#grief just.. finds you sometimes anyway

[mercymaker]

▬ grief is unexpressed love

She missed Aleria, she missed Halsin, but above all else she missed her mother.

Mother that she would never see again.

The thought alone was like a dagger sinking into her heart, and soon, more tears came spilling out of her mismatched eyes. Thoriel sobbed as she sat at the mirror, her voice so unlike the one she had shared with the audience mere hours ago. Instead of a melody that would put a songbird to shame, the walls of the room heard only cries, broken and hushed.

She had spent years yearning for adventure, praying to her goddess every night to let her leave the little cabin at the edge of the woods. For so long, living under her mother’s wing felt like its own type of prison. It was warm and safe, yet it was a cage nonetheless. And she was a bird—a moth—meant to fly.

Yet now the young drow craved nothing more than to return back there, to rest by the hearth and listen to her mother’s soft humming. Oh, how foolish she’d been to leave her so soon. How cruel of this world it was to never let her return home again.

When she’d be scared or sad, Thoriel would cling to her mother’s waist, wrapping her small arms as if the drow was no mortal, but a god, capable of burning any fear or danger away with a single flick of her hand. And when Maleane pulled her close and held her, for as long as she needed, it was almost as if everything else in the world vanished. It was just her and her mother. It was comfort. It was warmth.

But who was to comfort her now? Who could take this weight, this sadness off her shoulders? How could she think of anything else when her mother lay cold in some distant grave.

Where was she supposed to find comfort? Where was she meant to find home?

All that was left of her family was just a chunk of amethyst dangling on a single chain.

Thoriel looked at the necklace, her vision distorted by tears, trying to recall the last time she’d seen it before the spawn showed up with the terrible news.

It used to be like hers, pretty and purple and glimmering, hanging from her mother’s neck like a promise. A ghost of her grandfather whom she’d never gotten to know. Now, the stone lay stained in her hand, soiled with the very blood of those who’d taken her mother away.

Thoriel felt anger burn hot and sharp somewhere deep within her chest, behind her heart. It was the one time she was glad to know that Astarion was a cruel man.

Maybe they weren’t so different after all.

She dipped a towel into the warm water and scrubbed the rouge off her cheeks, the pretty pinks and purples melting into the fabric to make a brief, ephemeral painting. The warmth felt soothing against her skin, raw and puffed from crying, but it brought little comfort to her heart.

Even as she slipped out of her costume—the familiar discomfort of all the corsets and pins and stage paint—the emptiness remained. All of the grooves and indentations that the night’s performance had left on her fragile skin paled to what felt like a gaping wound in her chest. Thoriel couldn’t help but look back at the bloodied gem, catching her eye in the reflection of the mirror like a gash in the otherwise plain backdrop.

It was dirty and stained and reeked of death. That’s not how she wished to remember her mother.

As if moved by some unseen current, the bard grabbed the necklace off the edge of the table and dipped it into the same warm water she’d used to wash her face. Thoriel scrubbed and scrubbed, frantically, pressing the cloth into the pendant, trying, desperately, to wash away the dried blood hiding in all the tiny crevices.

But the details were too fine, the cloth—too big—and soon frustration poured out of her in yet another pitiful sob.

Tears rolled down her cheeks, hot and heavy, and this time they stung like a dozen tiny needles. Yet she scrubbed and scrubbed as if the action was the only thing holding her attached to this world, to the memory, to whatever warmth remained of her mother. Thoriel closed her eyes, trying to force the tears out of her as if they could take away all the sadness, the sorrow as well. And she scrubbed, just as frantically as before, until her hand slipped and the wet necklace fell right between her fingers and unto the dark floor.

The sound stopped the drow in her tracks, the sudden silence surrounding her a cold shock to her frenzied efforts.

In that moment, as she sat there empty-handed, the magnitude of her situation settled like a fine film of dust.

Her mother, the one person that seemed like an unbreakable constant, was truly gone.

And for the first time in her life, Thoriel felt truly and utterly alone.

[bread-wizards]

Love Laudna wanting Orym to be the one to cut her down if need be because she feels he can make hard choices, and Travis like "uh hello? What about Chetney? You want to put Orym through that anguish? I am right here" like damn, he right tho

[angelsdean]

ruthlessly deleting old 2021/2022 posts (not by me) from my dean studies tag like *click* un-incorporating that from my beliefs system! also the way SO many posts have me like ok uh-huh good aaand then say one completely wrong thing that loses me. it's so many posts.

[jimmyspades]

Rewatching Boston Legal is so crazy bc on the surface it doesn't seem like Alan changes *that* much from who he was at the start—he's still naughty and irreverent and dirty and brilliant—but when you really think about it. How lost and reckless and self-destructive he was in The Practice, still deep in grief and his own self-loathing, so very alone... then to see him by the very end of Boston Legal, finding so much direction and purpose in committing to his best friend and following his dream help people who need it and above all else being happy

[serialkillerbettycooper]

How would it have changed things for Betty if Alice died suddenly like Fred before the time jump?

I think this depends heavily on whether we're placing this somewhere in the first three seasons and Hal is still alive, or in season four or the first few episodes of season five.

To go with the latter because I think that's what you meant with the wording, with Alice dying right before Betty graduates high school, I think it doesn't change that much at least on a basic sequence of events level - Betty still goes to Yale and then the FBI academy - but she feels more... unmoored, I think. Betty is someone who is so deeply defined by what her parents tried to make her (Hal trying to groom her into serial killing, Alice attempting to counteract it by holding her to extremely high expectations and attempting to retain strict control over her social life and self-expression) and the ways she pushes back against their expectations. That doesn't entirely change with both Hal and Alice dead, but it does mean that the only Hal and Alice left to push back against are the ones who live in her memory. And to quote ITWV, memory is a monster.

Betty feels haunted. I already think a lot about Betty and the rest of the Core Four during the timeskip, in the world outside of Riverdale, about the massive gulf that has to exist between them and everyone who grew up outside of Riverdale. Betty in particular, going by how Alice and Polly describe her as having left and not being a part of their lives during the timeskip, tried to embrace that fresh start and distance herself from Riverdale and everything that happened to her there. (This, of course, doesn't work. She's still pursuing a career in the FBI and Glenn is primarily interested in her precisely because of who her family is). I think a Betty without Alice doesn't go as far in that direction. Betty, no matter how absurdly awful Alice has been to her, always comes back around to wanting to give Alice another chance, to get Alice to let her in, to have a real relationship with her. Even when she was barely in Alice and Polly's lives, I don't think she ever really intended on closing that door permanently. And that's exactly what Alice's death does.

Betty loses the chance of ever reconciling with her, of ever coming to really understand her as she was, of ever getting to have a conversation with her as an adult who has experienced life outside the town she grew up in. And Betty will never get to ask her unanswered questions about her childhood, will never know to what extent Alice knew about Hal and his grooming of Betty. I think Alice's death would be a catalyst to Betty digging deeper into her childhood earlier, trying to understand her and to her remember her and how to feel about her legacy, and thus I don't think Betty distances herself from Riverdale as much. Without Alice, I think she's closer with Polly (maybe not right away, but they'd get there), comes home to visit more often, helps with the twins here and there, maybe even goes to Pop's and drinks a milkshake over a deeply awkward conversation with Jughead (at least if the infamous 'cold fake duplicitous bitch' voicemail hasn't happened yet, I don't think Alice's death would alter the trajectory of Bughead much). It's not enough to change the trajectory of the town, maybe not even enough to change Polly's fate. But it's something. It's there. And god, it makes Polly's disappearance all the more heart-wrenching for Betty.

I genuinely wasn't planning this conclusion when I started writing this, but I think that might really do it, push Betty over the edge into snapping and embracing her 'darkness'. She already spends season five toe-ing the line. I think in this universe she tumbles straight-over it and into cold-blooded murder. And, honestly, could you really blame her?

[thebirdandhersong]

the way my parents talk sometimes it seems like they think the Worst Possible Timeline is the one where I don't get married and don't give them the grandkids they want lol

[medicinemane]

Never think that I've stopped talking about Ukraine or that I've forgotten

I follow things every day, every day hoping for some kind of miracle that means the fighting is over, russia will leave every inch of Ukrainian soil, no more bombings... but... I know it's probably some time off... I'm not stupid, I just hope people can stop dying

I follow it every day, hear all the horrible news, keep up to date with things like the Kursk counteroffensive where Ukraine has taken a great deal of russian territory (which shows russia has no red lines)

I just don't share most of what I see on here because I don't want people to get fatigued... there's so many horrible things going on in the world, I don't want to burn people out

I'd rather someone be active and able to do a little than having to just turn off and disengage with everything to avoid losing it

All I ask is that you support Ukraine, they're just trying to exist. Just trying to live normal lives. I just hope you can support the "no civilians deserve to be bombed" platform, and say they don't deserve to be bombed by russia

If you've ever got any questions, it's not like I'm an expert, it's not like I'm living it, but I do follow things every day and it often seems like I know stuff other westerners haven't hear about... so ask away

Anyway, just never think that just cause it's been a bit since I mentioned Ukraine that they're not still on my mind

You hear less for your sake, but I keep coming back every day, and even I don't remotely see the true scale and horror of it, only snippets of... photos, videos, stories people share online

[autumnrory]

i do think sometimes need to remember when something is an issue in fanon and that canon is not necessarily Like That

[caparrucia]

Full offense and pun fully intended, but I genuinely think the very existence of "dead dove, do not eat" was a fucking canary in the mines, and no one really paid attention.

Because the tag itself was created as a response to a fandom-wide tendency to disregard warnings and assume tagging was exaggerated. And then the same fucking idiots reading those tags describing things they found upsetting or disturbing or just not to their taste would STILL click into the stories and give the writer's grief about it.

And as a response writers began using the tag to signal "no, really, I MEAN the tags!"

But like.

If you really think about it, that's a solution to a different problem. The solution to "I know you tagged your story appropriately but I chose to disregard the tags and warnings by reading it anyway, even though I knew it would upset me, so now I'm upset and making it your problem" is frankly a block, a ban and wide-spread blacklisting. But fandom as a whole is fucking awful at handling bad faith, insidious arguments that appeal to community inclusion and weaponize the fact most people participating in fandom want to share the space with others, as opposed to hurting people.

So instead of upfront ridiculing this kind of maladaptive attempt to foster one's own emotional self-regulation onto random strangers on the internet, fandom compromised and came up with a redundant tag in a good faith attempt to address an imaginary nuance.

There is no nuance to this.

A writer's job is to tag their work correctly. It's not to tag it exhaustively. It's not even to tag it extensively. A writer's sole obligation, as far as AO3 and arguably fandom spaces are concerned, is to make damn sure that the tags they put on their story actually match whatever is going on in that story.

That's it.

That's all.

"But what if I don't want to read X?" Well, you don't read fic that's tagged X.

"But what if I read something that wasn't tagged X?" Well, that's very unfortunate for you, but if it is genuinely that upsetting, you have a responsibility to yourself to only browse things explicitly tagged to not include X.

"But that's not a lot of fic!" Hi, you must be new here, yes, welcome to fandom. Most of our spaces are built explicitly as a reaction to There's Not Enough Of The Thing I Want, both in canon and fandom.

"But there are things on the internet that I don't like!" Yeah, and they are also out there, offline. And, here's the thing, things existing even though we personally dislike or even hate or even flat out find offensive/gross/immoral/unspeakable existing is the price we pay to secure our right to exist as individuals and creators, regardless of who finds US personally unpleasant, hateful or flat out offensive/gross/immoral/unspeakable.

"But what about [illegal thing]?!" So the thing itself is illegal, because the thing itself has been deemed harmful. But your goddamn cop-poisoned authoritarian little heart needs to learn that sometimes things are illegal that aren't harmful, and defaulting to "but illegal!" is a surefire way to end up on the wrong side of the fascism pop quiz. You're not a figure of authority and the more you demand to control and exercise authority by command, rather than leadership, the less impressive you seem. You know how you make actual, genuine change in a community? You center harm and argue in good faith to find accommodations and spread awareness of real, actual problems.

But let's play your game. Let's pretend we're all brainwashed cop-abiding little cogs that do not own a single working brain cell to exercise critical thinking with. 99% of the time, when you cry about any given thing "being illegal!!!" you're correct only so far as the THING itself being illegal. The act or object is illegal. Depiction of it is not. You know why, dipshit? Because if depiction of the thing were illegal, you wouldn't be able to talk about it. You wouldn't be able to educate about it. You wouldn't be able to reexamine and discuss and understand the thing, how and why and where it happens and how to prevent it. And yeah, depiction being legal opens the door for people to make depictions that are in bad taste or probably not appropriate. Sure. But that's the price we pay, creating tools to demystify some of the most horrific things in the world and support the people who've survived them. The net good of those tools existing outweighs the harm of people misusing them.

"You're defending the indefensible!" No, you're clumsily stumbling into a conversation that's been going on for centuries, with your elementary school understanding of morality and your bone-deep police state rot filtering your perception of reality, and insisting you figured it out and everyone else at the table is an idiot for not agreeing with you. Shut the fuck up, sit the fuck down and read a goddamn book.

[pathologicalreid]

cocoon | s.r.

in which your life is put in danger during an otherwise routine case, and you haven't even told Spencer about the baby

margotober masterlist

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: case violence, withholding information, miscarriage, pathologicalreid's first open-ended angst, fighting, alzheimers, schizophrenia, reader didn't necessarily want kids, mentions hospitals word count: 1.82k a/n: do i even dare tag this as the spencer reid dilf agenda? anyways: don't like? don't read!

Your hands were cold. They shake as you turn the key to your apartment, pushing the heavy door open and letting yourself trudge through. You hold the door for Spencer to come in, carrying both of your go bags after he had refused to let you carry your own.

Using the wall for support, you kick your shoes off, pushing them with your toes until they’re in their designated spot. Your eyes follow Spencer as he makes his way to your shared bedroom. You watch while he stares at the go bags he set on the dresser, seemingly deciding that he’s not willing to spare the energy that unpacking will take before returning to you in the living room.

Sometimes, coming back from cases, everything in the apartment felt welcoming, but now it all seems foreign to you. Home never feels quite right when you’re in the middle of a fight. “Couch or bed,” Spencer says, passing behind you but leaving nothing behind. There’s no tentative touch to your waist or kiss on your head, just the rush of air that follows his movements.

You hum absentmindedly, turning your head to follow his movements into the kitchen, rifling through the refrigerator, looking for something that had been lost to the back with time.

“Bed rest,” he reminds you, refusing to spare you a glance as his head stays in the refrigerator. “Couch or bed,” he repeats, maintaining a clipped tone.

Silently, your lips close to form a small ‘o’, the recognition flickering in your brain as you step around the couch and sit down on the couch. Staring out your sliding door, you watch the sun while it rises in the sky, light pouring through every window of the apartment. You find yourself wanting to shut the blinds and close yourself into the apartment, using the walls as a cocoon to protect yourself.

Trembling fingers pull the cuffs of your sweatshirt over your hands, simultaneously trying to keep yourself warm and put distance between your body and the rest of the world. You tuck your feet underneath you, leaning into the cushions behind you as Spencer finally reveals himself, standing on the opposite end of the coffee table with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

“How long are you going to be mad at me?” You ask him, your voice gravely from lack of use, the two of you having barely spoken over the last day.

The look he gives you is incredulous, “I don’t know, how long did you know you were pregnant without telling me?”

His eyes are darker than usual, the grief of the last twenty-four hours overshadowing the gold that usually rims his pupils. You avert your eyes to hide the tears that are pricking your eyes, avoiding his gaze and avoiding his question.

Two weeks. You had known you were pregnant for two weeks before yesterday. There hadn’t been a plan for how you wanted to tell him, but it certainly wouldn’t have been gasping it out after being tackled by an UnSub.

You weren’t in the line of danger, staying with the local police, Spencer, and JJ while the rest of the team cleared through a warehouse. No one suspected an inside job until it became glaringly obvious, with you being the target of the local officer’s rage when something inside him snapped.

Never in your wildest dreams have you ever imagined telling Spencer you’re pregnant with a gun to your head, but that’s exactly what you did.

The confession had startled the officer enough to give JJ a clear shot, and Spencer managed to catch you before you hit the ground in a puddle of tears and apologies.

He knows the answer to his question, but a small, vindictive piece of him wants to punish you with reminders of your mistake. You should’ve told him. It was too late to fix it now.

Wiping underneath your eyes with your sleeves, you watch in your periphery as he drags a chair across the floor, the worn feet scraping on the hardwood. “Here,” he says, holding out a small bottle with an orange cap. He shakes the sports drink in his hand, “You need the electrolytes.”

Your eyes narrow as you reach out and accept the drink, noticing how he’s already broken the seal for you when you hold the bottle close to your chest, “Thank you,” you breathe, emotion constricting your lungs, the bruise on your ribs further straining your breathing.

“Are you hungry?” He asks, and you look up at him. Something solemn and unspoken clouds the darkness in his eyes, and you wish he would just tell you what he’s thinking.

 Uncertain, you shake your head. You’ve been nauseous all day, Gatorade was going to be a struggle—you didn’t need to know how getting food down would go. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, an ineffective repetition of an apology you know he won’t accept.

His expression doesn’t falter, “I’m sure you are.”

Your breathing hitches at his apathy, hugging yourself as tightly as you can without causing yourself any pain. “Go away,” the plea that escapes your mouth is weak, your tone as miserable as you feel, “I don’t need your punishment right now.”

“I’ll sit here until you explain why you didn’t tell me you were pregnant until it was between that or a bullet in your brain,” he vows, leaning back in his chair.

Holding back a reaction to his callousness, you avert your eyes again, instead looking at the care packet that the hospital sent you home with. Spencer wasn’t being hostile out of anger—he was doing this out of fear. “Don’t you think having a miscarriage will be punishment enough?”

For at least a moment, your question renders him speechless. “We don’t know that you’re going to miscarry,” he tries to assuage your concern.

You stare at him blankly, unable to form a coherent response to his attempt at reassurance. You thought you had been on the same side, but his consoling shows you a new perspective. While you had been starting the process of mourning your baby, Spencer was still holding onto the hope that your pregnancy would stick.

“We don’t,” he echoes, grabbing the packet off the coffee table and flipping to your care history. “Your HCG was almost 150,000 this morning, that’s really good. Fetal heart rate was 172, which is right on track for ten weeks,” he points to the percentile charts that the hospital provided for you.

Swallowing thickly, you unscrew the cap of your drink and take a small, calculated sip. The look that you previously hadn’t been able to name in his eyes was desperation, each breath a silent plea for you to not give up. “You want this baby,” you observe, studying the look in his eyes, a sorrowful gleam glossing over his brown irises.

Your comment throws him off balance, “I’ve always been unambiguous in my stance on having kids.” He stands up from the chair and starts pacing around the living room as if he’s expelling nervous energy.

“No, you haven’t,” you tell him, keeping your voice level and trying to stay calm.

Spencer’s footsteps faltered, “Okay, fine. Tell me when I somehow gave you the idea that I don’t want a family.”

Accepting his challenge, you lean your head back on the cushions, tracing the lines of the ceiling with your eyes. “When your mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and we were long-distance while you stayed with her in Vegas, we used to sit on the phone into all hours of the night and you would go on tangents. I mean… these animated rants about the genetic lottery and how the last thing you’d want to do is have a child just for them to inherit your problems.” Emotion burns your throat, but you keep speaking, “You told me you’d feel helpless having a child with your genes knowing that by the time they’re old enough to have a schizophrenic break, you won’t remember who they are.”

He's completely silent, his breathing so level that it doesn’t make a sound. Spencer was just standing in his reality.

“Then,” you take a deep breath, “After Cat.”

“Stop,” he says immediately, the word hoarse and miserable.

You press your lips together, “No,” you respond simply. “You told me you’d never be able to have a child without considering what might have happened had she been telling you the truth. I was fine with that, Spencer. I never wanted kids the way you did, the fervent way you used to talk about having a baby and being the father that you never had, it completely went away, and I was fine with that.”

You watch him push the heels of his hands into his eyes, halting his tears before they can fall.

“I could’ve been perfectly happy with the rest of our lives if it did turn out to just be us, until that little blue plus sign popped up,” you lament. “I tried,” you cry, unable to stop the tears that run down your face, “I stayed out of dangerous situations. I haven't drawn my gun since I found out. I asked Tara to go into that building because I thought I’d be safer outside with you, and I’m afraid to say it but… I don’t think anything would have changed even if you knew beforehand.”

Spencer drops his arms, kneeling in front of the couch as he gathers your hands in his and brings them to his mouth, whispering your name like a prayer. “I want this baby,” he confirms your earlier observation.

Your shoulders slouch in a mixture of disappointment and exhaustion, “Spence, I do too, but it’s not— the bleeding…” you blubber.

He shakes his head, “The bleeding resolved in the hospital,” he reminds you.

Peering down at him, you can’t help but wonder when he became so optimistic in the face of terrible things.

“Promise me,” he begs, “Promise me you’ll do the bed rest and listen to all of the doctor’s orders until we get to go to the obstetrician’s office on Monday.”

Tentatively, you nod at him, “You’ll come with me?” You hiccup a sob, unrelenting tears falling to the front of your sweatshirt.

He nods back, lifting himself so that he’s sitting next to you on the couch, pulling you into him, resting your head on his chest. “I’m not going anywhere,” he sniffles, carefully putting his arms around you, returning warmth to your body.

“Please don’t be mad at me,” you whisper, your voice unbelievably small as you gather the fabric of his cardigan in your fists.

He drops a gentle kiss to the side of your head—the only part of you he could reach without letting you go, which he wasn’t about to do. “I’m not,” he assures you, “I’m not.”

[spicy-apple-pie]

Guys… Don’t blame me, blame the TikTokers who put the “Moo” “Shut up.” “Meow” panel in their “Batfam being goofy” slide shows.

Sometimes I think about how Damian’s pets would respond to his absence after his death. And how heartbreaking it is for Bruce.

Like, when he gets home from patrol, Titus is waiting patiently by the door to his office. The dog stands and greet Bruce, sniffing his hand before expectingly looking to the clock for another to come out. He’ll stay there, watching the clock vigilantly for the whole night. The only thing that gets him to move is the sound of his breakfast. He’ll race down to the kitchen and look around, searching for his boy.

Bruce can relate. When he goes down to the cave, he expects to hear Damian clicking his tongue, huffing that he was late. Again.

Bruce buys a dog bed to put in his office for Titus. He looks so lonely and cold on the hard wood.

Alfred (the cat) is less upfront about her grief. She spends her days snuggled in Damian’s unmade bed (untouched. Just how he left it). She’s quiet for most of the day. She looks offended when Bruce disturbs her peace with his presence. God forbid he grief his son. At night, she wakes Bruce up with her horrible yowling. They somehow sound painful. After 20 whole minutes, he goes to check on her. “What do you want?” He asks, his patience thin. “He’s gone, alright!” Bruce spits out, Alfred looks at him blankly. “He’s gone.”

Bruce slumps back to bed, only to hear Alfred’s howls pick up again.

One night, after a particularly restless patrol, Bruce picks her up and plonks her on his bed and gets himself under the covers. He doesn’t expect Alfred to stay, much less snuggle up next to him while purring.

“I know.” He whispers to her. “I miss him too.”

Batcow doesn’t leave her barn very often. Bruce takes over the usual chores in Damian’s stead. No matter how much it hurts. Batcow used to stand up to greet him, but she doesn’t move very much anymore. Bruce tries to cheer her up, but only realizes that he has no idea how to pet a cow. He tries sitting with her.

He remembers how one morning, the first snowfall since Batcow arrived, Bruce was convinced that Damian was kidnapped. Damian was acting as his usual self the night before, they didn’t fight (and Damian was not one to passively aggressively insist that he’s fine) he was about to report a missing child when Alfred suggested he look for him in the barn.

Sure enough, there he was. He was leaned up against Batcow, her head twisted into his lap. He chuckled at the sight of a blanket barely being able to cover Batcow’s rear, but Damian still laid it there anyway. Bruce laid his coat over Damian, who shivered every so often, careful not to disturb Batcow.

His jacket smelt like a barn yard. It took a couple of washes to get it out.

Slowly, Batcow lifted her head, looked at Bruce, and settled into his lap.

He understood why Damian liked cuddling with her so much, the weight was comforting.

When Damian returns, he cannot find a moments peace from his animals. Titus is constantly following him around. For a while, Damian could only throw a stick so far for catch. If Titus deemed it too far away, he would only look at Damian. Acting as if Damian would disappear if he wasn’t in his line of sight for a certain amount of time.

Alfred (the cat) is worse. She’ll invite herself into Damian’s lap wherever she could. Rubbing against him and purring. She demanded that Damian carry her around, twisting in Damian’s hold whenever he tried to put her down.

Batcow comes barreling out of the barn when Damian calls for her, barely slowing down in time to not trample him. She’s slobbering all over him and licking his face. Damian has to take a shower right after.

Like I said, don’t blame me, blame TikTok.

[marvelwitchergilmore]

Let Me Prove It

Summary: Logan x Fe!Reader -> After months of grieving for Logan, he proves to you he's not going anywhere.

Disclaimer: Descriptions of death, blood, reader goes through grief of losing Logan. Angst, sadness, some fluff. There is a happy ending. Illusions to smut towards the end. Not Proof Read.

You could remember the day you fell in love with Logan Howlett. 

It had been a rainy afternoon. Nothing grand had happened that day. The kids had been in classes all day, most exams were happening all week but by Friday, they’d all be over for the semester. There was stew, heating up on the stove, and you had been reading your book. 

At least, you’d been trying to. 

Often, your mind would wander off on its own and only half way through your train of thought would you realise you had boarded the wrong train and it was already moving. And just like a flash of a meadow, snapping past one of the compartment windows, you discovered you had feelings for Logan. 

And watching him walk through the backdoor only a moment later, confirmed your thoughts. 

“What’s wrong with you?”

Your train came to a halt and you snapped up, focusing on reality. “What?”

Logan grumbled. “Nothing. Dinner ready?”

“Almost. Storm’s looking for you, by the way. She wants to know if you can cover her class next week. She’s got a doctor's appointment and no one’s available.”

Logan still had his back turned as he looked in the cupboard for something. “Sure. What class?”

“History. What are you looking for?”

Logan didn’t fully answer you. He just mumbled a noise before pulling a small box out from the back and closing the door. Turning around he opened it up, took a cookie out before offering it to you. 

“She got a lesson plan?”

Looking down at your book, you dog-eared the page. Sometimes, you’d use a bookmark but considering most of them would disappear without a trace and leave you fending for yourself to find your page again, hours after you’d read it, you gave up on them. 

“Yeah, she’s already left it in your room.”

“Of course she has.” Logan took another bite of his cookie and rounded the kitchen island. 

Your gaze followed him. Mostly out of curiosity. You and Logan were friends. Not best friends. But good friends. Well…

Good enough friends. 

Could you really be in love with him?

Reaching up into the top cupboard, he brought down the set of bowls and took half from the top. 

“You take the rest.”

And for the next ten minutes, you both laid out the table in time for dinner. 

Then you watched as he helped some of the younger kids with their hot meals. Despite all of his grumbling and his small protests when it came to calling him the best baby-sitter. 

Logan was good with kids. 

Yep. 

You were in love with Logan. 

And just like how you could remember the day you fell in love with Logan, you could also remember the day he died. 

It had torn you to pieces. 

It still did. 

It had been on a mission. You’d all faced worse before. And yet, somehow, nobody was prepared for what was about to happen. Everything blew up. Quite literally. You had been helping some of the kids to safety with Storm and Scott. Scott had left half way through, running to find Jean and help her. Storm had given him cover, as well as the kids. 

And once you knew the kids were in safe hands on the jet, you ran back. 

Only, when you got to the top of the hill, having skidded to a halt only to catch yourself on a rotting tree, you looked down to see for the first time, the image that would be forever imprinted in your mind. 

Logan and Jean were at the bottom. Scott had made it just in time to hold his girlfriend back when Logan took the brunt of the attack. It sent him flying and when he fell to the floor, your gut twisted. 

Usually, he’d get up. 

But something was off. 

He wasn’t getting up. Not as quickly, anyway. 

And when he did, an attack came sooner than anyone else had expected. 

Straight through his stomach and a second through his side, Logan was impaled to the tree before being torn from it, sent flying forward with the tentacle branches before being pulled off and sent flying to the ground. 

You remembered screaming his name along with the others before running forward. Storm had made it there before you, but you were the first on your knees beside him, trying to check for any healing that was starting. 

It wasn’t. 

You heard the muffled voices of the rest of the team in your ears, fighting against your own heartbeat as you looked down at Logan. He was bleeding out and fast. 

The bodies beside you disappeared and followed after the attacker and soon everything became…

Silent. 

The ringing in your ears had stopped, your ears had gotten used to your own heartbeat, and you tried your best to focus on Logan. 

His eyes were closed. Begging him through your own tears for him to open his, you took his hand. Feeling for his pulse, it was weak. And getting weaker. 

“Logan…please. Please don’t do this.”

Then your hearing focused on his heartbeat. Each beat took longer to come after the other until finally, with one weak squeeze of goodbye to your hand, Logan died. 

The hours that followed after that became a blur. 

The man you loved but had never told had died in front of you. You had heard his heartbeat stop. You had felt his last goodbye. He never got any last words. Just one last touch. 

And every night that followed after that, you re-lived it. Over and over and over again. Each night, the same. Logan. The branches. The blood. The pulse. The heartbeat. The touch. The silence. 

Sometimes you’d wake just as he touched your hand, the ghost of a feeling left on your palm as you woke. 

The others never bothered to ask. At least, not after the first time you had told them. The Professor had gathered you all in his office after everything had happened. And all you could think of was that Logan’s body was lay, lifeless, underneath the school. 

He had asked you what had happened and, with your arms folded and your eyes on the ground, you answered him. 

“He wasn’t healing. There wasn’t anything I could do. He died,” you explained before looking up at the Professor and giving him Logan’s time of death. “May I go now? I want to make sure the kids are okay.”

The Professor excused you and you left as quickly as you could, the door slamming a little louder than you had meant. 

And for the next two months, you…kept yourself busy. 

People talked about Logan, they were determined to keep his memory alive. But they didn’t have to go to bed at night, just for his memory to die again. Each morning, you seemed to wake up earlier than usual. And with the feeling of Logan’s hand against yours, you busied yourself as best as you could. 

Grading papers, alphabetising the library, cleaning every possible surface including the ceilings, constantly doing the laundry. Weeding out the garden, planting some new flower beds. Fixing the creaky wooden board in the hallway, painting the doors and wooden boards between the windows. Trimming the bushes, scrubbing the pots (even the old ones that weren’t in use anymore). 

You did anything and everything you could. Mostly to keep your mind busy but party because you hoped, if you tired yourself out enough, you might have caught a break. Made it one night through without re-living Logan’s death. 

But all of that changed one afternoon when you were called to the Professor’s study. 

Where you came face to face with…

Logan. 

Everyone was confused. 

Apart from the Professor. 

And throughout the meeting you remained quiet. Obviously, everyone was angry at the fact the Professor had kept such a big secret. 

“We didn’t know if it would work and we didn’t want anyone to have to re-live their grief.” The Professor explained. “It was a shot in the dark.”

“How is this even possible?” Storm asked as she sat down. 

“It seems Logan’s healing abilities were simply weakened. He needed help to heal. Medical help that not I, nor I’m afraid even you, Jean, could give him. There is a doctor I know, based in Alberta. She helped boost Logan’s healing factor and made sure that whatever had weakened him was no longer in his system.”

There was a little more explaining to do, but you could feel yourself drifting from the conversation. You just kept looking at Logan as he stood by the window and the Professor’s desk. 

He had his back turned when you had walked inside, the others all looking confused and annoyed, having to wait for you before they got their explanation. 

He had died. 

You had seen him die. 

You had felt him die. 

And yet, there he stood. His hands in his pockets, looking around the room, breathing and living as if nothing had even happened. 

Not long after all the explanations, everyone got to voice their opinion and you came last. Everyone looked at you, including Logan. 

And all you wanted to do was run.

To him or away from him, you couldn’t quite tell. 

So, with a breath, you forced a half smile and nodded. “It’s good to have you back. Professor, may I go? I’ve got a class that’s about to start.”

“Of…of course. I would have thought-”

Reaching for the door, you looked back. “See you round, Logan.”

Just before you closed the door, you heard Storm announce her way to Logan to give him a hug. But even the Professor couldn’t concentrate on that because he couldn’t help but notice there was something different about you. 

Of course, he’d noticed you’d been keeping yourself busy. Missing out on family dinners, eating yours when you found the time later on in the evening, cleaning up the classrooms after hours, doing a little touch ups here and there with a smaller paint can and paintbrush. 

Little did he know, you had just been filling in the spots you had missed the day before. 

But he had figured you had been like the others. Itching to hug Logan. Being glad he was alive and breathing. 

Instead…

You had barely said two words and had left as soon as you could. 

“Are you okay?” Storm asked you later that night when you were cooking dinner. 

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Storm lifted herself onto a stool opposite you. “I don’t know. You just didn’t seem…excited about Logan being back.”

“Of course I’m excited he’s back.”

“Then would it kill you to show it?” Storm asked, half jokingly. “Here, let me help.”

You shook your head. “It’s okay, I’m almost done.”

Storm moved her hands away from your chopping board slowly. “Okay. Are you sure you’re okay?”

You smiled. “Ororo, I’m fine. Scouts honour. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

You shrugged, forcing your mind back to reality. “Nothing. It’s just been a long day, s’all.”

Later that evening, you found yourself alone in your classroom. The others were down the hall having dinner but you had found yourself something to do. You could have gone down but whether out of habit of the last two months or fear, you didn’t wish to join them. 

Your appetite had already been worse for wear over the last couple of weeks. If you were sat at the table, across from Logan, you wouldn’t have been able to even think about eating. 

So, taking another bite of your sandwich, you turned back to your essays. 

Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, Logan looked around the table. You were missing. 

“Whose turn was it to cook tonight?” Logan asked. 

“Y/n’s.” Jean told him. “She’s been making most of the meals lately. Guess she just got the cooking bug.”

“But she’s not here.”

Jean shrugged it off. “She’ll probably get some later.”

“Where is she?” He asked as he went to stand. But Jean stopped him. 

“Oh, no. Stay. Come on, Everyone needs to catch up.”

“Catch up on what?” Logan asked. “I’ve been in a hospital in Alberta for two months.”

“Please, just…stay. Besides, Y/n’ll appear when she wants. She’s probably busy.”

And after a little bit more convincing, Logan stayed. You’d left so abruptly that morning, he questioned if you even wanted to see him at all. 

It continued like that for a week. 

At first, Logan tried to convince himself you weren’t avoiding him. But as the week went on and he began to see less of you inside his routine, he knew you had to be. 

And then he began to notice things. 

Everything seemed cleaner than when he had left. And brighter. Fresher, even. The doors had been given a paint job. Despite it being dry, he could still smell the aroma of fresh paint in the air. The halls were less creaky when he walked down them. The cupboards were tidier. He could find his cookies with ease now. 

And despite the fact he didn’t read all that much, he knew the library had changed. Even the books that no-one ever touched. There wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen near them. And one of his personal favourites – a book he tended to read around winter, where the cover was falling off and the pages were falling apart – had been binded to look like new.

So, taking action into his own hands, he went to look for you. 

And it wasn’t long before he found you. 

You had escaped him when he saw you planting fresh flowers in the garden, and you had escaped him when you had brought in the groceries having used Storm as a distraction for you to slip out of the kitchen once everything was away. 

But he had found you in the library. 

Once again, you hadn’t come to dinner, making up an excuse that you needed to work. And Logan knew for a fact you hadn’t left to come and get your dinner yet so, he brought it to you. 

“Thought you might be hungry.”

You looked up but Logan had already heard the change in your pulse. 

“Oh…thanks. You can just leave it there.”

And he did. 

“You’ve got to eat at some point.”

“I will,” you looked back up at him. “Soon. I promise.”

This was the longest conversation you’d both had since he got back. So, he took a seat across from you. 

“What are you working on?”

“Work.”

Logan smiled. “Funny.”

Then the silence washed over you both. But he didn’t want it to stick. “Y/n?”

You hummed a response. 

“Can you look at me?”

Your heartbeat seemed to jump and you took in a discrete breath. Finally seeing your face, Logan smiled. 

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’ve not been avoiding you.” You looked back at your work. 

“Yes, you have.”

“What makes you say that?”

Logan gave you a list. “The constant work, the avoidance of dinners, the silent treatment. Did I do something?”

You shook your head. “You haven’t done anything, Logan.”

“Then can you look at me when you tell me that so I might believe you.”

Finally, you looked at him. 

“Tell me what’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on.”

Logan asked again. “What’s going on?”

You laughed, nervously. “Nothing’s going on. Logan, I’m fine.”

“Are you? Because you’ve been avoiding me since I got back and- what? What is it?”

You laughed again, except this time you didn’t know how you’d describe it. 

“‘Got back’ you repeated his words. “You say that as if you left for a vacation. You died, Logan. Or did you forget that?”

“No. Y/n. What’s going on?”

You shook your head and packed away your things as quickly as you could. “Forget I said anything. Thanks for dinner.”

“You didn’t even eat-” Logan watched you walk away from him again. 

He’d rather have you fight him than avoid him, so he pressed on. 

“Talk to me.” Logan followed after you. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing. It’s late, Logan. Go to bed.”

“Only when you do.”

“What?” You asked. 

“Your bedroom, it’s upstairs, down the hall from mine. In the opposite direction. The only thing this way is your classroom.”

“I’ve got to finish grading.”

“It’s almost midnight.”

You shrugged. “What teacher doesn’t get enough sleep?”

“Something is going on. Something has been going on. For a while. Please,” Logan begged. “Just tell me what it is.”

You stopped in your tracks. “Do you really want to know what it is?”

“Yes.” Logan nodded, stopping in front of you. 

“Okay then, I’ll tell you.”

And you did. 

“I watched you die, Logan. I heard your heart stop. I watched as blood pooled out of your body with no way for me to stop it. Even after three scalding hot showers, I still had your bloodstains on my skin, under my nails and on my clothes. Every night when I close my eyes, I re-live it. Everything. Every tiny detail. And the silence afterwards…it’s deafening. Sometimes I wake up, still feeling the pressure you put into my hand. Sometimes it’s still there hours after I wake up. I had spent every single day keeping myself busy, finding extra work for myself, just to make sure that I don’t start daydreaming about the waking nightmare I had to watch you go through. I had spent the last two months going over and over in my head what I would say to you if I ever saw you again. But I could never bring myself to do it, because I had watched you die. I had felt you die. So, please. Forgive me if I’m not jumping with joy because I can miraculously forget what happened, like everyone else.”

Logan let your words wash over him. No one had told him. He had a sneaking suspicion they hadn’t because even they didn’t know. Maybe they never asked. Maybe they just hadn’t noticed. 

Gaining back your breath, you went to turn away. 

“Goodnight, Logan.”

Closing your classroom door behind you, you silently locked it and pressed your back against it feeling your entire body start to shake. Slowly, your legs went from underneath you and you lowered yourself to the ground by sliding down the door. You tried your best to squeeze your tears back into your eyes with the heels of your hands, but nothing could stop them. 

Not now. 

Not when you had just admitted the truth to the one man you never thought you would see again. 

Three times Logan turned back to your classroom door, ready to walk inside. But he didn’t know what he would say. 

So he waited. 

Back in his room, he waited to hear the door to your room close. 

And after two hours, he finally did. 

And before he knew it, his feet were carrying him towards your door. Only, he stood there for ten minutes, unsure of what to do with himself. 

At some point, he finally knocked. 

Turning off the tap by the sink, you hung up your flannel onto the radiator bar and dried off your face when you heard the soft knock at your door. 

There was only one person who could have been up so late. 

He knocked again after a minute or two. 

And you opened up the door. 

Whatever Logan had just semi-prepared in his mind, slipped away. He was going to say something. But looking at you, standing in front of him…all words failed him. 

And the longer he stood in front of you, the louder the reminder came to you that he wasn’t dead. He was alive. He could be shot with twelve live rounds and the bullets would pop right back out of his skin. His claws would flare out and he’d be Wolverine. They’d retract and his skin would heal instantly. There would be no evidence that anything had ever happened. 

Then six words slipped from your mouth before you could stop them. Before even your brain could register the thought. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”

Logan felt his chest crack and his heart impale with pain. 

Pushing the door open a little wider, his arms engulfed you in an embrace that would forever be imprinted on your soul. Your own arms wrapped around him, trying to remember the feel of him both physically and spiritually in case the day ever came where you truly would never see him again. 

That if this was going to be your only memory of him, you could never, ever forget it. 

Lifting you up in his embrace for a moment, Logan walked further inside your room, kicking the door shut with his foot. Even if no one else was awake, he didn’t want to risk anyone walking by. Clearly, no-one else knew what you had been living through in your nightmares. And he didn’t want anyone else to share this moment between himself and you.

“You spared me the pain of being alone.” Logan whispered into your hair. “I was less scared because you were there.”

“I couldn’t have left you.” 

Your tears were back to rolling down your cheeks. “I’m sorry about everything you had to go through.”

Logan softly kissed away your tears, wiping the others away. 

You took in a shaky breath. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”

Logan shook his head. “You saved me. You stayed with me.”

“But-”

With both your eyes closed, and Logan’s, you felt his forehead touch yours as his hands cradled your cheeks. “I’m real, Y/n. I’m alive.”

You felt Logan take your hand and press it to his chest, over his heart. His heartbeat was mostly steady, if a little quick. Spreading your fingers across his chest, you felt it rise and fall with his breathing. 

“I’m alive,” he kept repeating. “I’m alive.”

Logan’s breath was drawing closer to yours. “Logan…”

“Let me prove it to you.”

And you let him.

Capturing your breath in a kiss, Logan remained soft at first. He didn’t want to scare you. He didn’t want you to jump and run away from him like you had done only a few hours before in the library. 

But then you kissed back. 

So he moved his hands through your hair and over your body until you were pressed against him as close as you possibly could be. 

Your own hands pulled him in closer by his neck whilst the hand he’d placed over his heart remained fixed in its position. 

Logan was proving to every sense in your body he was real. That he was alive. Almost counteracting the memory that had been drawn from a waking nightmare. 

And as he lifted you up, your back soon pressing against the wall, you and Logan knew he would be spending the rest of the night doing exactly what he told you he wanted to do. 

Prove it to you. 

As morning rolled around, you felt a warm body next to you, tangled not only in you but also your sheets. 

Logan. 

His arms practically caged around you, you recalled every single detail from the night before. Your argument in the hallways, the classroom, the knock at the door, the hug, the kiss, the proof. 

And then, you felt yourself, for the first time in months, give a real smile. 

Lowering your head, you buried yourself in between Logan’s chest and your bedsheets, feeling his arms tense at your movement, holding you in the bed without a way of escape. 

And as your body reacted to his touch you realised something. 

For the first time since his death, you hadn’t had a nightmare. You hadn’t seen his death play on repeat inside your head. And the touch you were feeling wasn’t in your hand but rather all across your body. 

Parts were aching with a soreness you never quite knew was possible and later when you would look in the mirror, you would find fingertip bruises by your hips, love bites leading down your hip bone and on your inner thigh. Smaller ones were also dotted around your collar and neck, but a rather prominent one was yet to be left by the crook of your neck from behind where Logan’s lips would find themselves before you got into a fresh shower, Logan joining almost immediately. 

But until then, you’d revel in the feeling of Logan’s constant heartbeat against your hand, and for a moment your lips as you kissed his skin. Before he woke up and proved to you time and time again how real he was and how much the memory that had plagued you for two months was something that, although wasn’t easy to forget about, could become something of a distant memory. 

And for the rest of your lives, he would make sure to do exactly that.

[moviestarmartini]

trátame suavemente. — franco colapinto x gf!reader

no quiero soñar mil veces las mismas cosas / ni contemplarlas sabiamente / quiero que me trates suavemente.

summary: reuniting after spending months apart and having recently recovered from a fight feels bittersweet. however, you have to push all your feelings aside at the end of the weekend to treat your boyfriend softly. 

wc: 2.3k 

warnings: established relationship, hispanic!reader, sentences in spanish, bit of angst, long distance relationship mention, takes place after the são paulo gp, nsfw (18+ mdni), p in v, bathroom sex, oral (m!receiving), lowk edging, whiny!franco, sub!franco if you squint, unprotected sex (get on your pills or shots or SOMETHING don’t raw it), creampie, soft sex and ambiance overall. 

A/N: based on this request ! and yess, franco with soda stereo again hehe. please listen to the el último concierto (remastered) version of this song when reading, it's a whole different vibe than the og !! mil besitos as always and feedback is appreciated

now playing... trátame suavemente by soda stereo

“Vení.” 

Come here. Franco’s voice echoed the minute he noticed your hesitant footsteps filling up the once empty silence. 

You leaned against the bathroom door frame, head leaned to the side. The lights were dimmed— proper of a fancy hotel, where else would you be able to adjust the lighting anyway?— He soaked in the steamy water clouded with the relaxing bath salts, trying to find some relief in what had been his worst weekend yet. Both on and off the track. 

“Hi.” You greeted softly with a tiny wave of your hand before it retreated back to its post across your chest. 

“Sabés que no muerdo a menos que me lo pidas.” He sat up, back straightening. Humor was a natural addition to his words, even when he was at his lowest. It never seemed to impress you, and it was something you could sometimes hate. 

The scene was still vivid and bright behind your eyelids. Counting down the days for him to come home, getting the call he was in fact going to take longer— because he’d made it. He’d made it to Formula One. Your heart sped up when reliving the memory, unaware of how difficult it was going to be from then on. 

Your relationship wasn’t exactly public, something you’d chosen yourself in case occasions like these arose. Then you’ve come to realize it gave him a certain freedom, the one that allowed him to flirt openly with interviewers and not face repercussions to his public image. 

Behind closed doors, it was another story. 

You tried. With your whole chest, you tried to not complain to him directly. It was his personality, the way he’d pulled you in from day one. One day, you just couldn’t. His absence was palpable, and after a week or so without any communication he’d texted to sulk about his mediocre results during the Mexican Grand Prix, having the fast lap taken away from him. 

You couldn’t hold it in. From the fact he was inconsistent in the relationship that had you suffering through a rollercoaster of emotions, to his absence digitally and the lack of interest in your doings. He’d barely have the time to check in with you, not about you. 

The calls were frantic, tears were shed, and he promised to be more present. The fight was left in a stalemate, and you cursed yourself when the flight reminder popped on your notifications. You couldn’t help but wait another week to see him? 

The same word with four letters that broke the silence moments ago was texted by him that same day, and you couldn’t hold a grudge even if you wanted to. You were never truly mad at him, you just missed him. So much so it ached in your bones, both set your heart ablaze and cooled it at the same time. 

Painful could only begin to describe it. 

Your worries were pushed away once you clarified everything, after the Saturday session was canceled and all you had on your shared agenda was cuddle up in the hotel room, quiet promises being made. After all the grief he had to withstand in the midst of this storm— literally— the last thing in your priorities was to stay on your own petty agenda. 

At his request to be closer, you sat at the closed lid of the toilet, unable to take your eyes off of him. 

“You’re too far away.” His insistence only furthered, eliciting a quiet laugh out of your lips. Without further ado, you stood up, stripping off the simple lounging set and folding it aside before sinking opposite to him on the warm water, growing cold with each passing moment now that the faucet was off. 

“What is it?” You blinked, head leaned to the side. Franco looked at you profoundly, and you wondered if he had something he was trying to figure out about you. 

“I missed you so much.” 

The words hung in the steamy air while you processed them, your bottom lip puckering out while a mixture of emotions washed over you. A part of you didn’t believe him, while the other ached for those words, even if it wasn’t the first time he said them during the weekend. 

“Really?” You wondered out loud, not caring that the water could spill out of the tub while you carefully moved to rest by his side, an arm wrapped around you. 

“Yeah.” He insisted, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’m exhausted now. This was supposed to be such a good weekend… by the red flag all I wanted to do was lay my head on your tits for hours.” 

“Baboso,” You splashed him with water, both of your laughs echoing in the room, the acoustics amplifying the sound. 

“I missed you too, by the way.” You spoke up after a while of silence, the shapeless shapes he drew on your skin with his index finger lulling your heart to a lower rate. 

“Por si no era obvio.” You added soon after, your laugh making your heart skip a beat. You didn’t feel like your claims from just a week and a few days ago were irrational, and you stood by them. He also did, acknowledging his lack of care. 

But you were there, by his side. When he most needed it. And you wouldn’t change that for anything in the entire world. 

Instead of getting an answer with words, you felt his fingers tenderly cupping your chin, guiding your gaze to his in order to receive his lips in yours warmly. 

Careful and complex. His lips moved with calculation, and a sigh inevitably left yours. This is what your body ached, what made the desperately cold layer dissolve off your heart and set it fully ablaze under his careful affections. 

You moved to straddle his hips, arms wrapped around his neck. You could’ve sworn you heard a whine while he straightened up, his hands holding onto your hips for dear life. 

Desperate and desirable. The kiss transitioned to match the steam in the room, his hands unable to find a place to stay put in, instead just roaming the soaked inches of skin he could get a hold off. 

“Me hizo muchísima falta tenerte así,” Franco let out in a pant, eager fingertips delving into the plush skin of your ass. Now it was your turn to answer with an action, leaning in to kiss down his neck, carefully placing affections on the prominent scar knowing it made him squirm. 

“Ay amor…” He let out a groan, unable to resist when your chest pressed against his torso. 

“¿Qué pasa?” You questioned quietly, fluttering your lashes up at him. You took his physical queues and understood them almost immediately. He couldn’t help but lean into his touch, shaky breath leaving his lips with each grazing of your fingers. 

You noticed how he swallowed hard, just shaking his head to signify nothing was going on— nothing was inherently wrong. 

“Sit up here.” You instructed quietly, patting the tiled edge before the tub began, seemingly used for people to sit and dry themselves. This once, you two were definitely not going to use it for that. 

He followed the command obediently, watchful eyes following your movements while you positioned yourself between his legs. 

“You’ve had such a rough week…” Your voice was hypnotizing, in the same way your hand stroking his length was. “Let me take care of you, mkay?” 

The words he planned on letting out found themselves choked back when you deposited a kiss on the skin edging between his inner and outer thigh. He melted into his spot almost literally, manspreading to give you more access to leave the warm affections that brought goosebumps to his skin. 

You batted your eyelashes innocently up at him while your flat tongue licked the underside of his hard cock, green eyes hyper-focused on your lips wrapping on the flushed tip. 

“Fuck…” He managed to groan out, his right hand reaching to clutch your hair while the other held onto the ceramic, preparing himself for what he’d been desiring for what felt to be years, when in fact it had only been a short couple months. 

You knew how to treat him, how to push his buttons just right without exceeding into a rougher context. All you wanted was for him to relax, at least for now. That didn’t mean you didn’t put in the effort, your hand encompassed what your mouth couldn’t take even when it almost hit the back of your throat.

“Que linda te ves con la boquita llena,” He caressed your cheek tenderly while you took a breather, his hips jerking upwards ever so slightly to thrust into your hand.

“Hm just for you,” You winked in agreement to the compliment before wrapping your lips around the now leaking tip, humming at the taste of the precum on your tongue and inevitably down your throat. 

“Así, así,” Franco whined the minute you started bobbing your head up and down his length with precision and speed. He threw his head back, allowing the moans to leave his mouth freely, mixing in a dangerous cocktail with his heavy breaths. 

The moment was perfect. You knew Franco was getting lost in it, nearing the edge with each desperate jerk of his hips matching up to your nose grazing his lower abdomen. He could still feel the warm water, but nothing could compare with the sensation of your throat. 

Unless… 

“Pará, pará,” He breathed out, his tone high pitched, containing himself into not bursting out the seams right then and there. 

“¿Qué pasó mi rey? Did I do something wrong?” You pulled away visibly concerned, straightening up still on your knees. 

His response was a weak shake of his head, chest rising up and down. He still rested his back against the tiled wall, regaining his composure. Your eyes traced every inch of his skin, every mole and freckle, subconsciously licking your lips. His laugh snapped you out of your shamelessly perverted ravaging, and you looked up at him with a smile. 

“Te amo tanto.” He muttered, leaning in to close the gap between your mouths halfway. Even if seconds ago you were wondering why on earth he would edge himself, the kiss told you everything you needed, adding to the support his hands gave you to get on your feet and sit on his lap. 

His lips parted from yours only to give soft kisses to your cheek and jaw, traveling the marvelous road down your neck. Your moans were soft, beginning to ease into it when a curious hand parted your legs open. 

“Fran…” You breathed you, your hand reaching to caress the hair falling near his nape; it was longer than usual, he needed a trim— you noted mentally, reminding to comment on it later. 

“Let me feel you,” He whispered against your skin, the action forming goosebumps on the area. “Estás tan mojadita; porfa.” 

He didn’t need to beg twice, your back already pulled away from his chest, shifting around in his lap and raising your hips a little in order to sink down his length, your sighs of relief harmonizing. 

“I missed this so much,” You noticed you had rendered him almost incoherent from the way he could barely formulate the words between heavy breaths and moans, a battle to keep his eyes open to watch your figure as you bounced on his hard cock. 

“Ay ese culito…” He groaned, the sound of a smack bouncing on the walls before it remixed with your yelp, but it only encouraged to move faster, wanting to give him the show he deserved. 

Franco didn’t allow himself to get lost in the mesmerizing movement of your body, instead pulling you back to be as close to him as humanly possible, his hand cupping your chin to almost drag your face near his. 

The kiss was sloppy from his part, the grinding of your hips was sharp in comparison, and he couldn’t focus. Your wet skin against his, the noises you started making the moment he started toying with that sweet spot. 

“Amor,” He couldn’t help but call your attention, ripping his lips off of yours in order to speak. You noticed the way his brows furrowed— and how could you not? he was always so expressive— his bottom lip puckering out while he tried to make out the following words. 

But he didn’t need to. 

“Yes,” You nodded, feeling your own orgasm approach quickly. From the moment you stripped and dipped in the water you knew you weren’t going to last long in whatever activity you might engage, and you were okay with that. 

“¿Si?” Franco whined, his lashes fluttering while his eyes fell shut before he could hide his face in the crook of his neck. 

“Si. Cum inside.” You confirmed, feeling his lips press against your shoulder blade before the conjoined noises filled up the room, the hand that occupied the space between your legs failing in its constant rhythm, while the other dug into the doughy merge your hips and upper thighs conformed. 

You let your eyes close while the wave of pleasure washed over you, chests rising up and down rhythmically. It felt like you had just floated down from the sky, settling down into the reality of the position— a bit insane, to say the least— you found yourselves in, guided by the pure lust and yearning of each other after the sudden separation. 

“All good over there?” You laughed softly, receiving a small ‘eh’ in a high pitched tone. It took Franco another moment before he raised his face, his lips pressing a tender kiss to your jaw before his arms wrapped around your midriff and into a tight hug. 

“Con vos? Todo perfecto.”  

[gh0stsp1d3r]

second chance ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

warnings: r is a mutant w/ blood manipulation powers :3, death is mentioned, grief, angsty and fluffy

a/n: I wanted to make the readers power dark but her personality the complete opposite. I like dark and brooding characters w/ sweethearts LMFAOO it’s my favorite trope atp

MASTERLIST

Being sent to the void and being trapped in there was not how this was supposed to go at all. You stood up, confused as to where you were. You looked wildly around the deserted world, finding no one around you.

Sometimes you wonder how exactly it is that you got into this shit. After your boyfriend died saving the world, you let yourself go, not the happy go lucky person you usually were. Your friends noticed, you sulking around during missions, usually not saying a word to any of them.

Why’d he always have to be the damn hero?

And now you missed them, it was too quiet here for your liking. Your gaze landed on a patch of trees, seeming like the only form of life there. With a huff, you picked yourself up and walked towards the forage, walking around for a while until you came across something rather odd in this place.

A car? Here? It was random. What made you even more confused was the blood splatters all over it, the windows cracked. It was fresh blood, not dried yet, you could tell that much.

Slowly and curiously,you walked towards the car, peering inside quietly the two of them, Wade wrapped up in the seatbelts. Then your eyes were stuck on logan, heart stuttering and breath stopping at the sight of his bloodied body.

His eyes snapped open, eyebrows furrowing and forehead creased, he was going to attack you, barreling out of the car and standing in front of you before you jumped back and his movements paused.

You had already created a shield of their blood from the car, holding your hands out in front of you. You stared back at Logan, examining you as if it was as if he was wondering the same thing you were.

Is that you?

You put your hands down, blood falling back into the soil, both of you left staring at each other in silence.

It went on like that until Wade left out a cough, gasping and sitting up, struggling against the seatbelts.

“Motherfuck-“ he murmured out, both of you turning your heads to watch the man get out of his restraints.

He hopped out of the car, turning to the both of you staring back at him now. “You know what, I forgive you for that back there.” He told Logan.

“Gonna introduce me to your friend?” You asked with a small smile, both of them turning to look at you.

It was the first words Logan had heard you speak in a while, and Jesus, you even had the same smile.

“Pool. Dead.” He held his hand out, which looked broken. “Or Wade. You can just call me Wade.”

“Your um…” you cleared your throat, motioning to his floppy hand, that he quickly fixed back in place.

You shook his hand. “Y/n.” You mumbled.

“Where have I heard that name before…?” He asked, mostly to himself.

“I’m part of the x-men.” You told him. He snapped his fingers, remembering you suddenly.

“Oh, yeah! You’re dead in my universe.” He said the last part flatly.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Didn’t go so well for you. You have like… the blood bending powers, right?”

You snickered at his choice of words. “Blood bending is from avatar. Blood manipulation.” You corrected, but nodded anyways.

“So you’re like… Marie Moreau from gen v?”

You didn’t understand his reference.

“Are you two done?” Logan asked, his arms crossed against his chest.

“Cool your jets, wolvie.”

You had to suppress a smile at his choice of words, wolvie. You used to tease him with that nickname all the time. He glanced at you, before fixing his gaze back on Wade.

“What are you guys doing here anyways?” You asked them.

“Long story.” Logan spoke, still avoiding your gaze, his mind suddenly being flooded with the worst memories he has.

“Okay, then what are you guys planning to do? Except for stabbing each other.”

“We’ll catch you up, Katara.” Wade spoke, all of you piling back into the car, you staring out the window as Wade explained everything.

“Wait, let me get this straight, so she was your girlfriend but then she died, in your universe?” Wade whispered to Logan, who just grimaced and nodded, downing the rest of the alcohol in this place.

“I find it kinda hard to believe that you, the epitome of I have a grey cloud over my head at all times, and her, the living embodiment of fucking sunshine. She’s like fucking.. princess peach. You’re like bowser.”

Logan scoffed, glancing back at you for a moment. He was right. Despite him not getting the references, he knew what he was trying to say.

He ruined everything he touched, everything he went near. It was better to stay away from you, even if you are from another universe.

They didn’t get the chance to talk about it, because the others began walking in, Logan and wade taking one last glance at you before you all turned to them.

“You know, princess, you should talk to him.” Wade spoke suddenly, wrapping his arm around your shoulders, an innocent gesture.

You furrowed your eyebrows at Wade. “Princess?”

Somehow, in the few hours you knew wade, he was pretty nice, and you two quickly became friends.

“You remind me of like princess peach or something.”

Your eyebrows remained furrowed, face full of confusion.

“Oh my god, you guys don’t have Mario in your universe?”

You shook your head. “No clue what you’re talking about right now.”

“That’s.. tragic…”

“Anyways, what were you saying? Who should I talk to?”

“Mr dark and brooding outside.”

“Logan?”

“You know I’m talking about logan.”

You sighed, shutting your eyes for a moment and nodding, leaning your head back against the couch you sat on, recalling everything about the man.

“I was his friend for years. We met… through the X-men shit or whatever.” You waved it off. “I was… in love with him. I still am. We… eventually started dating, and we both were probably the happiest we could be. Then he had to go be the fuckin’ hero.” You said with a bittersweet laugh, Wade listening intently.

“It’s been 1 year, 3 months, and 11 days.”

“Wow… that is… bringing a tear to my eye.” He flicked the stray tear off his face, shaking his head to himself.

“Well, to me it looks like him and mini him are done talking,” he gently shoved your shoulder with his arm, motioning for you to go outside.

“Alright, alright, I’m going.” You murmured when he kept shoving you to the edge, small smile still on your face.

You shoved your hands into your pockets as you left, he glanced back, ready to tell whoever was coming up to go away, his words getting caught in his throat when he saw you. He turned back around, swallowing down the alcohol in seconds.

You sat next to him, both of you silent until you spoke up.

“Am I dead in your universe?” You asked him, voice almost a whisper.

He nodded, still not turning to look at you.

“Oh. You’re dead in mines.” You said, also turning to look ahead.

“How’d that happen?” He asked you, you were shocked that he was engaging in any conversation. You answered quickly.

“He was ripped in half.” You swallowed, remembering the scream you had let out, the cries you choked out on that day. “Right in front of me. Y-He told me…” you hesitated, turning to him, reaching for the bottle in his hands. He gave it to you, you taking a swig, the alcohol burning down your throat.

“He told me that he loved me, and that we needed to leave. I regret leaving. I regret it all.” You told him quietly, he stared at you now, and you stared at him back, passing him the bottle again.

“She was… stabbed, in the heart.” He told you, voice wavering for a moment. “I was so pissed off,” he chuckled for a moment. “I couldn’t kill them.”

You listened intently to the man.

“I never thought I would see…you again.”

“I know. It’s odd.” You said with a quiet laugh, both of you staring at each other for a moment, just sitting in silence, a collective understanding that maybe, just maybe, you were put in the void by fate.

A second chance. That’s what it was for you both.

[almostempty]

too good to be true (frankie x f!reader)

Too good to be true (frankie morales x f!reader) | wc: 9k | other fics  | Ao3

summary: frankie, a regular at your coffee shop, is there for you when your boyfriend joel breaks up with you and disappears practically overnight. despite not knowing each other long, frankie just seems to be perfect for you and you fall hard and fast 

note: this was supposed to be for the accidental adultery trope for @auteurdelabre 's trope challenge from last month. i thought accidental adultery was more like the wrong bed trope so--you can find that here with Dieter's party, but it turns out accidental adultery is more like ..when you thought ur lover died in the war or something and you start a new life with someone else and then they show up again. that didn’t interest me- soooo (spoiler) in my version reader doesn’t know that joel only left her bc of frankie 

warnings/tags: mdni explicit, smut, dark!frankie, stalker!frankie, dubcon, lies, deceit, coffee shop au gone wrong, accidental adultery, ex bf Joel, abandonment issues, anxiety, breakup grief, using sex to avoid processing emotions, face fucking, masturbation, crying, love bombing aka emotional manipulation/abuse, frankie doesn’t have a job bc he nefariously acquired a large cash settlement from his return trip to the jungle– or maybe he has a military pension idk don’t ask questions, revenge porn, jealousy, delusional reader, jealous and possessive frankie, if i missed something important pls let me know, 

standard weds warnings: unprotected sex with no consequences bc it’s fiction so it’s free to imagine it raw; f!reader is able-bodied otherwise, no specific descriptions; no y/n, likely many mistakes and i accept that 🫡

You don’t remember the first time you met, but you remember when you started looking forward to seeing Frankie. He was a quiet regular, didn’t ask for much, but was always polite. Kind. He’d come by at the same time, get the same coffee, and sit at a table in the lobby reading the news on his phone. Most mornings, you were busy enough that you didn’t even think about starting a conversation, but you’d sneak a glance here and there as he sat. Sometimes, he caught you, and you’d both flash a quick smile. 

He was a fun little fantasy to look forward to. You weren’t single or looking anyway, but it didn’t hurt to have something to help you crawl out of bed at 3:30 AM. It was always quiet until just after 6 AM, when the commuters started coming through. Frankie usually came through the lobby just as the morning rush was picking up, curls still damp from his post-workout shower and a soft smile just for you. 

Until it changed. He started showing up even earlier. That’s when you began to get to know him bit by bit. In the quiet dark of the early mornings, while the espresso machines warmed up and the 

You learned that he moved into town this year–not in this neighborhood, but he likes the coffee here, so it’s worth the morning drive. He’s single. Ex-military. Sticks to a routine. Likes your name. Remembers details. Asks follow-up questions about your weekend plans on Monday mornings. 

Did you and your boyfriend see that movie you were thinking about? Did you get to sleep in like you’d hoped? Did he take you to the farmer’s market? Did he like the recipe you wanted to try out? 

It was sweet. And infuriating. Someone you barely knew always remembered your plans or the little throwaway comments you’d make. You knew it wasn’t intentional, but it always stung when he’d ask about your plans, and you were left coming up with excuses for why they never seemed to happen. You carried the discomfort home with you until it spilled over into your relationship. 

And, thanks to Frankie really, it forced you to talk about it. Your boyfriend, Joel, had been drifting away. Complacent and avoidant. He’d been staying late at work, canceling on your weekend plans, always too tired to fuck, generally just a bad-tempered brick wall rather than a boyfriend. But after a serious conversation and some threats you hoped you wouldn’t have to follow through on, he’d agreed to make changes. 

It was working, too. You made date nights a priority. You sent flirty texts during the day–even if neither of you had time to respond right away. 

When he had long days during the week, you’d give him a back massage. You’d sit straddling his ass, rubbing down his shoulder blades, kneading circles with your thumbs, and savoring the view of his broad back and the warmth of his body under yours. You would pull the stress and tension away from his neck and spine, eliciting low groans of pleasure from Joel that would stir up the heat pooling in your core. You’d keep it up until you lulled him to sleep–or on your favorite nights–he’d flip over underneath you and watch you ride him until you were both slick with sweat, panting, and needing another quick shower before succumbing to sleep. 

It’s those tender moments that make it hurt that much more now. 

To think he could just throw you away like this. That he didn’t think you were worth the face-to-face conversation. Worth the closure. Just leaving you a fucking note, like you were a business transaction. Here’s your memo letting you know he no longer requires your services. 

Fucking coward. 

You re-read the letter for the thousandth time. It’s real, and you aren’t insane. You shove it back into your apron pocket. It’s your token. A reminder that this hell is your reality. 

You slip back to the front counter, plastering on your best customer service smile. 

But of course, it’s fucking Frankie. The concern is written across his face before he even gets to the counter. Are you that easy to read? You’re never going to make it through your shift. 

“You doing okay?” he asks softly as if he might spook you. Stupid big brown eyes. Just like Joel’s. They make you weak. You can’t be weak. You try to shift into a more defensive mode–chest forward, shoulders back. 

“Why? Do I look like shit today?” 

“No, never,” he tries to reassure you. Always so sweet to you. 

“Sorry, I just mean, I wouldn’t be surprised. I feel like shit.” You grumble as you grab his drip coffee and set it on the counter between the two of you. 

“I take it he’s still gone then?” 

You can only nod back in agreement. Can’t even look Frankie in the eyes; you just linger on his mouth and scruffy jaw where it seems safer to stare. Until his mouth shifts into a sympathetic frown. 

“You deserve better, you know,” he says like it’s a confession. Only meant for you and his coffee to hear. 

“Sure,” you sigh. Maybe he’s right. You deserve someone that can look you in the eye when they break up with you. Explain in more than a few sentences why they’d block you and disappear like a fucking ghost. Maybe you never really knew Joel at all if he could do this to you. 

You can feel your eyes welling up again, your face is still swollen from crying all night, and you’re sick of the emotional whiplash. Did you miss the signs the whole time? Was it something you did? Will you ever know? The cafe starts to blur as your heart rate increases. 

“Hey,” Frankie murmurs, “breathe.” It’s soft, but the timbre of his voice draws your attention. You focus on inhaling and exhaling, willing away the sobs. Just as you steady, they almost start all over again when you think about how pathetic you must seem to him. Standing at the register, sucking in shaky breath, and trying not to have a complete breakdown. 

But Frankie assures you he doesn’t think you’re pathetic. And somehow, you get through the morning. And the next. Day by day, you crawl through the week against everything inside of you that wants to scream and hide in bed for a month. By the end of the week, the only thought that gets you through the opening routine is that it’s your last shift before the weekend. 

There’s no way you could survive another shift just going through the motions like an undead barista. You know you’re on the edge, fragile and raw. You can just get through today and then spend the weekend locked in your bed wallowing, ugly crying, binge eating, anything. 

Your flimsy resistance almost crumbles when Frankie shows up with flowers for you. It’s too sweet. He seems so concerned. He claims he wanted you to have something to help cheer you up over the weekend. 

His thoughtful gesture is overwhelming. Having someone care about you, think of you, worry about you? And worse, to know that it could be so easy for someone to show you they care. 

To know that you aren’t hard to love. 

He notices the way your eyes shine, tears threatening to roll down your cheeks. He apologizes, “If it’s too much, you don’t have to take them. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, and I definitely didn’t want to make you cry.” 

You assure him they’re lovely and that you appreciate the gesture. You give him your warmest smile through your misty eyes. And you take the flowers home. 

You stare at them all weekend. 

Your favorite flowers. How did he know? They make you think of Frankie all weekend. His smile, how reliable he is with his routine, his thoughtfulness, how kind he is to you. 

The qualities you thought you had found in Joel. 

You let yourself embrace your agony for the weekend. Determined to make it through at least the first stage of grief. As if you can allot a number of hours to it and just check it off your list. 

A part of you admits that there’s something comforting about knowing you’ll see Frankie again Monday morning. That someone will check in on you. 

And he does. 

Reliable as ever, he shows up in the dark cover of the early morning. You greet each other with your deep morning voices, and there’s something about the fact that you’re the first person you both speak to every morning that draws a genuine smile from you. 

You keep going to work. Frankie keeps showing up. The world keeps turning.

Days pass and you can start to fall asleep without having to exhaust yourself completely. Some of the weight on your chest sloughs off when your ribs shake with laughter at Frankie’s jokes. His charm brightens your dark days. 

One afternoon, as you’re dropping an armful of grocery bags onto the counter, you notice the flowers he gave you. They’re starting to wilt. You hesitate to toss them for some reason. Convinced they’ve got another day in them, at least. 

You sweep up the fallen petals and pollen, spinning the vase to find the best angle left. The flowers may be fading, but Frankie is beginning to occupy a permanent residence in your mind. You find yourself keeping mental notes of things you want to share with him the next morning. A joke about a show you both keep up with, something you saw on your walk home, a question you forgot to ask the day before because you were distracted. 

Distracted by things that don’t sound like they could possibly be distracting. Like the curve of his bottom lip or the space where his neck meets his shoulder. Or worse, the way he smiles so wide you can see his dimples when you double down on an argument about a movie, TV show, or the best takeout on this side of town. 

The next morning he has fresh flowers for you. It’s as if he knew you were hesitating to get rid of them, to lose the physical evidence. You squint at him with a playful accusation of how did you know they were on their last legs? He reasons it’s been a week already. A week. It feels like it’s only been a day, and at the same time, it feels like a whole month has passed. 

It helps. 

The following week is much of the same. Morning chats with Frankie. Busy shifts with rushes and endless cleaning tasks. Running errands, trying to keep in touch with friends, trying to keep yourself too busy and distracted to fall back into the sharp pain of loss. Of coming home to an empty apartment. Of waking up alone. Of the way Joel erased himself so completely from your life, you have to find tangible reminders that he was ever real. 

You loosen your grip on the hope that Joel might show up with an apology or even respond to the text you had sent. He can’t even hear you out or answer a single question? You give up altogether on the idea that the whole thing might have been some confusing mistake.

There’s still a hole rotting in your heart, but if you stay busy enough, you can ignore it. Mostly. 

You stick to your plan, steadfast that time will heal your wounds. Days pass, and you find yourself once again asking Frankie what he has planned for the day. But this time, he hesitates. 

Frankie tells you he’ll be out of town for a few days. You aren’t sure why, but it feels like he jammed his fingers into that hole in your heart when he tells you. Don’t abandon me. Please. 

He must see right through you. 

“Here,” he says, holding out his hand. “I know it’s only a few days, but I was thinking I don’t want to miss out on your remarkably accurate reality TV predictions. You take the napkin with his number written on it. How old-fashioned. It makes your heart flutter. “Keep me updated.” 

You swallow the butterflies and turn the energy into a smirk. “You’re so going to regret this,” you tease. 

You feel lit from within, glowing and floaty for the rest of your shift. Getting the hot regular’s number gives you a rush. It’s not like he asked you on a date or anything, but still, it feels good to have someone want to keep talking to you. 

Until you clock out and immediately start spiraling. Should you text him now just to give him your number? Wish him a safe trip? Play it cool and wait until tomorrow morning? Or maybe he’s busy in the morning? Shit. You never even asked what his trip was for. 

……

It’s early afternoon when Frankie’s phone buzzes. Your shift must have just ended. 

You: it’s me!

You: figured it’s only fair you get my number now, too 

Frankie: Hey you :) 

You: hey :) 

You: i hope the trip goes well 

Frankie: Thanks, it’ll be better now. 

You: how come? 

He underestimated you. He thought he wouldn’t hear from you until tomorrow. Thought it would take longer. 

Frankie: Well, I just got this pretty girl’s number. Now I’ve got her updates to look forward to. 

He shakes his head to himself, pocketing his phone and stretching out on his sofa. 

Maybe he didn’t need the ruse of being out of town at all. You don’t need the absence to suck you in any deeper; you’re moving on faster than he thought. Good. 

He sprawls out across the couch like a lazy dog in the sun, TV on mute, still fully dressed. He drags his eyes over the bare walls of his apartment. He’s going to need the next few days to make the place seem a little more welcoming. More like a place you’d be happy to wake up in. 

He checks the notes hidden in his phone of places you shop, your favorite color, the way your apartment is decorated. He already knows what you want. What you need. With that thought, he drifts off, satisfied, into a long nap. 

He doesn’t wake until his evening alarm goes off, checking his phone to see what reality show you’re going to be glued to tonight. MILF manor. Who comes up with these? He rolls his eyes, stretching, yawning, and traipsing across his apartment to find some cold pizza in the fridge. 

Holding one slice between his teeth and the other in one hand, he debates whether he should take a drive through your neighborhood or stay in for the night. His phone buzzes again, and he figures it’s a sign. He drops his pants near the hallway and scarfs his cold dinner as he settles back in the living room, unmuting the show and opening your messages. 

You’re funny. 

Sending quick-witted observations and callbacks. 

You force him to pay attention. You’re sharp. If he doesn’t watch, you’ll know. You always call him out for missing the nuance. You challenge that he could predict the next winner if he paid closer attention. 

When you get frustrated with him and huff about how he missed something completely obvious, he memorizes your expressions. The fire in your eyes when you’re passionate. You feel so deeply and express your emotions so freely. 

He likes that about you. Funny. Smart. Bold. Passionate. Sexy.

Perfect. 

He lets his mind wander as he leans back. The room glows from the light of the TV, flashing brighter and dimmer. The look on your face when he said he’d be gone for a few days pops into his mind, how your eyes flashed wide and the soft pout that tugged at your bottom lip. 

You need him. It’s so clear. And you’re so perfect. 

The show is just noise. Static. 

He closes out of your messages. Opening up his photos. Scrolling through pictures of you. Some from social media, and some taken while you were working and unaware. 

Perfect. 

His eyes fall shut as he tips his head back, relaxed and comfortable as he sinks deeper into the cushion. 

“Perfect lips, perfect mouth,” he mutters to himself as he sets the phone aside altogether. 

It’s a simple but effective scene that plays out in his mind. A go-to fantasy since the day he first laid eyes on you. 

He wedges his boxers down just far enough to free his half-hard cock. He tries to start slow, with languid strokes as he imagines the heat of your mouth sucking him deeper. The sight of you looking up at him with your lips stretched around him. 

“Just perfect,” he groans to himself. He can’t hold back his urgency at the thought of you, quickly amping up the speed of his wrist and the strength of his grip. It’s minutes, or maybe seconds before his muscles are tensing and jerking as he comes to the thought of you. 

It eases the tension, but he still needs you. Soon. 

……

The rest of your week passes quickly. 

Your head is in the clouds over your new texting buddy. You check your phone on all your breaks but send yourself into another spiral, trying to work out the balance between enthusiastic but not needy. Responding quickly, but not being too much. You don’t want to come off as crazy.

It fully absorbs your attention. The excitement and the anxiety. The rush when you get a new message and the anguish over every word you type. Rereading your messages until you get a response. Worrying yourself over your silly jokes and banter. But when he responds, it’s addictive. You’re smitten when he matches your energy or sends a flirty quip. 

It makes you smile so hard your cheeks burn. You get distracted taking orders. It’s all-consuming. 

………

Frankie keeps tabs on you the rest of the week. When you walk home from work, when you run errands, when you’re out with your friends. He picks up things for his apartment while you’re at work. At night, he drives down your block. He watches you watching TV. Until dark, then you diligently shut your curtains just as the last dregs of the sunset disappear. 

Tonight, he lingers, still parked across the street from your apartment building. He sends another text, and his eyes flick to your curtains like you might open them back up just for him. You’re such a good girl for that, though–not letting anyone else watch. 

Frankie: I’m back tomorrow. You have weekend plans? 

You: that’s great! no plans for me

Frankie: You want to watch tomorrow’s episode together? 

You: that would be fun! 

Frankie: Perfect :) 

………

You don’t know why you offered to host. You feel like your place has been a mess. Since Joel left, you’ve been letting your depression piles calcify. You shove your laundry into the washer, toss your unopened mail into a drawer, and do your best to make it look like you’re a fully functioning adult. 

Something about having Frankie over has you feeling pent up. 

You’re nervous. Excited. And you’re still unregulated and exhausted from the emotional devastation of Joel disappearing on you. You’ve been letting yourself sink into the distraction of making a new friend. A hot, new friend. But as helpful as the distraction is, you still haven’t really processed the pain. 

Maybe it’s too soon to let yourself think about Frankie all the time. Maybe you need to really feel your misery and figure out what you missed. What you did wrong. No, even your body rejects that idea, sending a shiver of anxiety through you. 

Fuck it. 

You’re both single adults. There’s no rulebook that says you can’t entertain a new crush. So what’s the harm? You’re hoping that seeing Frankie in person will help you get clarity on the flirty vibe of his texts. Are they truly flirty, or are you just delusional? 

You do your best to find a casual “just watching trash TV” type of outfit after your everything shower. You bought enough snacks to feed a high school football team, you know, just in case. You flutter around your space, hastily cleaning anything else you can think of, worried about details that only an evil in-law would scrutinize you for. 

Despite your frenzy and feeling on edge all afternoon, the concern all seems to vanish when Frankie shows up at your door. You welcome him in and swoon a little over the fresh flowers he brought you. You still have some nerves that don’t relent, but they’re the smiley, giggly, butterfly type of nerves now. 

As you get settled, it all feels surprisingly easy. 

You make each other laugh. You offer your insane spread of snacks, and he settles next to you on your sofa before the episode starts. He appreciates all of your commentary and banters with you over your strongest opinions. It feels surprisingly natural to be spending time together like this. Without an espresso machine between you. 

You’re taken with his presence. He balances you. Even when he debates your controversial takes and unpopular opinions, he doesn’t get worked up like you. 

His calm demeanor is grounding. His nearness and steadiness relaxes you.  

The stress let down makes your head feel heavy, and without thinking, you rest your temple against Frankie’s shoulder with a deep sigh. It feels comforting until you realize how forward you’re being and snap your head back up. 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” you blurt out, scooting away. “I didn’t mean to.” 

“It’s okay,” he reassures you, voice soft and low. 

He’s staring at you so intently. You feel the heat in your face, embarrassed at acting so comfortable with him and self-conscious under his gaze. You still don’t really know what he wants. And you don’t want to fuck anything up. But he doesn’t seem bothered. In fact, you swear his eyes drop to your mouth before they flick back up. 

“More than okay,” he adds, and your stomach flips at his honesty. “Here,” he shifts and invites you to scoot under his arm. You get comfortable, resting your head on his chest. 

You try to watch the TV, but you can feel Frankie watching you. It makes you restless and unable to think clearly. You peer up at him. It’s a charged look; maybe it was already obvious, but you hadn’t felt confident enough to put the pieces together until now. 

“What?” You whisper, unable to fight the smile pulling at your mouth. 

“You look beautiful,” he murmurs. 

Uh oh. Your breath hitches, and something in you cracks. A tear slips from the corner of your eye, and you try to hide it, whispering thanks into his chest and looking down. 

“Hey,” he tilts your chin to look up at him. “Hey, what’s wrong?” 

“I don’t know,” you choke out, trying to will away the emotions that bubble up inside of you. “That’s really sweet of you.” You steady your breathing, slower and deeper. What is wrong with you? You expected something flirty. You didn’t expect something so.. heartfelt?

The more you slow your breathing, the more it feels like you’re inhaling the essence of Frankie. Whatever combination of laundry detergent, deodorant, body wash, whatever it is is all combined it’s soothing. Nice. It calms you. 

But why? How does just breathing against him make you feel safe? 

You can’t even think about safety. You can’t count on anyone else. What if he leaves out of nowhere, too? Your thoughts pick up, racing. Falling deeper into your anxieties. You aren’t even on a date; you shouldn’t be worried about this guy abandoning you. 

Your fears eat at you, worsening your fragile state. Your body shakes gently as you try to breathe through the anxiety. 

Frankie runs his hand along your back. He’s so warm, solid, and strong. 

You feel like you must seem insane, which makes your emotional flooding worse. He just keeps murmuring at you about how you’re okay, and he pulls you into his arms to give you a firm hug, regulating you. Fixing you. 

When you lean back to apologize for crying on him, he shakes his head in disagreement. 

“Don’t apologize,” he says it like he means it, like he won’t be taking questions or arguments. You sniffle as you do your best to accept that. “You still look beautiful,” he says, pulling you back towards him. 

It’s everything you didn’t know you needed to hear. Your face nestles against his neck. Delirious with your state of mind and his flattery and reassurance. You can’t stop yourself from kissing his neck. The exact spot you’ve been so distracted by on so many mornings. His skin is soft and warm; you can taste your tears, wet and salty on your lips. You do it again before you freeze. What are you doing? 

Frankie’s hand slips up the back of your neck, cradling your head in his warm palm. It feels like encouragement. You test your theory, pressing another gentle kiss to his jaw where his scruffy beard tickles your nose. 

The TV might still be on, but all you can hear is your breathing and his. The sound of your lips against his skin. And the low-pitched noise in Frankie’s throat that urges you on. Provoking a needful fire within you. Intense and frantic. You nip at his ear before stamping open-mouthed kisses back down his neck, pulling back only to breathe hot and humid against his skin. 

You hesitate, a frenzied desire has you wanting to straddle his lap and take more and more, but something makes you pause. Frankie knows. He feels your weight shifting and makes the move for you, pulling you onto his lap. 

“I know,” he says as his large hands wrap around both sides of your jaw. “Keep going.” The encouragement pours over you like warm honey. Face to face, you wrap your arms around his neck. The last thread of your doubt snaps and you close the gap. Pressing your lips together. Softly for a second, before your mouths are parting and your tongues and teeth work fervently to express your desire. 

Then it becomes a desperate blur, your fingers curling into his hair, tugging until he’s groaning into your mouth. His hands slipping under your shirt, hot against your skin, snaking back down to knead the curve of your ass while you roll your hips, grinding into his lap in search of friction. 

You feel him hardening beneath you and a molten hot thrill radiates between your legs. There’s a raw quality to your movements as you bite at his lip, scratch at his shoulders, and whine with a frustrated edge. 

You’re taking out all your emotional distress on him. Or, rather, you’re begging him to erase it all, to bite back harder, to use force, to dominate. You keep trying to use your body instead of words. Just teeth, nails, and needy writhing. Anything sharp, forceful, rough. An offering. 

Tears still roll down your cheeks, hot with anger, anguish, and everything you can’t name. You aren’t interested in exploring your emotions. You need something more visceral. 

You sit back, hands shooting towards Frankie’s belt, chasing more, when he stops you in your tracks. His hand possessively grips below your jaw, forcing you to look at him. 

Your cunt throbs at the look on his face. The soft, gentle Frankie is gone. His face is hard and dangerous as he studies you. For some reason that makes you want him even more. 

His fingers dig into your cheek eliciting a sharp inhale from you, parting your lips into a small “o” shape, before he releases you. You know you’re a mess. Teary, panting, wild-eyed–but his lips curl into sinful grin. Reflexively you tilt your pelvis, drawing the heat of your core along the ridge of his erection. Your eyes flutter shut, as you aim to forget yourself and focus on the sensation. 

But his chest shakes, jostling you in his lap, with his rumbly, dark chuckle. It’s condescending, startling you and stilling your hips. You blink at Frankie. The charged air is thick. The rest of the room has faded. Your brows furrow as you wonder, but your thighs tense. 

“Keep going.” 

It’s a demand this time, not an affirmation or encourager. His sinister smirk is gone, replaced by a frighteningly blank stare. His carnivorous eyes drop, watching your fingers as you work open his belt and jeans. 

Shit. You can tell he’s big as you trace your fingers along his cock, over his boxers, savoring the heat in your palm. The damp fabric at the tip pleases you, and you peel the waistband down to reveal the glorious vision that has you wetting your lips. 

“Shit,” you repeat out loud this time. A primal, hungry need possesses you as you admire his cock. The glistening head, thick shaft, and dark patch of curls at the base. Just the sight of him is intoxicatingly masculine and dominant. 

You need him in your mouth. 

You slink off his lap, sinking to your knees between his legs. Excitement flutters in your pussy and you feel like you’ve fallen into a into a trance. Your body moves faster than your mind, tugging at his jeans as he repositions at the edge of the couch. 

“I know,” he mutters under his breath as you wrap your hand around the smooth skin. “I know what you need,” he continues. You can only hum in response. Preoccupied by the slip of your thumb dragging a trail of precome down along the underside of his cock. 

He cups the back of your head, urging you towards his tip with a commanding open growled down at you. You want to pout for not getting the chance to tease and savor the moment, but you don’t have the time when he slides past your lips and hits the back of your throat. 

You choke, sputtering around him and pulling back. His hand encourages you to try again and you’re eager to take it like he gives it. Refocusing on controlling your breath, you look up to see the fierceness in his eyes on his otherwise blank face. A confusing mix of warning and excitement stirs in your core, making you squirm on your knees. 

The discomfort makes something flicker across his face. 

You try again, determined, like you’ve got something to prove. You pull his other hand to your cheek. Please lead. You catch the start of a smirk on his face before he’s guiding you once again. It makes your mind blank; all you can do is breathe and focus on relaxing your muscles. It’s a welcome release from the stress. Grounding you in the present. You can only think as fast as he can glide along your tongue. 

As you build a rhythm, he verges on brutal, but when you’re rewarded with the delicious sound of Frankie groaning because of you the intensity means nothing. Your eyes water as you refuse to gag out of sheer willpower. His thumb smears your tears across your cheekbone, and he pulls you off of his cock.

He takes in your swollen lips, ragged breathing, and wet lashes like he’s committing the details to memory as you catch your breath, before he’s tapping at your cheek. You open wide for him and he rests the head of his cock on your tongue, shallowly tipping you back and forth. 

Your jaw could be aching or your knees may be digging into the rug, but it doesn’t matter to you. It’s much easier to meditate on the weight of his length slipping along your wet tongue. Centering yourself on that thought, your eyes flutter shut. 

You wonder if this side of Frankie has always been lurking beneath the surface. Chillingly collected, but with something viscous bleeding into the edges. You wonder if maybe you’ve called to this part of him with the mayhem of your state of mind. 

“Yeah,” Frankie rasps in his gravelly tone causing you to blink back up at him. You wonder if he can read your mind; if he was answering you. The hint of a smile remains on the corner of his lips when you look up, “Making you feel better already.” He’s presumptive but accurate. 

You give a muffled affirmation that vibrates in your throat as he slides past your lips and you take him deep as he can be. All your senses are filled with Frankie when you inhale, when you swallow, when you blink. You give, pliant for him, trusting him with the control. You don’t worry about how obscene you might look with tears rolling down your cheeks. You just want to hear what other sounds he might make for you. His thumb drags over your cheek again, wiping away the wet streaks. 

“This is the only reason you ever cry for me.” Frankie’s voice is dripping with affection. And possession. 

It makes everything foggy. The sentiment, the delivery, the authority. He doesn’t let you dwell on the unspoken commitment in his statement. Doesn’t give you the time to question him or spiral inward. 

Your head swims until he pulls you up, strips you, and settles you back onto his lap. Some action movie autoplayed after your episode ended. The crashing and explosions of the chase scene in the background don’t ruin the moment, in a twisted way it’s almost a fitting soundtrack for the two of you. 

Frankie allows you to pull his shirt up, over his head, and time slows. The warmth radiating between your bodies is nothing compared to the searing heat of Frankie’s gaze. It’s dizzying, between his torrid expression and his grip on your hips as he guides you closer. 

You go entirely mindless when the head of his cock nudges your clit, gasping as he slips along your wet seam. It brings everything into focus for you, and you reach between your bodies to guide him directly to your deplorably empty cunt. 

“Oh, fuck,” your word turns to a groan as he breaches your entrance, and you tense at the stretch, holding still. 

“Keep going,” he orders lowly, and you inch down until he impatiently takes control, slamming you down until you meet his hips. Your mouth hangs open at his move and the immediate fullness. His hardened look softens as your walls ripple and flex, adjusting to his size. 

At least until you start moving, grinding against him, slowly at first. Then the sharp sternness returns. You’re unaware, chasing the friction as your clit rubs against the dark hair surrounding the base of his cock. 

“Knew you’d be perfect,” he says it more like an I told you so to himself than praise for you, but the words affect you just the same. Your chest rises, swelling with pride, and you chase his approval instead of your pleasure. 

You ride him until your thighs burn. His hands are everywhere. Rolling your nipples between his fingers, squeezing all of your soft curves, spreading your legs wider to watch where he disappears inside of you. You bounce eagerly for him, spine arching to draw his eyes to the way your tits ripple from the force of your body colliding into his. 

You whine in disapproval when he interrupts you, pulling you flush against his chest, grazing his teeth along your neck. “Give it to me,” Frankie demands, his voice rough and raw, breath hot along your sweat-damp skin. 

He runs his hand down your body, thumb circling your clit, adding the pressure you need. You edge closer and closer, body taut with anticipation. “Come for me,” he commands. It’s the authority and his gravelly voice rolling through you that launches you into a shuddering release. 

Frankie continues talking while you’re disoriented by the overwhelming pleasure. “For me,” he grunts through clenched teeth as your pussy contracts around him. “I know that’s what you need.” You can only moan as you cling to his broad shoulders. “Only me.” 

You figure he’s just rambling until he grabs you by the jaw again, demanding you respond. Demanding you repeat it for him. And you do. With glassy eyes and you mutter his words back to him. Declaring you only come for him. That you need him. 

Your words unlock something within Frankie. “Good,” he approves. “Good girl.” He praises you gruffly as he holds you steady, pounding into you with an untamed strength. You’re floating, starry-eyed and softheaded at his praise. Murmuring sentence fragments and his name, conjuring throaty grunts from Frankie until he stills, coming deep inside of you. “Only me,” he echoes and you confirm. 

“Only you.” 

In your unguarded state, it’s a welcome commitment. Maybe you haven’t had any real dates yet, but he knows you. He wants you. He tells you he wants to take care of you, and that feels fucking good. 

You collapse against his chest, matching his breathing. The movie playing behind you reaches a tragic twist, setting the third act in motion and solidifying the protagonists dark path. You run your tongue along the column of Frankie’s throat as the score of the film hangs unresolved on a dissonant chord. He pulls you to his lips, kissing you possessively and captivating you. 

Your bodies flow, connected and attuned. In his lap, in his arms, with his tongue slipping between your lips, you feel wanted. Assured. Content to accept that he knows what you need. 

And he’s unrelenting. Determined to prove it to you. Again and again. 

All night. On the couch, in the shower, in your bed. 

Until the night bleeds into the morning and he doesn’t disappear. 

You take turns waking and watching one another sleep. Verifying he’s real. Watching your chest rise and fall before drifting off again. Until the sun heats your room and you wake again to find yourself curled into his broad frame. His chest to your back as he draws his fingers down your along the dip and swell of your waist and hip. 

“Did you mean it?” you ask, in a strikingly solemn tone for the soft setting. Breath shallow as you stare off toward the window. Not ready to turn and face him in the daylight. 

“Every word.” He punctuates his affirmation with a tender kiss behind your ear. His reassurance satisfies you; warmth blooms from your chest spreading to your fingers and toes. 

You spend a lazy Sunday together. Eating, laughing, fucking, and gazing at each other like lovesick teenagers. It’s too sweet to end. Instead, you become inseparable, taking turns staying at each other’s places until you have to go back. 

The world feels bright again. Lighter. 

He had paid such close attention as you got to know each other. He’s almost suspiciously perfect. Picking up your favorite takeout meals, putting on your favorite movies, and keeping your flowers fresh as the weeks pass. 

You feel like you can never get enough of him somehow. You think about him all day at work, even though he still visits you every morning like clockwork. Your heart swells when he meets you at the end of your shift to walk you home. 

You find yourself canceling your happy hour dates with friends to stay in with Frankie instead. Postponing and rescheduling, you’ll see them soon. It’s like there aren’t enough minutes in the day to get your fill of Frankie. 

You’re insatiable, always needing him in your mouth, between your legs, fucking you through the mattress, on the counter, any surface you can find. You’re never too much. He’s equally infatuated with you, a mutual obsession. Fulfilling your darker desires and unleashing fantasies you’ve never felt safe enough to explore. He’s greedy and hungry for you. Making you feel wanted and desired. 

With your head in the clouds, all you can see is how much he cares about you. He texts you whenever you’re apart, picks you up after your shifts, shows you off to his friends. 

You barely have to do anything for yourself. He’s always thinking of you, predicting your needs before know them yourself. He picks up your mail for you, runs errands before you get home, and stocks his apartment with all of the products you use and love so you don’t have to go home for days at a time. 

Things are so good that it’s rare when something goes wrong. 

But when it does, it really fucking hurts. 

When you get into an argument, a real one, he doesn’t fight with you. He leaves, swiftly and without another word. He doesn’t respond to your texts or calls. It feels like you’ve been torn in half; you sob and shake alone in your bed until your alarm blares and your headache throbs. 

He doesn’t respond the following day, doesn’t come in for coffee, and doesn’t show any signs of existing. You move through your shift like a hollow corpse haunting the cafe. Time drags agonizingly slowly. 

Every time the door opens your eyes snap towards the entrance, hoping to see the familiar curls and broad shoulders, but it’s not him. You restart your phone just on the odd chance there’s something wrong with it. He wouldn’t abandon you. He knows that would destroy you. 

The void in your chest is cold and dark. Anger simmers somewhere inside of it, but it’s not strong enough to set you off. When Frankie shows up at the end of your shift, the anger is snuffed out completely. His presence immediately reverses your heartbreak, and suddenly you’re apologizing to him before he gets a word out. 

You have to. He has to know you wouldn’t do anything to make him leave. He can’t. He’s calm, accepting your apology and taking you home where he erases your pain. With his hands, and mouth, and cock. Until you forget what the argument was ever about, and what it felt like to watch him walk away. Until it’s back to normal. 

Every day you rely on him more and more; you can’t breathe without him. But when he’s with you, everything feels easy. Right. 

Not many things can throw the two of you off. Your friends seem happy enough for you, despite their questions and insistence that you come out with them more often. You get along well with Frankie’s friends. They’re quick witted and welcome you genuinely. 

They treat you like family, but it doesn’t stop Frankie’s jealousy from flaring up. If Benny smiles at you for too long or if you rest a hand on Will’s bicep when you laugh it only takes minutes before Frankie’s fingers dig into your arm and he whisks you away. 

It gives you a perverse thrill every time. 

When he folds you over the bathroom counter at his friend’s house. Demanding you watch in the mirror as he reminds you with a fierce snarl and devastating thrusts that you’re his. When you can still hear his friends horseing around outside, but he pounds into you with such force, you can’t quiet yourself. He slaps a hand around your mouth to silence you, growling into your ear that you’ll take it quietly, like a good girl. 

Sometimes you aren’t even sure what triggers him. 

Like when he fucks you against the side of his SUV in the parking lot of the trendy bar Benny had invited you both to. All you can piece together is Frankie muttering something about your dress as he yanks the top of it down letting your tits spill into the cool night air. He’s reckless and animalistic, claiming you roughly under the stars and streetlights before you can even get into the car let alone through your front door.

…..

Tonight, you both know exactly what got under his skin. Maybe not the why of it all, but he’s sure you know how he feels, and he wants to hear you say it. 

It started this afternoon. He picked you up from work, like usual, and you chatted in the car as he drove to the grocery store. You sighed, tiredly as you recounted an exchange with a rude customer, but when Frankie pulled your hand towards his mouth to press a gentle kiss to the delicate skin on your inner wrist. 

Predictably, it brightened your features. Knowing your buttons doesn’t dull the intoxicating effect you have on him, though. He loves the way you light up so easily for him and it serves to deepen his conviction time and time again. Like a constant affirmation that he is where he is supposed to be. That everything he does for is exactly what he should be doing. Exactly what you need. 

He was still ruminating on this as you led him through the aisles of the grocery store. Unbothered that you had to double back to the produce section after forgetting some fresh herb you determined was crucial to the dish you planned out. You dashed around the corner in front of him, with a giggle when Frankie’s heart stilled. 

He didn’t have time to distract you. Your laughter cut off immediately. 

“What the fuck?” you muttered and Frankie grabbed your hand. 

Joel’s pace quickened as he brushed past you. Your head turned, calling his name once, but Joel carried on as if you didn’t exist. Frankie studied your face, emotions flooded your expression as you watched Joel walking away. Something darker flickered across them. 

Frankie followed your line of sight. Flowers. Joel was carrying a bouquet of flowers.

You apologized to Frankie. Clearly thrown off, but determined not to let it get to you or to Frankie. 

“I didn’t know he even lived here still,” you remarked. 

He doesn’t. The possessive fire burned through Frankie’s veins. “We’re going,” he commanded in a low tone that made your eyes flare wide. 

“What?”

“Now.”

“We can’t leave everything.” 

“They won’t arrest us.” He argued, as he all but carried you out the door, ushering you in a blur to his car and all the way home. Frankie moved swiftly and silently. Wholly consumed by the need to feel you writhing underneath him and crying out his name. He needed it so viscerally, he didn’t even have time to process how he was going to deal with Joel. 

Until you’re breathless and shuddering beneath him. Repeating everything he wants to hear. 

“Only for you,” you repeat as you rake your nails down his shoulder blades and the plane of his back. 

“Again,” he demands. You don’t know if he wants you to keep talking or to come again, but both are inevitable at this point. 

“I’m yours,” you pant, wrapping your legs around him as if you could pull him any deeper inside of you. He shifts slightly, angling your hips and your cunt clenches around him pulling him devastatingly close to the edge as you moan his name. 

He stills and you whine in protest as Frankie stretches past you to pick his phone up off the bedside table. “Keep going,” he orders as he points the lens at you. He needs you to say it again. He adjusts to resume his pace, snapping his hips into causing your lips to part with another moan. 

“I’m yours,” you repeat, “all yours.” He gives you a dark smile as he records you. Capturing all the lewd, wet sounds as he drives his cock into you, the euphoric smile that spreads on your face, and the words you know he always wants to hear. 

“Mine,” he agrees. 

……

You don’t see Joel again. And you don’t have time to dwell on the encounter anyway. Frankie keeps you busy and satisfied, and even surprises you by asking you to move in with him officially. Maybe it feels soon, but you spend nearly every day together anyway and the idea delights you. 

It’s an easy transition. You downsize some of your duplicate appliances, joking with him about how he must have great taste for having so many of the same products. He admits that you inspired a few of his purchases. 

You settle into a routine quickly, not much changes. 

Sometimes in the early morning, when you slip out of bed in the dark to get ready for your shift, you wonder if it’s all real. If someone can care about you as deeply as you care about them. But by the time you’re showered and dressed, he greets you with a sleepy kiss before pulling on his usual workout attire and driving you to work. 

You let your gaze linger this morning. Trailing along his profile as he drives, admiring all the details that you used to wonder about from the other side of the counter. His neck, those arms, his hands, those lips. They’re illuminated in flashes as you pass under the streetlights. 

You catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth. He always knows when you’re looking. He rests a hand just above your knee. He always knows what you need. And idea takes root in your mind, and you do everything to stop yourself from smiling and giving yourself away. It’ll take a few days to organize. He’s almost impossible to surprise. 

……

Later in the week, Frankie is on autopilot. Kicking off his shoes and pulling his sweaty shirt over his head before he lopes towards the ensuite for a shower. He only makes it a few strides before he’s on edge, noticing the lights he didn’t remember leaving on. He hears your voice. Relief and confusion twist together in his chest. How did you get back here before him? 

Walking into the bedroom you are a sexy surprise wrapped in red lingerie he’s never seen you wear before, but something is wrong. Your shoulders are curled inward, your cheeks are wet, and you’re hastily tying up your matching red satin robe. 

He scans the room, swallowing thickly when he notices the open coset door and the missing box on the shelf. 

He calls your name softly. 

“What is this, Frankie?” your voice shakes. Unsteady and wavering between fear and anger. 

You hold up his phone. Well, his other phone. Shit. 

…..

“Answer me,” you beg. Desperate for an explanation. For something to make sense. To understand how you went looking for the box with fuzzy handcuffs and instead found a phone with a new message from a number you still recognized. 

Your heart is pounding in your chest and when he takes you into his arms you flinch. You want to shove him off of you. Despite your hostility, your body is still drawn to his. He always knows what you need. In his arms your heart feels tethered to his, like they could merge through the proximity of your rib cages. Like they beat for each other. 

“You trust me, right?” he asks. 

“Explain, please,” is all you can whisper. 

“It was to keep you safe,” he starts. 

“From what?” 

“To protect you. Joel wasn’t good for you. He couldn’t take care of you. Not the way you deserve.” 

“How would you know?” it’s still not making sense to you. 

“You told me.” He’s so self-assured. Like, he’s always right. Like, he can’t even imagine why you’d be upset right now. “I did it for you,” he adds. 

“Did what?” you need him to say it out loud. You need him to fix this. 

“I know you thought Joel was trying, but he was only going to drag it out. Disappoint you over and over. Can you imagine what it would’ve been like for me to watch you go through that?” 

You don’t answer. 

“I couldn’t watch. I made him an offer, but he’s a stubborn man.” 

You snort quietly at that understatement. Nobody tells Joel what to do. 

“I just had to find the right leverage.” 

Frankie holds you so tight, you can’t wriggle around to look him in the eyes. 

“He couldn’t give you what you need, not like I can. I know what you need. And, think of how fast you got over him anyway. You were mine all along.” 

You’re lightheaded. From the shock of finding the evidence. From his words. From the way you believe him. You want to sit down. You tap at his arms insistently, begging against his chest, but he keeps talking. His deep voice rumbling in your ears. 

“You wouldn’t have understood it then. I had to keep it from you to protect you. So we could have what we have now.” He’s not listening to you. Not letting you go. It makes you snap. 

“Let go of me!” 

“You have to understand first.” 

“I’ll listen,” you plead. “Just let me breathe.” He lets you step back, but doesn’t release you from his grip. His hands are glued to your arms. He waits, steady and chillingly calm.

Slowly, the pieces start to fall into place. The unanswered questions from your breakup. The way Joel completely vanished. 

“I thought he just left,” you whisper to yourself. 

“He did,” Frankie argues. 

“I thought he didn’t want me,” you continue. 

“He didn’t. Not the way that I want you.” 

Something cold trickles down your spine and you look at Frankie. For a moment he’s a complete stranger. Your stomach sinks and your vision spins. Slamming your eyes shut you filter through your racing thoughts. 

It wasn’t fate that led you into Frankie’s arms. 

You wound up crying on his cock by design, trying to fuck away the pain of a heartbreak that wasn’t even real. You’ve fallen into a whole new life, while the man you had loved may have never stopped loving you back? 

“You blackmailed Joel Miller?” 

“Technically, it’s extortion.” 

It’s all there on the surface. Exposed between the two of you. Who Frankie really is. Cunning and competent. Devoted and dangerous. Possessive and powerful. 

“It worked, until he came to town for someone’s engagement party.” 

“When we saw him at the store?” Frankie nods. “And then you sent him the video we made.” 

“Hearing it from you seemed to do the trick. He knows you’re mine and you only want me.” 

Frankie gives you time to study him. Absorbing the information. The gleam in his dark eyes. The same eyes from when he would visit you at work. Just as fierce and just as earnest. 

You’ve always known him for his true self. He’s been yours since he first laid eyes on you. And he knew you needed him. 

“And you did it… for us.” 

“For you.” 

You can see it plainly on his face. He’d do it again and again to have you. Because you’re his. It’s all you ever wanted. It has to be wrong, but it’s the hottest thing anyone has ever done for you. 

You push him back towards the bed, climbing onto his lap in a recreation of the first night you spent together. It’s reflexive. The magnetic pull between you has your hips rolling in his lap as he’s already hardening beneath you. 

“You’re sick,” you tell him before you lick a hot stripe up his neck. 

“You drive me fucking crazy,” he growls back before you’re crashing into him with a ravenous kiss.  

dividers by @cyberangel-graphics

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@bitchesuntitled

@baronessvonglitter

@thundermartini @milla-frenchy

[keferon]

Titan LL!

Heavens, I love Titan LL.

...You know, since nobody's doing anything, I think I'll try something. Dibs!

.*.*.*.

Lost Light is named after a day of mourning.

He doesn't feel like it.

Perhaps it was a wish made upon the smallest of the youngest batch of Titans, brought online shortly before fires of revolution blazed across Cybertron and it's domains. For the mourning to be the least in the coming times. Perhaps they succeeded, but joke's on them. Lost Light may have been online through the times of grief, but grief does not touch his spark. It's another element of his surrounding, like floating rocks, clouds of solid something, solar winds, the works.

Well, for a given definition of "online", because, he, his batch and some older Titans were moored in random spots in the system, just away from Cybertron itself.

The new batch was mostly stationed in the shadows of Cybertron, in vain hopes of civil war going away quickly. But sometimes, when the fighting peaked and threatened to reach the moons, they were herded away and over to the system's edge, near the border of termination shock. There were a lot of visible stars here. And Primus, there was nothing more Lost Light liked more than those beautiful, beautiful stars.

The first Titans were sparked to carry their Cybertronian brethren beyond the embrace of their homeworld to the stars and defend them on the way. Not all Titans functioned as deep-space transport nowadays, but that was the original idea behind their frametype. Wayfarers.

And just when Lost Light started to go mad between moorings and itched to stretch his warp drive, because Primus and Unicron conspired to punish him specifically for his hubris, the Quintessons struck.

And Titans of Cybertron, eternal guardians they are, stood as the first line. While the little ones below scrambled around and got their priorities and slag-all in order, they stood. And together they withstood successfully. Neither Cybertron nor any planet in it's system fell to the Quintessons. It was not a clean victory, and Quints broke the lines to land incursions, but the Titans weathered enough that the little ones on the grounds were not overwhelmed. They endured the first of storms.

In the end of the beginning, the home system was safe, the civil war was over, and the Titans under the newly united Cybertronian High Command were partially reassigned to the outer fronts.

Now, Lost Light is a tiny Titan. An unusually tiny Titan by Titan standarts. He heard it was because there was a mix-up of vessels for reforging into Titanframes, and his was made from a late shipment two classes below specification.

His largest configuration houses in theory a thousand crewmembers. He prefers his smallest, which should hold above a dozen, but he does not have even a dozen of a crew anyway. He is still a Titan, and can comfortably rip into one, two, three Quint ships, but he cannot withstand a dozen, and Primus below, Quint ships in outer space come in waves and swarm like the squids they are. Instead, in this war he does he does best of what he does - he runs. He is small, his warp drives and bridge generators are the best among his batchmates, and he is fast. So he runs.

There's no Quint blockade that can stop him. Perhaps his cargo hold is not the largest, but if he is given a delivery, he will deliver it as soon as possible, come Pit or high tides. There's no escort craft that can keep up with him (and let's be honest, they are already understaffed enough that they simply can't find proper escort for his size), so he runs alone. If the Prime himself needs an express delivery, Lost Light is the Titan for the job.

He sees a lot of stars on his runs. He is pretty sure some of them are at least unclaimed, and some may be uncharted at all, so he marks them all on his maps. For later! Once the war ends, the beautiful, beautiful stars are his! He amasses a lot of maps, colors and marks them in the brightest hues his software comes with.

And some little ones even ask after the maps. Not like he hides them or something.

So, when the Prime calls, he comes.

Prime waits for him in the hanger personally. Together with the usual retinue, very much less usual very large pile of maps, boards and documents, a Perceptor hidden behind the pile of stuff (Xanthium talks about her favorite gunner a lot, when they have time to catch up), some twitchy engineer and his frequent passenger of express ferry Head Tactician Prowl.

Who has something very tiny enthusiastically crawling on him. Something so tiny, he has to recalibrate his inner and outer sensors for recordicon contact. His optics were hit in bot mode by rocks larger! Which were sometimes crawling with assorted space crustaceans! Come to think of it, thos crustaceans moved similarly...

And, because he is better at acceleration than braking, first thing Lost Light does is voice this observation.

"Prowl, sir, you've got crabs"

...

That was a start of a wonderful working relationship. Once they calm the tiny organic down from laughing, that is. It's name is Jazz, and it needs a ride home. Home which is besieged by Quintessons, and likely is near a fortified outpost, if not a starbase.

Strictly speaking, usually Titans are kept apart from organics, because they are usually very small, and tend to rot and fossilize. But since Lost Light is also very small, he got a direct invitation to an organic planet and immediately engaged his internal environmental system to produce enough oxygen. This is a chance of a lifetime!

Which brings him to his current... Problem?

The thing is, Jazz apparently has comrades. They pilot simulacrum frames specialized in Quint killing, which is very much respectable. And Lost Light's alt-mode's hangar bay may be a little tight in this configuration, but still compatible with them.

The issue is, one of those simulacrums which Lost Light got to shelter, a pleasantly painted one (flame patterns are always in vogue! No matter what anybody says!), appears to have broken down. Which made the organic inside very upset. At least he thinks it's upset, he is not very good at reading organics. Those "humans" do have fields, but they are very dull in comparison to Cybertronian ones.

The little organic with great taste is shouting what appears to be obscenities at unresponsive frame and alternates this with begging. Lost Light is floundering in his processor. The organic performs some indecipherable actions towards a fuel line of some sort with a tiny wrench. He's been at it for hours. None of the others from Jazz's makeshift warband returned yet.

This means Lost Light is responsible as the hosting Titan. Lost Light is usually alone. He does not quite know how to host other Cybertronians for prolonged periods of time, let alone organics. He hopes he maintains a nice oxygenated atmosphere.

He cannot watch this anymore. He has to gather all his confidence in his circuits and do something. Like talk to an organic without Prowl or the twitchy engineer (Swear? Swole? Swire? Swalter?) present. And, well, he'll figure how to decelerate later!

"Little one, do you require any assistance? I do have an internal welder somewhere..."

The organic startles, almost falling from it's precarious perch at the simulacrum's locked elbow joint, catches itself in time, and glances around. Then it glances up. And around again.

"I haven't hit my head that hard, yes? Is there someone here?"

"Well, yes? I mean no offence, but you're inside me"

Silence answers him, quickly broken by laughter. He remembers Jazz laughing. It is a similar laugh. He thinks he likes this laugh more.

"Well, I did not expect the ship to be speaking too. I really should not be surprised after this whole month"

At least the organic isn't despairing anymore? Lost Light thinks he can see a smile on it's face if he strains the camera.

"Technically, I'm a Titan. I'm a ship in the same way Deadlock is a,,, what you call small ground vehicle... Car? If I want to, I can be a building."

"Wait, but if you're the ship... How big do you guys come?!"

"Very. Now, little one, do you want my welder or not?"

Another wave of laughter follows.

"I do have a name!"

"You did not introduce myself"

"Cheeky. And yet, you did not introduce yourself either, big ship"

"My designation is Lost Light, and I'm the best Titan Courier this side of the galaxy"

The organic seems to finally locate his internal camera and so it points at it with it tiny wrench. Lost Light thinks it likes it's smile too.

"Well, nice to meet'cha, Lost Light. Name's Hot Rod. Now, about that welder..."

Lost Light rummages in his inventory for his favorite welder, mountable on a cargo manipulator. It is surprisingly elusive.

"I have it, I have it.... somewhere. It's been a long time since I patched up myself."

"...You patch yourself up often?"

"Nowadays not much, I'm a very good runner, and... Aha! There it is!"

Hot Rod look very, very happy to see the welder-wielding cargo manipulator. He is so much smaller than the tiniest little ones he carried. He reminds Lost Light of something that escapes his processor.

"Thanks, big ship. I hate ruptured lines. God knows when Ratch and that Swerve guy will be back"

"I'm not that big, you know. And I'm glad to be of assistance"

Despite pointed critique from the organic called Ratchet later on, Lost Light considers his skills with a welder in his internal cargo manipulator arms to be above average.

Hot Rod thinks so too, and ire of a medic shared is misery halved in Lost Light's books.

And then it hits him.

He reminds Lost Light of those beautiful, beautiful distant stars.

Lost Light prepares a very tiny datapad for a very big map.

.*.*.*.

...And here it is. I got possessed. Guest-starring my basic knowledge of astrophysics and bad jokes.

OOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHH I LOVE THIS TAKE ON THEM SO MUCH