#her new design will be released tomorrow

[boiohboii]

The Royal Way 《Pt.2》

(Leclerc!reader x Prince of Monaco!oc)

After his older sister marries into the Monaco Royal family, Charles knew he would be treated differently, to his surprise (and his sister's disappointment) his F1 team, ferarri, treated him the same way.... and that did not sit well with the new princess of Monaco

or

in which YN Leclerc uses her new familial connections to fuck up ferarri just like how they fucked up her baby brother's hopes and dreams.

N.B: so, this was supposed to be longer and the last part, but it's currently 3 AM and I have classes at 8 AM thus me splitting this little fic into a trilogy. Hopefully, I will have time tomorrow to post the third and final part! Thank you for reading and let me know what you think!! WARNINGS: NOT REALISTIC AT ALL!! if you are looking for a realistic revenge sort of plot, it is not here, I tried as best as I can to search up what the whole electronic system does and it's relation to the DRS, BUT I AM BY NO MEANS AN EXPERT NOR HAVE ENOUGH KNOWLEDGE, SO EXCUSE THE POOR RESEARCH. The car designs are from Pinterest... Some swear words (fuck, bitch, etc...) Let me know if I missed anything else please!

Faceclaims:

yn leclerc --> anya taylor joy

Prince Thierry --> louis partridge

Masterlist // part 1

Liked by ferrariisdone, charlesthefrench, leclercfam and 716,920 others

F1_updates_live: Prince Thierry and Princess YN Leclerc heading into the Ferrari motor home in LA. Neither of the Royals look ecstatic to be in this position and it's no doubt to do with the statement released by Ferrari's Formula one media team, where they had essentially blamed the newly wedded Princess, YN Leclerc and their own driver, Charles Leclerc, for his DNF in the previous GP.

username: let them cook

username: the amount of bodyguards they have is insane

username: they do not look happy

username: yeah, no shit sherlock, ferrari basically said that it was yn's fault that Charles is distracted

username: ferrari blaming everyone but themselves

LEAKED AUDIO FROM LAS VEGAS GP, FERRARI'S MOTORHOME: tensions rise in the Ferrari garage as the young royals of Monaco, Prince Thierry and Princess YN Leclerc, threaten Fred Vasseur of taking him to court after buying out the rest of Charles' contract with Ferrari.

(Princess YN Leclerc,Prince Thierry, Fred Vasseur)

"It has been proven time and time again that the team is so incompetent! Why won't you do any changes?"

"Do you think that it's easy? These are people's livelihoods we are talking about"

"You do realise you are talking to a princess, right? She is well aware of how to run a business and a team, unlike you."

"I am just saying that I can't just fire people because Charles can't manage the car!"

"CAN'T MANAGE THE CAR? Are you out of your fucking mind mr. Vasseur? There is evidence, very strong evidence for your information, that the problem was from the electronic system. Do you have any idea how fucked up your engineers and strategists have to be to send out a car with failed electronic system?"

"Correct me if I am wrong my darling, but don't the electronic system control the DRS?"

"Mmhhmmm"

"And if the DRS opens in a corner it might result in a crash, am I correct mr. Vasseur?"

"The DRS was fine, there was-"

"My husband is asking a yes or no question Fred."

"Yes."

"So basically, Ferrari's Formula one team had, intentionally and with their knowledge, put a member of the monegasque royal family in direct danger."

"But Charles isn't a member of the royal family! He is only YN's half brother!"

"PRINCESS YN MR VASSEUR! YOU WILL DO WELL TO REMEMBER THAT!"

"Charles is my brother, and you dare put him in harm's way. I am princess YN Leclerc of Monaco, I can and I will hold you accountable as the principal of this team."

"You can't do anything! Carlos had the same car-"

"Carlos did not have the same car and you know it!"

"We already know Fred, we have had professional inspections done on both cars, it's quite deceiving really, telling a driver that he's the priority and still disappointing him every single time."

🔊 a thud is heard 🔊

"This is the amount of money to buy Charles out of Ferrari, but don't spend it Fred, we will be getting it back in court."

"YN WHAT WE-"

"PRINCESS YN FRED! *sigh* it seems like no matter what you are still convinced that you and your workers did no wrong, we will see about that."

"There is only one race left, there will be no team to take in Charles now!"

"Oh, we are not looking for a team to take him in, we made a team for him."

{Taglist: @phillydilly @f1ln4dr3cl16mv33 @omgsuperstarg @formulas-bitch @brakingboundaries @kyuupidwrites}

[sphireath-wisp]

Hihi!!! I was just wondering if you could do just little cute scenarios with sae, yoichi, and rin (gn! reader + all individual)

im sorry if this isn't as detailed as you wish but I'm just really craving tooth rotting fluff+ take your time (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)

Sypnosis: In the busy hustle and bustle of life, it's sometimes hard to find time to spend together. When there's time, what are the hobbies/little things both of you do together?

Warning: My readers are always morally grey in some way because it's more realistic to me, not proofread

Author's note: Thank you so much for reaching out and giving me this ask! I'll try my best to weave my story together to match your request. I owe my friend a good favour, so I hope you don't mind me adding her BL favourite here. Thank you so much for your understanding ε(´｡•᎑•`)っ 💕

Featuring: Sae Itoshi, Yoichi Isagi, Rin Itoshi x GN! reader

SAE ITOSHI... finds himself most at ease during late-night drives with you in the passenger seat. The windows are down, you're sticking your head out of the car despite his multiple warnings, and he can't stop smiling. His free hand is reaching for you and tugging your shirt down, and his eyes drift to your pouting face in the rearview mirror.

Usually, his late-night drives together with you have no real destination. Acting purely on a whim, Sae always drives you wherever feels right. Sometimes, it's the port right by the beach. Other times, he's driving you to an empty parking lot. Today, he decides to let you have the privilege of choosing where to go.

And when you ultimately decide to go to a playground out of all places, he scoffs but does a U-turn without hesitation.

Is it currently 11 a.m. and does he have a schedule he almost-religiously follows? Yes, and he has a feeling that he won't have enough time to drink his salted kombucha tomorrow morning. Is he tired? Absolutely. Why would he do all of this when he knows damn well he has practice tomorrow?

Hell, he's asking himself that as he opens the car door for you and helps you out.

With a cheeky peck on Sae's cheek, you wash away his thoughts and he returns the favour with a kiss on your forehead. "Let's go get a new car, yeah?" Sae shuts the car door behind you. You're bewildered, to say the least, "I'll let you pick a design this time."

"Look! It's here, it's here!" Your boyfriend, YOICHI ISAGI, geeks out in the manga section of your local bookstore. "Oh yeah, didn't they release figures already? Season 2 is being released soon, right?"

His smile only grows wider when you nod. He's crouching down beside you as you tower over him, leaning down slightly to watch him stare at the various covers. Standing back up on his feet with two in hand, Isagi seems to have reached a slight dilemma.

"Ah... should I get the latest chapter? Or should I..." Oh, isn't that the romance manga you recommended to him? The main couple was cheesy, but it reminded you a lot of how your relationship with Isagi is. Turning your head away, you find yourself stifling a giggle - how cute.

After a moment of deep thought, Isagi sulks. His shoulders slump and he kneels back down, placing both the mangas back on their shelves. Like a defeated puppy, he crouches there for a moment in silence.

"What's up?"

"I can't decide, so it's better if I don't get one or else I'll spend the rest of the day regretting it," He's solemn, your heart clenches when he forces an awkward smile. It's not a big deal, but... "You can borrow my copy y'know, don't be shy."

He perks up. It's a simple gesture, but the simplest things in life have always pleased Isagi the most. With a bashful laugh, he picks out the manga he wanted - he can indulge a little, he decides. "Right, I'm sorry. You didn't need to see how let down I was over something so small." Honestly, Isagi's a little shy. It's only been a few months into the relationship. He wants to respect you and your boundaries.

"I'll get you something in return, thank you."

RIN ITOSHI yelps when he stumbles out of your bedroom to the dimly lit living room of your apartment, sucking back a hiss from the base of his throat when something jabs at his foot. His disappointment only grows when he lifts his foot to see the imprint of a Lego brick on the sole. "What do you think you're doing? At 1 in the morning?" The once groggy Rin Itoshi is now wide awake, meeting your avoidant gaze. As you continue to piece together your Lego set, you mumble, "...couldn't sleep. I usually don't have trouble, but I don't know what's up with me today."

Despite his reluctance, he walks over to you and plops onto the carpet beside you. "Aren't you a little too old for this?" Rin begins while mindlessly piecing bricks together. His back is against your shoulder, partially leaning his weight onto you.

You scoff once he grabs the manual. "You're one to talk," you retort as you pull apart Lego pieces, "In case you haven't realized it, you happen to be playing with my Lego set."

"In case you haven't realized it, I'm helping you, idiot," There's no real malice in his voice. He crosses his legs and straightens his spine, turning to gather the pieces in a pile and redo everything from scratch. You clearly seem to be struggling. He'll never admit it, but he doesn't like the aching gap in his chest when you're not in bed with him.

It's a good excuse in his head. He's simply helping you out so you'll return to his embrace as soon as possible. It's just that. He's totally not enjoying playing with Legos with you - he convinces himself mentally with starry eyes when you both finish the overwhelming set at 2:30 a.m.

"Phew! Now to take it apart!"

"Hell no."

Taglist: @mikmwehehe, @saexy (while you did archive your old account, you are technically still on my list!! Please tell me if you want to get removed and I'll do it asap)

[miniversse]

Can you please do a Seungmin version of best friend’s brother where they both confess after y/n’s bday party and wake up from a one night stand?

⭑“whispered wishes”⭑

⭑ seungmin x female reader

⭑ content includes: non-idol seungmin, non-idol reader, unestablished relationship, readers birthday, best friends brother, confession, mentions of drinking, masturbating (reader), unprotected sex, releasing, squirting.

⭑ note: anon did not fail me with this one i loved it so much. i’ve placed a dash indicating the beginning of the nsfw content (long build up because the whole situation needs to make sense.

⭑ minors dni

⭑——————————————————⭑

the sky is painted with orange and red strokes, and the pool water in your hair begins to dry down as you take in remnants of the sun. you hear a faint voice approaching, singing happy birthday. you turn to find your best friend holding a cake with sparkling candles, grinning from ear to ear as she continues to sing. this moment would be cherished forever, and so would seungmins glares from behind…

“oh my gosh, you didn’t have to do all of this” you lift your sunglasses to your head, admiring her choice in design.

“hello? remind me what day it is?” you both chuckle, taking bites of the cake by the poolside and chatting about your new life ahead.

the scorching water of your best friends shower soothed your tense muscles, and you were anticipating the moment you’d plop onto the mattress. you’re mind jumps to the glares of your best friends brother, seungmin. he was extremely hot and he knew it. he would always linger around the pool, walking back and forth trying to get your attention, and it sure as hell worked. everytime you’d come over. there he was in all his glory either by the poolside, coming back from baseball practice or lounging around. he looked good doing everything, and he turned you on everytime. 

your fingers move down slowly as you consider whether you’ll regret this decision or not, but you’re fingers wouldn’t stop. they moved down, and rub at your aching clit. the pressure of the water help intensify the pleasure, placing a hand on your mouth to muffle your moans. you fasten your pace and move to your vagina, curling your fingers inside of you while thinking of how he would touch you, kiss you, and talk things that grace your ears only. your orgasm crashes and you whimper his name quietly, hoping no one would hear you…

you tip toe to your friends room only to find her passed out, snoring like there’s no tomorrow. you quickly slip on an underwear and a night dress, tip toeing to the kitchen to grab a cup of water. a tall figure stood in the dark kitchen, looking outside the window.

“h-hey” you hesitate in ignoring whatever thoughts he was in, but you didn’t want to startle him.

he turns slowly and makes eye contact with you, dragging his eyes further down. his eyes move slower on your bare legs, and he shoots back up to look at you.

“happy birthday” his voice was calm and quiet

“oh, thank you” 

“no worries, how did it go?”

“good, we swam, tanned, had cake, made a wish, drank a couple of beers. about it.”

“what did you wish for?” he cocks his head, seemingly curious as to what you hoped for, but telling him would result in loosing your friend, and potentially him.

“shouldn’t wishes be kept a secret?”

“not if you whisper them. i wanna know”

“are you sure? i don’t want the wish to be cursed.” you were making up excuses as your heart paced, but he approaches you and turns to let his ear brush against your mouth.

“tell me” 

you swallow and do as he asked.

“i wished for…you” he turns to face you, not moving his face back. he grins from ear to ear and moves to whisper in your ear now.

“everytime i see a shooting star, i wish for you too.” his voice was so quiet, and made your body tingle. he moves to face you again.

“i really like you y/n. i hope you feel the same”

-

you let your actions talk, and you lock lips with him. the back of your mind is concerned about your best friends reaction, but you’re too far in.

he brings your legs up to his waist and cradles your ass as he walks up the stairs and into his room. you’ve never been in his bedroom, and you hope it won’t be your last. he drops you on the bed and shuts the door, taking his shirt off on his way back to you. 

“this is a birthday gift no one can get you, only me”

his fingers trace the strap of your nightgown and he brings it down, slipping you bare. his eyes fixate on your chest and he pulls your underwear down, leaving you exposed to him. his eyes were like flames, leaving hot trails everywhere he looked. 

he mutters “fuck” below his breath, and he lets you bring his sweatpants down which his growing bulge protruded from. your fingers caress his torso and you let them tiptoe to the hem of his underwear, exposing his thick length. your hand goes at him, pumping him slowly before he abruptly stops you.

“i said its your birthday gift.” his voice was stern and warm at the same time. 

his body towers over yours while he guides his member to your wetness. he looks into you one final time before pushing inside of you, quickly moving his hand to your mouth to muffle your moans. he stretches you with his long cock moving further inside of you, his tip nudging you and moving back. his grunts get collectively louder with your muffled moans. he picked up his pace inside of you, causing the bed to squeak every now and then. you bring his hand down to take a breath.

“s-she’s gonna hear us-s”

“i couldn’t care l-less.” 

he spits on his fingers to bring them down to circle your bud, still the overstimulation made your mind fuzzy, and you grab onto his forearm for support. you still haven’t processed that seungmin is getting you laid, but it felt ethereal. his mouth is gaped open, trying his best to muffle his grunts and whimpers. you feel yourself getting closer to coming, and hustling length jerking inside of you hinted it was the same for him. his hands from your mouth to your chest, grabbing on and teasing your nipple. if this wasn’t multitasking, you didn’t know what was.

“you come first pretty girl. promise?”

you nod, your eyes squinting shut as you try to contain the speed of his dick slamming into you, his fingers rubbing at your clit and his hand grabbing at your breast. your body gives in, your release coating his dick and you’re squirting lands on his torso. you gasp at the sight of him covered in your fluids, and you apologize repetitively. his groans override you as his fluids fill you up, making a mess of a scene.

“was i that good of a fuck pretty girl?” his panting slows down and his head falls on your chest, catching his breath.

“fucking hell seungmin” you felt empty without him inside of you. he places a kiss on your neck and moves the strands of hair that stuck to your sweaty face.

“happy birthday y/n”

you woke up to the sound of your friend shouting your name. she’s been looking for you everywhere. but you were in another world, cuddled by seungmins body after a night of wonders. you rush to put your nightgown on again and creak his door open, looking left and right before running to your friends room.

but there she stood, hands crossed and eyebrow raised. your body froze.

“oh god y/n, you should’ve told me you were fucking my brother. i looked for you everywhere”

“good, morning?”

she throws a pillow at you and you laugh, running away from her grasp.

 ⭑ TAG LIST

@captainchrisstan

@strayywayy

@rylea08

@all4minnie

[kookslastbutton]

Those Eyes Chico ༓ myg (m) | Teaser

✒ Summary: As the new marketing director for Min Yoongi’s upcoming D-Day album & tour, you’re expected to bring your expertise to the table. This shouldn’t be a problem—you’re the best in the business and you’re used to drawing a strict line between your professional and personal life. But what happens when the lines you’ve fought to keep as separate blur for the first time?

pairing: idol!yoongi x plus size!poc!reader

genre/AU: angst, fluff, smut, slow-burn, coworkers2friends2lovers, winter setting, forbidden love?

word count: tbd, 835 for this teaser

warnings: oc is 28, Yoon is 30, oc is not originally from South Korea, oc has light brown eyes, swearing, mentions of alcohol consumption, mentions of anxiety, panic attacks, body insecurities, fear of being blacklisted, emotionally restrained Yoon, mentions of smoking, unstable parental relationships, conservative parents, mentions of therapy, mentions of dating scandal, eventual sexual content, and more specific warnings per chapter.

now playing: Sweet Dreams by The Last Shadow Puppets

a/n: Okay this has taken over six months to release but it's finally beginning and I am super excited to share! 🫣 I am low-key terrible at choosing a proper teaser so hoepfull this works haha. ANYWAY, this series is dedicated to my wonderfully crazy friend and beta, Gloom @theuselessdaydreamingidiot, and to all our fellow Yoon lovers bc we miss our sweet man SO MUCH 🥺 Enjoy! 🥰 Also huge thank you to @itaeewon for designing this beautiful series header! Love it!!

Series Masterlist

“Did you get the files I sent to you?”

The woman nods her head in affirmation while sweeping a few pieces of her long, silky hair behind an ear. To strangers, she appears to look about 24 which is only four years younger than yourself but nonetheless she’s the same age as you. Hei-Ran is her name, meaning “graceful orchid” according to Korean translation.

Hei-ran is one of Hybe’s newest hires and based on her experience, a near perfect fit to being South Korean boy group Tomorrow X Together’s new marketing manager. Until about three months ago, this had been your job.

You never imagined giving up the position after three years of working in the role. But with December right around the corner Hybe had other plans for you.

"Graduated summa cum laude with a bachelors degree in BTech in Electrical and Electronics Engineering and a MBA in Marketing from NYU Stern. You worked two years as a brand manager for U.S record label Atlantic Records immediately after graduating, and are now working at BigHit Music as a marketing manager for TXT including liaison with their global marketing team.”

You recall PD Bang’s voice vibrate in the back of your mind from mid-August. You thought you were called into his office to discuss details of TXT’s latest promo, so having your resume read back to you was a sweeping curve ball. Your determination must have far exceeded the heaviness you felt in your chest because before you knew it you, you were shaking hands with your boss in acceptance of your role – the new marketing director for Min Yoongi’s upcoming D-Day album & tour.

The tedious knot that’s formed in the nape of your neck reminds you that as surreal as the situation might be, it’s undeniably real.

Months spent drafting a comprehensive marketing proposal for D-Day; often until the wee hours of the night, inevitably takes its toll on even the mightiest of warriors. An entire new team of fifty people, all of who you’ll be in charge of orchestrating for the next eight months, doesn’t provide much to relief either.

You’re excited nevertheless. Working with one of the most respected artists in the music industry is an opportunity you couldn’t let slip by, especially since the album’s rock-inspired genre aligns closely with your own music taste.

“Thank you so much for helping me get settled __,” Hei-ran’s gentle voice returns you to the present. “I appreciate the time you’ve taken these last few months to train me despite the tight deadlines you have.”

Smiling, you shake your head. “It’s no problem at all and if there’s anything you need in the future, feel free to give me a call or stop by my office.”

“On the 16th floor right?”

“1656A. Take a left off the elevator and walk to the end of the first hallway. The door on the right is mine.”

Referring to any room on the 16th floor as your own is something you don’t take lightly. For one the offices are double the size of any other office spaces in the building. Yours in particular has a giant skyscraper window draped with heavy white curtains. Secondly, the floor above is the 17th floor which is exclusive to Hybe artists only.

"How's the proposal coming along, by the way?" Her curiosity is palpable, genuine in its nature. You’ve always appreciated that in an individual.

“It’s done,” you respond. “Only thing left to do is to prepare for our meeting with C-suite executives next Monday. It’s nearly perfect as is, but the presentation could use a bit of refining in terms of organization.”

Hei-ran is silent for a moment longer than usual before her next inquiry, which is undoubtedly the question on both of your minds. “I can't help but wonder what it'll be like to meet him for the first time,” she muses.

You don’t bother asking for clarification on who the “him” is; you’re already well aware that it’s Min Yoongi. The same subject has managed to intrude your own thoughts more and more as the date of meeting him draws closer. It's peculiar honestly, considering you’ve encountered him before. Granted, it was only a small handful of times the hallway, both heading in opposite directions. Min Yoongi typically greeted you with a hoarse 'Good Morning' those instances, along with a curt nod of his head. You would nod back with a brief 'Morning' yourself. Deep down you feel he'd make a quality friend, though it's only a premonition. It’s not like you actually know much about him beyond those small exchanges.

"I'm not sure what to expect, honestly," you admit. "I imagine it'll be similar to previous professional collaborations—composed, focused, and intense. D-Day is poised to become a global sensation for the next year, so it's going to need our full, undivided attention."

Hei-ran gives a knowing nod. “Good luck __,” she wishes you well as you head towards the elevator doors. Breaks over, back to work.

a/n: Chapter one will be released soon 🙃 Thanks for reading the teaser!

Masterlist | Requests: closed | Taglist | Fic Recs

no reposting, copying, or translating my work– © kookslastbutton

[acciofictionalmen]

christmas shenanigans - MATTHEO R.

(mattheo riddle x female!reader one-shot)

summary : the reader convinces her boyfriend, Mattheo, to let her paint his nails christmas themed. But he's in for a surprise..

warnings: sexual references, so much fluff your heart may burst? 14+

a/n: after a 2ish month long break im back!! sorry for disappearing for so long everyone, a lots been going on school-wise, but I just had to come back to release a few works in time for xmas <33 decided to release a mattheo piece, as he is my fave slytherin boy after alll~

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Please?" You gave Mattheo an imploring look, "Just one to practise before I do it on the girls?" Aiming for a compromise you added, "Plus I can take it off straight away."

Mattheo looked at you sceptically. You had been asking to do this for days, especially now that it was finally late December - and christmas was around the corner - you were eager to try out a new nail design idea you'd had.

"You can sleep whilst I do it?" You proposed, and he visibly gave in.

Mattheo shook his head in mocking despair, but his eyes were filled with nothing but adoration, "Tomorrow then? After Quidditch practise?"

You grinned. "Perfect."

❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆

Christmas music played softly in the background as you laid down your nail prep tools on the floor. You'd managed to free up the dorm room for the afternoon much to the girls' chagrin, but once you had explained to Pansy, Daphne and Astoria the reason they seemed pretty supportive of your mission.

There was a knock on the door, swiftly followed by its opening as Mattheo casually strolled inside. His hair was tousled and his face tinged red after practice, and your eyes trailed down the fresh t-shirt he'd changed into. The grey tracksuits he'd changed into hung low, and as he moved towards you his shirt slightly rode up, exposing a brief flash of his toned abdomen.

You swallowed. He leaned down to give you a gentle kiss, then pulled back, his lips hovering by your ear, "I thought I came here for christmas nails, not a shag, love."

Rolling your eyes, you pushed him away.

"Shut up." You mumbled half-heartedly, as you fought the blush threatening to spread across your face.

He smirked as he sat down cross legged opposite.

"I'm not telling you the design, so that it's a surprise," You started, as Mattheo began to apprehensively examine a cuticle nipper, "I'll wake you up when it's done, okay?"

You placed a pillow on your lap, then gestured for him to lay down. He placed his head there, and you took a moment to admire him like this.

Lowering your head you kissed his cheek whilst fiddling with his brown curls. He didn't say anything, just smiled, and you couldn't help the flutter of joy it gave you.

After a second more of staying like that, in content silence, you got to work.

The painting was probably the hardest part, as you had to ensure all of the small intricacies were flawless. Mattheo fell asleep promptly after the first ten minutes, allowing you to really focus as you hummed to your favourite Christmas tunes.

After two hours of hard work, you were prepared to show your boyfriend your final piece of work.

"Mattheo.." You laughed as he slowly woke up, "Yes baby?" He slurred sleepily.

"I'm finished!"

Once he came to his bearings he quickly sat up, his hair matted on one side which you chuckled at.

He immediately looked at his hand, pausing in shock.

Just as you were about to say something he spoke.

"You said one finger nail. One." He scoffed in disbelief, then gave you an amused glance, before continuing to examine them.

"I got a bit carried away." You admitted, "But what do you think?"

He remained silent, then snorted.

Then burst out laughing as you sat there in horror.

Was it genuinely that bad?

Mattheo was now keeled over, his laughter renewing everytime he looked at his hand.

"Darling.." He began inbetween laughs, "I'm never taking this off."

thank you for taking the time to read my work, it always means the world <3

feel free to leave any feedback/your thoughts! id love to hear them :')

i hope you all have a lovely december, enjoying any holiday you celebrate! ❆

[yizmiu]

SITUATIONSHIP 〻ᯇ # lee heeseung

003. off the clock | smau + written (519)

IN WHICH ✶ y/n loved the idea of love, simply because she hadn’t experienced it yet. She hoped and prayed that love would come to her at the perfect time of her life where she’s mentally stable and ready for it. So when she suddenly gets attention from Lee Heeseung—she can’t tell if she likes this or not? This sudden attention, he was extremely sweet to her, way too sweet that it was suspicious. Given his reputation, Heeseung wasn’t the type to settle. So why was he all up on Y/n? and just why was Y/n enjoying it? She was confused with herself and her new situationship, maybe she’s just overstimulated by everything and scared to commit.

Y/n was working on her new collection in peace, with NCT blasting through her airpods, unable to hear anything from the outside world.

Meaning she didn’t hear the now familiar loud footsteps walking down the stairs.

Jay sighed as Heeseung was walking slightly faster than him, speed walking his way to greet the girl.

“Hi!” Heeseung said with excitement as he was now in Y/n’s peripheral vision. She shrieked, “You scared me!” her pencil smudged her design as she got scared.

“Sorry,” Heeseung chuckled apologetically. “What are you working on?” He peeked at her sketchpad.

“Something for my new collection—Jay, I need your opinion.” She turned around to meet the others back. “What is it?” Jay turned around, pieces of fabric in his hands.

“What do you think about these sketches? I’m going for something new, a sort of casual but something odd to make it pop.” Y/n showed Jay sketches of finished outfits.

“I like it, the funky socks will definitely make heads turn.” Y/n smiled at his feedback, ever since the two were freshman deep down she’s always admired Jay’s work of art.

“What are you working on?” Y/n asked, she’s been hesitant on asking so, but her curiosity is finally getting the best of her today. You can’t blame her, he’s been coming into the studio after hours with Heeseung following behind.

“New pieces for the fall, Heeseung is my model for the collection.” He nods his head towards Heeseung. “Y’know, Y/n, if you ever decide you want to release clothes for males I am always open to model for you!” Heeseung suggested as he slightly leaned against Jay’s table.

“Thanks, but I’ll probably ask my guy friends.” Y/n chuckles. “And besides, aren’t you always streaming?”

“True…worth a try I guess.” Heeseung smiles at the girl.

Heeseung tried his best not to interrupt the girl as she worked, he was bored out of his mind just standing there as Jay was dressing him up like a doll for hours.

“Y/n, what do you think about this?” Jay asked. Heeseung was wearing a knitted sweater with a bunch of different patches of colors and little details here and there.

“This is new,” Y/n was debating whether she liked it or not. “I know, I’m debating whether or not I like it myself.” Jay sighed. “Mrs. Jeong said I needed to go out of my comfort zone.”

“Well, if it makes you feel better, Heeseung definitely makes it look good.” Y/n chuckled.

“Thank you, Y/n!” Heeseung exclaimed. “How’s your work going?” He asked, standing still as Jay adjusted the sweater on him.

“It’s good, I think I’m gonna head out though, It’s getting late and my friends are all hanging out at Seunghan and Soobin’s place.”

“Tell them we say hi.” Jay said as he picked out a needle from his pin cushion. “Of course.” Y/n said as she packed up her things.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Y/n put her backpack on and waved goodbye. “Goodnight!” Y/n smiled as she walked up the stairs.

m.list — previous — next

ᯇ ೀ jayjay note ; ALSO chat this is how i imagine the studio but cutesy light color

ᯇ ೀ taglist ( open ) ; @lilacnini @haechology @heegyuwrld @wonyoungsvirus @enhaz1 @sparklingsjy @skzeyeu @euncsace @hotsforikeu @simjyunnie @yenqa @eleanorheartschishiya @ahnneyong @teddywonss @parkwonbinluvr @k1ttylvr @doulcie @wonifullove @woninluv @ilyjxdz @dimplewonie @grah127 @missychief1404 @eclipse-777 @heelee-01 @aerivrs @amesification @txtbrainrot

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

This year, the service will reflect on the “importance of love and empathy”, with a guest list designed to “shine a light on individuals from all over the UK who have shown love, kindness and empathy towards others in their communities”.”

I kind of love this as a theme. I like to think this is Catherine’s way of throwing a little classy shade at everyone who has been so unbelievably cruel to her this year. Can’t wait!

I think it's a great theme too.

One thing that Kate does really well with "Together at Christmas" is the meaning and care she puts into the theme to make it relevant and important. It's clear that she puts a lot of time and effort into planning and hosting the service each year and her personal investment seems to be appreciated by the communities being recognized.

The KP statement does make me feel like we might see Kate open up a little more about her experience. Correct me if I'm wrong, but she usually has something like a "roundtable" discussion with some other participants right? (I'm thinking specifically of the discussion she hosted at Windsor Castle in 2022 about sharing memories of loved ones but I can't remember off the top of my head if there was one in 2023.)

Also, I'm having a really hard time finding KP's actual press release about the service. I can only find articles quoting KP's statement and KP's only activity on social media has been the investiture William did today. Since all the articles - I saw it on People, Town & Country, Reuters, Tatler and the Daily Mail - dropped at the same time, there was definitely a press release and I think 7pm-ish EST (the timestamp on most of the articles I saw) is usually when UK press embargos lift. I wonder if maybe KP's statement is actually coming tomorrow and possibly with a new photo of Kate (since their press releases about 'Together at Christmas' usually comes with a new portrait of Kate). Anyway, just odd.

[project-sekai-facts]

One of my favorite little things in the game is how the menu music for the events (that plays while you view story episodes or view rankings) is a instrumental remix of whatever the comm song was for the unit. Idk its always tasteful and ambient, and I think its a nice touch to the game’s overall sound design. Even the events without songs get some unique tune. I especially like the jazzy spooky number from forest of wolves. Do you have any opinions or fun facts about this?

this isn't particularly interesting, but older events had much shorter menu music, usually like a minute or less (for comms usually just the chorus and sometimes prechorus instrumental) when more recent events have had like up to 4 minute loops. also the miku events use title screen music. oh and twilight festival reuses the song Kanade wrote for Mafuyu in Carnation Recollection (the one that made her smile).

Slightly more interesting, all the music from mixed events up until Rainbow Canvas have been released on OST albums, and have names. Here's all their names (TL'd):

Run! Sports Festival - Full Throttle Youth!

Kamikou Festival - Towards a Future That Shines with Light

SEKAI Happy New Year - With Renewed Feelings

Resounding Twilight Parade - Twilight Parade (Phennyland story BGM)

Tenma Household's Hinamatsuri - Cheerful Season (regular story BGM)

Singing with You - In the Season of Dancing Cherry Blossoms (later used as diegetic Leo/need music)

Exciting Picnic - The Scenery of the Plateau with You

Song of Vows For You - My Pledge to You

Summer Festival - Festival Music Ringing Out in the Summer Night

Absolute Best Summer - Glitter Beach

Two Moon Rabbits - The Moon Rabbit Smiles

Scramble Fan Festa - "We are in the springtime of life!"

Buddy Funny Spend Time - Magical Time♪

Intersecting Melodies, Glowing Warmth - Under the Snow, A Faint Warmth

Tomorrow We Wish For - Under the First Sky

Operation Secret Valentine - Secret Recipe

Thrilling White Day - Very Busy at the Chocolate Factory

Sakura Across SEKAI - From Now On, Next to You (1st anniversary title screen)

Kamiyama High Cheer Squad - Where There's A Victory, There's Me

Wishing For Your Happiness - Connected Hearts, a Ring of Happiness

Spojoy Park - Enjoy Sports!

close game/OFFLINE - Kick it down, Survive.

Rainbow Canvas - In Its True Colors

Let Your Song Resonate - Let's Sing Together! (original title screen)

My fav event menu OST is Kick it down, Survive., but it was Very Busy at the Chocolate Factory for a while. Wolf Forest, Break Down the Wall, White World, Resonant Town, Aye Aye Towards the Star, Unchanging Warmth, and Reflection Beneath the Water are some other ones I like a lot. Staff if you finally released the fanbook without fanfare the other day can you do the same with the third OST thank you.

[the-colourful-witch]

A short goodbye, but not farewell! I'm not going to dance around it, so here it is: I'm taking a little break from socials this upcoming month. ( cue: gasppppp) I already mentioned last week that I'm getting a bit overwhelmed by all the content I see daily. I love all the art and the artist that share their work. I appreciate all of it and I really enjoy seeing everyone drawing things that make them happy. I enjoy drawing things myself, and I always will. I've had a few bad weeks creatively. It's not just a hobby, it's my job. I'm working on a big children's book, my first ever big publication. It is a tough project and it's taking up a lot of energy. I want it to look good and I want to deliver quality work for the author, who put her heart and soul into this book. However, it's getting more and more difficult to have faith in my own work when all day, every day, I see all these amazing, talented artists getting book deals, releasing products, making double figures from their art... And I know very well that everyone has their own process, that some of these people have been in the industry for years without getting anywhere, so trust the process. I can and will. I can trust my own process and I will get there eventually. Right now, though, it's hard to stay focused. I'm on my phone too much during the day and it has to stop. For my own health and for my work. So, long story short. I will be off my socials for 30 days, just to see what I can create without all the input from the internet. I'm going to work on the children's book (which is a fairytale book, by the way, so cool!) and on new character designs for my blog. I've started working on the teachers now, which is a lot of fun. Also, I'm working on opening a shop, so I'll put my energy towards that as well. I guess I have no idea what the next thirty days are going to bring me. I'm going to start tomorrow, so today (5 Feb) I will be checking my accounts still, just in case you have questions or concerns :) For now, this is it. I love you guys, and I'm so grateful for the support. Sharing my silly little drawings with you is very special <3

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ PS: I never shared my Meet the Artist 2024 on here! Granted, I did make it for my art Instagram (splashofcolour23) where I post most of my book illustrations and other fun stuff. BUT! I wanted to share it here, too. If you scroll all the way down my blog, like far, far down, you'll see the 2021 (I think) version, with which I started this blog. It's my favourite January tradition every year, so here it is! Anyway, time to go. See you in 30 days!

[my-rewrite-academia]

Day 2

Before the Heroic Foundations, Izuku, Ochako, and Tenya are joined by Tooru and Momo. Tooru gets her quirk analysed, (might also post this analysis later), and gets super excited by it.

After lunch, 1-A's fifth period starts and then!

That's right, it's the...

Costume Analysis!

...

What, did you think I was really making them perform a scenario-based quirk battle indoors on their second day? Yeah, no.

So, All Might enters, and gives everyone the costume they sent to U.A. after being accepted. Izuku's costume is changed a lot, due to being more inspired by the pre-quirk era, and his weapon of choice.

The sketch is very sketchy, so I'll describe it. It's a green hakama with the sleeves cut off half-way at the upper arms. He also wear red bandages with a black arm brace. The arm brace had a hidden mechanic that release a blade when switched. He has a thick, red rop around his waist, which holds his katana. The trousers are black and baggy. His shoes are red, the same red as his normal trainers, that go up to half of his calf. He also has a black turtleneck underneath his hakama. Everything has carbon fibre woven into it, making it extremely durable.

All Might compliments everyone's costumes, then has them go through a set of exercises to get a feel for the movability of their costumes. He's a bit nervous, but he's doing his best.

After everyone finishes their exercises, All Might encourages them to be honest and speak up if they dislike their costumes. Izuku is volunteered by Ochako to comment on people's costumes, so he kinda, low-key rips into his classmates. They're all chill about it though. Momo is spared as she already said that she'd create a new design with functionality and style.

In the next period, All Might is swapped for Midnight, though not before he asks Izuku to meet him in the teacher's lounge after school. Midnight then helps everyone figure out how they could modify their costumes, and how practical it could be.

Ochako doesn't like her heels, and her belt is too low for her liking.

Momo finds her costume inefficient in actually using her quirk, the heels are annoying, and the breast support is awful.

Kyouka finds her boots to be bulky and heavy.

Tooru doesn't feel comfortable naked and stepping on stones would hurt.

Shouto finds the ice covering his face to be aggrivating and sees nothing else wrong with it.

RIkidou thinks his costume looks too basic and not appealing at all.

Minoru claims his costume was supposed to look like a bowl of grapes but just makes him look like a baby wearing a massive diaper.

Kouji looks like he went shopping in the kids section and it doesn't match his quirk at all.

Midnight makes a note of all those who want a costume change and speaks to them each after school, lasting roughly ten to fifteen minutes.

Shouto's only lasts two as he just decides to get rid of his ice, Rikidou decides to change his skin-tight costume to something a bit more baggy and make his shirt look like a hoodie, Ochako only wants to make her shoes flat and raise the belt a wee bit, and Kyouka spreads her amps more instead of just her boots by placing them in her gloves and shoulders too.

Momo goes through a full redesign, the concept art of which I will post after I find it. Her colour scheme stays the same, but mostly everything else changes. A black sports bra, black hot pants, a red cape over it, red boots with no heels, and a watch that holographically shows her chemical makeups of any object she inputs via voice commands.

Tooru has a suit infused with her DNA, making it so that she can use her quirk in them. She can make parts of these visible, (due to the analysis of her quirk, which I'll be posting tomorrow, along with Eijirou and Mina's), meaning that she has protection from environmental hazards, such as stones that could harm her feet.

Minoru gets rid of the bowl and wears white, baggy trousers with the same design print on the seams. He also has a yellow cape and has a slingshot made of his DNA to throw the balls further.

Kouji, as mentioned before, has a more Earth-y design. Instead of ketchup and mustard, he has a lot more green and brown in his colour scheme. His skin-tight shirt is now a green tunic with a brown strap over it and brown, leather gloves. His skin-tight trousers are now baggy, khaki trousers, and he has brown boots. He also has a mask which, when worn, amplifies his voice.

Students get a costume change:

Uraraka Ochako

Yaoyorozu Momo

Jirou Kyouka

Hagakure Tooru

Todoroki Shouto

Satou Rikidou

Mineta Minoru

Kouda Kouji

Costumes may or may not be redesigned further in the future, so don't worry if you felt as though other characters needed a redesign. Shouto, for instance, will definitely have more changes when the time comes. Additionally, the only reason so many changes were made is because this is their first draft. If and when there are more changes, there will be less of them.

Costume changes will have concept art posted sooner or later, (I get very busy and/or lazy).

A Conversation with All Might

All Might asks Izuku to see him in the teacher's office. When he does, he takes them to a private room. Izuku expects a lot. While All Might is still his favourite hero, he also told him that the quirkless cannot become heroes. Because of this, he believes that All Might is going to tell him to leave U.A. or that he will just remind him not to tell anyone about his true state.

In actuality, that does not happen.

He asks Izuku if he remembers what he told him eleven months ago, on that rooftop. He repeats what he said, that he believed a quirkless person could not become a hero, and that modern-day heroes are too busy chasing after fame that they've forgotten what heroism is about.

And that he'd forgotten it himself.

That same day he told Izuku to be realistic, he watched him run into the fray to save a boy from dying. He watched him pull the boy out of danger and urge the other heroes there to participate. He watched him act as a true hero.

That he has made many mistakes, some he may never be able to rectify. But this? He will fix it and he will fix it now. 'All throughout history, many of the greatest heroes have said the same thing! The reason they save people is simple: their legs move on their own!' The same thing that happened to Izuku.

“You can become a hero!”

Izuku cries, and All Might holds him as he does.

Then he deems Izuku worthy and offers him his quirk, if he so wishes.

Of course, Izuku freaks out. Nothing such as a passable quirk has ever been documented. He mutters and mumbles theory after theory, until All Might cuts him off, stating that while his analysis was interesting, what he says is the truth. His quirk has been passed on for generations, and he is offering it up to Izuku.

And Izuku seriously considers it. This would be an incredible aid in his journey to becoming a hero. He could save so many people with such a powerful quirk! There's no reason to deny it.

Yet, despite how useful it would be, Izuku says no.

Because there are four-year-old children, diagnosed as quirkless, and they will ask their parents the same thing Izuku asked his. 'Can I still be a hero like All Might?' And they will say 'I'm so sorry'.

It's hard to see yourself in Superman when he looks nothing like you. It's hard to see yourself in heroes when they have quirks and you don't.

In Izuku's mind, by rejecting All Might's quirk, he is saving even more people. He is saving the 20% of quirkless people from having their dreams and their lives crushed. There have only been heroes who function quirklessly, never a quirkless hero.

And Izuku wants to be the first one. He wants to be the hero who he never had.

That is why he turns All Might down.

And All Might is... disappointed, but he somewhat expected a denial. Instead of being mad or annoyed, he says that he thinks Izuku is admirable for being able to get this far on his accord and merit.

Needless to say, Izuku cries once more and it's a happy ending!

...

This arc at least.

Conclusion:

Tooru gets her quirk analysed

All Might hosts his first class

Eight students get their costumes changed

All Might offers Izuku OfA, which is rejected

[existslikepristin]

Poll is set to be a week long again because tomorrow through Friday are going to be long work days, but I'll probably screenshot the incomplete results on Saturday and start writing the next part at that point

Tags: NSFW, S.M.U.T., genie, anal

(Story Index)

The top bunk

“Yeah, let’s fuck on the top bunk,” you say, a little unsure of exactly what you meant.

“You have a bunk bed?” Joy asks.

“No.”

“What, uh… what bunk bed then?”

You glare. “Can you make this happen or does it need to be a wish?”

Joy shrugs. “I mean yeah, I can do it. Let’s see…” she taps her chin contemplatively, “Top bunk… top bunk…”

It’s very dark. The first thing you feel is the instant, albeit subtle rise in temperature. You smell something light and floral. Instead of standing up, you’re lying on your stomach on a combination of two soft surfaces (it’s a mattress and Joy’s body. You’re not fucking stupid). You’re sure there was a transition of some sort between your kitchen and wherever you are now, but it feels very vague.

“Top bunk!” Joy chirps. She’s only barely visible in the dark.

“Where are we?” you ask, reasonably.

“Legend says that if you cum in my ass, I’ll tell you.”

Whatever. That’s kind of what you were going for anyway. You pull back and thrust ahead into your sudden missionary position, and hear the clattering of your sturdy-enough plastic mug hitting the slightly distant floor. The bed beneath you creaks and wobbles dangerously.

“Oh fuck. The tea!” Joy whines, but that complainy whine shifts into a needy whine when you lift her legs around you and pound into her ass.

Joy’s body is hot against yours. Maybe a little hotter than you’d expect from a human, and you mean that physically and in the sex way. No human being has any business feeling this good, moaning just right into your ear, teleporting you to unknown locations. Her calves on your lower back, arms thrown around your shoulders, and breasts pressed into your chest. You kiss her neck and her jawline, and she does the same back to you. You can’t help but think her lips are laced with some kind of magical drug designed to arouse you further.

Alternatively, you’re just on the verge of cumming in Joy’s ass. And you do, forgetting about the new location (as if it mattered anyway) and releasing what feels like years worth of cum (as if it worked like that) into her. Much like the last time a few minutes ago, she becomes your world for those few moments. She clenches around you, limbs and asshole alike, in her orgasm… or something like that. You didn't bother to ask. The bed quakes and creaks further, but you're so absorbed in your climax that you don't register the potential consequences of that.

It takes a while for you to finish and come out of your jizz daze. It feels rather liquidy inside Joy's butt, so you briefly wonder if the magic she pulled earlier had some additional effect on the amount of cum you generated, on top of just refreshing your energy.

Joy rubs her legs together on your back, coming down from her own high. She kisses your cheek tenderly until you pull away and look at her. You have adjusted a bit to the new illumination situation, so you can see her smile as she looks into your eyes. There's a little spark of affection on her face.

Suddenly, your eyes are assaulted by a flash of light, and your ears by a woman's shrill scream.

"Who the fuck are you?!"

With your fight or flight response triggered, you look around frantically, regretting it because of the intense light coming through a doorway, but you see a way down from the top bunk you can now visually confirm you're on.

Joy (whose ass your dick is still firmly within) speaks quickly, "Shhh! Heather, it's me!"

There's a pause, and then, "Joy?"

"You know each o—" you cut yourself off, realizing you're naked and fucking in front of a stranger, presumably on her bed.

"Where the fuck is Anya?"

Joy leans out from under you to more properly address this Heather person. "Oh, I don't know."

Heather gasps, "Is this your new master?"

"Sure is."

"Is Anya dead?!"

"What? No. She used her last wish on immortality, so she most definitely is not."

"I thought you told her not to do that."

"I did! She firmly insisted!"

"Okay, well… please get off my bed."

"I thought you used the bottom bunk."

"After Anya graduated, I took the top."

"Oh… well, okay. We can leave."

Your eyes have almost finished adjusting to the light, and you get a good look at this Heather. It's hard to get a read on her height from your vantage point, but you gather that she's a pale, chubby woman with long brown hair, and she's absolutely rocking a blue crop top. Just then, a green smoke floats into your line of sight.

"Wait, Joy! I've been meaning to ask you wh—"

You're in your kitchen again, on your feet, but still with your dick in Joy's butt. She's on her back on the table once again.

"So… Heather?" you ask.

"Last master's college roommate. And no, I don't know why her elbows are so crusty. She says the baby powder helps, but it doesn't."

"And Anya?"

"Last master. She's immortal now."

"I gathered. Why?"

"She wished for immortality like a dipshit."

"No, why did you take us there?"

"It was the first top bunk I could think of. I didn't think it would be a big deal since I've already had so much sex up there with my last master, Heather, and the harem of anime boys they shared."

"Anime boys?"

Joy's butt plug appears in her hand just as your dick goes soft enough to fall out of her ass on its own, and Joy pops it in, holding in what seems to be an unusually large amount of your cum. "Yeah, my last master was a big ol' weeb. I didn't expect to like it, but two-dimensional cock is actually pretty cool. Strangely, it works. They were all such gentlemen, too."

Options:

Holy shit! Wish for your own harem of anime boys!

Wait, wait. Girls. Wish for an anime girl harem.

Go back and figure out Heather's question (and phone number).

Wish for your old bully to know about all the sex you're having.

[ataleofcrowns]

Thought you all would like to know: I'm finallyyy working on a new UI for the game that includes settings to change the game's font and font size, as well as a dark theme. It also has a reactive mobile display so you can play the game in portrait mode.

I'm using the first one made by Vahnya, since I have no need for a menu screen and liked the look of that one the most. I wanted to keep the game as close to it's current design as possible. But her other template looks gorgeous too, definitely would rec.

I'll be posting previews for it as well as a working version of it tomorrow on my Patreon for patrons to try out, they can give feedback on how they like it/what adjustments I should make as well.

I'll update the public release with it before the release of CH11 💖

[squishyneet]

♥*♡ SUNLIT DAYS ∞:｡ itachi uchiha *. * ·

tw: heavy school-related trauma, emotional abuse/neglect, mentions of chronic illness

Itachi is twelve years old. It's midnight and he scrambles to finish handwriting his essay for history class. He reads it over one last time before tucking it away in his backpack to bring to school tomorrow. He sleeps peacefully knowing it's been taken care of.

_

"Itachi! Get in here!"

Itachi's heart skips a beat and he nearly stumbles as he walks into the kitchen after coming home from school.

"Yes, father?" he whispers, head low and trying to avoid eye contact.

"What's this about you not turning in an essay!?"

"I turned it in, father."

"Was it late?"

"I had written it and forgot to turn it in." That was the same lie he told the teacher when he handed it to her.

Fugaku sighs loudly. "Don't forget again." is all he says before leaving the kitchen.

"Yes, sir." Itachi mumbles, more to himself than anyone else.

_

Itachi is fifteen years old and is sitting at his desk expectantly, attempting to calm his breathing and focus on the assignments in front of him.

"Itachi!" Mikoto barged into her son's room. "Explain to me why I got an email from your teacher saying you have 40 missing assignments!?"

Itachi turns to face his mother in his seat and remains silent.

"How the hell did this happen, huh!?"

Itachi still says nothing.

Mikoto breathes heavily and runs a hand through her hair. "You are going to sit there and do every single one of them. This door is going to stay open, and you are not going to sleep until it's done!"

"Yes, ma'am . . ." Itachi mutters, angry but obedient.

_

Itachi is sixteen years old and he is sitting in his father's office, looking back and forth between the window and his handwritten notes for history. He's not allowed to work anywhere else for the time being. He's got the same song on repeat in his headphones but presses pause when he sees Sasuke walk by.

"Nii-san, what are you up to?"

Itachi looks up and pulls down his headphones. "Working, Sasuke."

"Do you wanna go get something to eat?" Sasuke asks excitedly.

"I don't have time, Sasuke."

"You used to have time . . . hngh." Sasuke leaves the office, feeling dejected.

_

Itachi is seventeen years old and he's got graph papers sprawled out on his bedroom floor as he attempts to design a house as fast as he can.

"Itachi."

"What, Shisui? I'm busy."

Shisui leans in the doorway trying to come off as approachable as possible. "I hear you've been having a hard time in school."

" . . . You're a little too late, Shisui." Itachi remarks, still staring at his paper.

"Itachi, just tell me what happened," Shisui pleads breathily.

"You know what happened, I don't do my homework."

"I mean, what did they say to you?"

"It doesn't matt-"

"It matters to me!"

Itachi sighs and releases the papers in his hand. His lip starts to quiver and his brow furrows as he stays silent.

Shisui swiftly joins him on the floor, embracing him in a hug. "Let me help you, okay?"

A single tear falls while Itachi relaxes into Shisui's body.

_

Itachi is nineteen years old and he's got himself mostly under control while he's in college.

He tries to avoid speaking with his parents and being home as much as possible, electing to spend time with Shisui and Obito instead. He's got more free time nowadays.

"How's it going, 'Tachi?" Obito nagged. "School treating you good?"

Ever since he got a new job, he's been acting like a third parent, not to Itachi's disliking.

"Yeah, school's fine," Itachi responded, gazing up at the sunlit clouds hovering above where they were waiting for their food to arrive.

"You feeling okay?"

"I haven't been feeling too well, actually," Itachi said, squinting at Obito. "I've been having some weird pains all over my body and I can't sleep. I feel tired and I can't focus during the day, too."

"You should go to the doctor. Maybe it's just a vitamin deficiency or something," Obito reassured him.

"Maybe, but I don't think I would have a deficiency."

"I know we have some relatives that have symptoms like those. Hope you're not getting sick."

"Yeah, me too."

[catgirlredux]

Hound Dogs

“… tomorrow we’ll meet your handler. For now, rest up.”

RDAI.vii.1156 stared down at its new body. Joining the military was considered the best route a Class-F citizen could pursue - free food, shelter, maybe even a few augments if you got lucky. But the Rapid Deployment Auxiliary Infantry unit felt less lucky and more confused. It signed up expecting to be given a gun and a pat on the back, not… this.

The arms were probably the strangest change. Skilled military surgeons had removed its forearms with a single blast of a laser that numbed its pain and severed flesh and bone at the same time. In their place, 1156 now wielded on each arm a single long, spider-like metal blade that extended all the way to the floor. The same happened to its legs, forcing the unit onto all fours. A reinforced spine kept it from collapsing onto the ground.

The rest of its body was covered in angular metal plates, designed to redirect and resist gunfire and protect the unit’s remaining flesh. Its face was likewise covered by an solid steel visor, vision and hearing substituted by an array of cameras, sonar, and radio scanners that fed information directly into its augmented brain. Its mouth remained uncovered but its teeth were removed and replaced with a new carbon fiber set. The chip in its brain repressed its discomfort so it didn’t try to claw off its own jaw.

A buzzer sounded and a tray carrying a bowl of nutrimeal slid out of the wall of the room. Unit 1156 stared it at, trying to figure out what to do - an injected concoction of hormones and suppressants had kept it comfortably dull, but somewhat muddled.

>EAT

The word flashed up on the inside of its visor, glaring into its semi-redundant eyes - eyes now dedicated to receiving screen-fed orders. It obediently craned its head down and started chomping at the slop. It was starving - the accelerated healing process was effective but it sapped all the solider’s energy.

Even if its senses hadn’t been muted, the nutritional goop was flavorless. Nevertheless it found itself slurping away with abandon, licking the bowl clean, dignity cast aside. Its faceplate glowed white hot for a moment before cooling down again, singeing off specks of food that had flown astray in the unit’s feeding frenzy. This feature was meant to burn blood and dirt off so that it didn’t impair an RDAI’s sensor array, but it worked for dinner well enough.

>GOOD MUTT

*****

The next day found RDAI.vii.1156 waiting in the main hangar, still slightly trembling on its spindly new legs. The thin, bladed design was perfect for chasing down enemy troops on the battlefield or pinning a straggler to the ground, but it was difficult to balance with even with the aid of the unit’s brain augments. A cord plugged into the back of its head kept it from wandering too far while feeding low-level electrical pulses that helped calm its nerves. It was waiting for its new handler - the soldier it would fight alongside, whose life it would dedicate itself to protecting. The bond between a handler and their hound (as the units were fondly referred to) was something truly unique, and though 1156 hadn’t planned to end up on this side of the relationship, it couldn’t help but feel excited.

It could feel her presence long before she actually entered the hangar. Perhaps it was merely the hormonal braindeck releasing waves of dopamine, but to the cyborg’s mind she was the most perfect being in the world. It could almost taste the draw of her augments to its own, pulling the two of them together like magnets. It knew that she felt it too. The connection between them was already established: the handler and the hunter, the owner and the dog.

It couldn’t quite remember what beauty looked like but it decided that she must be as close as one could get. Bent on all fours as 1156 was, it stood about half a meter shorter than her. Encased in a shiny automorphic techsuit, her body rippled with hidden energy ready to be unleashed at a moment’s notice. Her one eye shone, the other replaced by an implant that flashed rapidly as if to say, it’s finally you.

A technician standing by unplugged the unit’s tether and stuck in a thinner, double-ended wire. 1156 trembled as its handler grabbed the other end and slowly slotted it into a port on her neck.

The instant the plug connected, 1156 nearly collapsed from the tsunami of pleasure that struck it at full force. All Handler’s emotions, all her thoughts, her very essence flowed through its brain, and it could tell that she was experiencing the same influx of data.

They stood there for what seemed like forever, its faceplate lights flashing in sync with her vitals node. The only sound was the slight clinking of metal on concrete as 1156 shifted from talon to talon. Her designation was RDI-H.2054, she was a Class-E civilian who was recruited at age 8, she had been trained as a handler for 11 years, but 1156 was her first hound of her own. She liked the color green, she hated morning training, she had been deployed overseas on a scouting mission just three months ago. The unit’s brain felt overloaded with information and yet more kept flowing in.

It saw vague images, faces of people that it didn’t recognize yet felt so familiar - Handler’s family? It saw the fire of war, the smiles of fellow soldiers, it felt her heartbeat, her brainwaves, her every breath. For a split second, the hound and the handler were not separate but rather a single entity, one soldier in two bodies, sharing their memories. 1156 felt its Handler’s cybernetic eye and her prosthetic leg, and she likewise felt its spindly new form and armor plating.

RDAI.vii.1156 felt 2054 about to scream and roared out in sync. Its twisted metallic vocal chords, designed specifically to instill fear in the enemy, pierced the air in the hangar with an unearthly screech which neither overwhelmed nor surrendered to its keeper’s voice but rather merged with it in a feral harmony.

*****

Blood spewed down the dog’s chin and through crevasses in its armor. It spit out a chunk of flesh with strands of muscle tangled in its reinforced teeth. As it stepped back from its prey, its pointed blades withdrew from within the dead footsoldier’s chest. The unit’s faceplate sizzled, burning away blood and viscera and turning its vision bright red for a moment. It let out a fierce howl, launching itself forwards with a speed unmatched by any two-legged infantry.

Just behind it, its handler finished off a tank pilot attempting to crawl away from its craft. The hound’s many sensors highlighted the remaining stragglers on the battlefield, and 2054 assessed the remaining threats as she ran. She spotted a wounded soldier training their scope onto her companion and raised her weapon, disintegrating the enemy’s face with a single clean blast. The hound bayed its gratitude before finishing its run, speeding between rocks and debris and eliminating the last few soldiers.

One, two, three, blood gushed from their chests as 1156 pounced on them, puncturing their lungs and tearing out their throats in quick succession. RDI-H.2054 watched and basked in the adrenaline - her brain had not been upgraded to manage her auxiliary’s entire suite of sensors, but they shared many core sensations. They both felt the rush of war, the warmth of blood on their faces, and most of all an immense wave of satisfaction and even euphoria. Nothing felt better than killing together - an entire battalion laid to waste at their hands gave them a jolt of dopamine that felt better than orgasm.

They were never awarded for their feats, nor did they feel the need for any such recognition. Deep in their programming they didn’t fight for any cause or nation, or even for their commanding officer. They fought merely to tear and bite alongside each other, to see the fear in their enemies’ eyes and feel their life drain out at the will of the hound of death and its handler.

Standing together in the remains of a decimated army, they surveyed their work. The air smelled of blood and the familiar scent of plasma-scorched air. 1156 playfully rammed its armored face into its handler’s chestplate, grunting and drooling red down her torso. She laughed and rubbed the top of its head, sending microscopic ripples of pleasure down its spine.

>GOOD JOB DARLING

[whatsnewalycat]

Designated Person | Chapter 5

Pairing: Francisco "Catfish" Morales x F!Reader

Chapter 5: Fever

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Series Summary: When posting bail for Frankie Morales, your former employer and former lover, you unwittingly designate yourself as his third party custodian during his pre-trial release. Your often tumultuous relationship with him is given a new set of rules and put to the test. Can the two of you co-exist peacefully, or will you crash and burn?

Word Count: 8.7k+

Content / Warnings: Reader POV, infidelity, past romantic & sexual relationship and related flashbacks, food, viral infection (influenza), respiratory infection, hospitalization, asthma, inhaler, bb girl gets sick, frankie gets to mother hen a little, fever dream, alcohol, bar, heavy angst, not a universe where covid-19 existed, manipulation

Notes: Hey, buddy. If there are any inaccuracies in the realm of medical science and hospitals and all that jazz, let's collectively ignore that, ok? Perfect. Thank you for reading!!!

[ Tag List ] [ AO3 ] [ Spotify Playlist ] [ Series Masterlist ]

Yesterday afternoon, after Emmaleigh returned from school, she complained that her whole body hurt. Alarm bells went off in your head. You studied her face and noticed that her cheeks were rosy and she looked dazed. 

“Are you feeling ok?” you asked, pressing the back of your hand to her hot, sweaty forehead. A grimace rolled across your face, “You’re burning up, Em.”

She barely mumbled a response, then trudged over to the couch and laid down. 

The boys were soon to join her, getting lethargic as their temperatures skyrocketed. All three Howard children took turns coughing their sickness into the air. You did your best to stay away from their germs while you accommodated them, but should have known that the future was already percolating in your immune system. 

“I’ll work from home tomorrow,” Marla told you when she got home, “I just hope they didn’t get you sick.”

Well, guess what?

They got you fucking sick. 

It started with small things: a tight soreness in your throat, aches shooting from deep within your muscles like you did a full body workout the day before. 

When Frankie walked through the front door, he took one look at you in your blanket cocoon on the couch, then at the TV playing King of the Hill, and asked, “What’s wrong?” 

“I think my kids got me sick,” you informed him. The words tickled. A coughing fit erupted in from your chest. 

His boots clunked to the floor, one at a time, as he probed, “You ok?”

“I’m fine,” you shook your head, then swallowed the thickness in your throat. 

“Are you sure?” he took a few steps towards you, narrowing his gaze, “You look like shit.”

“Aww, you’re so sweet,” you deadpanned. 

He approached the couch, brought the back of his hand to your forehead, and grumbled, “You feel warm.” 

“Oh my god. I’m fine,” you groaned, pulling the blanket over your head, “Go away before I get you sick.” 

Frankie sighed and retreated into his bedroom. 

When you woke up this morning, the sky outside was still dark. You were still on the couch, wrapped up in your blanket. A layer of sweat lined your skin, but you shivered from the perceived cold. 

It felt like a fucking Mack truck hit you. 

The first deep morning breath to stretch your lungs caused them to seize. A fit of coughs ripped your body in half. You sat up, struggling to draw breath between each new wave of coughing. 

Frankie wobbled into the living room, wearing just a pair of navy blue boxers, his hair all sleep-mussed, as he sat down beside you and smoothed his palm against your back. His groggy morning voice rumbled from his throat, “You ok?” 

Your entire respiratory tract felt constricted. The tempo of your heart hastened. You shook your head back and forth, shoulders jumping with each cough, and put one hand up in the shape of an L, curling your pointer finger down repeatedly. 

“Do you need your inhaler?” he asked. 

You nodded and managed to gasp out, “Purse—room—”

He jumped to his feet and rushed out of the room and returned a few moments later, elbow deep in your ratty canvas tote bag, muttering under his breath, “How the fuck do you find anything in here?”

Finally, he pulled the inhaler out and you snatched it from him, shaking it for a moment before popping the cap off and sealing your lips around the mouth piece. You inhaled a few puffs of albuterol and felt it start to take effect, lungs calming, shifting their violent spasms into smaller, more manageable hiccups. 

Frankie sat down next to you and rubbed your back in slow, soothing motions. It should have felt good, but the gentle touch sent ripples of pain across your skin. You whimpered, “Everything hurts.”

“You’re not going to work today,” he declared.

“No,” you confirmed, “Marla is with them. Don’t have to go.” 

“I’m staying with you,” he said then.

You pouted, shoulders slumping as you looked over at him, “Don’t—”

Sternness creased his forehead, “It’s not a question.” 

“I can take care of myself,” you protested weakly. 

He raised his eyebrows and blinked at you, as if to reaffirm that this was non-negotiable. 

“Fine,” you murmured in defeat. 

A small, victorious smile crossed his face, “Atta girl.”

> MARLA: > We all tested positive for Influenza B, FYI. How are you feeling? 

< ME: < I think I caught it :( 

“It’s the flu,” you inform Frankie in a croaky murmur. 

His eyes don’t part from the TV when he says, “Told ya.”

You want to shoot a glare at him, but find your energy reserves depleted. The bones in your wrist cry out when you tuck the phone beneath your pillow. A whine squeaks from your raw, tight throat. 

“Do you wanna lay down in your room? Might be comfier there,” he suggests. 

“No TV,” you grumble. 

His mouth folds into a thoughtful frown. He taps his fingers against his lips, then looks over at you, “I can set it up in there.” 

You study his face, “Really?”

“Sure,” he shrugs, then rises to his feet, “Need help getting up?”

“No,” you insist, but when you sit upright, your head starts to spin and throb. With a pathetic whimper, you pinch the bridge of your nose. 

Frankie stares down at you expectantly, but a spin cycle tumbles your brain in its centrifuge. You can’t stop it. He holds his hand out, a wordless offer of assistance. 

You swat it away. 

Frustration boils your blood. A wave of wet coughs bubbles up your throat. 

I don’t want your fucking help. I can do this myself. I don’t fucking need you. 

You try to stand, but your legs are wobbly and collapse under pressure. Your hands ball into fists and you hit the couch cushion on either side of you as hard as you can, which isn’t very hard, then choke out between coughs, “I—fucking—hate this—”

Frankie’s face sags with pity, “Do you need—”

“No!” you try to yell with authority, but it comes out this pitiable, gurgling, wheezy word that crushes your spirit. 

Your shoulders shake from the force of your coughing. You slump over into yourself and bury your face in your hands. 

Frankie returns to his seat beside you and hands you the inhaler from the coffee table. You grab it and take a few puffs, then try to calm down as the albuterol works at your inflamed airway. 

“We should go see the doctor,” he says quietly. 

You manage to meet his gaze and pout. His eyes are pleading, but you shake your head, “I’m fine.”

“You can barely breathe—”

“I’m fine,” you repeat. 

His jaw cocks to the side and he grumbles, “You’re so fucking stubborn, you know that?” 

“Never heard that before—” you take a gulp of air, “in my life.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he chuckles, then stands again, “Ready?”

You nod and get to your feet, the sweat-drenched throw blanket draped over your shoulders like a cape as you tiptoe through the house, to your bedroom, where you collapse on top of your covers. 

Frankie talks to you while he gets everything set up, muttering things about fevers and breathing. Your eyes follow him as he does this, but you ignore his reminders to drink from the water bottle on your side table and take the Tylenol he set next to it, because you’re pretty sure he’s not even real. 

After getting the TV set up, he turns it on and resumes your King of the Hill marathon. He makes you sit up to take the Tylenol and chase it with a half a bottle of water, then leaves for a few minutes. He returns holding your phone in one hand and a bowl of soup in the other. 

You grimace at both items, but take your phone. Frankie sets the steaming bowl of soup on your nightstand and asks, “Do you want me to leave?”

“Aren’t you—” you yawn, cough, then finish your sentence, “worried you’ll get sick?” 

He frowns and shakes his head, shoving his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, “I got a flu shot.” 

Your skepticism must be etched into your face, because shifts his weight to one leg and explains further, “Angie makes us get them every year.”

“She’s so responsible,” you admire. 

He shifts his weight to the other leg and runs a hand through his messy hair. Your head swims, and again, you’re struck by the sense that this isn’t real. You’re flattened into 2D. A flipbook cartoon. Everything seems to be moving in slow motion and far away.

“I get it. Why you chose her,” you mumble breathlessly, snuggling in closer to your pillow and blanket, letting your eyelids flutter closed, “So pretty, and fun, and has her shit together,” a cough interrupts you, and when you regain your stamina, you hum, “She’s awesome. I get it.” 

Frankie doesn’t say anything, but as you’re drifting to sleep, you feel him tug your covers out from underneath you and tuck you into bed. 

When your eyes open again, the room is much darker. You sit upright and look around. Everything seems familiar, yet completely foreign. Your bedroom, but veiled. Hazy, almost. 

And quiet. 

So fucking quiet that your pulse echoes in your head. 

“Frankie?” you call out into the darkness of your open doorway. 

He doesn’t respond. 

Unease settles in your gut, heavy and hard. A boulder lodged in your intestines. You swing your feet over the side of your bed and press the soles of your feet against the hardwood floor. The floorboards creak when you tiptoe across the dimly-lit room to the doorway. 

Then you pause and study it. 

It looks ominous for some reason. Bigger than it should be. 

As you step through it, you move through a slick, shiny membrane, which gives way to your entry with little resistance. It leaves a gummy residue on your skin. You try to wipe the remnants from your arms, grimacing at how viscous the clear fluid feels against your hands. 

This is when you notice your surroundings are no longer dark. You squint up and look around.

Sunlight pours in through a windowed dome that stretches high above you. Beyond it lies a long, glass tunnel. Moisture from the humid air settles on your skin atop the layer of doorway residue. 

Trees and bushes of all shapes and sizes fill the space. Some with thick, waxy leaves. Some adorned with colorful, blooming flowers. Crowds of faceless people mull about on a terracotta path that winds through the enclosure. None of them seem to notice you standing there in your pajamas. 

The butterflies notice you, though. 

Monarchs, tiger-like stripes sectioning off orange, their wings tipped with a thick black outline and dots of white. Paper Kites, their chalky white wings appearing luminous in the sunshine, black spots and stripes contrasting the bright glow. Owl butterflies, huge by comparison, their wings decorated with circular patterns in many shades of brown. 

Dozens of others flutter around you, a wide variety of species, each one breathtaking in their own right. A few land on your arm when you hold it up.

You smile, then the familiarity of this place dawns on you. The butterfly house. 

Frankie took you here occasionally when you were still together. Sometimes with Sarah, sometimes without. Far enough away from Kissimmee and Orlando that he wouldn’t run into anyone he knew. 

When the two of you were here, it felt like you were a normal couple. He held your hand while you walked the paths. Murmured sweet nothings into your ear as you marveled at the foliage and butterflies. 

Your attention snags on something in the path ahead of you, yanking you from your bittersweet nostalgia.

A white t-shirt stretched across his broad, hunched-up shoulders. Dark curls poking out from beneath his ragged hat. His slightly off-kilter, halting gait as he pushes a stroller in the opposite direction. 

“Frankie!” you call. 

He doesn’t react. Nobody reacts. 

You start after him, calling his name over and over again, but he doesn’t turn towards your voice. Your stomach starts to churn. Swollen, gray clouds roll across the sky and tone the conservatory a dim, moody gray. 

“Frankie, what the fuck?!” you pant when you catch up to him, vocal chords wavering, giving away the state of your frayed nerves. You grab his arm and spin him around, then take a step back. 

It’s not Frankie.

The older man before you has a thick white mustache brimming his frail, wrinkled lips. His shortly-trimmed white hair stands straight up from his scalp. You have to crane your neck up to meet his cold, gray eyes. 

The smile that stretches across his face churns your stomach. Goosebumps prick your skin. 

Your eyes flick from his to the stroller. 

It’s empty. 

You shake your head, taking another step back. Hot tears pool in your eyes and turn the world around you blurry. 

When you look back to the man, he seems even taller. Your heart hammers in your chest. One message broadcasts through your brain: GET THE FUCK OUT. 

You retreat backwards. Only a few slow steps at first, but your feet pick up the pace quickly when you see his arms. 

His fucking arms. 

They stretch after you, but his body doesn’t move. 

Panic spikes your bloodstream. 

You sprint in the opposite direction, away from him, your feet pounding against the empty pathway. Everything is dark now. Like the sun burnt out. 

His slender fingers dig into your arms. He clenches down, pulling you back towards him, dragging you over the terracotta pathway as you struggle to escape, screaming, “No no no, No! NO! N—”

Your body starts to shake, then your eyes snap open and meet Frankie’s, all wide and glazed with distress. He’s hovering above you, hands on your shoulders, his voice hoarse as he whispers, “Hey, are you ok?”

When you meet his gaze and understand that he’s real, your face crumbles, and you try to sob with relief, but your breath catches in your throat. Your hands fly to your neck. The gasps that are able to pass through the constricted airway are shallow. 

It feels like you’re a fish out of water. 

He grabs your inhaler from the nightstand and shakes it, flinging the cap off with one hand as the other guides you to sit up. You take a few puffs, and it makes it easier, but your throat is still tight. Lungs still feel three times too small. 

“We’re going to the hospital.” 

It’s not a plea, or a question, or a request like it was earlier. He’s making a statement of fact.

He marches from the room and comes back with the straps of your purse held up in a stranglehold, “Is your insurance card in here?” 

You nod and swallow hard. It hurts like your throat is an open wound. Tears burn behind your eyes and roll down your cheeks. Your breaths come in short little wheezes that unleash a flood of adrenaline into your heart. 

“Ok,” he says, strides to the nightstand, throws your inhaler and cell phone inside, slings the cross-body strap over his shoulder, and looks at you. 

His face droops momentarily and his eyes get all watery and red, then he hardens his features and tells you, “It’s gonna be ok, sweetheart, ok?”

You shake your head and open your mouth to let your worries spill from your lips, but nothing comes out except a gasp for oxygen. 

“Right now I just need you to try and stay calm. I know it’s hard but you have to try, alright?” 

His voice is low and quivering. You search his face and understand that he’s worried, too, so you nod.

“Ok, let’s go, mamacita,” he rumbles.

You want to tell him that he can’t drive. That he can’t risk going to fucking jail because of you. But you don’t. You can’t. 

Frankie pulls the blankets back and the air feels like ice against your skin. Shivers shoot across your body, making your teeth chatter. He lifts you from the bed with a groan. You hook your arms around his neck and try your hardest to hold on.  

When you get to the Emergency Room, you’re barely coherent, so Frankie fills out the intake paperwork for you. He talks to the triage nurse, who brings you back to be checked out.  

Everything sort of blurs from there.

The nurses check your vitals, take some swabs, and ask a bunch of questions that, between your foggy mind and Frankie, are mostly answered. A doctor comes in and talks to the two of you, returning shortly thereafter to advise that you’re being admitted to the hospital for overnight treatment and observation. 

You’re wheeled to another department and hooked up to an IV, an oxygen tank, and all kinds of different monitors. Your hospital room is like a revolving-door of medical personnel, but Frankie holds steadfast by your side throughout the chaos. 

During a moment of quiet, when just the two of you remain in the room, you look at him. 

He sits in a squeaky armchair he pulled up next to your bed, elbows resting on his knees, chin propped up in his palm, staring up at the TV as he flips through the limited channels on hospital cable. 

You swallow, then clear your throat and croak out, “Frankie?”

His eyebrows shoot up and he turns to meet your eyes in question. 

“Can you—hand me—my phone?” 

“Yeah,” he leans over to grab your purse off the couch, sifting through it for a moment before fishing out your cell phone and handing it to you. 

When you grab it from him, your hand drops to your side. You blink slowly at the sight, unable to comprehend why you can’t lift it. Your brow furrows and you frown at Frankie, whose features are all creased with concern. 

“Do—do you need help?” he asks. 

It’s like your bones are both weightless and infinitely dense. Your head is swimming but a deep fatigue keeps you pinned to the bed. You manage to nod. 

He plucks the phone from your tenuous grasp and probes further, “Do you… want me to text people to let them know?”

You nod. 

“Sisters, brother, Mom, Dad, all them?” 

You nod. 

“Marla?”

You nod. 

“Rory?”

You scrunch up your nose and shrug. 

“Anyone else? Friends?” 

You pause to think about this, but mostly you’re just thinking about how sad it is that your only friends that aren’t family are him and Marla. You shake your head, then furrow your brow and rasp, “Ralph?” 

“I told him what’s going on already,” he informs you, then inquires, “What’s—uh, what’s your passcode?” 

Your shoulders slump and your guts twist when you realize you have to tell him this embarrassing information. Something you never thought he’d have an opportunity to discover. You swallow hard, wincing at the pain from your tight throat muscles, then admit, “07–25–19”

He searches your face as his brow creases, eyes softening into a pained expression, “Sarah’s birthday?”

All you can do is shrug. A testament to how pathetic you feel. 

He holds your gaze for another beat, then drops it to your phone and starts tapping away. You let fatigue curl around your consciousness and drift off into sleep. 

Occasionally you wake and hear him talking to someone, either to a person on the phone or to hospital staff in the room. Once, you wake and think he’s talking to himself, his forehead pressed against his clasped hands. 

Later, you swear you hear a doctor tell Frankie, “Your wife seems to be stable, but we will have to keep her for a few days to continue treatment.”

Your eyes blink open and you see Frankie nod in acknowledgment, then ask, “Is she gonna be ok?”

“She’ll be just fine,” comes the response, and you watch tension melt from his shoulders. 

You want to stay awake, to ask him questions like: A few days? and Did the doctor just call me your fucking wife?

More so, you desperately want to reach out and hold his hand. You want to tell him you’ll be ok, to thank him for taking care of you. To thank him for caring at all. 

But your body holds you hostage. Your joints are all super glued in place. Muscles disconnected from your brain. A weight bears down on you, tugging at your eyelids, lulling you back to sleep. 

The next time you wake, the room is dark and quiet. 

First, you hear the equipment hooked up to your body. The faint beeping of monitors. Gears whizzing and turning, the buzz of machines at work. 

Then, you hear a snore. You turn and see Frankie still sitting in the armchair at your bedside. Your heart jumps in your chest and your throat lets out a little yelp of surprise.

Frankie starts awake at the noise, his legs jerking upwards in reaction, falling from their place propped up on your hospital bed. A stiff beige blanket falls from his chest as he sits up straight. He takes a deep breath, which you envy, and looks around the room, then blinks sleepily at you. 

“Hi,” you whisper. It comes out scratchy and dry. The tickle in your throat makes you start coughing. Every heaving, choked breath shoots a wave of pain across your body. 

He grabs a hard plastic water bottle with the hospital’s logo printed across the center and holds it in front of you. You lean forward to seal your lips around the straw, take half a dozen big swallows of ice cold water, then lay back. 

“That was fucking awesome,” you gasp. For the first time since you’ve been admitted, it doesn’t feel like something is actively squeezing the air from your lungs. 

Frankie chuckles at this, then brings himself closer to meet your eyes in the darkness, asking you in a low, quiet voice, “How’re you feeling?” 

“Like I could run a mile,” you joke. 

He smiles wide and genuine, dimples pricking his cheeks, and shakes his head, “There she is.” 

Warmth spreads across your chest and you hum, reaching out to him with your non-intubated hand. He takes it in his own, grazing his thumb across your knuckles as he sighs, “You scared the shit out of me today.”

“Sorry,” you murmur. Your eyes meet his and hold steady. There’s a spark of something in the space between you. It’s sweet and meaningful and makes your bones buzz. Like a battery clicks into place and completes the circuit. 

He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, then shuts it when a nurse toddles into the room. Your heart jumps like she caught you in the middle of doing something you weren’t supposed to be doing. On instinct, you drop Frankie’s hand and look at her with wide eyes. 

The plump, middle-aged woman just gives you a cheery smile and says, “Oh, you’re up! Do you mind if I turn the lights on and check you out?” 

You shrug, “Sure.”

Frankie excuses himself to go to the bathroom. The nurse takes your blood pressure and presses a stethoscope to your bare back through the parted hospital gown, humming and noting her findings in your chart. She checks all the readings on the machines you’re hooked up to and jots those down as well. 

She leaves for a moment to get a new bag of IV fluid. You glance around the sterile, sad looking room. It holds an air of faux comfort. Mass-produced landscape artwork framed on the wall, furniture all upholstered in a shiny, pastel green fabric, countertops and floors as white and spotless as porcelain. 

You squint at something on a tabletop in the corner. A vase of yellow roses. The nurse re-enters the room and hangs the bag of clear fluid on your IV pole. 

You blink at the flowers a few times, just to make sure you’re not imagining them, then ask her, “Are those for me?”

The nurse’s face twists up in amusement at your question, and she snorts, “No, they’re for the other sick girl.” 

Her sarcasm is justified. 

Frankie walks back into the room then, and you ask, “Who sent those?” 

“Rory,” he tells you, crossing paths with the nurse as she leaves. 

Your lip curls, “Oh.”

“Christ, do you even like him?” he chuckles, but studies your face in a serious way that makes you think he genuinely wants to know. 

The answer would require more breath than you’re able to give at the moment. 

Rory. 

You should like him. Hell, you should be falling head over heels for him. He’s dedicated, confident, loyal, respectful, and attractive. His dick is big and he knows how to use it. He takes you out on dates and performs chivalrous gestures, like holding doors open, pulling your chair out, and bringing you flowers.

He checks off so many boxes. But you don’t feel that spark, that thing, that Diane Barrows talked about in It Takes Two: 

That can't eat, can't sleep, reach for the stars over the fence, world series kind of love.

That’s what you want. 

And every time you see Rory, you think maybe it’ll change, that he’ll grow on you, but your discomfort in his presence only seems to get worse. You think you should probably dump him, but you’re not sure if it’s the right call or not. 

Because what if you’re just so used to the exhilaration of your toxic relationship with Frankie, that you don’t yet understand how it feels to be treated right? What if you’re just in need of repair? What if you just need to learn to be in a normal relationship? 

Because what if Rory is the last chance you have for someone to love you? 

So, instead of answering Frankie’s question, you observe, “That chair looks uncomfortable.” 

“Correct, it’s really fucking uncomfortable,” he nods and lets out a little chuckle. 

Your teeth catch on your tongue and you clamp down on it a few times as you consider this, then release it and tell him quietly, “You don’t have to stay.”

“I know,” he leans forward, pressing his fingers to his lips, and shrugs, “I—I want to, though.”

Your heart skips a beat. Heat bubbles up the middle of you, creeping up your neck, onto your cheeks. 

You reach out and take his hand in yours, then pull it closer. He lets you do this, and his brows knit together as he stares down at your interlaced fingers. Neither of you say anything. You wriggle onto your side and yawn. Fatigue sinks into your muscles and tugs at your eyelids.

“I don’t think I’d trust myself to be there while you're here,” he admits after a while. 

You blink your eyes all the way open and study his face, “Why not?”

Frankie shrugs, “You’d be here alone. I’d have no idea what the hell is going on with you,” he scoffs and shakes his head, “Fuck that.” 

A sleepy smile stretches across your face, “You’re sweet.”

He doesn’t say anything, just grins and holds your gaze. Your stomach flips and you ask, “Wanna sleep up here?”

“I’m good here,” he responds with a yawn, pulling the scratchy looking blanket up to his chin as he kicks his feet up onto your hospital bed, “Thanks, though.” 

It sort of makes you sad, but your eyes flutter closed and you murmur, “You’d get tangled up anyway.” 

“What?” he laughs. 

“The tubes,” you explain, “Fuckin’ everywhere.” 

He snorts and squeezes your hand. Silence settles over the room. Your mind wanders to the fragments of conversations you overheard between intervals of sleep. 

“Frankie,” you murmur. 

He grunts in response. 

“Did you tell them—that we’re married?” 

It’s quiet for a moment, and you’re not sure he’s still awake, until he says, “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want them to make me leave,” he says. 

You hum in acknowledgment. Ignore your heart’s stuttering beat. 

“Wha’d my family say?”

“Everyone said they hope you feel better soon. Asked us to keep them posted. Leah’s gonna call to see how you’re doing tomorrow.” 

You yawn and nod, then ask, “Are you leaving tomorrow?” 

“You tryin’ to get rid of me?” he chuckles softly. 

“Mmm no,” you tug at your clasped hands and tuck them under your cheek, “But, Sarah—”

“It’s fine, mariposa. Just get some rest.” 

The nickname twists your stomach like a dishrag. You haven’t heard it cross his lips in ages. The one he used in those tender moments where you felt him let you into his heart. Only to be shoved away at the next given opportunity.

Fuck, it was like clockwork. 

There was one day you were laying next to him in his bed, in the spot his wife slept each night. He traced your naked body with his fingertips and rumbled, “You’re the only one who understands me, mariposa.” 

His eyes were warm and glowing in the sunlight streaming through the window. When he met your gaze, you saw something there. Adoration etched into his features, radiating through his touch as it skated across your skin. 

“Really?” you breathed. 

He searched your face and nodded solemnly. Drew you closer and kissed your lips. Your chest ached deep and wide with love. 

Not a crush. Not lust. Not infatuation. 

Real, true, pure fucking love. 

So you told him. 

“I love you.”

His touch ceased. He pulled back, furrowing his brow. You watched his face shift from confusion, to surprise, to worry. 

Then he shook his head and whispered, “I… can’t.”

It felt like you were dropped from a 10-story building and pancaked onto the sidewalk. Your nerves started to buzz and twist. You didn’t know what to do, how to convey the panic building in your chest. So you stared at him. 

“You—you know we can’t be together like that,” he said, his tone warm and reassuring like the words he was saying weren’t ripping you apart, his wide eyes frantically scanning your face, “Right? I mean, I’m—I’m married, and Angie—I love her—”

The knife in your gut twisted. 

“I know,” you nodded, flashing a reassuring smile, but rolled out of bed and started to get dressed, facing away from him so he couldn’t see the tears brimming your eyelids. 

“Come on, you knew what you were getting into when this started.” 

Salt in your wounds. 

Obviously you knew he was married, and he never made you promises of running away together. But you really thought that this was more to him than sex. 

You swore you felt it. 

When it was just the two of you, he would joke with you, and cuddle with you, and kiss your forehead, and hold your hand, and tell you things… intimate things.

Things about his upbringing. About his absent, alcoholic father, and his mother who did her best but struggled desperately. How he was an only child split between households when his mom finally had enough and divorced his dad. 

He told you about his time in the service, time he spent overseas fighting a war for his country, then for the highest bidder. How he took lives, destroyed communities, and sold years of his life to make the rich even richer. 

He told you about how, just a year prior to that afternoon in his bed, he went on an independent mission to South America with his brothers in arms. It went tits up. He watched one of his best friends get shot in the fucking head. They had to drag his body through the Andes, along with millions of dollars seized from a drug kingpin. Most of the money was lost, and the residual earnings of this expedition were given to the deceased’s family. 

He told you about how, he realized afterwards, the cost wasn’t worth it. The value of his friend’s life exceeded that of anything they would have brought home. 

He told you this in a matter-of-fact way. His voice was calm, shoulders level, back straight. And his eyes… they were so far away. Like he was there again. 

You recognized yourself in his detached gaze. In the subtle tensing of his body. 

You thought his telling you these things meant he trusted you with them. You thought him telling you these things meant he was placing his heart in your hands. 

And there were other things. 

He held you like he was abandoned at sea and you were a life-preserver buoying him to the surface of choppy waves. He kissed you like he was starved for affection. Fucked you like it was his last day on Earth. 

You thought it meant something to him. 

This is it, you thought, this is love. 

That can't eat, can't sleep, reach for the stars over the fence, world series kind of love.

You were astounded that you could have read him so wrong. Of all the things you’ve been uncertain of in life, you genuinely didn’t think this was one of them. It flipped your worldview upside down. 

You felt naïve. Foolish. 

Of course he can’t love you.

Of course he doesn’t love you. 

“I know,” you managed to choke out while pulling your shirt over your head. 

“Hey,” he said softly, trying to get you to look at him. 

“It’s ok, Frankie, really,“ you shook your head and tucked your hair behind your ear, then tiptoed into the bathroom, where you allowed yourself to cry silently for five minutes. 

When you emerged, he was sitting on the couch drinking whiskey. Sarah was still napping. You sequestered yourself in the kitchen, painfully aware of Frankie’s presence in the next room. 

When Angie got home, he kissed her hello right in front of you. Made a big show of it. 

And you hated her. 

Envy is probably more accurate than hate, you think, in retrospect. At the time, all you knew was it seared your insides like hellfire when he touched her. You wanted to dig your fingernails into her cheeks and rip her pretty face right off of her skull.

You picked up your purse and plastered on a mask of neutrality, “Well, I’m off. Have a good weekend, guys.” 

It almost slipped when your gaze caught on Frankie’s. He wore this pained expression like this hurt for him, too. 

You broke eye contact and rushed out the door to your car. Once inside, you screamed at the top of your lungs into the steering wheel. Your throat burned raw with territorial rage, and rejection, and heartbreak. 

You kept thinking of that fucking look on his face. That fucking nickname. His faux intimacy. Your stupidity in thinking he felt the same as you. 

On your way home, you went to your favorite spot, Bubba’s. 

The establishment’s owner and namesake, Bubba, was working, as he often was on Friday nights. You selected one of the many empty barstools and sat down, running your hands over your face, releasing a deep sigh. 

Bubba nodded in your direction, “Whiskey coke?”

His voice was gravelly and carried bass from deep in his chest. 

“Yeah,” you muttered and dug your phone from your purse, then sent a text to Leah, and another to Marlene, telling them about the recent turn of events in your pathetic life. 

Bubba kept his sharp blue eyes on you as he made your drink, burning a hole into your profile. You noticed, and bunched your fist against your face, trying to conceal your puffy eyelids, your wet cheeks, your shaky breath. 

“Do I needta kick someone’s ass, er what?” he asked as he placed your whiskey coke on a coaster in front of you. Bubba laced his wiry gray eyebrows together and leaned against the bar, beer belly pressing into the counter. 

You snorted at him and shook your head, avoiding his gaze by looking up at the sports news show on the TV, “I’m fine.”

“Ok,” he shrugged in a disbelieving manner, “You just let me know if you need anythin’, darlin’.” 

“Sure thing,” you murmured, raising the straw to your lips. 

When your phone started ringing, you were three drinks deep. Your mind was starting to bend and blur, the booze supplying a much needed reprieve from reality. 

Your heart stuttered when you saw his name populate your phone screen. Then your face flushed with indignation. 

“What?” you answered in an icy tone. 

“Where are you?” he asked. His words were all huddled together. Spoken too close to the speaker. He was drunk. 

“Why do you care?” you scoffed. 

“Needta talkta you about somethin’,” he mumbled, “Where are you?”

“You sound shitfaced, Frankie,” you frowned at your empty drink, stabbed the ice with your straw, then looked around and locked eyes with Bubba. He nodded in acknowledgement and started to make you a new drink. 

“Jus—jus—jus, shut the fuck up and tell me where you are—”

“Hey, fuck you,” you yelled in return, unable to stop the rage from bubbling up inside you. 

A big sigh crackled over the speaker, then he adjusted his tone to something less severe, “Sorry—soooo sorry, sweetheart. But I needta talk to you, please.”

“You’re talking to me now, Francisco.”

There was a long pause, then he mumbled, “I wanna see you.”

“You’re not driving.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I miss you.”

Tightness radiated across your chest. Heat tingled up your throat, into your sinuses. You swallowed hard. 

“Please, baby,” he croaked, “Please.”

“Bubba’s,” you sighed, then hung up. 

Frankie strode through the door ten minutes later. His movements were overly fluid, spilling over the edges of his body’s limits when he came to sit next to you, “Hey.”

Bubba eyed Frankie from afar, but didn’t approach him to ask if he wanted a drink.

“Please tell me you didn’t drive here,” you hissed, searching his face. 

“I didn’t drive here,” he grinned, crossing his arms, leaning forward onto the bar. 

“Frankie—” you protested. 

“No, wait—wait, listen,” he grabbed your hand and kissed your palm. 

You winced at the sharp pain that twisted your heart. He didn’t notice, just pressed your unresponsive hand against his cheek, against the grain of his patchy beard, and drew his eyebrows together, “I’m sorry.”

“You already said that,” you blinked. 

“Don’t be mad at me, sweetheart,” his voice was raspy and low as he searched your face with those puppy dog eyes that tugged at your heart strings, “Please, I don’t want you to be mad at me.”

You released a heavy sigh, “I’m not mad at you, Frankie. I just—I don’t know, I thought…” 

Your shoulders slumped as you dropped your gaze to your drink. 

“Hey,” he squeezed your hand, kissed your palm, and pressed it against his cheek again, “What we have’s really special to me. But I—”

“Can’t, I know,” you mumbled and pulled your hand away. 

He cocked his jaw back and forth, then leaned closer and asked, “So is this it then? Are you done with me?” 

You knew that if you said yes and he’d accept it. This would be over and you could walk away with your dignity still intact. You could find a new job and gracefully bow out of the Morales household. 

You knew that if you said yes you’d never have him again. Never again would you feel the heat of his desire, or hear the joy of his laughter, or taste the sweetness of his affection. You knew that you’d be forfeiting any chance to make him fall in love with you. 

It was so desperate and raw, the way you wanted him to love you. 

“I should be the one asking you that,” you rolled your head on your shoulders to look at him. 

He held your gaze and furrowed his brow, “Why would I be done with you?” 

You scoffed, “Because I’m apparently a fucking idiot.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re not an idiot,” he groaned, then draped his arm around the back of your barstool, leaning close, “You are clever, and—and beautiful, and—”

His compliments flipped your stomach upside down. You raised your eyebrows, “Ok—”

“Shhh,” he pressed a finger to your lips, “Let me finish.”

You swatted his hand away playfully, while he just grinned and leaned closer, “And sweet, and generous, and funny, and kind of a fucking brat, honestly—”

“Excuse me?!” you gasped. 

“—But I like that about you! I do. You’re fucking amazing,” he told you, and by now his breath was hot against your cheek, and he murmured, “I don’t want you to go anywhere, sweetheart. I mean that.”

You met his gaze and held it. A palpable energy flowed between his body and yours. His eyes flicked down to your lips and a rumble sounded from the back of his throat. 

Then he kissed you. It was this slow, lingering kind of kiss that only made you want more. You balled his shirt in your fist and tugged at it, kissing him deeper, harder, more urgent.

Kissing was like that with him. Hungry. Passionate. Thrilling. 

He stood from the barstool to get closer to you, to get a better angle against your lips. His fingertips dug into your waist and filled you with a hot, gooey ache. 

“Stay with me tonight,” you breathed against his mouth, “Please.”

He nodded, “I can do that.”

It would happen almost every time. You would misread his affection and lust for love, get too deep, pry yourself open. Only for him to remind you of your place in his life: a mistress. 

That’s all you were. 

And now… you’re friends. 

These heated sparks of something more you think you feel from him, it’s wishful thinking. 

You let go of his hand and roll over to face the opposite direction. 

When you’re sure you hear his breathing slow to a pattern indicative of sleep, you release the hurt held hostage in your body. The way you allow yourself to cry is cautious and guarded. Quiet, metered sniffles as tears roll hot down your cheeks. Only once do you lose yourself, choking out an audible sob that thankfully doesn’t seem to wake him. 

You’re not sure exactly when, but eventually, exhaustion wins over your agitated body and you drift into unconsciousness. 

Leah calls you sometime after breakfast and your AM antiviral infusion, but before lunch. When she calls, the room is vacant. Frankie is out with Benny, who’s giving him a ride to your house so he can grab some things.

“Hey,” you answer. 

“Hey, how are you?” Her voice is honeyed and sympathetic. It makes you crinkle your nose. 

“Good,” you answer reflexively, then backtrack, “Well, not good. Y’know.” You laugh nervously and it catches in your throat, making you cough. 

When it ceases, Leah asks, “Do you know when you’ll get discharged?”

“Probably tomorrow. If I keep getting better,” you tell her, looking up at the old game show playing on TV, then admit, “It was spooky.”

“It sounds like it. Frankie was freaking out when I talked to him.”

You frown, “He was?”

“Yeah,” she chuckles, then stops and says, “Sorry, it’s not funny.”

“No, it’s hilarious that I–couldn’t breathe,” you scoff and roll your eyes, then inquire further, “How was he freaking out?”

“Well, I told him I’m a nurse, right? And he just starts asking me all these questions about asthma, and the flu, and asking if he waited too long to take you, all that,” she stops and takes a sip of, what you’re assuming is, coffee, then continues, “It was kind of sweet.”

You hum and nod, even though she can’t see you.

“I was expecting him to be a total dick from what you’ve told me about him. He’s the married guy, right?” 

“Yeah,” you confirm, glancing over to the armchair he slept in last night, “Since he stopped drinking, it’s… been different. I think. I don’t know,” you shake your head, then bring your attention back to the TV screen, “I can’t trust my judgment with him.” 

“Are you guys—”

“No,” you interject. 

“Did you tell him about the—”

“Nope,” you cut her off again. 

She grumbles in frustration on her end, then sighs, “Are you bringing him to Rachel’s wedding?” 

“Maybe. If he wants to,” you frown as you consider this, “I might have to, actually. With the… parole thing.”

“Since she wants us all there for the whole stinkin’ week, yeah, probably,” Leah scoffs, then adds, “I’m so ready for it to be over with. She’s being a total bridezilla. You know how she gets.”

“Do I ever,” you mutter. 

The door opens, and your eyes flick towards it. Frankie walks in with a backpack slung around his shoulder and nods at you in greeting. His dark curls look damp under his hat, and his gray t-shirt clings to his body in a way that makes heat creep up onto your cheeks. 

Then you notice a brown paper bag crinkled up in one of his hands. The scent of deep-fried food fills the room.  

“Is that Leah?” he asks.

“Is that Frankie?” Leah asks.

“Yeah,” you respond to both of them, then ask Frankie, “Did you bring me food?”

“Yeah,” he grins, holding the bag up like a trophy. Your mouth starts to salivate. 

“I can let you go,” Leah says, “Just wanted to check in with you and see how you’re holding up.”

“Thanks,” you look down at the IV implanted in your hand, “I’ll keep you posted, ok?” 

“Tell Frankie I said hi.”

“I will. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

You hang up and toss the phone aside, “She says hi.”

“I like her, she’s nice,” he drops the backpack to the ground and hands you the bag of greasy food. 

“Fuck yes,” you groan as you pull out flimsy containers of french fries and chicken strips.

“You did not look happy to have oatmeal for breakfast,” he chuckles, then sits in the armchair next to your bed and unzips the backpack, “I brought your book, your notebook, and, um…”

He pulls out a stuffed panda bear. You momentarily forget the fragile state of your lungs and gasp, which pulls a cluster of coughs up through your respiratory system. Through the fit, you reach out and snatch it from his hands. 

It’s plush and squishy and fills you with joy when you hug it to your chest. 

Frankie’s face simultaneously lights up and creases with concern. He leans forward and rubs your back, “Ok, ok, settle down.”

“It’s,” cough, “so,” cough, “cute—”

“I’m under strict orders to tell you Benny helped me pick it out,” Frankie reclines in the chair and crosses his arms over his chest. 

Once you catch your breath, you smirk and waggle your eyebrows at him, teasing, “Oh, really? Benny did that—for me?”

“You’re hilarious,” he rolls his eyes and grabs the TV remote, then kicks his feet up onto the hospital bed. While you eat chicken strips and snuggle your new stuffed animal, he flips through channels, eventually settling on NASCAR, which lulls you back to sleep. 

Tonight, family dinner is taking place in your bed. 

Which sounds sexual, but it’s not. 

You’re freshly discharged from the hospital, and Frankie spent the last two nights sleeping in an armchair, so you agreed that some intensive comfort time was needed. The TV has been playing movies back to back all day, and now the two of you lay under the covers, in your pajamas, with a big pizza box between your bodies. 

When the credits for Fantastic Mr. Fox start, Frankie pauses it and rolls on his side to face you, “We’re still doing this part, right?”

“Yeah,” you yawn and follow his lead, wriggling onto your side, nuzzling against the stuffed panda bear. Your nose crinkles at the greasy pizza box and its remaining 3 slices.

“Hang on,” he mumbles, then sits up and moves the box onto the floor beside him. 

When he returns, he settles closer to you. His dark irises flick about your features, then anchor onto your eyes with intensity. Your stomach flutters and heart swells. 

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat like he’s preparing it for the words he’s about to say. He takes a deep breath, then confesses, “I really thought I was gonna lose you,” he shakes his head, “And I was… so fucking terrified.” 

The proof is in his voice, low and trembling and unsure. It occurs to you then that this man has faced critical situations, of which the overwhelming majority of people never dream of facing, with the kind of certainty and bravery that got him out alive. He’s not easily shaken. 

But he was scared of losing you. 

“You’re not gonna lose me,” you search his face and reach out to him.

He takes this offering, interweaving his fingers with yours, laying your clasped hands in space between you, “I know that now, but… fuck, I keep thinking about what would have happened if I wasn’t here. If I had gone to work, or—or if I didn’t live here, and things were still...”

His jaw clamps shut and gnashes from side to side as he averts his gaze, “I don’t know. If things were still… bad between us,” his eyes flick to yours and he shakes his head, “I don’t think I could live with that.”

Desperately, you want him to say more. You want him to deconstruct his carefully curated statement and lay it out for you. You want to ask: And what the fuck does that mean exactly? What are you trying to tell me without telling me? 

But you’re still weighed down by the pull of fatigue’s gravity. Your throat is raw and lungs are cramped. Every muscle in your body still holds residual aches and pains. 

Your lips part to speak, but you recant the words in your throat. Instead, you whisper, “Thank you for taking care of me, Frankie.”

“No problem,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting in a sad kind of smirk, before folding down into a frown. His gaze is far away. Thoughtful. He runs his free hand through his mop of dark curls and releases a heavy sigh, “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I care about you a lot. And… these past few weeks, they’ve been really hard,” he furrows his brow, then meets your eyes, “But they’ve also been really good, because I’ve been able to spend them with you.” 

All the air is sucked from your lungs. A cough surfaces from deep in your chest and you smother it in your stuffed panda bear. He watches you and waits patiently for you to recover. 

When you do, you admit quietly, “Did you know that you’re like… my only friend?” 

“I am, really?” he raises his eyebrows. 

A self-deprecating smile stretches across your face as you nod, then shrug, “I mean, Marla and my siblings don’t really count. They pretty much have to tolerate me.”

“And I don’t?” he teases, flashing you a playful grin. 

His comment pokes at a tender spot in your brain. Your lip sticks out in a very real pout and you whimper, “Ouch.”

“Oh, come on,” he chuckles and scoots closer, beckoning you into his arms. You take this olive branch and wriggle into his embrace, letting your forehead rest on his chest as he hugs you and murmurs into your hair, “You know I love you, right?”

Both of your bodies go rigid the second it leaves his mouth. You feel his heart start pounding rapidly against your skin and he stammers, “I—I mean—like a friend—”

You wince at the pang that shoots through your damaged heart. The words you’ve always wanted to hear him say. With a caveat. 

So typical.

Maybe it’s because the flu still has you in its clutches and you’re fucking exhausted, or maybe you’re just becoming numb to it all, but you let out a little snort and say, “I know what you mean.” 

He seems to relax at this. 

Neither of you move from the comfort of this embrace. In fact, you nuzzle in closer to him, letting your heavy eyelids drift closed as you yawn, “I love you, too, Franklin.”

His tongue clicks against his teeth and you feel him shake his head in feigned annoyance. You just know he’s rolling his eyes, too. His irritation makes you grin with satisfaction. 

A heavy fog settles over your bodies. When you start to succumb to it, and you’re right on the edge of sleep, Frankie presses a kiss into the top of your head, then mumbles something unintelligible. 

But before you can respond, dreamland has consumed you.

[ Next Chapter ]

MORE NOTES: Big inspiration for this chapter from the songs "SEVEN" by Rainbow Kitten Surprise and "Nobody Gets Me" by SZA.

[fantasy-mixtapes]

Kristen Applebees S3 Playlist: Side A

Here's Part 1 of Kristen's Junior Year Playlist, I am obsessed with it so far and will probably continue to be. Descriptions and key lyrics below. Spoilers for Episodes 1-10

Genres include: Pop-Punk, Alternative, Punk, Folk

1. Lavender Bones, Stand Atlantic

I know I'm out of my depth, but I just float in it I try to do my best, stop picking fights with it I wanna be upset, you're not alright with it I can cover it up, I can cover it Try to speak my mind, wish it was by design But I can only confess to having doubts with it Don't wanna feel regret, I'm not alright with it I can cover it up, I can cover it

So this is a perfect background music for the start of a movie about Kristen's life right now and I LOVE finding those songs. It's perfect on so many layers, it talks about feeling trapped, wanting to fix empty habits, and not to mention how "lavender bones" really hits home to my queer little heart. This entire playlist is really a game of guessing when the "you" in songs chosen mean Tracker and when they mean Cassandra, level: impossible

2. Starchild, Sweet Pill

What do you want from me? I am not a charity Work hard at everything Do it all for free What do you want from me? I am not a guarantee Go all or nothing Lose your money ... Set up to win Wind up disappointing everyone In the end I am disappointing mostly myself In the end Hang your Head

I AM SO NOT NORMAL ABOUT THIS SONG Guys its like it was written for this very specific situation. AND THE TITLE???? FOR A CLERIC OF THE GODDESS OF MYSTERY, DOUBT, THE NIGHT, AND STARS???????

anyways just please please listen to it its so great like even without the connection to Kristen, go support Sweet Pill they have a new album being released tomorrow (March 15th)

3. Uneeda, Deady

What about the bones The bones have no problem Turn them into ash And this never happened Your ashes big asses Your brains on the pavement Oh no! I can feel myself rot Unless I take your hand

Ok so this is kind of a genre outlier on the playlist since it is very very alt punk but for me it represents the rage at the mall, Kristen's relationship to Cassandra, and both of their respective reactions to what happened. It's very chaotic, but it was a very chaotic situation and I stand by it plus I love adding modern bands to things

4. Bite the Hand, boygenius

I can't hear you You're too far away I can't see you The light is in my face I can't touch you I wouldn't if I could I can't love you how you want me to I can't love you how you want me to

Yeah, sorry had to whip out the queer break-up big guns. I don't feel sorry I feel right.

5. Untitled God Song, Haley Heynderickx

When you're drunk near a sunset, look straight in her eyes She's a quick glimpse of heaven, forgetting her headlights are on When you misread her fortune, don't misread the joke She's the note on your lampshade, the honeycomb holdin' you And she spins me around like a marionette Oh, my web is still spinnin' My web is still spinnin', you can't see it yet

Immediately going from having total contact with a divinity figure to having to grasp for straws once again to a memory you hold onto, literally holding onto the shards of your faith. Having to both embrace doubt and faith at the same time. Girlies, I'm ruined

6. C'est Comme Ça, Paramore

In a single year I've aged one hundred My social life a chiropractic appointment Sit still long enough to listen to yourself Or maybe just long enough for you to atrophy to hell ... I know that regression is rarely rewarded I still need a certain degree of disorder I hate to admit, getting better is boring But the high cost of chaos Who can afford it?

I love Kristen, and I think her arc this season is extremely relatable; currently, 90% of what she does are bits, and I KNOW it's a coping mechanism, but STILL, WHY ARE YOU SO MESSY. I love you; keep being 17, but god, keep your clothes on and stop going to the steel plants girlie you're gonna give Riz a heart attack