneturner's Tale, Spoiler-Free Version

Honestly, if my high school bully got their hands on a demon book I think basically the same thing would happen.

MAG 17 analysis, spoiler-free.

Facts: Statement of Sebastian Adekoya regarding a new acquisition at Chiswick Library.

Statement Notes: "Books are amazing, aren't they?"

The first line of this statement is so hopeful. Sebastian approaches what happened to him with this strange light pouring out of him. He takes on the world with a realistic yet deeply optimistic outlook. His character feels out of place in the Magnus Archives world because, although he's afraid, he isn't sick or sad or angry or desperate. Despite the horror he finds himself facing, there isn't any actual disruption to his routine, meaning he doesn't have to change in the face of danger. Adekoya is a static character in a dynamic setting.

As a book lover, Adekoya uses a lot of flowery language in his statement. He spends the first minute giving a speech on the beauty and power of language and the written word. He serves as an incredible contrast to Jared. They don't necessarily have conflicting beliefs, but conflicting focuses. Adekoya deals in the beautiful and abstract, Hopworth deals in the messy and real. Language is art, humans are meat.

Since Sebastian and Jared are around the same age, and Adekoya just graduated college, we can assume Jared is about 22-23 during the events of this statement. His characterization was very realistic. People often joke about hearing the bully of their secondary school getting arrested, but it's very different when you realize the violent but ultimately harmless kid you knew has become a violent and harmful adult. Often, that violent energy is turned against family members first. Those who tried to help, those who enabled, those who don't deserve it.

The end of the statement was very frightening. The violence enacted against Adekoya is a show of power by Jared and, in turn, The Boneturner's Tale. The Bonetruner's Tale holds an eldritch power no human can possibly understand. It is capable of enacting violence no human can understand. Its power is so great, we are left to assume a car killed Sebastian, because no living thing could do that much damage. Right?

In addition to Mike Crew's strange strategy of dropping the Leitner off in a random library, he chose to file it as Trainspotting of all things. This means that not only did Crew check out Trainspotting from the library, but he now owns the copy. Does this matter at all to the plot or metaplot of TMA? No. Does it matter to my heart? Yes.

I also noted how Sebastian didn't seem attracted to Boneturner at all. There's a motif with Leitners regarding them "calling out" to people and drawing innocents into their dark ways as part of the cursed object trope. But clearly, it's not indiscriminate. The isn't an apple of discord or ring of power situation; Leitners are capable of choosing who they want to attach themselves to. While I don't know much about the Canterbury Tales (feel free to educate me in the notes), it does seem that as the book makes Hopworth stronger, he makes it stronger by feeding its written desire for blood and violence.

Character Notes: Who speaks to their boss like that. Who. "Fine, fine, I'll be more lovely?" Tf? You sarcastic bastard?

This is a...weird intro to Elias to say the least. While of course Jon is being rude and they're passively sniping at each other, Elias does seem calm. He seems responsible and put together. He's not antagonistic in any way. If anything, Jon is the aggressor in the conversation. Up to this point, Jon has been the listener's only lens to view this world through. So when we are presented with a new character to compare him to, and Jon is snippy and rude, we are compelled to see this character as calm and rational.

Also Elias calls him "Jonathan." That doesn't mean anything but god to be a fly on that wall.

[localcuttlefish]

asks you about the lightning never strikes twice au

You and @thecatchat have opened Pandora’s Box, I will take this as my signal to never shut up

Strap in folks this is gonna be a Long Post, but I added visuals so bear with me on this

This AU relies heavily on a few assumptions about character personalities, and a few assumptions about how the entities work. 

Here’s my basis of knowledge upon which this entire AU is built:

We know Tim is mentally and emotionally checked out for the majority of Season 3. He’s antisocial, cold, and resentful towards anything regarding the institute and/or it’s employees. He doesn’t give them the opportunity to get close to him anymore, and therefore, he isn’t really fully informed as to what the archival team is looking into all the time (as evidenced by MAG 104: Sneak Preview).

This means he wouldn’t know much (or care much) about Jon going out of his way to seek out Jude Perry, and subsequently seek out Mike Crew. 

The events of MAG 091: The Coming Storm occur as normal. What I want us to focus on is the audio after the statement, of Daisy disposing of Mike’s body and attempting to execute Jon as well. We know that the location Mike is buried in has to be accessible by car, specifically by standard undercover police vehicles, because the audio recording is implicitly either from the trunk of the car or in a closed bag in the car. I tend to make the assumption that the burial location is in a clearing through a patch of woodlands off the shoulder of the highway, because Daisy would know that the highway is a very difficult place to thoroughly search for cadavers, and Jon confirms that he was dragged through a forest to be executed in MAG 132: Entombed. If I remember correctly, Daisy frequents this place, as confirmed by Basira in MAG 091: The Coming Storm. We will keep the presumed location of Mike’s unmarked grave in mind.

Now here comes some big leaps of logic from me. This is where it starts to get funky.

We know that in order to become an avatar, like, a real one, full blown inhuman, you need to die, or at least come close to death, as explained in MAG 121: Far Away.

Up until this point, Tim has not encountered such an event. He’s been tricked into a binding contract with The Eye after being traumatized by The Stranger, he’s held his own against The Corruption, he’s been trapped in The Spiral, he’s inflicted his loneliness upon himself, and god knows to what degree The Web has been stringing him along as it did to all the archival employees, but none of these experiences killed him, or even came that close to it. 

As much as I love Desolation or Stranger aligned Tim, we always forget that he is first and foremost an employee of The Magnus Institute. He’s got that Eye alignment set up for him from the start. Being that he hasn’t died, he isn’t an avatar, but he can tap into the power of The Eye to some degree, much like how Jon in S3 could, but obviously Tim’s dominion of The Eye would be much narrower, since he isn’t The Archivist. 

I would like to think Tim’s abilities are almost mundane to some extent, since he resents the entities and tries to distance from them as much as possible.

Perhaps he’s just really good at finding hidden things. Like in MAG 039: Infestation, when he conveniently fell into multiple canisters of fire extinguishers in a seemingly coincidental stroke of good luck.

That’s the assumption I like to make.

We also know for a fact that trying to escape The Magnus Institute will cause sickness. It happened to Tim when he tried to get away in MAG 090: Bodybuilder. We will keep this effect in mind for later, trust me, it’s important. 

Jumping back to Mike, we know that avatars of The Hunt are the only beings that can really put down another avatar (I forgot which episode this was explained but I think it was from late S3 or early S4, if I find it I’ll edit this and put the exact episode). Daisy, at the time of MAG 091: The Coming Storm, is not confirmed to be an avatar for certain if I remember correctly. But for sake of covering all our bases, let’s say she is. In MAG 132: Entombed, Daisy clarifies that The Hunt “was in me all my life. Telling me who to chase. How to hurt them.”

Daisy was never hunting Mike, though. She was hunting Jon, and Mike just so happened to get caught in the crossfire. Therefore, I would make the argument that The Hunt did not put Mike down, but it sure looks like it did at face value.

So, when she puts a bullet or two through Mike, I’d like to think that’s not enough to really do the job permanently. But what does incapacitate Mike is being completely separated from The Vast, stuck in The Buried. Almost a fairytale-esque sleep-like-death. 

From that, I would dare to assume Mike isn’t dead, but in a painful, paralyzed, eternal stillness and silence, being crushed on all sides and totally severed from that which he serves. He can’t even scream in the few fleeting moments of lucidity in his entrapped state because Daisy broke his jaw when she first attacked. He’s stuck in a half-coma underground.

The last piece of setup for this show is the fact that Tim values autonomy. We see this as he gets more and more frustrated with Jon hovering over him with accusations and micromanagements throughout S2, and Elias trapping him in his current job via supernatural means as revealed in S2 and S3. Granted, he’s not as outspoken about it as Melanie is in comparison, but he still values autonomy. He even dared Elias to kill him if Elias wanted to take away his freedom of choice so badly. “Kill me or fuck off.” (MAG 104: Sneak Preview)

From this, I’d like to assume that he tries to get away in smaller ways, like driving far away from the city of London just to see the stars. Simple things like that, so the institute doesn’t drag him back on a shorter leash, kicking and screaming. 

So, we have the setup. Where does that lead us?

We have a tired and stressed Tim, driving out on a long empty stretch of highway, feeling more and more unwell the further he gets from the institute, until he sees an undercover police vehicle whipping out of a shoulder on the highway. Once again, he has conveniently found something meant to be hidden. 

And of course, being of The Eye, he investigates. Almost instantaneously he no longer feels unwell. 

To his horror, he unearths Mike, discovering the potter’s field Daisy has been steadily adding to over her years in the police force. 

What really wakes Mike up, though?

Well.

There’s a few more fine details, but this is the general gist of it! Feel free to ask more, I’m gonna continue to put out content for this AU but I would love to know what people want to see from it!

[anachronistic-falsehood]

🤖bagina and fitpac

OUGH YES I LOVE THEM BOTH OK HERE WE GO

they are. the guys ever. oh my god. they are slowburning the fuck out of this lesbian romance. they are in the puppy love stage right now and it could not be more wonderful. they are everything i wanted when bagi joined and made it her mission to get a minecraft girlfriend. they have vowed to protect each other and they trust each other so so much. if they had to save anyone on the island it would be each other. i think they need to get weirder with it. they need to be spiderbit levels of codependent. like. the TRUST they already have the DEVOTION i’m losing my mind they need to kiss right now immediately i want them to be the next wedding on the island PLEASE

FITPACCCCC MY FITPAC <3 two fucked up guys looking for someone to lean on. last time i did a ship bingo these two were in the beginning stages of a relationship but now they’ve bonded since mike went missing, they’re part of the morning crew, they’re ALL ONE BIG FAMILY AND THEY TRUST EACH OTHER SO MUCH. TUBBO AND HIS MESSED UP GAY UNCLES WHO CAN’T MAKE A MOVE AND GET TOGETHER FOR THE LIFE OF THEM. i think they need to awkwardly stumble through asking each other out on another date and i want them to tell each other about their own traumas and confide in each other about their pasts and lean on each other when things get too overwhelming I LOVE FITPAC

[chicgeekgirl89]

I Get it From You

Fandom: 911 Lone Star

Characters: Carlos Reyes, T.K. Strand, Andrea Reyes, Gabriel Reyes, Lexi Mitchell, OC Cousin Adriana

Rating: K

For @tarlosweeklyprompts Prompt #2: 5+1 of habits that Carlos picked up from TK and 1 that TK got from Carlos. 

A/N: I may have played a little fast and loose with it, but 🤷‍♀️.

Read on AO3

Charm

“I noticed you started wearing this recently,” Andrea says, reaching out to finger the tiny cross hanging around his neck. “It’s pretty.”

“Thanks,” Carlos says a little numbly, eyes trained on T.K.’s nearly frozen, lifeless form. 

“You’ve never been much of a jewelry person,” Andrea says, her unasked question hanging in the air between them. 

“T.K. wears a medallion around his neck,” he tells her.

“I’ve seen it,” Andrea says. “With his number from New York on it.”

Carlos nods. “He says it reminds him that he’s part of something bigger. That he’s got people to watch his back. That being on that crew probably saved his life, because even when he was…” Carlos hesitates, remembering that his mom doesn’t fully know how deep T.K.’s struggles with addiction have gone. “Even when he was struggling, he knew he had a responsibility to be there and help people. He never takes it off.”

“A good reminder of the support he has, then and now,” she says softly.

Carlos reaches up and brushes his fingers over the cross. “After the fire…everything was just so hard. I felt lost, I was kind of spiraling and one day we were out trying to replace stuff and I saw this and I felt like it kind of called to me. It reminds me where I come from. That I have roots, and a purpose.” He looks up and gives her a wan smile. “That’s probably a less religious answer than you were hoping for.”

She shakes her head, leaning forward to cup his cheek. “It’s a perfect answer.”

Pizza

“Oh my god. What the actual fuck are you doing to that pizza?”

Carlos freezes, pizza halfway to his mouth. “Eating it?” he says in confusion.

Adriana looks at him like he’s crazy. “Eating it? You’re murdering it!”

He looks down to see that he’s mindlessly folded the slice in half. “Mind your own business.”

“Um, you turning a delicious slice of Texas’ finest into that hot mess is my business.”

“How about I eat the pizza I bought and paid for and planned to eat by myself tonight however I want and you shut up?”

“Where did you even learn to do that?” she persists. “I’ve never seen you do that before.”

“It’s how T.K. eats his. It’s a New York thing. I must have picked it up from him.”

“Well can you send it back where it belongs? You look ridiculous.”

He starts to pull the pizza box away from her but she grabs on. “No! Okay! I’m sorry! You can commit pizza homicide all you want!”

He rolls his eyes and lets the box go. “It was so nice and quiet before you showed up here unannounced.”

“You’re welcome, by the way, for saving you from that sad loneliness. Where’s T.K.?”” Adriana asks around a mouthful of cheese and peppers. 

“He has a shift.”

She nods in understanding. “Down at Hunk-O-Mania. Gotta get his last dances in before you two get hitched. Nobody wants a lap dance from a guy with a ring on his finger.”

“It is unbelievable that you think that joke is still funny after like three years,” Carlos tells her with a glare.

“God he and Magic Mike both hanging up their tear away pants in the same year,” she says with fake wistfulness. “The stripping world is losing two of its greats.”

“Don’t ever show up here uninvited again.”

Schmutz

“God I love this place,” Lexi says as she bites into a donut. “I will admit I thought gourmet donuts were a stupid idea, but I have seen the light.”

Carlos breaks off a piece of his matcha donut and nods in agreement. “Have you had their mocha one? That’s T.K.’s favorite. They had that lavender one too, a couple weeks ago and it blew my mind.”

“I would usually say flowers and donuts do not go together, but after this?” she holds up the orange cream donut that’s half gone already. “I’m willing to try it.”

They end up cramming their remaining donuts down as fast as they can when a call comes in and they have to go break up some fighting parents at a high school basketball game. It’s nasty and several people have to get seen by EMT’s for bloody noses and black eyes, but no one ends up pressing charges, so they head back to the station to do paperwork before their shift ends.

“You’ve got some donut schmutz on your collar,” Carlos tells her when they get inside and the harsh florescent lighting of the station illuminates them both.

She raises an eyebrow. “Some what?”

“Schmutz,” Carlos says. “It’s like…dirt. Mess.” 

“Somebody’s been hanging out with their fiancé too much,” she tells him with a laugh as she reaches for a tissue to wipe off her uniform. “Are you headed home to cook up a brisket tonight too? Going to hail a cab to get you there?”

“Shut up,” Carlos says, feeling his face redden. 

“Are you going to stop smiling at people in the store too? And start cutting people off in traffic?”

“Oh my god stop.”

“T.K.’s east coast ways have rubbed right off on you. I would have thought the Texas blood ran deeper than that. Oh god,” she puts on a fake horrified look, “do you think Chipotle is real Tex-Mex now?”

He shoots her a glare. “Don’t you have paperwork to do?”

“I’m teasing Reyes,” she tells him. “I think it’s nice actually. Being with the right person should change you a little. And you and T.K. have changed each other in all the right ways.”

She sends him a smile and starts on the pile on her desk, leaving Carlos to contemplate the warm glow her words have put into his chest.

Team

“Carlitos, thank you for coming on such short notice,” Andrea says when Carlos steps through the front door of his parents’ house.

“No problem,” Carlos says. “Sorry to hear Frankie is sick.”

One of their ranch hands had called out unexpectedly and Carlos was a quick and easy replacement. It wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind for his day off, but family duty wasn’t something he ignored if he could help it. “Where’s Dad?”

“He’s out back,” Andrea tells him. “I texted him and told him to come up to the house. He’ll be here any minute.”

Carlos shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it on a peg by the door before turning around to give his mom a hug. Andrea’s face immediately drops and she sighs. “Oh Carlitos.”

“What?” he asks, confused by her bizarre response.

She shakes her head. “You’re wearing a Mets shirt.”

“Yeah, I think T.K. brought it back from New York the last time he went out to see Jonah,” Carlos says, glancing down at the offending blue t-shirt.

“Carlos, you know how your father feels.”

“It’s a shirt Mom. It’s what I had on when you called.”

“You couldn’t have taken a few minutes to change?”

“You made it sound kind of urgent,” Carlos says in annoyance.

The back door opens and Gabriel walks in, a smile on his face. As soon as he catches sight of Carlos he sours immediately. “What are you wearing?”

“A t-shirt that my fiancé gave me,” Carlos says.

Gabriel’s voice goes low, dark like thunder. “In this house we root for the Astros. And only the Astros.”

“It’s a shirt dad. It’s not a big deal,” Carlos says. “T.K. likes when I rep his team.”

“Don’t tell me he’s got you cheering for them too?” Gabriel says, looking outraged. “Oh my god, where did we go wrong?”

“They have some really good pitchers dad. You respect a good team, they’re a good team.”

Gabriel scoffs. “I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation.”

“I can’t either,” Carlos tells him.

“Enough Gabriel,” Andrea calls from where she’s returned to the kitchen. “He came to help. Leave him alone.”

“What you do in your own home is your business,” Gabriel says tightly, ignoring her. “But I will not allow those colors to be worn in my house.”

Carlos claps him on the shoulder. “Good thing we’re going to be outside then.”

Friends

“Hey babe!” T.K. calls as he walks through their door.

The TV immediately turns off and Carlos whirls around to look at him over the back of the couch, eyes wide and innocent. “Hey,” he says back.

T.K. pauses, eying him closely. Carlos is trying for nonchalant, but T.K. can smell guilt in the air. He sets down his bag and puts his hands on his hips. “What were you just watching Carlos?”

“A documentary,” Carlos says quickly.

“A documentary.”

“Yep.” Carlos pops the “p” in an effort to seem casual.

T.K. dives over the back of the couch and snatches the remote out of his fiancé’s hand, flicking the TV back on. “A documentary about six friends living in New York in the mid-nineties?!” he yells.

“Okay, hear me out,” Carlos says, holding up his hands placatingly.

“You watched without me!”

“I didn’t mean to!” Carlos cries. “I was watching a documentary and then it rolled into the episode when it ended and—“

“You could have turned it off!” T.K. tells him sternly.

“I was going to!” Carlos says. “But T.K., Chandler and Monica?! What the hell?!”

“You said you didn’t even like it,” T.K. points the remote at his chest. “You said it was ‘fine.’ And then you went and betrayed my trust.”

“Well…I got a little invested,” Carlos says sheepishly.

“I’m glad my good taste in television is finally rubbing off on you,” T.K. grumbles. “But next time you decide to watch a pivotal episode of one of America’s greatest sit-coms, you’d better wait for me.”

Dinner

Carlos is so tired he’s not sure he’s going to make it down the hallway. Every part of his body aches to be in bed though, so he trudges onward, one foot in front of the other until he finally fumbles his way through the door. 

He can’t remember the last time a shift was this bad. They hadn’t had a single second to slow down, one call after another, nearly all of them resulting in a physical altercation or take down, and the final call of the day had been a shootout at a bank with multiple casualties. He’s bruised and sore and completely wiped out.

His bag hits the floor and he’s tempted to drop down next to it, but the next thing he knows arms are wrapping around him and T.K. is pulling him tightly into his chest. “Hey,” he breathes into Carlos’ hair. “I was so worried.”

The 126 hadn’t been called into the bank situation, but T.K. must have found out about it from someone because he’d sent multiple concerned texts. Carlos had answered as soon as he could, but there was a big difference between being reassured in a text and being reassured in person.

“I’m okay,” Carlos mumbles into T.K.’s shoulder.

T.K. pulls back and gives him a critical look, fingers brushing over a bruise on Carlos’ forehead and then a minor gash on his arm. “I’m glad you’re home,” he says, a silent acknowledgement that Carlos isn’t actually okay, but he will be now that he’s here.

“Me too,” Carlos sighs. His eyes feel like sandpaper and he desperately wants a shower, but he’s not sure he’ll stay awake long enough.

“Are you hungry?” T.K. asks. “I made dinner.”

“I think I’ll just—“ Carlos stops his response abruptly as he looks at the kitchen. “T.K. what—?”

Every flat surface is covered in pots and pans, cooking utensils, or food. The sink is piled high with dirty dishes and something is still bubbling on the stove.

“I um, I might have been a little anxious waiting for you to get home,” T.K. says sheepishly.

“So you cooked enough for an army?” Carlos asks.

“I’m going to clean it up,” T.K. says quickly. “I know the dirty dishes stress you out, and I planned to have it all done but then the fish took longer than I thought it would and the sauce wouldn’t thicken so…”

Carlos’ brain is still trying to catch up with what he’s seeing. “You don’t usually cook when you’re stressed.”

T.K. shrugs. “I couldn’t sit still so I asked myself, ‘what would Carlos do’? And then I did it. It’s surprisingly effective.” His face softens and he runs a gentle hand over Carlos’ curls. “I can’t fix your day, but I can at least make sure you’re fed. That’s the Reyes Family Motto, right?”

Carlos’ face relaxes into tender smile. “Yeah. Something like that.”

[sugartitstownley]

HC’s for Post Option C Trikey

Hey, everyone! This is nothing too formal or well written— just some thoughts put down. All mistakes are mine because I didn’t reread this at all. Trigger warnings for mentions of violence and canon compliant themes. Here’s some Trikey + a bit of Amanda/Mike/T friendship.

Michael and Amanda’s divorce is rather amicable despite years of prior arguing.

Neither want to admit their marriage is over—both worried about the kids’ reactions. But they know it’s in everyone’s best interest.

Amanda moves out of the house, opting for a beach front property like she once asked Michael for months before.

Mike decides to stay at the house for now, even if it reminds him of what a lonely, washed-up jock he really is.

It doesn’t matter, though, because he’s never home. Instead, he spends his time at the movie studio, threatening actors and crew alike (because old habits die hard, right?).

If he accidentally hits too hard and the actor just doesn’t wake up…well, who can blame him?

The rest of his time is spent in the company of Franklin, Trevor, and Lamar.

“Jesus, sugar tits. You finally have time for us outside of kissing Solomon Richards’ ass.”

“Oh, bite me, T,” Michael says, rolling his eyes as he slides into the backseat of Franklin’s car. “I’ve been busy doing my job on set.”

“Well, sorry! I didn’t realize I was in the presence of a huge celebrity.”

Franklin slams on the brakes, the car coming to a halt in front of the stoplight. “Man, if y’all two don’t shut the fuck up, I’m dropping you both off.”

In hindsight, maybe things don’t seem that different between him and Trevor after The Big One. But he knows something has changed.

Trevor’s insults and quips don’t pack as much punch; they don’t leave a bitter taste in your mouth.

And Michael? Well, he stops regulates how many times he calls his former running buddy a psycho.

Their tentative friendship rebuilds for the most part, but there’s still an added component that neither party wants to speak aloud. That, or maybe it was a returning feeling resurfacing from their youth.

Either way, Michael tries to let it go and focus on making himself semi-happy for once. However, he doesn’t factor in until later that maybe he’s been so damn unhappy for the last 10 years because of a certain murderous, incest-loving hipster.

Michael feels his heart jump out of his skin as he turns around to see Trevor leaning against the glass outside of his house. He watches Trevor give a small salute before walking over to let the taller man in.

“You can’t knock on the front door like a normal human being?” Michael asks, his voice dripping with mild annoyance. “What am I saying? Of course you can’t.”

“For your information, pork chop,” Trevor starts, walking straight past Michael to look through his fridge, “I do this to keep you young— keep you on your toes.”

He watches Trevor pull out the soup container they made a few days prior while hanging out. Like a reflex, he opens the drawer and pulls out two spoons while they wait for it to heat up in the microwave.

“Yeah, whatever. What are you even doing here anyway?”

“Can’t a guy come see his best friend without there being a reason? Not all of us are looking to gain something from their relationships, sugar.”

Michael sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “God, T. When are you going to let it go? Just once I’d like to spend time with you without thinking of our past. I said I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

Trevor’s eyes find his, and surprisingly, there’s nothing but understanding in them. They hold each other’s gaze a moment too long until the microwave’s beeps fill the quiet room.

Their companionship settles into a routine that even surprises Michael himself. Food will be cooked together, movies will be watched, bikers will be shot (you can’t blame Mike for getting involved sometimes most times— it’s in his blood).

The taller man’s presence becomes so normal in Michael’s life that even Jimmy and Tracey aren’t surprised to see Trevor walking throughout the house when they’re visiting.

If Michael didn’t know any better, he’d say the kids even missed their uncle— enough to visit the Rockford Hills house even when Mike himself wasn’t there.

“Argh! This game fucking sucks!”

Michael’s lips twitch into a small smile as he heads up the stairs towards Jimmy’s room. The sight in front of him doesn’t surprise him all that much considering Trevor’s cursing could likely be heard from across the street.

Michael stops at his son’s doorway, watching him and Trevor furiously tapping on controllers to try and shoot the on-screen targets.

“Uncle T,” Jimmy pipes up, cringing at the screen. “You’re standing too close to the bomb, you’re going die if you don’t—”

The blood of Trevor’s character splatters across the screen before Jimmy starts laughing uncontrollably.

“Shut the fuck up, kid! C’mon, Mikey. Let’s go do something actually worth our time.”

Michael chuckles, reaching over to fist bump Jimmy, before leaving the room with Trevor.

He’s not sure when it happened—or why— but every time he looks at Trevor and his kids while they’re together, he can’t help but think of them as a family.

Sure, Trevor is already family. His kids call him Uncle T for a reason. But that’s not what Michael means. He sees them as his family. Trevor, Michael, Jimmy, and Tracey— a family.

It could be the people of Los Santos getting inside his brain with their comments and assumptions. Every time the pair go out with the kids, there’s at least one person who calls them a “two-dad family.”

For some reason, though, it doesn’t bother Michael like it used to. He doesn’t feel guilty anymore, like he’s cheating on Amanda.

After realizing that, it hit him harder than Martin Madrazo’s baseball bat. He loves Trevor. He’s in love with Trevor, and he probably always has been. Why else would he feel like he’s doing something wrong to Mandy every time he’s with him?

He doesn’t want to even think about telling his friend, but he also knows he wants to be done keeping secrets from him forever. And apparently, he’s done keeping secrets from everyone.

“Dad,” Jimmy starts off nervously from his side of the couch. “So, like, can I ask you something?”

Michael shoots him a weary look. “If this is about me buying you that new game, I already told you no Jim.”

“No, no. Nothing like that. It’s more, ya know, personal.”

The silence drags on as Michael waits for Jimmy to continue, but he never does. “Spit it out already.”

“Look, are you and Uncle T, like, closer than you were before the divorce? You know, closer. Because, like, that’s totally cool with me. I have gay friends now, and I guess it’s better than you staying with mom and cheating. Maybe you and uncle T can, ya know, keep each other alive and shit but—”

“What? Jim! No! Trevor and I aren’t…”

Jimmy interrupts him. “But you want to be?”

“When did you get so observant all of a sudden? You sound like a fuckin’ psychologist.”

“Well, pop, you raised me in Los Santos.”

Jimmy, much to Michael’s embarrassment, prodded at him until he agreed to talk to Trevor about the “issue.”

It takes Michael another month, plus one more terribly uncomfortable conversation with Jimmy, to confess to Trevor.

“Christ, T. I think it’s possible that maybe…”

“I’ll be dead by the time you finish your sentence, sugar.”

Michael sighs. “Have you ever thought that there might be more to this?”

“More—” Trevor groans. “Can you just say what you mean for once in your life?”

“I love you, you asshole.”

Horns honking and police sirens can be heard from outside as the room becomes eerily quiet. Before Michael can truly panic, Trevor leans forward so fast that Mike’s sure he’s about to slam his head into his nose, but the searing pain never comes.

Instead, Trevor’s lips push against his while his hands tug Michael’s hair to bring him closer.

It’s cliché. It’s really fucking cliché. But, for once, Michael feels like he’s doing something right for a change.

“I love you, Mikey.”

After that, not much changes really. The only difference is that, now, when Trevor comes over after a long day of doing God knows what, Michael gets to sit on the couch wasting away with his boyfriend’s head lazily rested on his shoulder.

Or, sometimes, between his legs.

Telling Franklin and Lamar ended up being easy. Neither was all that surprised. In fact, Lamar even tried to start a bet once about when they’d “stop sucking as people and start sucking each other,” but Franklin put a stop to that real quick.

Other than that, Frank was supportive.

“I’m happy for you, dog. Maybe now you’ll stop being so miserable.”

Michael smirks. “I don’t know, but I think this is a good start.”

Telling Amanda and the kids was…interesting.

Jimmy, of course, knew already. But he was surprised that his dad actually grew the balls to do it.

Tracey was a little more shocked; she always thought the jokes about her dad and Uncle T were just that— jokes. Plus, she worried that her dad had been cheating before with him, but they assured her that wasn’t the case.

Tracey tried to act a little stubborn just in case her mom wasn’t okay with the relationship, but she was secretly happy for them.

Amanda, having found her own happiness outside of Michael, took it rather well too.

“This just started, right? You weren’t…together…during our marriage?”

“No, Mand,” Michael reassures her before sparing a glance at Trevor who is across the room talking to Tracey and Jim. “I only just realized it.”

“Well, I always wondered why on Earth you would stick by his side through some of the shit he has done,” Amanda says, her voice growing softer. “And now I know.”

Michael lets his gaze move back to his ex-wife’s. “I’m sorry I was such a prick to you.”

“I wasn’t perfect either.”

He’s about to respond when he feels a hand land on his shoulder. He looks up to see Trevor hovering above him while looking at Amanda.

“Hey,” Trevor points a finger at her. “You better accept his apology or I’ll be hearing about it for the rest of the year.”

Michael watches Amanda actually crack a smile towards Trevor. “He was always really miserable. But, lucky for me, he’s your problem now.”

Michael scoffs. “Hello, I’m right here!”

“Yeah, we know. It’s hard to miss you, pork chop.”

Despite Trevor’s remarks, Michael can hear the man’s smile as he walks back over to join Tracey and Jim, and that makes the sides of his lips curl into a small smile too.

“I’m not going to say I understand it completely,” Amanda admits. “But if you’re happy, then I’m glad.”

“I am. I think I finally am.”

[saiiboat]

i’d love to hear about your fuga sailing stuff \o/

HII ^_^ awesome. ok. so atm i have one silly racing au that i rotate in my head and one fic in the works which takes place directly after fuga when guaxinim, pac, and mike leave the island together on the boat. this one is heavy on the hurt and lighter on the comfort and is essentially just pac on one massive spiral now that he's starting to process everything that happened in prison and the island. lots of pac feeling guilty about cell's perceived suicide and struggling with his anger at mike for getting them into this mess. he's very much an emotional wreck LOL. hes been through so fucking much man. also going from being enclosed in a prison for a year and a half and then being out on open water and the crazy anxiety of being in such an open space is. well. its really getting to him. i'll leave some snippets of it under the cut 💪💪💪

the racing au is really just silly⛵💪💪🔥🔥🔥the nature of the sailing autism being that i always need to take some guys and throw them on a racing team, all of their insanities included.

when i talked about this au before i said that they sailed j22s but im upgrading them. they now sail Melges 20s. its official. ill put images under the cut. god. gorgeous boats.

the general idea is that JV and cell are two sailors looking for new members for their respective crews. felps is already on cell's crew and guaxinim sails with JV. probably at some point jv was on cell and felp's crew and now they have some kind of crazy beef. anyways. cell is just as weird and gross and intense as he is in fuga and he really wants pac and mike on his crew and having nothing to do with JV. obviously mike is skeeved out by the weird gross guy who looks maybe a bit too hungry sometimes and tries to get pac to join JV's crew with him. unfortunately pac is way too enamored with cell's negative rizz and cell proposes the idea to pac that tazercraft splits ways and mike can join JV's crew on his own. Mike is understandably upset at this but still ends up joining JV and guaxi's crew. the two boats have insane tension and pac is torn between pretending none of this happened at all and ignoring mike/sending worlds saddest eyes back to mike. mike is hurt and pissed off at pac and cell and felps and does his best to pretend that they dont exist at all while also needing to beat them in every regatta ever or he'll DIE because maybe if he wins against them enough times it'll prove something to pac. what will it prove? i dont think even he knows lol.

cell is actively trying to drive a wedge in between pac and mike and JV is doing the same thing on the other side. felps is purposely looking the other way during all of this and guaxinim is watching it all go down with some sick sense of fascination. definitely just hanging around to watch it happen like a long drawn out car crash.

cell in this au is especially fascinating to me. squeezing him like a stressball. he's ten ways fucked in the head and the reason why he started sailing in the first place is because his therapist told him to get a hobby and it was downhill from there. anyways cell tells his therapist about pac and the next time cell sees pac he walks up to him and says "my therapist says that we need to get coffee together and have normal interactions so i stop thinking about eating you" and pac just goes. oh! and its the hottest thing anyones ever said to him

obsessed with them, frankly

^^ sexual images fr

[fitpacs]

Cubito discussion... I have no idea how much if anything you know about dnd, but my brain is going about a mile a minute thinking about what classes/sub classes each person in morning crew/mini morning would have. I have rose family plus Tubbo and Mike (kinda) figured out, but if you (or anyone else) has suggestions I would love to know!!

(For this I am making the adults about lvl 6 and the kids about lvl 3) And just so there is a method to my madness: Name: Class(es) (subclass(es)) lvl # [Extra Note] -------------------------------------------------------------- Who I currently have: Fit: Fighter/Warlock (Battle Master/Archfey) lvl 5; lvl 1 [Madagio is the patron] Pac: Rouge (Theif) lvl 6 Ramon: Artificer (Artillerist) lvl 3 Richas: Bard (Creation) lvl 3 [Going to multi class into rouge (arcane trickster) eventually, uses paint brush instead of musical instrument] Kinda ideas for: Tubbo: Artificer (Steel Defender) lvl 6 [Creation is his robo friend?] Mike: Artificer?/Rouge? (Don't have the subclass for either) ROUGH ideas for: Sunny: Sorcerer Bagi: Monk (I want something that can be detective like and this was the first thing I thought of) Chayanne: Paladin [Techno would be his god] Tallulah: Druid or Bard maybe Cleric (I really have no idea for her) Phil: Cleric? (Death Domain) Em: Druid

If you know nothing about dnd and all of these words mean nothing to you I am sorry for just dumping this in your inbox. for it's 1-3 am for me and im going crazy.

i have extremely limited info when it comes to dnd but this all looks cool!