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oneshots-heaven · 10 months ago

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THE MOTEL ROOM — "The Begin"

Since the beginning, Dick Grayson and you were trained and put up as the perfect rivals. Two individuals with different perspectives who yet want the same out of life. Meeting each other over and over again, it is the same situation: one wins, the other loses—but it all ends in the same motel room.

And it all began with the day you two met...

Warning: NSFW — explicit violence, cursing, mentions of injuries/killing in detail, mentioned co-dependence (mentor/mentee), bit angsty fluff Pre-Titans — Dick Grayson x Reader

Your knee hit with force right in the groin of the men attacking you, kneeling him down in one swing. Fear widened the eyes of his partners, yet they stood their ground. As much as they wished to simply give in to their fear, they all had given their boss a vow that did not allow them to do so. Eyes glistening, you smiled grimly, recking your chin up as you signaled them to come right at you.

No matter how much you made them shit their pants, they were still men with their full blown ego. Every second they showed their fear of a girl, it felt like poison to them and they hated it.

A roaring sound filled the badly lit alley as the first men stepped forward, wielding his fists at you. Ducking it easily, you had already grabbed his arm, twisting it harshly. The others came at you, trying to help their poor fellow. While their hatred fueled their actions, yours were fueled by the euphoric sound of their pain, pushing the adrenaline in your body as it worked its will.

Two of them hang onto your arms, holding them back as tightly as they possibly could, to give the third one a free way to fight you off. What a brutal mistake they’d made.

Just as they can close off to hurt you, you smashed your head hard enough against his nose. Crying out loud, he tumbled back, raising his arms to his bleeding nose. The only concern he could suddenly concentrate on. Using all the muscle strength you had in your core, you pulled the men down with you. Only difference was that unlike them, you rolled yourself gracefully over your shoulder, leaving them on the ground.

They would struggle for a longer while.

Leaving them behind in the alley, you started to run over to the old brick factory where all the chaos came from. Fucking hell, this hadn’t been how your mentor and you had pictured this entire situation to go down, but standing here and crying about it wouldn’t change it now either. As for now, the knowing that your mentor probably had the situation handled was the only relief.

Running into the factory, you tried to catch up with her, but soon realized you ran into much more trouble than you had imagined. The small group of the Duke’s men outside now resembled a foreplay, while what happened in front of your eyes was the true battle ground, and it didn’t take long until you were noticed.

“Looks like the cat has let out her kitten,“ one laughed, pulling all the attention to where his gaze was glued—you.

The men came storming toward you, you only had the briefest of a moment to overlook the situation. Not enough to try and check how your mentor was doing.

Drawing out your knives from your thigh halter, you greeted the fight with a vicious grin. Once there may had been a time where you had used to hold back, but you couldn’t remember any of it. Those days were long over and given by their blind reaction, they all underestimated you and they would be sorry for it. The first hit felt freeing, like a calling to a greater power. This was what you were born for, trained to master and dared to live.

Their throaty groans and roars echoed in your ears as your knives struck into some of the weakest points of their bodies, their soft skin lushly craving in, standing no chance against your quick movements. Until they got ahead of themselves, one dared to grab after one of your knives, walking into open fire as it dived deep through his arm, blood splashing right in your face.

Fuck this shit.

Fueled by every single of their groans, you struck over and over again, fighting your way through the newly formed group of opponents until all of your gymnastic and tactic skills weren’t enough anymore. You felt the cold metal resting against your skull. You didn’t even have to turn to know what it was, your gut told you. Putting down the bloody knives back in your halter, you breathed out just as a shot rang through the chaos of the old factory.

Your entire body tightened in surprise, however, the plump sound of a body falling down to the ground was the testimony you were waiting for. Gulping, still struck by the sudden shock, you turned slowly to see that someone had perfectly hit the pulse artery of your opponent’s neck.

“Were you waiting for death?“ someone called out.

A guy, not much taller than you, dressed in a dark costume with a cape draped over his shoulders and a black mask covering his eyes, came closer to you. You’d never seen him before.

“And who are you?“ you asked, instead of answering his question.

His dark, brown hair was long enough to fall into his face, almost covering his eyes. Nevertheless, it didn’t seem to be a handicap as he appeared to be an excellent shooter.

His equally dark gaze met yours, eyeing you seemingly from inch to inch. “Doesn’t matter, but looks like we fight for the same side.“

Much worse than the shot was the sudden astonishing sound of an explosion that shook the walls of the entire factory, filling it with fire, broken glass and rubble that spread everywhere. Within one swift movement, the stranger had swung his cape over your bodies shielding you both from the massive heat wave and shatter that rolled over you. Your ribcage was moving heavily against his firm one as you found yourself held securely in his arms.

“Don’t expect me to thank you for that.“

“I won’t.“ he assured you bitterly.

The stranger pulled back his cape, revealing the destruction that had just occurred. Your body trembled next to his, feeling his assuring warmth leaving you. Although fear had become a foreign feeling to you, it always found a way to creep back up on you. It had been long since you had last seen your mentor and this was going far out of control. You couldn’t trust the blindness of trust anymore—you had to make sure she was fine.

Without another word to the stranger, you headed straight toward the destruction, knowing something or someone had caused it and that your mentor couldn’t be far from it. Gun shots, followed by unfamiliar yells came right from the direction of the towering rubble. The explosion had wrecked down almost an entire wall, flooding the factory with the construction lights from outside.

Chaos was erupting wherever she looked, drowning any of her thoughts with the sounds of gun shots and cries. Swinging out of nowhere onto the facade scaffolding, your mentor came into your sight, followed by a darker, taller figure. One that she never officially introduced you to, yet always talked about—it was Batman. Indulging in the fight happening around them, they were fighting side by side.

“Guess you’re right. We do fight for the same side.“ you murmured, noticing how the stranger had caught up to you.

The calm before the storm lasted for the briefest of moments. Much like your mentor, the stranger suddenly whipped backwards out of nowhere, and within one bones-cracking movement, he had brought down a man, stomping brutally on his hand to force him to let go of the knife he wanted to attack you with. His yells drove deep through your bones, vexing you in the best way possible.

Glancing from the man to the stranger, you had so much to say but no words came out.

“Then you better show me what you’ve got.“ he challenged you, nodding to the incoming trouble rushing toward you. You heard his knuckles crack, balling his fists as you drew out your knives, ready to take on any fight if it meant to keep your and might as well his mentor’s back free.

As the group of Duke’s misfits came closer to you, you immediately recognized their change of weaponry—for the worse, as they had exchanged the usual guns to the Duke’s specialized ones.

“Don’t get hit,“ you warned, knowing the greater danger of the Duke’s bullets.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, princess.“

Furiously you turned around, sending him a glare for that pet name. He was cocky, overall too confident to be this cool through a fight that could potentially end his life, and it frustrated you to the maximum. This wasn’t some sort of game, no matter how much he tried to turn it that way. Neither of you wouldn’t make it out without any hurt if you didn’t watch out. He, however, recked his chin up, as if he was daring death by any chance to come by.

Combat was nothing compared to a gun, it would always defy the other, but you were quick—quicker than them with their guns. The stranger was too, he struck perfectly every single time, bringing down men after men. Shots rang from everywhere, spiraling around you and your opponents, trying your best to keep yourself away from the bullets.

But no training could make every flaw of one vanish. A high-pitch voice cried out from a far, ringing in your ears, causing you to turn your attention away for the split of a moment. On the rooftop of the factory next door was your mentor with a dark shadow draped over her. Your heartbeat got stuck in your throat, causing you to gasp after air. He would keep her safe, or that was at least what you hoped for.

A laughter, followed by someone calling out for you, pulled you harshly out of your trance. The shot rung so insanely close by you that you were able to feel the vibration. You tried catching your breath, it had almost scraped your skin.

No material was able to withstand the Duke’s experimental bullets—they were perfect into its smallest detail and were as deadly as their description. As soon as they entered one’s skin barrier, the bullet would shatter into millions of small pieces, wounding one very little at first, before painfully killing them due to internal bleeding.

You looked the horror straight in the eye as another shot rung, seeing exactly how the bullet hit the stranger through his suit in the lower abdomen. All color vanished from your face. Within seconds, he crunched in pain, unable to keep up the defense and becoming an easy target for your opponents, but not if he was with you.

Picking up the blades that you had dropped, you picked up one by one before they’d come to the realization what you were doing. Pushing yourself up on your feet, you threw the first knife, striking straight into the neck of one, and then another. The anger, and mainly worry for the stranger, blinded and caused you to go riot. You had no idea if the bullet had hit him or not, if he was bleeding already, however you couldn’t get to him, not if there were still people attacking you around.

The last one plunged forward, wrapping his arm around your neck, choking you with his hold. Grabbing onto his arm, you stabilized yourself from his sudden act but were quick to think, ramming your knife the next second in the soft part of his thigh, probably slashing a few veins in the process. His groans echoed in your ears, as you pressed your lips angrily together, ripping it out again, only to wind it down again and again until he let go of you.

His cries of pain grew louder as you kneeled him in his groin, letting him sack onto his knees. His angered eyes were glued onto you. The only words that escaped his mouth were bad names, but you didn’t care, it would be his last ones. Your knife slashed his throat, ceasing away his voice, having the blood splashing right in your face as you dig your knife deep enough for him to never speak again.

The voice of your mentor echoed through your head. Ever since the beginning, she had taught you that death was the last option, and although you could have punished that man without killing him, it was what he had deserved.

Glancing over to the stranger, you instantly banished any further thought of regret out of your head, running over and crashing right down on your knees next to him. His breath whistled through his throat, his chest only heaved with struggle causing your hands to become shaky. He couldn’t die in front of you after just saving your life, this wouldn’t be fair. You took a closer look where the bullet hit, checking for the awful impact, as relief rushed over you. The Duke’s ultimate weapon may not be as unavoidable as he thinks. The bullet had struck deep into the hard shell of his suit, withholding the full impact of it.

“Thank God,“ you breathed, meeting the stranger’s helpless gaze as you held onto him.

The unsteady metal platform underneath you vibrated under the jolt as someone—might add elegantly—swung their way onto it. In-between the chaos of it all, your mentor came closer to you, noticing what had happened. Kneeling down on the opposite sided of the stranger, she leaned down, also inspected the wound with great fear.

“He’s lucky,“ you told her, pointing at the bullet entrance. “The suit shell stopped the bullet, somehow. I can stabilize him and then we can go find the Duke.“

“No,“ your mentor interrupted you immediately, brushing the dark brown hair of the stranger out of his face, a motherly gesture, as if she knew him. A concerned, yet loving gaze hushed over her face as you watched her closely. “You need to bring him away from here, somewhere safe. Check on him and make sure he survives the night. I’ll come for you.“

As you processed her words, you shook your head. This had become the biggest mission for your mentor and you since the beginning of it all. You had hunted down the Duke for almost an entire year by now, only for all of this to turn out much bigger than either of you had expected. With almost experienced firsthand what the bullet could do, there was no way in hell you would let her do this without your help, even if she didn’t need it. You were trained for this, and for this only. You couldn’t let her do this on her own.

Letting go of the stranger, you pushed yourself up and caught her wrist. “No, I’m coming with you.“

“We’ll handle this, trust me.“ she said, grabbing your hand, squeezing it tightly before letting go of you, ready to storm into the next fight. “Please, do me the favor and protect Robin.“

Jumping off the platform, she was quick to getaway, leaving you behind with the stranger.

“No, I can’t,“ you yelled out, “Selina!“

Your eyes had burned as your mentor had turned her back on you, and even though every fiber of your body argued to go after her, you did as you were told to.

Unlike you, the stranger didn’t argue when you had draped his arms over your shoulders, helping him to get back up on his feet. His face had contorted in pain as he straightened himself. Without any second thought about it, you had reached out for his free hand to press it together with yours against the wound, because even though you didn’t know him, you couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. You had spent the entire past months analyzing every data and material about the Duke’s bullets you could get your hands on, knowing the brutal impact they caused all too well.

As you had made your way carefully through the rubble of the factory, headed outside, a car came into your view. You didn’t care whose car it was, only having on your mind that you were in need of one to take the two of you somewhere safe, and you were glad that the stranger apparently didn’t care either.

Gotham City’s streetlights flickered past you as you rushed through the late night traffic, driving out of the city, stopping somewhere in-between the highway and the next suburb at a familiar run down motel, where rarely anyone ever willingly stayed at. It was run by an old lady and her son, whom received anonymous checks with money once in a while for her unknown guests. It had served your mentor and you well many times, it was the perfect hideout when things got wrong as no one would ever question it.

Given the dried blood all over your clothes and face, and the weapons strapped onto almost every limb of your body, you were more than thankful now to not go up and having to pay for a room. Instead you simply had done it as always—cracked the lock open and entered as if the place belonged to you.

The blood hardened on your face, yet you could feel it cracking when you found yourself kneeled in front of the stranger, whom you had placed into the dusty, old wing chair. With great carefulness and even greater improvisation, you tried your utter best to take care of his wound, patting with a cloth soaked in cheap vodka from the minibar onto the wound. A sharp whimper left his mouth.

“I’m sorry.“

“It’s fine,“ he falsely assured you through gritted teeth, looking down at you.

Ignoring his lie, you shook your head as you continued to clean out the wound. It was far from being anything merely close to being fine, it was worse than you had thought. Although the hard shell of his suit had stopped the bullet’s full impact from entering his body, it had burned partly through the material, leaving a nasty, large burned scar on his lower torso. Unclothing him without hurting him at the same time seemed impossible, the suit material had burned slightly onto his skin.

“I’m almost done,“ you told him, not knowing what else to talk about. You didn’t even know him, and the silent tension in the room was suffocating you.

He didn’t say anything in return to, instead, he tried his best to suppress any noise of pain. Besides the small vodka bottle, you hadn’t found much to take care of his wound. It was pure luck that it was only a burned flesh wound, instead of an open one. Otherwise, you would’ve been fucked as there was nothing laying around to remotely sew it close. By ripping and shredding a towel with your knife, which went dull in the process of it, you had managed to makeshift a bandage for him.

“Here, lean forward,“ you took the prepared bandage in your hand.

Slowly he leaned forward, groaning in pain with every movement. As quickly as you were able to, you wrapped the towel remains around his torso, pulling it tight. It didn’t need to hold for long, it just needed to help him survive the night.

“It’s not ideal, but it’s better than nothing,“ you sighed, reassuring yourself that the bandage was secure enough. Split seconds later, you held in, noticing your hands near his naked upper body, so close that you feel his warmth, his heartbeat racing, his breathing slowing down. In the next, you felt his eyes scrutinizing every inch of you, making you glance up to him to meet his eyes, only to catch him with parted lips.

”Thank you,“ he breathed quietly in return.

You gulped under the tension of his eyes watching you, letting go of his hips as you pushed yourself away from him until you could lean against the end of the bed. For the first time in this long night, you felt some sort of relief as you leaned your head back against the old mattress. Every part of your body felt tensed and sore, and while you tried your hardest to stay wake, you craved nothing more than to crawl into that dusty bed and get some rest.

But you didn’t close your eyes. You couldn’t fall asleep, not until you saw her again and knew that nothing happened to her. Looking at the stranger, you were sure he felt the same way as he moved around unsettled in that chair, feeling miserable as he was unable to do anything due to the crushing pain that kept him sitting right there.

“So, you’re Robin, huh? Batman’s little sidekick?“

A muffled chuckle escaped his mouth. “I’m far from being little.“

“You’re not even a head taller than me.“

He shrugged, regretting it immediately as another sharp whip of pain hit him. “So what, I’m still growing, unlike you probably.“

He wasn’t wrong about that.

“You’re the Kitten everyone talks about.“ he said after you hadn’t said anything in return to him.

You pressed your lips to a small smile. “That’s at least what everyone calls me.“

He pushed himself further down in the chair, letting out a breathy groan in response. “I already guessed that that wasn’t your real name.“

Meeting his dark gaze, you replied, “Well, I’ll take that Robin isn’t your real name either.“

“No, it’s Dick.“

“Dick? For real?“ you snorted, seeing the annoyance written all over his face as he rolled his eyes. “No, I get it. Short for Richard, right? I’m Y/N.“

He didn’t say anything in reply to that. You’d received nothing beyond a simple, barely recognizable nod. Not a false ’nice to meet you’, nor a silly comeback comment about your name. Instead, he and you fell into silence again, heads resting with eyes so heavy, drained from any energy and feeling so desperate for rest, yet neither of you dared to fall asleep.

“You still have blood on your face.“

You felt it, how it dried down all over your face, cracking with every movement. Once your immediate reaction would have been to touch your face in astonished shock, now however, things were quite different. Instead, you sat there doing absolutely nothing about it. “I know,“ you replied quietly, “I don’t care.“

It was the truth, you didn’t a bit. It left you cold.

“What do you care about?“

The tone of his voice clearly mocked you, although its tiredness, and it made you furious. Let alone looking at him suddenly made you regret that you had saved him as he was the reason you were stuck here. The reason why you weren’t with your mentor, fighting alongside her like you were supposed to. Now all you were left with his mockery tone and the bitter unknown of your mentor’s well-being.

Batman may was with her, and God knows, what a skilled fighter he was, but that wasn’t enough for you. Your mentor and you had stood together for years now after she had taken you under her wing, no one knew her better than you did. You knew every move of hers, you knew when you were about to win, as well as when to give up a fight. No one could protect her as you could.

For months, you had watched the Duke and his following, trained and prepared to overthrow, only to end up being stuck with a stranger in a motel room.

“You know what I do care about?“ it left your mouth quicker, more harsher than you had intended. “I care about Selina. I care about the mission I had with her before Batman and you came along. We’ve had a plan, it would have all been fine if you hadn’t showed up, because now I’m stuck here, not knowing when or if she comes back, and that’s all your fault.“

“If I hadn’t shown up, they would’ve shot you right in the head.“

“So it be!“ you cried out.

He scoffed. “You can’t be serious.“

“Oh, I fucking am.“

All the pain seemed forgotten as he sat up straight, his eyes so sterling furious.

“Look, I understand exactly how you feel, but this was so much bigger than either of us had expected. We would’ve only been a burden for them, instead of help, and you would’ve been dead if I hadn’t been there to save you. As much as you have saved me with this.“ he argued, his voice cracking by the end, motioning to the bandage you had made. “I know this unknown sucks, but they will make it through. They’ve faced worse together already, have a little faith in them. She’ll come back for you.“

Hot tears shot in your eyes, as you loosened your balled fists. Facing away from him, you blinked them away, trying your utter best to keep yourself contained. You felt like a fool for reacting this intensely, especially in front of him. You’d noticed yourself a while ago how bad it had gotten, how much you depended on your relationship with Selina. She was the only family you had left and although she was far more experienced than you, letting her alone in a situation like this scared you.

Your dependence made you vulnerable, and somehow you were glad that Dick didn’t use that as an advantage against you. Instead, he had said what you had needed to hear, almost as if he truly knew what it felt like to be this helpless and weak.

“Do you think this is what we’re supposed to do, what they’ve secretly wanted? Exchange our real names, befriend each other, because we’re both sidekicks?“

His mouth twitched upwards. “If you rather want me to call you kitten, I can do that.“

“No, I like it when—“ you murmured, suddenly regretting being so harsh to him. “Call me by my real name.“

“If you call me by mine.“ he said sincere, and for the briefest of moments, you held onto that. It was perhaps the closest thing to a friendship you’d experienced in years.

Part 2 coming soon.

Thank you for reading — I'm always happy about feedback.

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wickedwitzh · 3 months ago

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Something short that I wrote last night when I couldn’t sleep - fits within my broad AU from 2x10 onwards that so far only exists in my head.

Margo x Sergei, 670 words, mature

December 1984

Stockholm is, for the lack of a better word, nice.

Freezing, for sure. Loud, but at the same time, startlingly quiet for a capital. A bit bleak. With streets more narrow than what Margo is used to, and more cars, somehow.

It’s also quite breathtaking, in a very understated sort of way.

And there is snow. Margo has only seen snow a handful times in her life, and seeing the white-ish mass brings her a disproportionate amount of joy that she tries (and fails) to hide from her fellow attendees, especially the Russians.

She is still not quite sure why they are here. Technically it’s a four-way meeting about the future of the international space programme, where the United States and the USSR, flanked by South Korea and China respectively, are supposed to discuss their future endeavours. It’s hosted by the ESA, because the four countries in question could not agree on the logistics and besides, Europe wants its slice of the space cake. And so Margo, and Molly, and Bill, and Aleida, all end up in Stockholm, arguing with the Soviets and the Chinese and even with the Europeans, sometimes.

It’s simultaneously worse and better than the ICA, Margo thinks. Like, sure, the ICA is less interactive, which, on the other hand, means that she doesn’t get tired so easily. And the ICA is about scientific progress, not politics. And the hotels usually have better bars. And the conferences are held in early Autumn, mostly in London, where the temperatures are bearable, and not in Sweden in December, just after the Nobel week.

Margo doesn’t take well to the cold climate. Her nose is running constantly and she doesn’t have proper gloves and she is cold almost all the time, but then… But then. Sergei’s hands are warm against her skin; the heat hits her cheeks when his fingers trace intricate patterns on the inside of her thighs; and when he pushes her against the mattress — gently, but decisively, in such perfect proportions that it makes her go insane with want — for a few moments, the chill disappears.

When he buries himself deep inside her, Margo only sighs with pleasure and twists her hips, all thoughts banished from her head. It’s only after, when they lay, panting, buried under the ridiculously puffy comforter, that she realizes that he’s still, technically, married.

She doesn’t see the ring anymore, though.

“We’ve started the divorce proceedings,” Sergei says into her hair. “It’s as amicable as possible. Jurij has already proposed; Yulia will marry him as soon as our divorce is through.”

It still amazes Margo sometimes, this strange geometric shape of human affairs that Sergei is able to navigate, but she’s met Yulia, she knows that his marriage has been over for quite some time already. It makes her feel a tiny bit better about sleeping with a married man.

They discuss other things too, of course. The Mars programme. The new nuclear fuels. Their coworkers and their bosses and the insane timelines imposed on them.

They talk about these things in between the conference proceedings; on a wooden bench overlooking Skeppsbron; under the bare cherry trees in Kungsträdgården; as they stroll down Kastanjgatan, a little behind the rest of the group that is on the lookout for the next pub where they’ve been told to ask for something called “Norrlands guld”.

They vaguely remember that their babysitters — the KGB and the CIA alike — are trailing somewhere behind them, but it’s terrifyingly easy to pretend that it’s only the two of them, in this strange city that’s oozing European charm but is not popular enough to serve as a backdrop in Hollywood movies.

They get careless, though. They are too open with each other, too happy in each other’s presence. Not to mention the other, more intimate stuff. It’s a stupid mistake that only two people absurdly in love could make. But it’s still a mistake, and as it turns out a few months later, there will be a price to pay.

#margo x sergei #for all mankind #the things that could have been #set in Stockholm because I am ridiculously in love with that city for reasons that I don’t entirely understand #i will probably never write this au as a one fic but I might take the advice about ficlets…

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rambyol · 3 months ago

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What do you think about the fact that John made a therapy group and had one of his freinds (seemingly repeatedly) insult the Bruce doll. I find it wild that Jlhn aka Certified Bruce Wayne Simp let Willy into his group or was even his freind.

Personally i think he was using Willy as a pawn but... idk wdyt?

Oh this was a nice challenge! I get where you’re going. I wasn’t really sure how to structure this one but I hope it’s still worth the read!

Note: I’m a bit unwell at the moment so bear with any punctuation mistakes ( T_T) 🫶

The Purpose of John’s Therapy Group

We don’t know a lot of details about John’s immediate time in the outside world once he was released. All we know is that he was closely associated with Harley who in a way scouted him from Arkham to help with the Pact, and during John’s time on the outside he ‘frequented’ the Stacked Deck. The reason I’m bringing this up is because we need to know ‘Why’ John would make a therapy group. He claims to Bruce that the reason he started the group was so he could share some of the ‘expertise he learned at Arkham’ with them. Now whether he’s being genuine is up for debate.

I believe there are a few ways we could interpret the purpose behind John’s therapy group. Since this scene takes place in the very first episode ‘The Engima’, it plays on our preconceived notions of the Joker. The game tries to get us/Bruce to question John’s intentions, hence the question about whether John would be the type to Kill a man in cold blood, but if we associate John with the typical characteristics of ‘Joker’ the therapy group aspects feels a little more insidious. John was used to having some sense of control when he was in Arkham. He got along with the orderlies and knew the ins and outs of the place as well as being infamous to other inmates. To an extent, John could be trying to emulate that sense of control through this therapy group.

Now I have a billion readings of John’s character from him being a well intentioned but misunderstood dude to a sadistic psychopath but what’s fairly consistent to his character is that sense of control and power he wants over others. These two attributes are what arguably attract him to personalities like Harley and Bruce.

So its not unreasonable to think he would go after vulnerable people like Willy, a man who is a struggling alcoholic, and take advantage of them for his own gain. A detail that is easily overlooked is that John exploits Willy’s alcoholism as a means to get him to participate in the therapy group.

Exploiting Willy’s alcoholism is of course very messed up of John to do since he’s essentially scraping the bottom of the barrel to feel a sense of power and control over someone. So you’re right, he does use Willy as a pawn. (But I’ll get back to that)

Now for the wholesome reason. There is a part of me that believes that there was a well intentioned side to John with this therapy group. John tells Bruce how lost he felt once he no longer had the structure that Arkham provided and it’s possible that he would have wanted to seek out like minded people or at least people in similar predicaments.

If Bruce is kind, compassionate, and gives John the benefit of the doubt, then we see the positive result of that approach with John in the Vigilante route.

During the Boss fight with Bane in this route, Bruce is forced to pick between saving Willy or Agent Harrison from Bane. Here’s Jokers reaction when Willy dies:

Compare this emotional response to Villain Joker’s apathy when he shoots one of his own goons through the head. It’s evident that Vigilante Joker had empathy for him, at least enough for him to be upset by Willy’s death, even if for a moment.

Edit Note: To add, If Batman hesitates and doesn’t save either of the men. Joker uses his grapple to save Willy.

(also here’s ⬆️ Joker urging his team to get away because things were getting dangerous)

It’s worth noting that the existence of Joker’s team, consisting of Willy, Frank, and Lauren, all three of whom he encountered at the Stacked Deck, suggest that his time at that Bar was spent making a relatively genuine connection with these people which is reinforced when we see how loyal all three of them were to John/Joker.

That loyalty could stem from the fact that Joker gave them a purpose by utilising their skills that otherwise went neglected due to their afflictions— Just look at what Commissioner Gordon shares with Batman about Willy’s past;

“Machinist by trade. With a…storied employment history. He’s been fired from every factory and chemical plant in Gotham. Has a drinking problem, apparently.”

Despite this picture we get of Willy, Batman describes the work he put into crafting Joker’s custom batarang as “remarkable craftsmanship”. A clear sign that he’s a competent person when given the chance to prove himself (via Joker here), and if someone like Willy had been extended a helping hand with his problems earlier instead of thrown out by society and neglected then he’d be in a better position.

These people, like John, were outcasted by society, but have now banded together under a common cause, which is, to get back at Institutions/Authority groups like the Agency, one that preys on vulnerable people like them, for the harm they do. In this sense, I completely understand why John would associate with the guy.

Funnily enough, even in the Villain route, it’s assumed that Joker still kept Willy around as he’s the clown guy that introduces Villain Joker at the start of the episode and he survives the virus bomb since he was supplied a gas mask. Unlike the other henchman who gets his mask torn off by Harley so in both routes Willy does have a valuable part to play in Joker’s plan.

Messing with Bruce

Now I watched this part back a few times and the reason for this really depends on whether or not Bruce places a tracker on John. For this post I’m going with the option where he does track Johns location because there’s more to work with there since we can then assume that John could’ve planned ahead for Bruce’s arrival and set up the therapy circle so that the two things would inevitably coincide.

Why would John do that? Because it was a way to mess with Bruce. Something John does throughout the game.

It’s revealed by John that he’d speculated for some time that Bruce and Batman were the same person and when we consider John from S1 where he heavily implies that he practically knows the man’s identity as the vigilante then what we have here is another example of Johns latent sadism, except it’s enacted through an emotional/psychological sense.

This is Bruce’s reaction as soon as he enters the Stacked Deck and hears Willy yell “Batman!”, it clearly throws him off for a second. If we go back to ideas about power and control, this is arguably the one small sense of ‘power’ John has over Bruce. He would never of course out Bruce but he knows it makes the man nervous and we know this because one of Bruce’s responses to John’s accusation/reveal at the Funhouse in Ep4 is to immediately get defensive and assume he’s about to be blackmailed.

This emotional and psychological game that John plays with Bruce appears again when they’re at Cafe Triste. Maybe it’s just me but there’s a slight emphasis on the word ‘bat’ in Anthony’s delivery. Clearly implying the connection between Bruce and Batman there.

So to answer that last question, yes he was definitely using Willy in that scene as a way to mess with Bruce. On the whole however I personally think Willy’s role far outweighs a pawn and that there’s definitely a more significant aspect to the character.

#batman telltale #telltale john doe #batman: the enemy within #telltale batjokes #telltale batman #dc universe #bruce wayne #Joker #media analysis #batman the telltale series

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separatist-apologist · 9 months ago

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Traitors Never Win

Summary: When Feyre Archeron's father promises she'll marry notorious crime boss Rhysand Moreno, Feyre will do anything to get out of the arrangement…including framing him for murder.

Rhysand isn't about to let her go so easily.

Read on AO3 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Now I get to write nessian

Rhys knew he was on borrowed time.

Never more so than when Cassian and Azriel crossed into Wisconsin to track down the newly reunited Nesta and Elain. The sisters were officially out of custody and it was only a matter of time before someone went to check on Feyre. Rhys was no closer to making her his wife that morning than he had been when he met her.

It occurred to him that he could force her. Drag her home, tie her up, gag her, and call someone willing to overlook her distress. He wanted a more auspicious start for them rather than repeat his own mothers marriage. She’d never been happy with his father despite his fathers obsession with her.

Rhys rolled to his side where Feyre lay, her back facing him. Gently, he ran his finger over the soft ridges over her spine and considered his next move. He needed her—and refused to give her back. He was out of options, though.

For the two of them, it was now or it was never. If he told her, though, Feyre would dig her heels in. Stubborn to a fault, Rhys believed she’d refuse to marry him on principle, even if she wanted him. It had to be a conclusion she came to on her own, even if he manipulated her into thinking she wanted it.

Staring at his phone, Rhys reread the message Cassian sent that morning.

Get home if you can. Koschei is on our trail and if he’s found us, he’ll find you.

Oh, no doubt he was sending one of his little soldiers out to Rhys. It was fucked up and he knew it…but maybe a little danger was what Feyre needed. Just enough adrenaline to see him clearly, make a decision she wouldn’t normally, and see it finalized before she could change her mind. Rhys could keep her distracted with his body if she agreed, trapped in a rose colored haze for the next few weeks.

And then it would be too late. There was no divorce for them.

Besides, if that didn’t work he could always just get her pregnant, assuming she wasn’t already. He’d been too nervous to ask if she was using birth control, unwilling to admit any part of his fucked up plans. He’d been poking around her cabinet looking for them—but maybe she used an insert.

Maybe he ought to stop obsessing over her body, he reminded himself. Everything was fine—case and point, Feyre was naked in his bed and he hadn’t had to force her to do it. And while she had kicked him in the stomach once, she’d also flipped herself onto her stomach and raised her ass in the air when she felt his cock pressed against her tailbone.

And he’d take it.

“Hey, pretty baby,” he whispered, brushing his lips against the back of her neck. It was fun to see goosebumps rise on her shoulders, to feel her stir against the morning light pouring through the windows. “Are you hungry?”

Feyre was always hungry—if Rhys didn’t know what she wanted, he could always start with food.

“Do you ever sleep in?” she mumbled.

“Would you like to?” he questioned. Rhys loved to be up early, with a cup of coffee in one hand while he sat outside and watched the sun rise. It reminded him that he was alive and Rhys knew too well how much a gift that was. Especially for someone like him, forever hunted. Even then, Rhys could feel Koschei getting closer and closer.

Not the man himself, of course. He’d let people like Hybern do the work for him, venturing out only if everyone around him failed. If he hadn’t been so focused on Feyre, Rhys would have been working on drawing them out and setting his little traps.

Maybe he still could.

“Yes,” Feyre interrupted, unaware of the slant of his thoughts. “Until at least noon, but maybe all day.

“A whole day in bed?” Rhys practically purred, trying to imagine it. In his daydreams, they were somewhere tropical and isolated, surrounded by warm water and open skies.

Feyre rolled onto her back, making him painfully aware of her perky breasts staring up at him. “Yeah, Rhys. You never spend a day just rotting in bed?”

“No,” he admitted. He got up, he went to the gym, and he went to work—always in that order. Even when he was sick, Rhys thought it was better to get up and power through than to stay in bed doing nothing.

Still, if Feyre was in his bed, the thought of nothing suddenly seemed exceptionally appealing.

“Never?” she questioned, blue eyes focused on his face.

“I could be tempted,” he told her, trying—and failing—not to look at her naked breasts.

“Today?”

This was what he needed—Feyre, inviting him to stay in bed with her where the activities were fairly limited and he was positive she’d have sex with him at least once.

“Why not,” Rhys agreed, sliding his phone onto the table next to the bed.

Feyre settled among the pillows once she’d reached over the edge of the bed for his shirt—he was letting her wear them despite losing access to her body, if only because he liked the sight of her in his too big shirt.

She wore it like a dress, drenched in his scent. There was something primal about it, he decided. Rhys liked the way she looked in his clothes, his bed, his everything.

“What now?” Rhys questioned, hoping she was going to let him slip beneath the blanket and have his wicked way with her.

Feyre considered his question. “Now we just…lay here. We could watch something, or—” “Or we could talk,” he suggested. Feyre raised her brows.

“Is that a euphemism?”

“No. I like the sound of your voice,” Rhys admitted. “Tell me about your life.”

“What part?” she questioned.

“All of it,” Rhys said, greedy as ever. “Tell me all of it.”

Feyre balked a little—did he want to know about being a baby, she wondered? Yes, he’d declared. Start from the beginning, tell him everything. And Feyre, for her part, did. It wasn’t linear, but she told him stories about her life while Rhys listened, absorbing it all. He did get up to make breakfast, throwing on a pair of sweatpants and nothing else while Feyre trailed after him.

She was less prickly that morning, answering his questions when he asked. And Rhys had a thousand questions—a million, really—that he wanted answered. He brought the food into the bedroom, tempted to feed her fruit from his fingers though he abstained. No need to ruin what was turning into a perfect day.

“Why did you kill him?” Rhys heard himself asking later in the day. She’d danced around her father, omitting him from most of her stories.

Feyre drew her knees to her chest, back resting against the wooden headboard. “I was angry,” she admitted. “I’d been angry for a long time.”

“Why?”

She grew silent for a moment, contemplating her feelings. “I guess…after our mom died, he just became something of a shell. He was spending money recklessly, he was making decisions without telling anyone…”

That explained her anger about their engagement, he supposed.

“All he wanted to do was hole up in his office. He left everything else to me and my sisters and we just…we weren’t accustomed to taking care of his household. Elain was taking care of him and Nesta was just so mad all the time which caused us to fight…I was just tired. And when he came home and he informed me he’d decided to marry me off, I guess I just snapped.”

“You know, I was at home when I heard the news he was dead,” Rhys told her, wondering if she cared about him at all. Feyre looked over, eyes bright again.

“Were you angry when they told you what I said?”

Rhys smiled. “No. I had a good laugh about it, though. If I was going to kill your father, I would have done a far neater job.”

“Were you? Going to kill him, I mean?”

“No. His debts would have killed him eventually without any help from me. I was merely a bandaid for his bigger problems. If you wanted him dead, you should have come to me.”

“And what? You would have done it? Just like that?” she asked skeptically, snapping her fingers to illustrate her point.

“Just like that,” Rhys agreed easily.

“Why me? Why not Nesta or Elain?”

Rhys couldn’t even remember what they looked like. He just shrugged. “Would you hate me if I told you that you were the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen?”

“No,” she replied with the pinkest cheeks he’d ever seen. “I’m starting to think its not possible to hate you.”

“I’m growing on you,” he said with a grin.

“Like a fungus,” she agreed. “You should hate me, you know.”

He shrugged. “I don’t see why. If I were in your position, I might have done the same.”

“I don’t think I’d be so forgiving,” she informed him, looking over to drink him in. “I don’t know if your face is that tempting.”

“What about the rest of me?” Rhys questioned, running a hand down his bare torso. “Maybe I should have sent you a picture of my cock—”

“That would not have helped!”

“You don’t know that,” he replied good naturedly. “It’s a nice cock.”

She didn’t argue, and Rhys didn’t push her. He knew the truth and besides, there was no point in ruining what was shaping into being a perfect day. She was in his bed, telling him about her life and for once they weren’t arguing or snapping. It was a little peek into the life he wanted—domesticated Feyre purring in his lap like a house cat.

“I didn’t plan it,” she finally said, eyes glazed with memory. “It just happened.”

“I don’t judge you for it,” Rhys told her, unwilling to admit that he couldn’t remember everyone he’d killed.

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t. I wasn’t thinking about you at the time. I planned to turn myself in—”

“Foolish,” Rhys hissed, immediately frustrated by the thought. Even with all his money and influence, Rhys didn’t think he could have kept her from prison.

Feyre offered him a small smile. “You sound like my sister.”

“You did the right thing,” he praised, not wanting her to feel an ounce of guilt on his behalf. “They’ll never tie me to it.”

“I said you did it,” Feyre reminded him.

Rhys tapped her nose with the tip of his finger. “You didn’t see me, little love. And just as soon as Azriel gets back, there will be no evidence tying you or me to that death.”

“Why do you say that?” Feyre asked, her face paling.

“Don’t worry about that,” he said quietly. “The less you know, the better.”

“I thought we were equals—”

“We would be if you were my wife,” Rhys shot back before he could stop himself. Feyre crossed her arms over her chest, eyes narrowing.

“Why? So I can’t testify against you—”

“So I don’t have to testify against you,” he snarled, suddenly furious. “You committed the crime, Feyre—not me. And one of these days some overzealous agent looking for a promotion is going to reexamine the scene, the evidence, and who was standing in that house that day and they’re going to realize what you’ve done.”

She took a breath. “They won’t.”

“They will,” Rhys replied. “Trust me—putting away a mobster is the dream of every cop. They write your names in books for that kind of take down. They’ll be looking for me…but they’ll find you. And then they’ll send some nervous, sweaty asshole to my door offering to look the other way if I tell them what happened when I tracked you down. That’s a tempting offer, Feyre.”

“Are you blackmailing me?”

Rhys didn’t think about it. “If I have to. Though, I’d prefer you willing.”

Feyre stood abruptly, her face unreadable. “I need a minute.”

“Take your time,” he replied, climbing out of bed himself. He let her walk toward the back of the cabin, assuming she was going to his office to think. Let her think about the day she’d sat on his cock while he worked, he thought sullenly. Rhys went to the living room so he could stare moodily out the window.

Nothing ever went the way he imagined. It was hard to celebrate fucking her when she didn’t like him or trust him. Would he blackmail her into being his wife? Rhys wanted to be the kind of man who would say not…but he knew he would. He knew if he couldn’t get her to agree in the next two days, he’d be tying her up again and threatening to turn her in.

“Rhys?” Feyre’s voice asked from behind him. He twisted to look at her, stepping to the left to keep balance.

“Ye—”

The glass behind him shattered and something threw him forcefully to the ground as Feyre screamed, arms up over her head.

“Get down!” he roared, terrified another bullet would silence her. He’d been shot, he realized—though rather than hitting him dead center, he’d been shot through the shoulder. It wasn’t ideal, but it was workable.

Someone was coming—Rhys could hear boots crunching against snow. Twisting, he turned to make his way to Feyre only to find she was gone. Fuck. Now he had two problems—a killer at his front door and a runaway wife out the back. He didn’t have time to grab a gun before the door kicked open.

He knew the bitch standing in front of him. He’d recognize that bottled red hair from space—Amarantha.

“Rhys,” she said, flashing him a vicious smile. “You’re getting sloppy.”

He forced himself to his feet, refusing to die on his knees. “Your aim is as good as it's always been.”

Amarantha shrugged, gloved hands holding her rifle firmly. “You know, I usually love our banter but today I just don’t have time. You’ll forgive my—”

A shot fired, sending Amarantha flying to the ground like a doll who’s strings had just been cut. Rhys looked up to find Feyre, barefoot and pantless, standing in the doorway holding a gun. He expected to see fear—or maybe shock—but all he found on that beautiful face of hers was grim determination.

“A friend of yours?” Feyre questioned, dancing back into the house in an attempt to avoid the snow.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Rhys replied. Feyre came to him, stepping over Amarantha’s body like it didn’t exist.

“You’re hurt,” she said, reaching out to touch the blood before pulling back.

“I’ll survive,” he replied, grateful adrenaline was keeping the pain at bay. This was what he’d wanted, right? A little danger to soften her? Maybe not like this—Rhys had assumed they’d have more of a warning and less bullets coming at them.

Still.

“We need to go,” Rhys told her, steering Feyre toward the bedroom. He’d kept her clothes from that first night specifically for this reason. He couldn’t drag her naked across the country, afterall. Rhys pulled out the jeans, t-shirt, and jacket before tossing it to the bed.

“What about your arm?” Feyre asked, gun still in hand. “Shouldn’t we dig it out?”

“You’re a doctor now?” Rhys asked, hating that he needed her to do this for him. Feyre shrugged.

“I’ve done it before. For my dad, I mean.”

“You’re a good girl, Feyre,” he murmured, wishing he had the time to bend her over the bed. Rhys could still fuck her, injured or not. In fact, he thought the sight of his blood smeared over her tits would send him into a frenzy. “My good girl.”

“I thought she killed you,” Feyre whispered as Rhys sat on the edge of the tub. “I thought…”

“I’m fine,” he told her, heart thudding in his throat. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Yeah,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Rhys couldn’t take his eyes off her while she worked, swallowing his pain so he didn’t upset her. Maybe, in another life, Feyre would have been a doctor—she certainly had a soft touch. She managed to get the bullet out in one go while he was lucky it hadn’t shattered into a million little pieces.

His arm burned by the time Feyre got to suturing, and all he wanted to do was lay down. Dried blood coated his upper half and stained his shorts, the towel beneath his feet, and likely the white tile, too.

“Can you stand?” Feyre whispered, brushing her fingers against his jaw.

“Of course,” he lied. “Go get dressed.” But he couldn’t. Rhys wobbled the moment he tried, flinging out his hand to hold the wall so he didn’t fall backward. His whole body trembled from the dull, throbbing pain from his wound that seemed to echo in his skull.

He didn’t know how long he stood there. Only that Feyre returned, more blur than woman, and led him out.

“You can go,” Rhys whispered as he collapsed to the bed, too heavy to move. His eye lids were iron, unwilling to open once they’d shut. “You should go.”

The blackness ate away at him before he heard what she said in response.

And then he was lost.

FEYRE:

Rhys was a big man.

She’d never really thought about it before he’d collapsed onto the bed, shirtless and bloody. A dull roaring filled Feyre’s ears as panic threatened to consume her. They couldn’t stay—someone else might be coming. So Feyre forced herself to swallow her fear so she could dress him in a pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt. She packed him a few things, unsure what he’d want to wear when he woke, and then began the arduous task of dragging his muscular body out to the car.

She did it, though. She put him in the back, her guns in the front, and then herself in the car. “We did it,” she said with a grin, turning toward the road with unrestrained glee. His car had a navigation system and after she thought she was far enough from the cabin, Feyre quickly typed in her destination.

And then she drove. It was strange to be in a car again—for the last five years, Feyre had biked everywhere she went. Tamlin had kept her isolated, perhaps to her benefit at the time. Now, though, Feyre finally felt uncaged. Free, somehow.

Feyre drove through the night without stopping, terrified that she was being tracked at first. After she was certain she wasn’t, Feyre worried about leaving Rhys’s unconscious body in the back of her car. The last thing she needed were the cops pulling them over and realizing who they were.

Sheer will alone would keep Rhys from dying.

He was a predictable man. Rhys woke with a start just before the sun began to rise, peering first out the window before looking between the seats at her.

“You’re still here,” he rasped. Feyre smothered her smile.

“Did you think I’d leave you to die?”

“Expected it, actually,” Rhys replied with a grimace. “Where are we?”

“Nevada,” Feyre replied with a grin.

Rhys blinked. “Why?”

“Oh, are you coy now?” Feyre half teased. “Why else would I be here?”

“Feyre—”

“I realized something,” she interrupted, uninterested in his attempts at nobility. It was too late now. “When you were down and I thought you were dead, it occurred to me that I didn’t want you dead. I want to keep talking to you, Rhys. And I know this whole situation is a mess, but I think I might be falling in love with you.”

“Oh, thank God,” he panted, resting his chin on the seat of her chair.

“Plus, I figured this was the only way you’d agree to take me home.”

“You know me so well, darling.”

“Now it's your turn,” Feyre murmured, needing a distraction from the decision she was about to make. “Tell me about your life.”

Rhys settled back against the seat with a soft groan and began to talk. Feyre half listened, mind occasionally wandering to her sisters. She could bring them all back together…though what would they say when they realized the last five years had been for nothing? She trusted them not to betray her, but didn’t trust they wouldn’t shun her.

Nesta, at least.

“What happened after your sister died?” Feyre questioned, wincing at the story of how she’d been shot in the back after his mother had been executed by a rival family.

“Dad went berserk,” Rhys murmured, eyes dark. “He wanted revenge which made him reckless. He died to a bullet, to…and I took over.”

“That must have been hard.”

Rhys shrugged. “Not as hard as you’re imagining. I miss my family, but I was groomed for this. Work is easy.”

“The last five years have been easy?” she questioned.

Rhys smiled. “Frustrating, I suppose…but I found you, didn’t I? Was it all worth it, Feyre?”

“Yeah,” she replied, unsure if that was true or not. There was no reason to give him the satisfaction of being right. “I’d do it all over again.”

Rhys liked that answer, murmuring something about foreplay. It was the perfect time to stop, get a marriage license, and then have a quick, quiet courthouse wedding. Rhys swore up and down he didn’t want anything flashy or big which suited Feyre more than fine. She hated to be the center of attention.

“I want to fly home,” Feyre whispered to him later that night when they were alone, pretending like neither one of them wanted to peel the other out of their clothes. “And I want you to tell your friends to let my sisters come home.”

“What else do you want?” Rhys asked her, fingers laced with hers as he kissed her fingertips.

“If you ever step out of this marriage, I’ll have your balls.”

Rhys chuckled. “I think that’s reasonable.”

There was no question if he needed to issue the same threat. Feyre wondered if Rhys was merely willing to tolerate her indiscretions or if he merely assumed she never would. Feyre knew Rhys well enough to assume if he ever caught her, he’d execute the unlucky man without sparing a second thought.

It should have bothered her and yet it didn’t. Maybe, she thought, she was just as messed up as he was. Maybe worse, because Feyre found herself rolling over to look at him.

“How is your shoulder?” she questioned.

“Fine,” he lied, eyes sharp with hunger.

“Oh? I guess you don’t need me to take care of you, then?” she asked, sliding her leg over his waist. Rhys swallowed.

“You ah…could check,” he said. Feyre straddled him, pushing the hem of his shirt upward over his chest before gently pulling it over his head. She was careful with his injured shoulder, removing that sleeve last so he didn’t have to raise it over his head.

Rhys merely watched, eyes wide while he waited to see what was about to happen. Perhaps this was the moment Feyre would pull out her knife and kill him. Feyre didn’t have a knife on her and the guns she’d stolen were hidden in the hotel room they were staying in, far out of reach.

She merely kissed the wound.

“You can be sweet when you want to be,” Rhys breathed, his good hand resting on her hip.

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Why not?” he replied, arching her neck as she pressed a kiss against the hollow of his throat.

“I want to see you live to old age, which means keeping you sharp.”

Rhys sucked in a shuddering breath, relaxing as she crawled down his body. It felt good not to pretend anymore—to just give in to the life that had always been waiting for her. Maybe she’d regret this in another five years.

But maybe not.

She didn’t right then, as she licked a path down his stomach toward the erection she knew was waiting for her. Rhys seemed to be perpetually aroused and today was no exception.

“Feyre,” he breathed as she pulled his cock from his shorts. “Come back here—”

“Stop talking,” she ordered, just before licking a stripe up his shaft. Rhys moaned, lifting his hips in the air. It was tempting to stop and ask him how often he’d fantasized about this. She didn’t. He’d tell her when they finished, if only because Rhys loved to talk more than he loved anything else. He told her his every thought, sometimes as he was thinking them.

Feyre liked that about him.

“Is this what you want?” she whispered, teasing the blunt head with her tongue.

“Yes,” he all but pleaded.

Feyre took him in her mouth like she’d done the first time, though she wasn’t hanging upside down. Stretching her jaw to accommodate him, Feyre watched through half lidded eyes to gauge his pleasure. In turn, Rhys watched her. He gathered her hair up in his hands, wincing from his wound. It clearly wasn’t painful enough to stop him and Feyre wasn’t going to demand it of him, either.

She wanted to make him feel good, easing her own mind after the day she’d had. She hadn’t told him how she’d had to drag him out to the car, assuming he understood how he’d gotten there. It didn’t make the experience any less harrowing.

Feyre worked on taking him deeper, until his cock was lodged in her throat as she softly gagged around him. Rhys swept his thumb over her jaw before moving his hand to her throat as she took him again, feeling himself through her skin.

“Fuck,” he whispered, keeping his hand loosely wrapped around her. He should have let her continue given how much he was obviously enjoying himself, but he didn't. Rhys tugged her, pulling her mouth off his cock so abruptly that strings of saliva came with her.

“Rhys,” she protested as he lifted his hips, trying to line himself up with her own body.

“Please,” he said in response, finding his target. Rhys slid into her with a fluid motion, both hands on her hips to guide her. “Take off your shirt.”

It was all she was wearing. Feyre had become used to wearing Rhys’s shirts and rather liked it, though she’d never admit it. In that moment, Feyre was happy to comply. She tossed her shirt to the floor as Rhys’s hands slid up her body to cup her breasts.

“You’re so fucking pretty, baby. Do you know that?”

Feyre only moaned, rocking her hips against him. While Rhys tried to touch her everywhere all at once, Feyre merely dug her nails into his broad chest and continued moving against him. Every time Feyre and Rhys met, her clit brushed against his skin causing her to tighten around him.

“You feel so good,” Rhys whined, arching his back. “This is my pussy now.”

It was an absurd thing to say and only a man like Rhys could pull it off. Rising up so Feyre was fully in his lap, Rhys pressed them chest to chest.

“You’re my wife,” he whispered against her neck. “Tell me you love me.”

“Rhys—”

His teeth grazed her throat. “Say it.”

“I love you,” she gasped after a particularly brutal thrust that left her brainless. Rhys kissed her, hands bracing her ass so he was doing most of the work. Somewhere in the very back of her mind, Feyre knew his arm must have been killing him.

Gripping the back of his hair, Feyre pulled Rhys back just enough to force him to look at her. “Now you.” He moaned, “I love you.”

That was enough to send them both careening over the edge, gasping and kissing long after her orgasm had faded. If they had neighbors on either side, they had surely heard everything…and would hear more as they night went on. Who needed sleep, anyway?

Who needed anything at all, beyond the man in front of her.

“Rhys?” she murmured, chin resting on his uninjured shoulder. “Will you do something for me?”

“Anything. Just name it.”

“Take me home.”

Rhys smiled, face pressed to her hair. “You got it, baby.”

#feysand #i literally finished this so i could start working on nessian seriously #also warning for egregious use of the word baby #and for rhys saying something i had to look away from as i typed #it embarrassed me hahaha

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avastrasposts · 2 years ago

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The Pilot and his girl - ch. 7 **

You might want to put aside some time for this, I somehow managed to write 10k...and the second half is like all smut, almost.

Took me a while to get this out, it was kinda meant to be a filler chapter but then I wanted to add more so I ended up moving things around in the story line so now we've got this one. Next chapter will see their relationship move forward with leaps and bounds and then we get into the really juicy bits!

Please enjoy and if you do, please reblog so that more people see the fic, I'll love you always if you do

If wanna catch up from the beginning, here is chapter 1 of The Pilot and his girl

Chapter 8

Tag list: @pimosworld @i-own-loki @casa-boiardi @littlenosoul @stormseyer

Sometimes you think back on other guys you’ve dated. The guy who wanted to be able to call you up whenever he wanted sex and always got mad when you weren’t around to supply, the college guy who never wanted to touch you in public, the older guy who ‘forgot’ to mention his wife and two year old son, the guy who cheated on you and then messaged all your friends and told them he’d dumped you because you’d cheated on him with his boss. And that didn’t even cover all the ‘normal’ guys who just wanted to play the game, date and have sex but never commit or say what they actually felt or introduce you to their friends or family.

And then there was Frankie Morales. Sweet, loving, loyal Frankie who never seemed to hide what he was thinking or wanted to play games. Who never made it difficult or made you guess what he felt or what his intentions were. He was just always happy to be with you, to see you and to let the world around you know that he belonged to you and no one else. Who would kiss you in public just because he felt like it, took your hand as soon as you were near, and never hesitated to include you in his plans. Being with Frankie was easy and you finally started to understand that dating someone shouldn’t be non-stop drama, it should be easy and that’s how you knew it was right.

And Frankie slipped into your life as easily as he let you slip into his. After your first few dates he made it clear that he would happily spend as much time as he could with you, the only other priority in his life being his daughter and you happily took a back seat to her. Frankie was always a bit low when he came back from seeing her, or she’d spent a weekend with him, his guilty conscience about not seeing her enough always on his mind. But he was also full of stories about her, his eyes beaming, a wide, proud, smile on his face, as he told you about what they’d done, the things she’d said and how much she’d grown or what new skills she’d learnt. She was the centre of his universe and you didn’t mind, she grounded him and made him happy and a better man. Both for her and for you.

When Frankie wasn’t working or went to see Lucía, your weekends were spent mostly in each other’s company. He’d pick you up on Friday evening and take you out ‘properly’, as he said. He’d show up in his truck, freshly showered after work and in a clean shirt. If he’d ditched the cap you knew he’d made plans for a more upscale restaurant. If the cap was firmly pressed down over his, still very, unruly curls, you knew he was taking you on one of his special Frankie dates.

The first time you’d expected maybe a cool food truck or local BBQ place when he said he’d made ‘special plans’, your expectations from previous guys were not exactly high. But instead he’d taken you to a secluded spot up on a hill, parking the truck and walking with you through the forest on a small path until the trees fell away to a cliff overlooking a lake. Stuck into the ground was a small sign that read “Reserved - Morales” that made you giggle at the thought that he’d hiked up here earlier, just to place the sign. Frankie had then produced a thick blanket from his backpack, a lantern, a camping stove, various containers and bottles and proceeded to cook you dinner while the sun set behind the forest on the other side of the lake. When dinner was done with, and you’d expressed your deep astonishment at how romantic he was, Frankie blushing to the tips of his ears, he’d wrapped you both in the blanket and leaned back against a rock with you tucked in against his chest.

“You’re setting the bar very high for all the other guys, Francisco Morales,” you hum as you feel the cool tip of his nose brush against your cheek.

“What other guys, hermosa?” he mutters, lightly kissing the tip of your ear.

“All the other guys in general,” you lean into his warm lips skating along your neck, “once word gets out this is how Frankie Morales treats women, who’s gonna want a regular guy?”

Frankie chuckles quietly, his rich, warm voice close to your ear. “I don’t treat women like this, only you, solo tu hermosa mujer.

“See, there you go again, setting the bar impossibly high,” you smile and push your fingers into the curls at the back of his neck, scratching his scalp and drawing a soft moan from him.

When the night became too cold even for the blanket and the Frankie shaped furnace at your back, he’d held your hand as you walked back, his powerful torch shining the way through the pitch black forest. At any other time the thought of walking through a dark forest would’ve made you slightly panicky, but with Frankie’s warm hand in yours and his broad shoulders in front of you as he easily navigated the path back to his truck, you felt as safe as you did at home in your bed.

It was easy, being with Frankie was the easiest thing of them all.

…

You woke up with a groan on Sunday morning, six weeks or so into dating Frankie. You’d been out the night before with friends and now you were paying the price; dry mouth, headache and that horrible shaky feeling as you moved your limbs. You were definitely never, ever drinking again. You were in Frankie’s bed but he was absent so with a groan you pushed the covers aside and sat up carefully.

As you sat on the side of the bed, contemplating death, you heard Frankie’s bare feet coming down the hall, pushing open the door.

“Morning, my little ‘I’m not drunk’ girl,” he smiled, far too cheerful and you groaned again and fell back into bed, pulling the covers with you as Frankie chuckled.

“Just stay in bed, hermosa, I’ll get you some water and coffee, and breakfast whenever you feel up for it.”

“Thank you,” you mumble from under the covers.

“Anything for you, I love you,” he says as he bends and kisses the covers over your head.

Oh yeah, you said that last night too.

…

Towards the end of your night you’d met up with Frankie and his friends at a bar. Your friends were heading home, and you probably should’ve done the same, but you wanted to see Frankie and you’d promised to call him before you went home. He was the designated driver for the evening, as most evenings. Frankie didn’t like tempting fate with too much alcohol after he got clean from the coke.

“Mi hermosa, hi,” came his warm, smiling voice over the phone when he picked up, and you immediately heard someone shush loudly in the background.

“Sssshhhhh, everyone, ssssshhhhh, it’s the girlfriend, sssshhhhh!” The drunken voice of Benny was easily recognisable in the background.

“Hi Frankie boy,” you cooed, definitely a little bit more than tipsy, “and hi Benny,” you giggled.

“Tell her to come here,” Benny’s voice was suddenly very close, “I need her as my wing woman!”

“Benny, for fuck’s sake!” It sounded like Frankie had to pull his phone away from his friend as he shuffled away from the table they were all at, chairs scraping across a floor.

“Sounds like Benny’s a little bit drunk, baby,” you give him a tipsy giggled again.

“Sounds like you’re a little bit drunk too, cariño,” Frankie chuckles. “Do you wanna come over, we’re at the usual place.”

“Only if you want me to, I don’t want to crash boy’s night.”

“You should definitely come over, I wanna see you this drunk,” he laughs as you protest and claim to be only slightly tipsy. “Get yourself in an Uber, and send me the details so I know when you get here.”

“Ok, Frankie boy, always so responsible,” you pout and give him a salute before you remember he can’t actually see you through the phone.

“Just be safe, hermosa,” he smiles before he hangs up.

He’s waiting outside for you when the Uber pulls up, opening the door of the car and giving you a hand as you step out.

“Hi sweetie,” you purr, wrapping your arms around his neck, stumbling slightly on the curb, as Frankie catches you around the middle.

“Hey there, not drunk girl,” he smiles down at you and accepts your wet kiss to his lips with a chuckle. “How’s your night been?”

“S’been good, everybody came, even Hannah who always cancels because her kids are sick.” you say as Frankie guides you towards the door of the bar. “And we got free drinks from a bunch of guys who were trying to hit on us, but their loss, because we’re all taken,” You pull him close and place a kiss on his cheek, “You’re my Frankie boy.”

“Did you accept their drinks?” Frankie’s got a worried look in his eyes that you don’t notice as you shrug your jacket off as the heat of the room hits you.”

“Yeah, sure! It was free drinks. It’s not like they were gonna get anything in return.”

“Cariño, you shouldn’t accept drinks from random men in bars, what if they slip something in it? You’ve got to be careful.” He’s got his arm around your waist, walking you towards the table where the guys are.

“Wait,” you stop halfway across the bar, poking his chest with your finger, “you were gonna buy me a drink when we met, are you saying I shouldn’t have accepted that?”

“Uh…I mean…” Frankie flounders, “technically, I guess, no?”

“You’re so cute when you blush, sweet Francisco,” you gush, wrapping your arms around his neck again and standing on your toes to kiss the tip of his nose, “I know I shouldn’t accept drinks from random guys, baby. But free drinks!” you grin again and Frankie can’t help but chuckle when he sees your delighted grin.

“My tipsy girl,” he smiles, “we should get some food in you.”

“Nachos!” you exclaim as Frankie puts his hand on your back and ushers you towards the table and the guys again.

Pope pulls you in for a bear hug as Frankie pulls out a chair for you, and Will gives you a grin from across the table.

“Hey, there she is!” Benny whoops as you sink down on the chair, “My wing woman!” He attempts to high five you but you’re too focused on telling Frankie you want the biggest serving of nachos they’ve got, and Benny’s hand slaps down on your shoulder instead, making you jump.

“Jeez, Benny, calm down,” Frankie scowls and knocks his hand off your shoulder. “I’m getting nachos for the drunk girl, anyone else want anything?” he asks.

“Nachos and drinks, if you’re offering,” Pope says and Frankie nods, heading back towards the bar.

“I’m really not drunk, just a little bit tipsy,” you tell the three guys as Frankie walks off. “He’s being very overprotective.”

“I heard that,” Frankie calls from over his shoulder, making you giggle loudly and snort.

“Well, you’re in good company here,” Will nods at Benny who’s slightly red eyed appearance betrays that he’s by far the furthest one gone at the table.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Benny taps your arm excitedly, looking at a table towards the back of the bar, not paying attention to his brother, “Can you help me get that blonde over there? Like, walk over to her or something and tell her I’m great in bed and she should totally let me buy her a drink.”

“What Benny?! No!” you protest, “I’m not lying to some poor woman, I don’t even know if you’re good in bed.” You give Benny a slightly unfocused once over, “Are you any good in bed?”

“I’m totally good in bed!” he insists, “I’d prove it but you know…Fish would literally kill me dead.”

“Ewww!” you exclaim, sending Pope and Will into a laughing fit as Benny blinks, trying to figure out if he should be insulted or not. “Sorry! That came out wrong!” you grab on to his arm, “I mean, you’re cute and all but just not my type, I like - “

“We know what you like,” Pope interrupts with a grin, “you like ‘em dark haired, brown eyed and tanned.” He wiggles his eyebrows at you as you snort out a laugh.

“I mean, I can’t deny that, but I like my men taller and with less body hair, Santi,” you smirk and Pope tries to look insulted.

“Ouch, going after my height, evil woman,” he huffs, but he’s still laughing.

“You got the right one then,” Will chuckles, “Frankie’s got less body hair than a hairless cat.”

“Why the fuck are you talking about my body hair?” Frankie says, coming back to the table, sending Benny and you into a laughing fit and Will just waving his hand.

“Forget it man, not important.”

Frankie raises his eyebrows and gives his head a slight shake as he sets down the nachos and drinks for the table, although you’re also getting a large glass of water.

“Are you riling them up, cariño?” he asks, smiling down at you as you try to pull him down for a kiss that he willingly gives, your lips tasting of tequila and wine, oh, you’ll be hungover for sure in the morning.

“I’m innocent,” you smirk, looking anything but and Frankie chuckles.

“Move, baby, sit on my lap, there’s no extra chair.”

You happily oblige, sitting sideways across Frankie’s lap, his warm arm around your waist, holding you tight.

Nachos and beers are soon gone and Pope gets everyone a new round, getting Frankie a Coke that he tries to make you drink instead of the beer Pope got you, but not having much success. Benny’s trying his luck with the blonde across the room and Will and Pope decide to shoot some pool while you and Frankie watch from the table. Despite there being several empty chairs now you stay on Frankie’s lap, his legs are slowly falling asleep but he won’t make you move, he’s got you tight against his body, and your arm is draped across his shoulder, absentmindedly dragging your fingers through the curls around his neck at the edge of his cap. He hums contentedly as your nails scratch his scalp and you feel the rumble in his chest. Looking down you see his eyes slip closed, he always has trouble keeping them open when you play with his hair. He’s not asleep but his muscles relax and his head slumps forward, leaning against you.

Gently you pull his cap off so that you can run your fingers through more of his hair, Frankie mutters his consent and you feel his fingers trace small circles on your back, warm through the thin fabric of your top. His soft curls slip under your fingers as you run them through his hair, the buzz of alcohol in your system making you sleepy, Frankie’s warm body making you feel safe and content. You bend down and press a kiss to the top of his head and with your lips still close to his hair it slips out.

“I love you.”

Frankie’s eyes snap open and he pulls back from your chest, looking up at you, searching your eyes to see if you mean it or if you’re just too drunk.

“What did you say, hermosa?” he asks softly as you look down at him, a small, uncertain smile on your lips.

“I’m sorry…” you waver, “it just slipped out, it’s too soon and I’m drunk and it’s -”

“I love you, I love you too,” Frankie interrupts, his heart threatening to jump out of his chest as he pulls your lips to his, “don’t be sorry,” he mumbles against your mouth, “I would’ve said it weeks ago if I had the guts.”

His hand slips behind your neck, holding you to his lips, as you wrap your arms around him. His heart is racing, he can feel your smile against his mouth as you press yourself against him and it feels like millions of tiny bubbles are gathering inside his chest, pushing up through his throat and making him grin like a fool against your soft lips. The kiss turns sloppy as you both start to giggle, foreheads leaning together, you look into his warm, brown eyes that are crinkling at the corners.

“I love you, Frankie,” you say, still smiling so wide you feel like your face is splitting but happy tears are threatening to spill out. The way Frankie is looking at you makes you feel like he just wrapped you up in a blanket, tucked you against his chest and enveloped you with his love, making you his axis point.

“I love you too, hermosa,” he replies, “I love you so fucking much, I wanted to tell you when you took my hand after I told you about all the shit in my life, but I was scared it was too much. And when you still wanted to be with me and the first morning you woke up with me, you told me how amazing you think I am…” Frankie reaches up and strokes his thumb over your cheek, catching a tear that’s escaped from your eyes, “I almost said it then too, I really wanted to tell you then, but I chickened out..”

“You should’ve said it all those times, Frankie,” you say, putting your hand over his, still on your cheek, “I would’ve said it back, but I thought it was too soon. I thought you’d run a mile if you knew how fast I fell for you.”

“Not in a million years, hermosa, never.” He pulls you in, catching your lips in another kiss, slow and searing, making you part your lips so that he can taste you, despite all the alcohol. You feel his tongue, soft against your own, as he moves to kiss you deeper, his arm wrapped tight around your waist, holding you firm against him as you hold onto his shoulders, and push your fingers into his hair. You’re in your own bubble, only you and him, and the noises of the bar fades away as you hum against his mouth, the taste of him, his tongue, overtakes your hazy mind.

…

You stay under the covers, you can hear Frankie moving around his kitchen, making coffee. You remember him taking the guys and you home last night. The truck had been full, the guys in the back and you tucked into Frankie’s side in the front, falling asleep against his shoulder as he dropped the others off first. You vaguely remember Frankie gently scooting you out of his truck and picking you up. You’d woken up when he had to put you down to dig out his keys, his soft voice telling you to stay awake as you leaned on him. Finally he’d gotten you both into his place and he’d tucked you in under the covers of his bed, the last thing you seem to remember is him taking your shoes off.

Now he pads back into the bedroom with a bottle of water and a large coffee.

“Here, cariño, drink the water first.”

“Thanks, Frankie, you’re more than I deserve, I was way too drunk last night,” you moan, gratefully taking the water bottle from him.

“You’re a very cute drunk,” he smiles and sits down on the edge of the bed as you pull yourself up, leaning against the headboard and taking a long drink of water.

“And I love you too,” you say, putting down the water and taking his hand, “I remember that part at least.”

Frankie chuckles and pulls your hand to his lips, kissing your palm, “I was a bit worried you’d said all those sweet things and then forget about it.

“Never, Frankie,” you smile, “how could I? I just wish I hadn’t blurted it out when I was drunk...”

“It was very sweet, hermosa, alcohol clearly makes you honest. I need to remember that,” he pulls you towards him with a big grin and you lean against his chest, breathing into his clean t-shirt, fresh cotton and the smell of just him underneath it. If you weren’t so hungover you’d pull him back into the bed with you, he feels good next to you, warm and solid, his little belly soft to the touch as you absentmindedly run your hand over it and listen to his heartbeat under your ear. Frankie’s hand is rubbing up and down your back and you can feel his breath against the top of your head where he's leaning his chin.

“I wanted to ask you something,” he says after a little while of enjoying just sitting together in silence. The slight hesitation in his voice makes you lift your head and look up at him. He’s got that worried look in his eyes, and it makes you mirror his look, raising your eyebrows in concern as he goes on;

“Lucía is supposed to come here next weekend, she’s staying Saturday and Sunday. And you can say no if you think it’s too much but, but I really want you to meet her, if you want?”

“You know I’d love to meet her, Frankie” you say, sitting up so that you can look properly at him. His expressive eyebrows immediately shoot up in a relieved look.

“I know, I just wanted to make sure,” he says, “I’ve…I’ve never…let her meet a girlfriend before and I wanna make sure you’re fine with it too.”

“I’m absolutely fine with it, sweetie,” you rub his arm, wanting to reassure him that it really was fine. “If you want, we can start easy though, maybe? Just tell her I’m a friend of yours or something and we keep the PDA to a minimum around her?”

“Yeah, I was thinking that too,” he agrees. “I haven’t talked to her mom yet either, it’s not like I need her permission for it or anything, but you know, just so that she hears it from me and not Lucía afterwards.”

“I won’t stay over at your place when she’s here,” you stretch your arms up, yawning big and Frankie pushes the coffee mug into your hands with a smile. “We’ll just hang out a bit,” you say, “I don’t wanna intrude on your father - daughter time, I know you feel like you don’t see enough of her as it is.”

“You could never intrude, cariño,” Frankie protests, “hang out with us as much as you want. Although, four year olds can be a bit rowdy so you might need to work on your stamina,” he chuckles.

“I know how to handle four year olds,” you grin, “I just buy them the loudest toy I can find and be their new best friend.”

“That’s just evil, just pure evil,” Frankie groans, “every parent's worst nightmare, you would never.”

“I would never do that to you, Frankie,” you smile and accept his hand as he pulls you out of the bed. “But my brother’s kids, absolutely.”

“Remind me to never piss you off, cariño,” Frankie chuckles as you make your way into his small kitchen where he’s got breakfast laid out.

Right from the start Frankie had claimed he couldn’t cook and his mom’s brownies was the only thing he could bake. You’d quickly figured out that the ‘can’t cook’ line was more a show of Frankie’s insecurity rather than an actual thing. And he excelled at breakfast, making both blueberry pancakes, omelettes and smoothies so good you’d rather have his breakfast for every meal of the day than anything else. The first time you had his pancakes, made from scratch and not a box mix, you’d eaten four in one go and not even felt bad about it. Frankie’s smile when you kept asking for more was worth the bloated feeling you had for the rest of the day. He admitted he’d taught himself to make them because they were Lucía’s favourite food and the thought of Frankie looking up pancake recipes online to be able to serve his daughter her favourite food made you almost teary eyed. The more you got to know him, the more you saw of his big heart and soft side, the more it became difficult to equate the man you now knew, with the man who had been in Delta Force and displayed such skill at violence in the bar that horrible night.

There was one thing that betrayed his background though, his nightmares. Frankie said he had them less these days but there were still several nights where you’d been woken up by him thrashing around in the bed, crying out incoherently. A few times you’d been woken up by Frankie throwing himself on top of you when his sleep hazy mind thought there was a threat in the room and you had to be protected. Sweet on one level, but on those nights it took you both a long time to go back to sleep, Frankie’s adrenaline spiking high and your own heart rate going through the roof after being so brutally woken up. You were grateful that he seemed to need to hold you as close as possible on those nights, it made it easier for you to fall back asleep with his heavy arm draped across your waist or chest, pulled in so tight that you could hear his heartbeat, feel it slow down as he calmed.

The next morning he’d wake up in a dark mood, feeling guilty about scaring you and bringing his issues into your life. You soon figured out that the best way to get him past his sullen thoughts was to pull him down on the sofa and make him lay back, resting against you. That way you could hook one arm around his broad chest, make him tip his head back on your shoulder and then scratch his scalp with your fingertips. His mind would stop racing, he would feel your heartbeat under his body and your fingers softly scraping through his curls, slowly realising that you weren’t leaving, that he wasn’t scaring you away by showing you the darker sides of himself.

“I’m sorry, cariño, I’m such an idiot, it’s just me and my stupid brain causing trouble,” he mumbled while your fingers worked through his hair.

“You’re not an idiot, Frankie,” you gently admonished him, “you know why your brain gives you nightmares, you’ve been through more than anyone should have to endure, “ you press a kiss to his head and he leans towards you.

“My sponsor always says I should tell people close to me what’s going on when I start spiralling out of control, but that’s always been the hardest thing.”

“Why is it hard?” you ask, still brushing through his soft curls, willing him to relax against you.

Frankie shifts under your arm, turning so that he can press his face against the side of your neck, you feel him inhale deeply as he stretches his arm across your chest and pulls you closer.

“It took me a long time to figure this out,” he says in a low voice, “I feel like I fail when I lose control, fail my family, my friends, anyone I wanna be close to.” His voice is muffled, pressed up against you as he hides his face, “I feel guilty about failing so I don’t ask for help and then it gets worse, I fall into to bad habits and that makes me feel like more of a failure and that makes me feel even more guilty and then it just spirals out of control.”

“What do you think will happen when you tell those you love about losing control?” you ask in a soft voice. You’re leaning your cheek against his head, feeling his breath fan across your neck and chest as he draws a deep breath.

“That you’ll leave me, see what a fuck up I am and realise I’m not worth the effort.” You can barely hear his low whisper, it cracks at the end, and your heart clenches, your hands leaving his hair as you wrap your arms tight around him, burying your face against his soft curls.

“Never, Frankie, never.” You squeeze him, willing him to understand how much he’s come to mean to you in this short time. “I don’t know what happens in the future but I can promise you that I’ll never leave you because I think you’re not worth the effort. And don’t say that about yourself, you’ll always be worth the effort, Frankie,” you lean back, putting your hand on his chin and tilting it up so that you can look at him, his eyes are distressed, the usually soft look, pained and tight. “I’ve already told you I think you’re the best man I’ve ever known and even if you spiral out of control and your demons get the better of you, I won’t leave because I know how good you are, what a great man you are and what a great father you are to Lucía.”

Frankie closes his eyes as you lean in and press a soft kiss to his lips, a long breath escaping with a shudder, as if he’d been holding it in.

“I’m always scared I’ll fuck things up with her,” he says when you pull back from his lips. “How am I gonna be any kind of role model to her when this is what I’ve done with my own life?”

“Frankie, you idiot,” you smile softly at him, and he looks confused. “You’ve had a passion for helicopters since you were a kid right?” He nods and you continue, “So you found a way to become a helicopter pilot, a very difficult profession that takes enormous dedication and skill. You then got sucked into the fucked up system of the military, and saw some horrible things. Things that any normal person would consider fucked up and have trouble processing, right?”

“Yeah, I guess, bu- “

You stop him, “You didn’t get any adequate help to deal with your PTSD so you found a way to deal with it yourself. A stupid way, sure, but you had the willpower to get your shit together when it became about someone else but you, your daughter.”

Frankie just nods, his eyebrows pulled up in that tight little knot you’ve seen so many times.

“Don’t you get it?” you say, “you’ve already proved to her, before she was even born, that she’s the center of your universe and that you’ll do anything for her and that she can do anything she wants. All she has to do is to look at how you’ve managed to get through some of the most fucked up shit.”

Frankie looks at you as you stroke the lines between his eyebrows with your thumb, smoothing them out. “Frankie Morales, you’re amazing, and if you keep thinking you’re not I’ll have to smack you,” you smile at him and you see the corners of his mouth twitch up, “or I’ll get Pope to smack you,” you say and Frankie smiles properly, his face changing into that soft smile you’ve always loved. He drops his head down on your chest again, his nose pressed against your throat.

“I’d like to see him try,” he chuckles as he wraps his arm around you and pulls himself on top, looking down at you.

“Thank you,” he says, using your real name as if to emphasize, “I don’t know what I did in my last life to deserve you in this one.”

“Maybe you saved my life somehow,” you smile and stroke your thumb over the bare patch in his scruffy beard, “and now you get to have incredible sex with me as a reward.”

“Yeah?” he smirks, pulling up one corner of his mouth, “Maybe I wanna claim some of that reward right now.”

…

On Friday night, before Lucía’s coming to stay, Frankie picks you up for your date wearing no cap, but a white dress shirt with his dark jeans. You open the door and do a double take, holding out one hand in front of you to stop him, as you shamelessly admire the view.

“Damn, Frankie…” you purr, letting your eyes travel down from the v of the open neck, the smattering of freckles dark against his tanned skin and white cotton, the wide shoulders that stretch the fabric when he crosses his arms, leaning on the door frame with a smile, his forearms on display where he’s rolled up the sleeves to his elbows, and all the way down over his slim hips and lean thighs under the black denim.

“Are you taking me out to dinner, or are you delivering yourself for dinner?” you ask, giving him a wicked smile as you hook your finger into his shirt and pull him closer. Frankie chuckles and brushes his lips against yours.

“Maybe I’m here to make a meal out of you…”

“Cheesy,” you giggled into his mouth, “but I’ll definitely remind yo-”

He cuts you off with a kiss, pushing his hand into your hair and sealing his lips to yours, licking against your bottom lip before he gently sucks on it. A jolt of electricity immediately shoots down your spine and settles between your legs, the sheer promise of what he could deliver had you trembling. A moan escapes you as he pushes you against the wall and lets his thigh spread your legs, the friction shoots another jolt through your body and Frankie knows exactly what he’s doing. You can feel him move his thigh, the thick muscles giving just a taste of what his fingers would do later, and with a crooked smile he pulls back, both from your lips and your legs.

“Frankie…” you moan, chasing his lips, but he chuckles and takes your hand, pulling you towards the door.

“Let's get actual dinner before I make a meal out of you, my greedy little girl.”

With a pout you follow him out the door but when he wraps his arms around your waist and kisses your neck in the elevator on the way down you melt, you were never really upset. “Who says I’ll keep my hands off you, hermosa,” he murmurs, “the restaurant is really dimly lit.”

…

The place Frankie has picked is a new place you’d mentioned a while back and you squeeze his arm tightly when you realise that he’s made a reservation especially because he knew you wanted to go. He’s even requested a table at the back where the restaurant has a few tables in small window nooks overlooking the river. The waiter seats you and lights the two candles in the windows and in the small hanging chandelier over your heads, casting the whole table in a soft light.

You sit down in the middle of the plush bench that curves under the windows, and Frankie sits down close to you, rather than opposite. You’re sharing a corner at the table, and even though there’d be more room if you sat at opposite ends, none of you are moving, least of all Frankie. Instead you feel his hand on your leg, slipping up under the edge of your dress, as soon as he sits down. His hand is hidden under the table cloth and although he lets his hand rest on your thigh for now, you’re fairly certain he won’t let it stay there.

The waiter returns to take your orders and while you’re asking about the fish dish Frankie’s fingers start moving, gentle little circles on your thigh but steadily moving up along your leg. You steal yourself to not let his touch get to you while you talk to the waiter, sitting perfectly still in your seat as you ask about the evening’s special. You can feel his fingers creep further up your leg, starting to tickle the sensitive skin on the inside of your thigh. From the corner of your eye you can see Frankie innocently studying the menu but you can also see the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. As the waiter finishes with your order he turns to Frankie and as soon as the waiter’s eyes are off you, Frankie squeezes the inside of your thigh. Not hard, but enough to make your limbs clench together as you shudder from the jolt of heat that shoots through you, settling between your legs. Your involuntary spasm makes the waiter look at you again and you pretend to reach for the breadbasket as Frankie struggles to keep a straight face.

As soon as the waiter leaves Frankie turns to you with a mischievous grin and moves his hand further up your thigh.

“Hermosa,” he purrs as you try to scowl at him, “your skin is so soft and grabbable right here.” He kneads the plush flesh of your inner thigh as you try to ignore the way it feels as he sinks his fingers into you.

“You’re a menace, Francisco Morales,” you glare and he leans in on the table, propping his chin up with his free hand, so that his mouth is only inches from your lips. He continues to draw shapes on your skin as he looks at you, his face softening into an innocent look, big brown eyes looking at you like he’s only adoring his girlfriend, not slowly moving his hand up to brush the edge of your panties under the table.

“Why would you say that, cariño?” he asks, smiling as you clench your jaw when his finger tips nudges at your legs, beckoning you to spread them, and you obey without hesitation. “Am I distracting you from the nice view?” You scowl at him again but you can’t hide your smile and Frankie closes the last bit of distance between you and nudges the tip of his nose against yours, letting it brush along your cheek as he captures your lips with his.

The kiss is soft and demure, anyone looking will only see a couple in love sharing a tender kiss, a sweet moment together. Frankie’s free hand takes your hand on the table and your fingers entwine, but under the table his fingertips are slowly brushing over the thin lace in your panties, feeling the dampness his touch is creating. He traces the slit under the fabric and grazes over your clit, making you quake against his lips, and you feel his mouth pull up in a smile. His tongue quickly darts between your lips as the pad of his thumb rubs with more pressure against the spot, pulling a soft moan from you as you lean into him. With a chuckle Frankie pulls away, moving his hand down your leg, and when you open your eyes to protest you see the waiter walking over with your drinks.

“I’m gonna get you back for this, you know,” you mumble and Frankie gives you a look of perfect innocence as he thanks the waiter for the drinks. When he leaves Frankie takes a sip from his beer and over the brim of his glass his eyes crinkle at the corners in a smile.

“I think I’d like that, cariño, why don’t you try right now?”

“No, I think I’ll pick a moment you’ll enjoy less,” you smile back at him, taking a sip of your own drink.

Frankie leans forward, his hand falling below the table again and you quickly cross your legs as his hand touches your knee.

“Ah, c’mon, cariño,” he coos, caressing the top of your thigh, edging under the hem of your dress again.

“Keep your hands on the table, Francisco,” you give him a stern look that only makes him grin and scoot closer, leaning in so that he can skate his nose along your jaw, his lips brushing up against your ear, his hot breath tickling you.

“Mi hermosa,” he mumbles, his lips barely touching your skin, “I want to touch you, feel if you’re as wet as I think you are.” He moves his mouth down and you feel the tip of his tongue slip out and lick across the spot he knows makes you shiver whenever he touches it. “I wanna to feel your sweet pussy tighten around my fingers as you think about what I’m gonna do with my mouth later.”

His words make your eyes close as a shiver goes down your spine, heat pooling rapidly between your legs. And Frankie knows, he knows exactly what his dirty talk does to you. And now he continues to whisper how he wants to push your dress up over your hips, spread you before him and taste your sweet pussy, all the while his hand gently nudges your legs apart under the table. You feel heat rising in your cheeks as his fingers brush up over the soaked material in your panties. He’s telling you how good he knows you taste, how he loves the feeling of your pussy clenching around his tongue as he pushes into your tight hole.

“I know you love how my nose rubs against your clit when I bury my face between your legs, hermosa,” he murmurs and you bite your lip to stop a moan escaping. Outwardly he’s still just whispering sweet nothings to you, a loving boyfriend nuzzled against the neck of his love, under the table his fingers have slipped past your panties and are pushing into your pussy, his thick index and ring finger stretching you. You lean forward on your elbows, tilting your head towards him, hiding your face from the room. Frankie’s teeth scrape against your skin as he curls his fingers back inside you, rubbing against the spot he always seems to find so easily. The thrill of him fingering you in public has your cheeks burning, your jaw is clenched tight to stop yourself from panting. Tension is building inside you as Frankie’s breath fans over your skin.

“Are you gonna come for me, baby?” he whispers, “I wish I could get down on my knees and lick you, tug that sweet little clit of yours into my mouth, make you come on my face just like I did - “

Frankie suddenly pulls back, footsteps approaching your table, his fingers slipping out of you as he sits up.

“Alright, I’ve got the grilled tuna for the lady and the lamb racks for the gentleman,” the waiter says, placing plates on the table.

You’ve still got your face turned away, cheeks burning as you calm your breathing. Frankie’s hand comes up and genty cups your chin, a soft smile on his face, as if you say he’s got you, and not at all sorry that he’s got you on the edge of an orgasm in the middle of a crowded Friday night restaurant.

…

You barely make it to the truck once you're done with the meal. The thrum of your near orgasm is still humming through your body and Frankie’s warm arm around your waist, holding you close, makes you want to duck into an alley and risk getting caught for public indecency. You stop him and cup his cheek, pulling him down for a kiss, letting your tongue slip between his lips as his large hand cups the back of your head. You feel his other hand sliding up your back, pressing you against his chest and you lick into his mouth, tasting him and the chocolate he had for dessert. Heat shoots through your body as he presses his hard on into you, he’s trying to create friction to give himself some relief but the way your body reacts, a low moan slipping out, only makes him harder. With a groan he pulls away, grabbing your hand and almost drags you the last bit to the truck.

It’s parked on a side street and you pull him against you again when he takes you around to the passenger side. Slipping your hand in between you, you palm his cock through his jeans, Frankie grumbles, dropping his head on your shoulder and letting his mouth kiss your neck.

“I need to get you home, hermosa,” he murmurs, his face buried in your hair. “I wanna get you out of this dress so badly.”

Letting your fingers trace the outlines through the fabric, you circle around the tip pressed against the zipper and Frankie’s breath hitches, his teeth sinking into your neck, sucking against the skin. Behind your back he opens the door to the truck and manoeuvres you so that he’s got his arms at your waist. With casual strength that takes your breath away he lifts you up, setting you down on the bench seat, and for a second you think he’s going to climb up after you. Instead he stops, one foot up on the step, his gaze dropping to where your knees fall open, he’s got a perfect view and his eyes go dark. His hand grabs your thighs, pushing you further into the truck and pushing them wider, the tip of his tongue comes out and licks his bottom lip, before he tears himself away, looking up at you again and inhales deeply as he steps down and closes the door.

You can’t help but giggle at the effect you had on him and he notices your smile when he pulls himself into the driver’s seat.

“What are you giggling about, cariño?” he says, buckling in and starting up the truck. His hard cock is straining against his jeans, and you scoot closer to him, cupping your hand around it.

“Nothing,” you say, “nothing at all, sweetie,” but you smile when you see his jaw clench as soon as your palm presses against his cock and his voice is strained when he replies.

“If you keep doing that I’m gonna have to park the truck somewhere dark before we get back to my place.”

“Would you like that, Frankie?” you ask in a low voice, leaning in so that your breath tickles his neck and you see goosebumps break out on his skin.

“If you’re asking if I wanna fuck you in my truck, then, fuck yes. But let's save that for a date where I can do it properly, and not in the corner of some Costco parking lot.” His voice is a dark rumble as he looks over at you, pausing the truck at a stop sign. His unruly curls are creating a halo lit by the street light behind him and it reminds you of the first time you were in his truck. Him driving to the airfield with you and you’re struck by how much has happened since that first day with Frankie.

“Remember when we were first in your truck together?” you ask, mirroring the gesture you did then, lifting your hand to push it through the soft curls on his head.

“I do, vividly,” he smiles, leaning into your hand, “I told you to do that again when we weren’t in any vehicles I would crash.”

“You also said you wanted to kiss me.”

“I did, and I wanted to kiss you right then, but it took like three more tries before I got my chance.” Frankie chuckles as he puts the truck in drive again. He lifts his arm so that he can put it around your shoulders, pulling you in, and you take your hand from his cock, not wishing to cause any accidents, resting it on his thigh instead.

“Put your hand back there as soon as we’re inside the apartment, please,” Frankie says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, making you giggle and squeeze his thigh. Your sexual energy is still thrumming in your nerves but they simmer lower as you lean against Frankie, feeling a different kind of energy in your system.

This man makes you feel safe, comfortable and wanted. You drop your head against his shoulder, relishing in the way his sheer presence wraps you up in a cocoon of happy content, as if his solid, calm energy makes your body relax and sink into him. Frankie’s own self doubts and nerves never seemed to seep out of him, he pulled them into himself, you could see in his eyes when he was pulled under by his negative thoughts, but the energy he gave to you was always solid, like a rock holding you steady.

“You’re my rock, Frankie,” you say, as you wrap your arm across his waist, hugging him tightly.

“Your rock, cariño?” he smiles, dropping his eyes from the road for a second to look at you.

“You’re solid like a rock, making me feel calm when I’m with you, like you can handle whatever happens and keep me safe.”

“I don’t know how much of a rock I am, I’ve struggled with keeping myself steady for most of my life,” he says, his voice a little doleful.

“I know, but somehow you still manage to make me feel like you’re the most stable person in the world.”

“You mean boring,” Frankie snorts, “should I be insulted?”

You slap him playfully and shake your head, “Anything but boring, Frankie, just…you make me feel calm, and relaxed, when I’m with you. And happy. Very, very happy.”

You feel him tighten his arm around your shoulders, “Mi amor,” he mumbles, his lips pressed to your hair as he keeps one eye on the road, “you make me very, very happy too.”

…

The mood changes as you get to Frankie’s apartment, riding up the elevator he nods up at the security camera in the corner and you resort to snuggling into him, keeping everything PG. But the second he’s got you over the threshold he cages you in between his arms against the door, his long body pressed up against yours, and you wrap your arms around his neck as his mouth finds yours.

“Longest fucking dinner of my life,” he murmurs against you, his hips are flush against your belly and the hard line of his cock twitches between you. “Would’ve pulled you out of there and actually fucked you in my truck if I hadn’t waited three weeks for that reservation.”

“You’re such a romantic, Frankie,” you smile, grabbing hold of his curls and pulling him back a little so that you can see his dark eyes, his eyelids half closed and a greedy look on his face.

“Put your hand back on my dick, please, hermosa,” he husks, rolling his hips so that you can feel his cock more firmly. Keeping a hold on his hair so that you can look at him you snake your other hand between you and cup it over the hard bulge in his jeans, stroking it firmly with your eyes locked on his. His lips curl up almost as if he’s in pain and a dark groan slips out between his parted lips as he keeps his eyes on you, his pupils are wide and half hidden under his eyelids. You repeat the motion, adding your nails, rasping them over the bulge and Frankie’s head falls back.

“Fuuuuck….” he moans, louder this time, “fucking feels so good but I’m about to break the zipper, cariño,” he pants.

You tug at his hair, “Eyes on me, Francisco.” The use of his full name snaps him back as you palm him again, using your nails, and the look in his eyes sparks something inside you. Leaning in, close to his ear, you nip lightly at his earlobe, pulling a soft gasp from him.

“Frankie,” you whisper, “do you like it when I tell you what to do?” The groan from deep in his chest is answer enough, and when you lean back, looking at him again, his jaw is clenched and he’s got a strained look on his face.

“Tell me what to do, hermosa,” he grates out, his hips still against your palm cupped over his aching cock. His eyebrows are tightly knitted, his dark eyes fixed on your as he swallows hard, but he doesn’t move.

You smile, the thought of having Frankie obeying your orders turns you on more than you thought it would. He’s always in control when you have sex, apart from the last few minutes when he loses himself, pumping into you as he chases his orgasm, he’s always in control. He always makes sure you come once or twice before he thinks about himself, he’s always thinking about how to give you as much pleasure as possible and seems to get as much out of it as you do. But he’s always called the shots, until now.

“Frankie…” you purr, pulling your hand up from his dick to stroke your fingertips over his patchy beard, “this is new, I can call the shots tonight?”

“Yes, baby, tell me what you want me to do,” his face is less strained now that your hand isn’t caressing his aching cock but his tone is still a dark groan

“Take me to your bedroom, Frankie,” you say, testing the waters, although this is hardly a difficult one.

With a swift motion he bends and puts his arm behind your knees, the other at your back, picking you up as your arms wrap around his neck for purchase and he walks through the dimly lit apartment.

“With the risk of sounding like a cavewoman,” you giggle, “your strength always turns me on, I forget how strong you are until you pick me up like I weigh nothing.”

“Maybe I should pick you up more often,” Frankie grins, pushing open the door to his bedroom. “Tell me, what do you want me to do with you now?”

“Put me down,” you say and he gently sets you down on your feet and you sit down on the edge of the bed, giving him a mischievous smile.

“Take your clothes off for me, Frankie.”

He grins and starts rolling down the sleeves of his white shirt before unbuttoning it, revealing more tanned skin as he moves down.

“The thing is,” you say, your eyes shamelessly watching him slide the shirt off his wide shoulders, “you’re always in control when we have sex. Making sure I come first, making me come several times before you even let me touch you.” Frankie gives you a proud smirk while his hands undo his belt and slides it out, dropping it on the floor next to the shirt. “And tonight, I wanna do the same to you.” You watch as his hands still, his zipper halfway down.

“Don’t stop, Francisco,” you tell him. “You take your pants off at the last moment, when you’ve already got me spread out on the bed, coming down from you eating my pussy. I wanna watch you properly this time.” At the mention of him eating you out he narrows his eyes and you see the pink tip of his tongue peek out between his lips, his eyes dropping to the hem of your dress.

“Maybe later, Frankie, if you’re a good boy,” you smile and his eyes find yours, the greedy look in them almost makes you want to drop your game and let him take control again. But instead you watch him push his jeans down over his narrow hips, catching his socks at the same time as he steps out of them. He stands up, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his snug black boxers, looking at you with his head tilted to the side and a crooked grin.

“Want me to keep going?” he asks, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

You bite your lip, it’s hard to keep a straight face when he’s looking so good standing in front of you and he knows you’re cracking. “I didn’t tell you to stop, Francisco,” you manage to press out.

The boxers are stretched over his rigid cock, doing nothing to hide the sheer size of him or how aroused he is. When you first had sex with him he was a bit self conscious, both about his body and the size of dick. Any qualms about this size you’d dispelled the first time, he knew you loved how he filled you up and you let him know it, loudly. His hang ups about his flat butt and soft belly were harder to dispel, but now he’s standing in front of you without any nerves, confidence oozing from him as he drags his boxers down his hips. He keeps his eyes on you as they slide over his cock, making it jump out as the elastic pulls over the tip. You’re flitting your eyes between his boxers and his face, your tongue peaking out without you noticing, licking your lips as he drops the boxers and strokes himself a few times with languid passes.

“Lie down on the bed, Frankie,” you order him, standing up so that he can stretch out and lie back. He puts his hands out for you, trying to pull you down on top of him but you smile and slip away from his hands.

“Patience, Frankie boy,” you purr and swat his hand away from your leg as he grins.

You’ve still got your dress on and you see his cocky smile fade away as you give him the same view you just got. You’re wearing the black wrap around dress he loves and as his dark eyes watches, you untie it at the waist and let it fall open, pulling the ribbon out of the dress.

“Hermosa,” Frankie moans, “you’re so beautiful, come here, let me touch you, please.”

Shrugging it off your shoulders you step back up on the bed and straddle Frankie’s thighs, his hard cock jutting up towards his stomach just in front of you.

“Not yet, my sweet Frankie,” you coo, “I know you want to taste me, make me come with your face buried in my pussy, but not yet.”

Frankie’s jaw clenches and you can see his hands grabbing hold of the covers as you sit down. He’s desperate to touch but determined to let you guide him this time. The black lace panties and bra you’re wearing aren’t helping, it’s his favourite set. You’d asked for his advice when you bought it a few weeks ago and his cock had twitched when he thought about seeing you in it, wrapped like a present for him. Now you’re hovering above his erection, wearing that set, leaning down over him as your hand closes around the base.

“Cariño,” he grumbles with a shiver as your breath ghosts over the head of his cock, it’s already weeping, drops of precum collecting at the slit. “Please…”

“Please what, Frankie?” you smile, leaning closer to the tip, sticking out your tongue, keeping your eyes on him. His eyes are black, his eyebrows furrowed as he looks at where the tip of your tongue traces the slit of his cock. When you make contact he moans, his hips bucking up involuntarily.

“Please, hermosa,” he pants, and you lick your tongue over the head, collecting the salty liquid as he groans and bucks his hips again. Your mouth sinks over him and he’s fisting the covers, fighting the urge to grab on to your head, instead he watches as his aching cock disappears between your lips. He can feel the head gliding along the inside of your mouth as you take him deeper, your tongue licking along the length, teasing along the swollen ridges and veins that thrum with heat. Saliva drips from your mouth, down over his cock and you use it to slide your hand up and down him, easing the friction over the part that’s not in your mouth.

Heat is building fast in his belly, your mouth is a hot vise around his cock, taking more and more down your throat as he gasps and groans, screwing up his eyes when he can’t watch, when he gets too close to coming. He’s rambling as he shivers underneath you, praising your mouth, your tongue, your hands. When your nose brushes against the wiry curls at the base of his cock, the head bumping the back of your throat, he cries out, begging you for release.

“Please, you’re so good to me, let me…oh fuck you feel good,” he stutters, his voice catching as you close your mouth around him, dragging your lips along his length as you increase the pressure.

“Fuck…your mouth…hermosa, your mouth, make me come, let me come in you.” He opens his eyes again, looking down at you as you sink your mouth down over him again, you can taste his precum on your tongue, more of it leaking out.

His hips are jerking up, he’s breathing fast as he whimpers and you lift your eyes to him, meeting his gaze. Seeing him like this, his mouth hanging open as he whines, looking wrecked, he screws his face up as if he’s in pain, makes you shudder, your panties are soaked, every one of his moans and whines going straight to your core.

You sink down deeper over him, your tongue licking every inch of him as you take as much as you can, letting his cock brush against the back of your throat again as you move your mouth up and down his length, stroking the slick base with your hand coated in his precum and your saliva.

Frankie lets out a broken growl, “fuck, cariño, ple…please…I’m gon - “ his stuttering turns into shout as you feel the first burst of thick liquid coat your tongue, he’s jerking his hips, his hands fly from the sheets and tangle in your hair as he pumps himself upwards, your mouth closing tight around his pulsating cock, milking his spend as it shoots out of him. Frankie’s whole body tenses up, his back arching off the bed, the corded tendons on his neck stretch and tremble when he throws his head back, a cry as if he’s in pain tearing itself from his throat.

You continue to stroke him through his climax, looking up at him, seeing his throat strain as he pants, groaning through his high. His thrusts grow slower and you let your mouth drag along him, softening your lips as you let him pump the last of himself over your tongue, ending with a small kiss on the tip of his sensitive head. He relaxes and looks down at you again, seeing your mouth come off him and you wipe the back of your hand over your mouth.

“Help, I can’t move,” he groans softly and you smile at him as you crawl up his body and lie down in his arms.

“I liked that,” you say, wrapping an arm over his chest as he pulls you in close. “I see why you like eating my pussy first, it’s a rush to have that power.”

“Don’t get used to it, cariño,” Frankie smiles, “I’m not giving it up so easily.”

“I’ll get Benny to teach me how to bark orders like in the military, you seem to like me bossing you around.”

“Only because I let you,” he pokes his finger into your side, “I wanted to see if you had it in you.”

“Bullshit!” you splutter and almost sit up, but Frankie’s arm tightens around you and pulls you back down. “The second I used your full name you caved.”

“I hated hearing my full name in the army, it meant I was in trouble. But when you say it, cariño lindo…I melt.”

“I know, Francisco Morales,” your giggle turns into a squeal when he suddenly grabs your arms and flips you over.

“Ahora, mi hermosa,” he murmurs as he sinks his mouth to your neck, “now it’s your turn.”

Chapter 8

#frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales fanfic #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales fluff #frankie morales smut #fanfiction #triple frontier fanfic #pedro pascal character fanfiction #frankie morales #sweet frankie morales #smut #fluff

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moni-logues · 7 months ago

Note

Oooh, your requests are open! Any rules or prompt list? If there are none, please may I request the following?

You, as BTS Jungkook's Noona. You have a loving sibling relationship, the kind where parents would love for their children to have with each other. The only complaint you have is that he sometimes acts like the older brother, which can be a little claustrophobic when it happens (e.g. chaperoning you on your date when you were teenagers, having a word with your boss when you were overlooked for a well-deserved promotion, etc). Especially when you were a strong (emotionally and mentally, at least) woman, and totally able to f9ght your own battles. Aside from his BTS members, he's good friends with Bang Chan and Minho from SKZ. Given his overprotective tendency, how does he react when he find out that some of his members + Chan and Minho have feelings for you?

Thank you, and please let me know if you have any questions or concerns?

ok so this is like, the very lite version of what you've asked for lmao because I wanted to keep it brief and it could so easily have got out of hand

I don't even really know what to categorise this as.

It's Jungkook's older sister x (potentially) Chan or Minho. It's three men being idiots. It has the tiniest bit of cheek. It is... what it is lol

Word count: 640

Content: none to warn for

Three Men and a Lady

“Hold on,” Jungkook said firmly, his hands up in front of him. “You both like her?”

“Yes,” Chan and Minho answered.

“And I’m supposed to decide which one of you gets to ask her out?”

“No,” Chan replied emphatically. “You have to tell us which one of us she likes more.”

“I don’t think she likes either of you.”

Chan and Minho exchanged a confused look.

“Neither of us?”

“Why would she like you?”

They looked at each other again, somewhat at a loss for words. They hung out all the time with Jungkook, and that meant, a lot of the time, with his sister, too; they all had fun together. She must like them at least a little. Surely?

“Why wouldn’t she?” Minho asked.

Jungkook stared at the two of them. Yes, they were his friends. He liked them. They were good guys. Good enough for his sister? That was where his conviction wobbled. No one was good enough for his sister.

He sat back against the sofa and considered it. She could certainly do worse. She had, in fact, already done worse. If she dated one of his best friends, he could probably far more easily keep an eye on things than if it were some other random guy. Chan and Minho were giving him a choice, too. He got to make the decision. He liked that because his sister quite clearly couldn’t make a good decision on her own. But he would have to approach it carefully; both men were competitive and he didn’t want this to ruin their friendship.

On the other hand, both men were competitive, and that could be a lot of fun.

“Ok.,” he said, sitting forward again, clapping his hands together. “Let’s do it like this. A competition.”

Both suitors pulled a face.

“JK, that sounds weird.”

“What is this, like 1700 or something? We’re not competing. We’re not trying to impress you.”

“You should be if you want me to pick you!”

“You’re not picking us! SHE is. We’re just asking if you know what HER pick is!”

“And you clearly don’t,” Minho accused, with a roll of his eyes.

“Woah woah woah...” JK’s hands were up in defence once more. “Let’s just calm down-”

“Why are we calming down?”

All three male heads turned to see the woman in question exit from her bedroom. They froze, like deer in headlights.

“Uh,” Chan began, not sure where he was going after that.

“Well, it’s-... Uh,” Jungkook stammered.

“Jungkook is wilfully misunderstanding us,” Minho explained without really explaining.

“Sounds about right,” she scoffed affectionately.

“Oi!”

“You know it’s true.”

She continued on into the kitchen area of the living space, very much still within earshot, so the guys stayed quiet, trying to make non-awkward conversation with her as she prepared a sandwich and made a coffee.

None of them had realised she was in. She was supposed to be out—at a gym session or class or something—that was why the conversation was taking place there. Jungkook was supposed to have made sure she was out.

They were figuratively holding their breath, unsure what she might have heard. Chan and Minho knew she would be furious. She was frequently furious with Jungkook and his over-protectiveness. His possessiveness. She was his sister. His older sister, at that, and took great exception to the way Jungkook acted as her keeper and protector. If she found out Chan and Minho had gone to him first, well, neither of them would ever get to date her. Or probably even speak to her ever again.

“It’s Chan, by the way,” she said as she took her plate and mug back to her bedroom.

“What?”

She paused in the doorway.

“Chan. He’s the one I like. Sorry, Minho.”

Then she winked and shut the door behind her.

#jungkook fanfic #minho fanfic #bangchan fanfic #lino fanfic #bts fanfic #skz fanfic #jungkook drabble #minho drabble #bangchan drabble #chan drabble #chan fanfic #lee know fanfic

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novankenn · 20 days ago

Text

Reluctant Hero?

= Thirty-Four = (Chapter List)

Glynda was stressed as she watched the actions of the team Ozpin named JNC(Junk) showed their complete and utter chaotic nature. As their... leader, Mr. Arc sat by himself drinking, Ms. Valkyrie as apparently attempting drown herself, and Mr. Winchester was walking around blinking and shaking his head as if he was in a daze.

Glynda sighed. The start of a massive tension headache forming, as a band of pain began to grow in intensity.

????: GRIMM!

That shout pulled Glynda's attention from the delinquent team. Ripping her riding crop like weapon from it's thigh holster she turned towards the shout. She expected it to be a prank in bad taste, only to gasp as at least a half a dozen slimy looking grimm crested the cliff face, overlooking the Emerald forest.

Glynda: EVERYONE INTO BEACON NOW!!!

The grimm charged catching some of the stunned students flat footed, but Glynda Goodwitch... wasn't going to loose another student to this insanity. Flicking her riding crop she unleashed her impressive semblance tossing the twisted grimm creatures aside and freeing those they had trapped. She was a one-woman army, and those whatever they were who her gaze fell upon felt her displeasure.

But that was the problem. She was easily able to handle the ones she saw... not the new group that had scaled the cliffs on her blind side. The new group being lead by one of the students that hadn't been recovered.

STUDENTS: LOOK OUT! BEHIND YOU!

Glynda: Omph!

Glynda grunted as she was suddenly hit from the back and sent tumbling, across the ground. Luckily she kept hold of her weapons, and her wits. Rolling to her back she gave a snap of her wrist catching one of the newly appeared grimm-ish beasts in mid air and turning it into a smear on Beacon's exterior. However it wasn't enough as the former student turned Deadite grabbed her by the wrist and twisted.

Glynda: AHHHHH!!!!

Deadite Student: Hello Ms Goodwitch...

Glynda twisted her body and drove her knee into the rotting living corpse shattering it's ribs, and achieving only a sickening smile for all of her efforts.

Deadite Student: It's futile to resist us. We're going over run your precious school and feast upon the fresh meat inside. There is nothing you can do to stop us... bitch!

Glynda leaned her head back and then brought it forward with all the strength she could muster, driving her forehead into the Deadite's face, smashing her nose, and snapping her orbital bones.

Deadite Student: I'm going to suck out your...

THUNK!

The Deadite looked at the beer can sitting on the ground at her feet., and then looked up...

Jaune: Hey Swamp Snatch!

Cardin: That's OUR boss bitch!

Nora: And if anyone is sucking her out it's us!

Jaune and Cardin both gave Nora a look.

Nora: What?

Jaune: Really?

Nora: It sounded better in my head, okay!

Cardin: Can we do this after?

Jaune: No, I think we should address this now.

Nora: Oh come on! You get to say stupid shit all the time!

Cardin: Guys. Deadites.

Jaune: Screw it. Let's get some.

Nora: Hail to the Queen...

Cardin: Groovy.

Deadite Student: KILL THEM AL... URK???

The Deadite Student looked in utter surprise at Professor Goodwitch who had just driven her good hand through the rotten flesh and bone of her former charge's chest.

Glynda: I. Don't. Think. So.

Glynda grit her teeth and yanked her arm backwards out of the Deadite's chest. The sound of snapping bone, tearing flesh and squelching goo, assaulted her ears. The Deadite Student's eyes were wide as her head suddenly flopped backwards, only staying attached due to her rotting flesh and skin. Clutched in Glynda's hand an ichor section of spine.

Jaune: You gotta be kidding me?

Nora: That was so metal!

Cardin: I think I'm going to be sick.

Glynda looks from the stumbling around floppy necked living corpse to the trio of pains in her ass.

Glynda: Well? DO SOMETHING!

The trio said nothing as they jumped to the task, while several students returned to the grounds armed and ready to join the fight. Glynda's earlier efforts had culled most of the original pack, and the monologuing of the Deadite had kept the others from roving too far. It was all over aside from getting well needed showers in about three to five minutes.

Glynda was sitting with her back against the low wall of the central fountain, when Jaune, Cardin and Nora joined her.

Glynda: It is always so...

Nora: Gooey?

Cardin: Pretty much.

Jaune laid down in front of the trio sitting against the fountain. Somehow he found time between the end of the fight, and laying down in exhaustion to find another six pack of beer.

Jaune: If you want one help yourselves.

Nora and Cardin wanted to reach forward, both curious as to how it tasted seeing as Jaune liked drinking it so much. They paused looking at Professor Goodwitch, who to their surprise reached out and took one for herself.

Glynda: I'm to tired to give a fuck, so do what you want.

Nora and Cardin started to reach out for a can each when Jaune suddenly sat up a crazy look in his eyes.

Jaune: That's what we need!

Glynda: What is it we need Mr Arc?

Jaune: Prof we need a fuck!

Glynda: WHAT? HOW... HOW...

Nora: Shooting above your weight class there Jaune-Jaune.

Cardin: Can I have the Delta after you become a smear?

Jaune: NO, not that type of fuck. Get your minds out of the gutter. I'm talking about a party and partaking in my greatest creation. Pink Fuck.

Cardin: Pink...

Nora: Fuck...

Glynda: Is what exactly?

Jaune: A special homebrew proprietary mix of various liquors, pink lemonade and a SPECIAL SECRET ingredient.

Cardin: SO are you going to share this... creation with us after you make it, or are we going to have to sit there watching you drink it?

Jaune: Nope. This is a team building exercise, in the form of mental bleaching all this shit from our minds, it's also a celebration of saving Boss Bitch...

Glynda: Mr. ARC!

Jaune: And affirming our acceptance of Nora's bravery for coming out to us... considering...

Nora: Hey! I miss spoke!

Jaune: Hey now. Don't be back tracking. That's not good for your mental health.

Cardin: And getting shit faced is?

Jaune: No, but what you want to sit on a couch telling a therapist about this shit? How do you think that will work out for you?

Cardin: Drinking it is then!

#rwby #ash vs evil dead #horror themed #jaune arc #cardin winchester #nora valkyrie #deadites #deadite grimm #Youtube #glynda goodwitch

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mileapo · 1 year ago

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Mile & Apo: It takes two to triumph

IN THE GLITZY REALM OF entertainment, where talent often shines like a beacon, there occasionally emerges a pair of stars whose chemistry transcends the screen. Such is the case with Mile and Apo, two charismatic Thai actors whose TV show KinnPorsche has become a global sensation, watched by millions of viewers from Russia and India, to Poland and Peru.

The two have risen from relative obscurity to become the new ambassadors of Dior, mobbed by teenage girls when they arrived in Mumbai earlier this year to attend a Dior fashion show.

On the surface, the Thai series KinnPorsche seems to have thrown the rulebook of “How to make a hit TV show” out the window. It is a mafia story filled with surly men, bloody gang fights and epic shoot-outs – which, yes, is a mainstay of TV programming. But the radical twist is this: the two main characters are a mafia boss’ son (played by Mile) and his male bodyguard (played by Apo) who – surprise, surprise – fall in love with each other.

In the history of TV, there has never been a hit crime series centred on a gay plot. But when KinnPorsche debuted in April 2022 on Thai TV and global streaming service iQiyi, it almost instantly became the top trending title in neighbouring countries such as Singapore, Indonesia, Malaysia, Vietnam and the Philippines.

Soon after, it claimed Europe, finding particular popularity in Poland, Turkey, Italy and France. Then it stormed its way into North and South America, where it was a top trending topic in the US, Mexico, Brazil, Argentina, Ecuador and Colombia.

No one – not even the cast and producers – thought the show would be this successful. It seems to have fed into some untapped market for female audiences who love action shows, but don’t care to see yet another threateningly perfect actress couple up with their fantasy man.

If you ask any fan what it is about the show that makes them sweat, swoon or quiver with delight, they’ll answer quite simply: Mile and Apo.

Double or nothing

At their photo shoot in Bangkok’s top restaurant Nusara, which overlooks the splendid temple complex Wat Pho, the models-turned-actors are in their element. They tailor their bodies and facial expressions instinctively for the camera, conveying a range of emotions, from sultry and mysterious to bright and playful. The slinky Dior suits, with their clean lines and minimal embellishments, don’t hurt either.

Mile (or Phakphum Romsaithong) and Apo (or Nattawin Wattanagitiphat) recently released their new film Man Suang in cinemas. It is a big-budget political thriller set during the 19th century reign of Rama III, replete with historically authentic sets and costumes.

Apo plays a traditional dancer who is recruited to spy in an elite club and uncover a plot to overthrow the order of the king. Finding a kindred spirit in the club’s taphon drummer (played by Mile), the two team up to stop the underground rebellion.

Speaking with the help of a translator, Mile, 31, explains: “We hope the movie reaches out to a wide audience. We wanted it to have both commercial and critical success, something that could show Thai history and culture to the world, but also be fun and entertaining enough to be a popcorn movie for the masses.”

Both actors note how T-pop (the shorthand for Thai popular entertainment) has been hyped as the next global sensation after K-pop and J-pop, following the massive success of Thai stars such as Lisa Manobal, Bright Vachirawit and Win Opas-iamkajorn.

“And it can happen,” says Apo, 29, also through a translator. “Thai people are very humble, gentle, hardworking and friendly. We can blend into any culture. If anything, Thailand has served as a melting pot for different cultures – just as Singapore has. Our culture can be easily embraced by the world.”

The duo believes that the global audience has transformed in recent times. “They’re now more welcoming of stories from different parts of the world, especially if those stories involve characters going on a journey to discover themselves and make themselves better, stronger, wiser and happier,” says Apo. “That’s why when I look for new projects these days, I look for the ones that carry the messages of self-actualisation.”

Mile concurs, adding: “I’ve always believed in ‘high risk, high return’. KinnPorsche was a risky proposition, because it took a mafia crime genre and placed it in the Boy Love category (a niche genre involving gay romance). But I believed in the project’s potential from the start – even if I never thought it’d become the cultural phenomenon that it is today. Its success has only strengthened my belief in ‘high risk, high return’.”

One-two punch

The road to success has been winding for both actors. Though born with the magnetic allure of leading men, they’ve had to work hard to secure roles over countless rivals, as strikingly handsome as they are. Having appeared in smaller parts before, it was the smash success of KinnPorsche – a show that almost didn’t get made because of funding issues – that catapulted them into not just the Thai limelight, but the global stratosphere.

Asked what Dior’s artistic director Kim Jones thinks of KinnPorsche, the duo laughs. Apo says: “We don’t know if he’s seen the show – we didn’t ask him. But we do know that our fans had been bombarding his Instagram account for a while, telling him about us, asking him to check us out, before he signed us up – well, at least that’s what he told us when we met him for the first time.”

“But for all you know, he could be binge-watching the series right now,” quips Mile, prompting another round of chuckles.

As the two men trade jokes in Thai, it’s clear that they share a genuine friendship. Their camaraderie is palpable, adding an extra layer of authenticity to their on-screen chemistry. Their behind-the-scenes antics and playful banter in candid posts have become fan fodder, launching thousands of TikTok videos and memes.

Mile says: “We’ve only become better friends in these past two-and-a-half years. We’ve become more synchronised, and our mindsets and energies are moving at the same pace. I can look at Apo and more or less understand what’s going on in his mind. We have small conflicts, of course – it’s normal among friends – but it’s usually something so minor, we can resolve it quickly.”

The best part of their friendship? Their shared love of dad jokes – that genre of silly, cheesy jokes with predictable punchlines that fathers supposedly love to tell their kids.

But Mile confesses: “I don’t tell dad jokes because I like them, to be honest. What I really, really want to tell are smart jokes, witty jokes… But I’m so bad at making jokes that they always come across as dad jokes, no matter how hard I try.”

Apo interjects: “Do you wanna hear a good dad joke?” Then, switching from Thai to halting English, he says slowly: “Hey you… watch where you walk… or you will… fall… into… my heart.”

#mileapo #mile phakphum #apo nattawin #the buisness times #interview

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razorblade180 · 1 year ago

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Mind at work

[teapot]

Aether:*stares at Abyss Domain list*…

Kokomi:Trying to figure out a strategy? We did manage to reach the bottom, though I’ll admit are performance was somewhat lacking.

Aether:It’s no one’s fault. You did exactly what you were supposed to. It’s just weird. Our group is pretty big and aren’t exactly slackers. I feel like I’m overlooking something.

Kokomi:For the most part, foes want to get personal so grouping isn’t a problem. I do feel as if something is amiss. *stares at second half* Is there really no team naturally fitted for this.

Aether and Kokomi:Hmmm….!?

Kokomi:Aether?

Aether:Yeah I see it.

xxxxx

Bennett:It’s been awhile since the for of us hung out. I missed you guys!

Xingqui:The feeling is mutual. Though I wish it was for calmer circumstances.

Xiangling:I’m just glad it’s finally over. Never thought I’d be this rusty. *slouches* how many did we get?

Chongyun:*sitting on boss* if I counted correctly, thirty two. That’s progress.

Bennett:Free cheers for a good run. Hip hip-

CXXB:Hooray!

xxxxxx

Aether:I can live in peace now.

Kokomi:I can’t. We’re one star short of another bonus.

Aether:Let it go~ *lays down* this is already better than I hoped.

Kokomi:*looking at list* Technically speaking…do we really need to send a crowd controller when the majority of the foes want to run at people? What if for the first half we asked someone who’s just really strong and willing to face immense danger the majority of the run.

Aether:(I should really help Itto’s development more often. Only other person who might fit that description is-) *sits up* I can call some people. It won’t matter though if second half is too slow. Too bad electro teams aren’t that good on that half.

Kokomi:*scratches head* What a weird group of enemies. Me helping Miko would’ve been perfect along side Nahida and Dehya. We could ask Yoimiya again?

Aether:Do you think she’ll survive?

Kokomi:*sighs* I’m good but I’m not good. The group falls apart with consistent power, but lots of our heavy hitters bruise easily or aren’t suited well enough for a full manageable run. We need balance.

Aether:Who doesn’t care at all about the Thunder Manifestation besides Yoi-….*zips down the hall*

Kokomi:I guess he found the answer.

Aether:*opens door* Hey, wanna go to floor 12?

Yanfei:Where’s Yoimiya!?

Aether:You have a shield and are all pyro attacks.

Yanfei:…Is Kokomi coming?

Kokomi:*yells* Yes!

Yanfei:I’ll do my best.

xxxxx

Consecrated beasts: *unconscious*

Scara:*sitting on one*….

Zhongli:What’s he doing?

Diona:Judging if this went well or not. It’s kinda his way criticizing.

Faruzan:Hmph, the lad is just incapable of actually giving a decent compliment; even after doing so much for him! At best he’ll say “well it looks like you actually can do something.” Ugh, it drives me mad.

Scara:*turns around* ….. *thumbs up*

Zhongli:Looks like he’s satisfied.

FD: (Genuine praise!? What’s gotten into him!?)

Scara, secretly stressed: (That’s it, just play it cool and act like I didn’t almost get mauled to death.)

Meanwhile on the other half…

Baptist: *full nelson* LET ME GO!

Dehya:Don’t feel like. Yanfei!

Yanfei:You sure? *holds fireball*

Kokomi:It’ll be fine. *makes fish*

Nahida:She can take it. *closes one eye* Ready…aim….

Baptist:Nooooooooo!

xxxxx

34 stars

Kokomi:…Y’know-

Everyone:We can’t!

Kokomi:Alright, hit the showers.

#genshin impact #gi aether #xiangling #sangonomiya kokomi #chongyun #xingqui #gi bennett #scaramouche #nahida #yanfei #gi dehya #gi zhongli #faruzan #gi diona

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mamawasatesttube · 2 years ago

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timkon "we'll figure this out" ?

"So... that coulda gone better, huh?"

Tim turns from the window overlooking the planet far below with an incredibly deadpan expression. The red star far off to the left lights up half of his body in its fiery glow; the spaceship's lights, by contrast, are dim and paltry, barely even reaching the corners of the room.

Cell. May as well call it like it is—if it walks like a holding cell and quacks like a holding cell...

"Yeah, maybe a little," Tim says. "But—and I can't believe I'm the one saying this—it could've been worse. At least they didn't blow us up?"

Kon huffs out a breathy laugh. He slumps to sit on the stiff bed shoved up against the window, letting his head fall back against the glass with a thump. "Ow."

"Oh, brother," Tim mutters, settling onto the bed next to him (stupid alien kidnappers didn't even give them two beds). "No invulnerability under red suns, remember? Don't be stupid."

"Rob." Kon clasps a dramatic hand to his chest, turning soulful eyes to his bro. "I am stupid. You're telling me to deny my true nature."

Tim flicks him on the forehead.

"Ow!"

"Oh, stop being a big baby." Even with the mask on, Kon can easily tell Tim isn't just smiling; he's smirking at him, the smug bastard. "Or are you determined to be the damsel in distress here instead of helping me figure out how we're gonna call backup?"

"Uh, bad news on that front," Kon says, growing a bit more serious. "Preeetty sure that last explosion earlier probably took out the comms transceiver on our ship."

The smirk drops from Tim's face. "You're fucking with me." He sighs, rubs his temples, and flops back against the incredibly uncomfortable pillows their captors have so thoughtfully provided them with. "Oof."

Kon lies down at a more sedate pace, patting Tim's entire face both to reassure him and simply to be annoying. "Hey, it's not all bad. They didn't clock us as enough of a threat to bother separating us. And we've been in hotter water than this and made it out, right? ...I'm pretty sure we have, anyway. So! We'll figure this out. And then we'll kick some Denebian ass."

"Thanks for the pep talk," Tim says wryly, his voice a bit muffled. "Get your hand off my mouth before I lick it."

Kon seriously considers leaving his hand there just to see what Tim does if licking it doesn't make him pull back, but decides that that brand of stupidity is probably better saved for when they're, like, at least in their own solar system, and also not in any sort of fucked up space jail.

Relenting, he sighs and moves his arm down, throwing it over Tim's waist instead. "Man. They really didn't even try to get comfortable beds in here, did they?"

"Not in the slightest." Tim pats his head. "Hmm... we should try and get some rest anyway, though. The next guard rotation's probably in two hours, I bet, and when they come by..."

He's wearing a mask, sure, but Kon doesn't need to see his face in full to know just how his eyes must be glinting brilliantly in the red light.

"When they come by," Tim continues, his lips curving into a slight smile. "I think I have an idea."

"Oh, fuck yeah. So, what's the plan, boss? Lay it on me." Kon grins at him. "You know I love your ideas."

"Well," Tim says. "Here's what I'm thinking..."

♥ angst/fluff prompts ♥

#two idiots in space jail. what will they do #blenderfullasarcasm #timkon #rimi writes #tim #kon

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fibula-rasa · 10 months ago

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Favorite New-to-Me Films

January ’24

READ on BELOW the JUMP!

(listed in order of collage above, L to R)

Eleven P.M. (1928)

[letterboxd | imdb | kanopy]

Synopsis: Sundaisy, a violinist, tries to fulfill a friend’s dying request to ensure his son is raised away from the criminal element of the city. Unfortunately, Sundaisy is duped by a phony priest, and the boy grows into a low-level crime boss. After a series of misfortunes spurred on by the boy over the course of decades, Sundaisy’s family is nearly ruined. However, Sundaisy’s will for vengeance leads to supernatural consequences. All this is couched in a frame story of a man trying to meet an 11 p.m. deadline.

This is easily my favorite first-time viewing of the month. The synopsis above admittedly does not capture the mystical/transcendental attitude that Eleven P.M. reflects. This is the only film Detroit-based Richard Maurice ever directed, but it displays sophisticated ideas about film storytelling, using an array of devices in inventive ways. It’s always a treat to be reminded of how creative and exciting independent filmmaking can be in America. If you want to check this one out, I advise you to keep an open mind and not approach it with an overly literal, nitpicky mindset. Let Richard Maurice take you on this ride and I don’t think you’ll regret it!

I watched this on the Pioneers of African-American Cinema box set, which I can’t recommend highly enough. The films are outstandingly curated and contextualized and the set showcases an often-overlooked but indispensable part of American cultural history. A lot of the films are also available on streaming through kanopy, which you may be able to access with your library card if you live in the US.

---

Lea on Rollerskates / Lea sui pattini (1912)

[letterboxd | imdb]

Synopsis: Lea isn’t allowed by her parents to go rollerskating with a friend, so she decides to skate in her own bedroom. She proceeds to wreak havoc in the home before an accidental self-defenestration sets her free to wreak havoc at the roller rink instead.

A jam-packed, stunt-heavy bit of nonsense led by Lea Giunchi. I’ve watched quite a few of her films now and I’ve learned this is pretty standard for her. I love each and every pratfall.

---

Two Girls are in Love with Foolshead / Le due innamorate di Cretinetti (1911)

[letterboxd | imdb]

Synopsis: Cretinetti is dating two girls at the same time. The girls decide to duel, but Cretinetti is the one who loses… repeatedly.

I’ve finally gotten around to watching more Andre Deed films and this one was a highlight for January. I don’t know who the skinny woman is, but she and Valentina Frascaroli are great together.

---

X (2022)

[letterboxd | imdb]

Synopsis: A crew of filmmakers leave Houston, TX for the country in order to film a farm-themed porn. The producer of course did not disclose the nature of their stay to the elderly property owners. Said owners have ulterior motives in renting their cabin and respond violently to the group.

Appreciative of all of Ti West’s work, and X has so much going on and so much to say that I originally typed out two full pages (single spaced) on it before I knew it. I won’t be sharing those two pages because I think there are a few points on the approach to gore in recent horror movies that I need to mull over more. For now though, I’ll just say, I didn’t enjoy X at all, but I deeply appreciate what Ti West is putting out there. I probably won’t watch it again and I’m going to be sure my stomach is prepared for whenever I get around to Pearl (2022).

---

The Hayseed (1919)

[letterboxd | imdb | Silent Comedy Watch Party]

Synopsis: Fatty wants to marry Molly, but so does the sheriff. Buster tries to keep the general store in working order while the sheriff plots against Fatty.

Luke the dog is one of my top 5 movie dogs of all time. I’ve never made an official list, but I know in my heart that Luke is at the top. Also, I adore how many modern professional wrestling moves you end up seeing in Fatty/Buster collaborations! In this instance, note the dance sequence with the lady who gets swung around wildly.

---

The Ghost Ship (1943)

[letterboxd | imdb]

Synopsis: Tom Merriam, a young officer, reports for his first commission on a long haul trip on the Altair. The captain has a bit of a strange vibe, but the newbie likes him, at first. As crewmen perish under the captain’s leadership, and the captain’s lectures take on a more sinister tone, Tom knows he needs to act to save the remaining crew and the ship.

Checked this out as I was on a Val Lewton kick not knowing much about it beforehand. I did not expect it to be a movie about fascism done in microcosm. So, if you were looking for a movie about ghosts or a Flying Dutchman, this ain’t it. Its off-beat structure amped up the tension, though the denouement was a little too pat. Cinematography was fantastic, as you might expect from Nicholas Musuraca. I hope Sir Lancelot got two checks for how much his singing contributes to the movie. Richard Dix is such a skilled actor in everything I’ve seen him in, but he is pitch-perfectly terrifying in this movie.

---

Miss Pinkerton (1932)

[letterboxd | imdb]

Synopsis: A nurse who’s bored with hospital work gets assigned to an old woman who’s ailing after a big shock: finding the dead body of her nephew. The detective on the case asks the nurse to gather reconnaissance for him at the house and she gets all the excitement she can stomach as a result.

Miss Pinkerton is a pre-code gem I somehow have never seen before, despite my devotion to Joan Blondell. The plot and characters are interesting, the cinematography (done by Barney McGill) and staging of the film is very dynamic and Joan Blondell brings so much to Miss Pinkerton with her signature effervescent sass. It’s also just over an hour long, so it would make a great watch for one of those evenings where you’re indecisive but want to find something compelling but compact.

---

Phil-for-Short (1919)

[letterboxd | imdb]

Synopsis: Damophilia “Phil” Illington is a free-spirited tomboy brought up by a Greek-professor father and his right-hand man, Pat. Her lack of lady-like decorum raises the ire of two town elders, who are also the local killjoys. When her father passes away, one of the elders abuses his position of power to force her into a conservatorship. Phil disguises herself as a boy and hightails it with Pat. While on the lam, Phil makes the acquaintance of a young woman-hating Greek professor. Through a set of misadventures, Phil and the Professor end up married, but it takes quite a bit of work after the marriage for them to find happiness with one another.

Great characters and performances and I enjoyed marriage not being treated as the resolution or an end point to the story. It’s also very endearing to see such a pervasively queer story about a man and a woman getting together.

---

The Mystic (1925)

[letterboxd | imdb]

Synopsis: A con artist enlists the help of Hungarian travelling carnival performers to enact a phony medium scheme against the hoi polloi of New York City.

Tod Browning is a sure-bet filmmaker for me and The Mystic was no exception. Highlights for me were: the execution of the seance sequences, Erte’s gorgeous costumes for Aileen Pringle, and an ending that I hoped would happen but assumed wouldn’t!

---

There Ain’t No Santa Claus (1926)

[letterboxd | imdb | Silent Comedy Watch Party]

Synopsis: When Christmas rolls around, Charley doesn’t have enough money to both pay the rent and buy his wife a present. He uses his $80 to buy her a watch, instead of the rent, and his nasty landlord/next-door-neighbor steals the watch. Christmas Day turns into a free for all, when both Charley and his landlord dress as Santa and plan to enter via their respective chimneys for their respective children.

Well-paced, great comeuppance, and very well-executed gags. Additionally, Charley Chase looks absolutely outrageous in his Santa wig and he knew it!

---

This one didn’t make it into the collage, but it’s still on the list:

Little Moritz Runs Away With Rosalie / Little Moritz enlève Rosalie (1911)

[letterboxd | imdb]

Synopsis: Little Moritz loves Rosalie and wishes to marry her, but her father objects. So, of course Rosalie and Mortiz run away together in his funky little flivver, but dad and the family dog give chase.

Most of this short is the chase sequence and it’s very well executed. Sarah Duhamel is so cute and so is her family dog. The location shooting is nicely done (was this shot in Nice?) This charming poster captures the vibe of the short perfectly:

---

In January we were hit with a nasty winter storm and, while we were relatively lucky in my neighborhood, we were without internet for a third of the month. So, we ended up relying on our home video collection, which accounts for five of the films above and me re-watching two seasons of Soap and Fritz Lang’s Niebelungenlied (1924).

Despite the holdup, I continued my “Lost, but Not Forgotten” series with The Dancer of the Nile (1923) and started a limited spin-off series, “How’d They Do That?” about special effects and stunts in the silent era.

I also made themed gif & still sets for: Miss Pinkerton, Dementia (1955), and A Christmas Carol (1971).

Here’s to a less eventful February! And, as always, if you’re interested in any of these films, but have specific content warning needs, feel free to ask me.

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cometcon · 1 year ago

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I did it. I wrote fanfic for Helluva Boss. Striker is consuming my mind. XD

So I was looking through the Striker tag on here for more of my favourite bastard snakey boi and found this really neat artwork. :D

And it's a really interesting concept and the artwork is so well done and they've kept just enough of Striker's sinister energy in the images that my brain just wouldn't leave me alone about it. And it got me thinking: Redeemed Striker cuddling up to Moxxie for warmth is definitely cute and even I love it (and I'm aromantic as fuck XD ). But would it be possible to write something with the same basic concept, just making it a different scenario to involve my first impression of Striker instead, without having to redeem and develop Striker first? Can I have my cake and eat it too? XD

I've changed my mind since I first posted this so here's the freshly edited new introductory waffle:

I want to flesh this out a little and write it as a whole oneshot partnered with my Blitz/Striker fic which is also set during Harvest Moon and maybe ending along the lines of the events in the canon episode, but in the meantime my brain churned out about 800 words for the specific prompt. I think I'm leaning for the fic being about Moxxie's perspective of Striker arriving at the farm as in canon. Moxxie dislikes him immediately and since Striker is an egotistical supremacist piece of shit he just doubles down on the dickwad behaviour, but keeps it subtle enough for Blitz and Millie to do their usual thing of overlooking Moxxie's concerns about things they don't see as a problem/threat/red flag (I promise I'm not hating on them; I enjoy their characters but also sometimes it does seem like a fair bit of the shit Moxxie gets dragged into could have been avoided if they'd listened to him. XD Though then we wouldn't have the parts of the show I enjoy, so again, not complaining, just playing with it. Don't kill me lol.) And Moxxie understandably gets sick of Striker's shit and they begin a tit for tat resulting in Moxxie shooting Striker's window 'by accident' and then 'forgetting' to fix it. XD And since they're all sleeping in the farm house, Striker chooses to escalate with a cruel and unusual punishment...

Behold, my first ever attempt at dark fluff. XD

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The sound of the door opening and soft light spilling across the room made Moxxie's eyelids flicker, a low growl of annoyance building in his chest.

Millie had a bad habit of laughing off their boss' infuriating behaviour, finding it amusing. Cute, even. Moxxie vehemently disagreed, yet his complaints typically fell on deaf ears, so he usually just endured. But these night-time visits were reaching the absolute line and Moxxie had had enough. He didn't care what his wife said, he was going to fucking murder Blitz if he took even one more step toward-

His back tensed in surprise as the covers lifted, the mattress behind him sinking beneath Blitz's weight. The night had finally come. He'd suspected his boss would escalate, but the fact it was really happening took its sweet time trickling through his outraged mind. Moxxie's vicious attempt to slam his elbow into the licentious imp's gut was too slow and easily thwarted as a large hand latched onto his arm, halting its trajectory.

"Blitz, I swear to fucking Satan, I will claw your eyes out of your skull and feed them to Luna! Get off me," he hissed quietly, hoping not to wake his snoring wife. She might just tell him to move over and give Blitz more space before falling asleep again anyway.

Before he could do much else however, a long, clammy, lithe body that was decidedly not Blitz pressed into him, strong arms wrapping around his much smaller form and pulling him closer. His heartbeat accelerated and a bolt of fear shot down his spine.

"Shouldn't make threats you can't follow up on, rodent."

Striker's breath wafted over Moxxie's ear in a gentle caress. He shuddered, tugging uselessly at the unyielding grip trapping him against the assassin as he felt Striker curl further, moulding himself into every part of Moxxie he could reach. Moxxie's tail twitched, caught between them and unable to find a gap to escape.

"What the fuck?"

It should have been a shout, but his throat was tense with fright, the words emerging in an embarrassingly pathetic whimper. One hand searched for Millie, desperately praying he could wake her before they were both slaughtered in their sleep.

"Quit wriggling," Striker rumbled, fingers lacing through Moxxie's to draw the hand back into his chest.

"Why are you in here? Get out."

Moxxie still couldn't manage more than a choked whisper, but the fact there seemed to be no intention of actually harming him allowed a rising indignation to take fear's place. He tried kicking, though that only served to annoy Striker, who immediately enveloped the flailing legs between his own. It was like being stuck in a patch of quicksand; the more Moxxie struggled, the deeper he sank.

"Someone hasn't fixed my window yet. It's cold."

That long, spiked tail snaked across Moxxie's shivering skin, coiling around their tangled limbs and draping itself over his abdomen. The quiet rattle as the tip continued upward and settled by his face sent a chill through him and he squeezed his eyes shut.

"That doesn't mean you get to- mmph!"

His final, barely audible attempt at protest was swiftly cut off by Striker's free hand covering his mouth.

"Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh," came the deceptively soft admonishment, arms and tail constricting in a painful warning. Moxxie groaned and went limp, hoping it would be enough to appease, the understanding he really was at his captor's mercy sinking to the base of his stomach like a concrete brick on the ocean floor. Striker chuckled and thankfully granted him the ability to draw breath after a moment, though he remained tightly entwined with the trembling little body in his clutches, chin resting in mock affection atop Moxxie's head as he murmured, "Good boy. Go back to sleep."

This was just another one of Striker's games, he told himself. If he stayed very still and didn't cause a fuss, his tormentor would get bored and leave.

Any minute now.

The dark outline of Millie's senseless form under the blanket was silhouetted against the window, her peaceful snores the only sound stirring the atmosphere. Striker's breathing had slowed too, apparently content to stay snuggled against him, leaching his warmth and sanity alike.

Well, fuck.

When several minutes had passed without any further threat, Moxxie forced himself to relax. There was nothing he could do anyway. If Striker wanted him dead he would be already. Staying alert all night would play right into the other's aims, showing him the intimidation tactics were working the second he saw his victim's tired eyes and frazzled demeanour the next morning.

Moxxie refused to let him win that easily.

He listened for Millie, his breaths steadying as he timed them to match hers and held the image of her beautiful beaming grin in his mind. Striker was bound to slip up eventually and when he did, Moxxie would be prepared for him. A new thought of slicing the trecherous demon's throat with his own knife flashed through Moxxie's head and he smiled, playing it slowly on loop until he managed to drift off again.

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redbullcateringfiction · 1 year ago

Text

Chapter 5 -

Cantata

Arabella is the executive assistant for Mercedes Team Principal Toto Wolff. 10 years into her career, it looks like the tide is changing, and she's beginning to question her relationship with him. Is it something more, or nothing but an idea lingering in her head?

F/M, Fluff, Boss/Employee Relationship, Romance, Pining, Love, Slow Burn

Fifth chapter below the cut or click here for AO3

Click here for the previous chapter on Tumblr, and click here for a list of all chapters

(Total: 21735 words thus far)

Oh? The right time to use a lawyer? You little shit. I immediately went to block his number, but paused. God, maybe he was onto something. He’s right. I can’t talk about my life with anyone, and…would this contract guarantee that he couldn’t say anything? I need a lawyer to read over this contract with a lawyer. I stared at the screen without really doing anything. I felt a sudden tap on my shoulder, I looked over and saw a line of 10 or so engineers. “How’s it going, ATM?” James asked. As one of the trackside engineers, he had been one of those who gifted me the greatest gift any paddock regular can receive: A nickname.

I suppose Toto and Bono had it easy since it really was just what they had always been called. It was, afterall, really just their names. My nickname was far less affectionate. Both representative of the way the engineers would jokingly ask me to sign off on the paychecks, since they believed I held so much power at Brackley I could do so, and of the way I was also notorious for standing right behind Toto ready to shuffle him off to his next engagement. ATM stood for “Assigned Toto Micromanager.” It did, however, make it impossible to tell over text if they were asking “at the moment” or simply calling me by name. ‘Bono is on the pit wall ATM.’ As in right now or are we just mocking me? Fuck.

“Good, good. Let’s get the party started,” I smiled. One after another, they filtered through. Of course, at least one of them had forgotten some silly thing they couldn’t bring through customs, turning them into an international smuggler, and I into the negotiator. In many ways, this could easily be one of the silliest parts of my job. Kindly asking a customs agent to overlook the Schumacher memorabilia that brightly displayed “Marlboro” and thus consisted of cigarette advertisements was certainly not in the job description.

“Now, why would you wear that shirt?” I asked as the offending engineer finally passed through customs.

“I didn’t know it would be a problem!” She answered, throwing up her hands.

“Well, now you do,” I replied, rolling my eyes. She looked tempted to throw me the bird. “Just throw on a sweatshirt.”

“Fine, fine,” She sighed, reaching into her bag and pulling out a sweater.

I put in my ear buds as the line finally came to a close, and I began to walk to the car. I quickly found my playlist. Unlike my father, I was not a fan of Bach, Mozart, or Schubert. Rather Ellington, Corea, and Monk graced my ears. It had pissed off my ex-boyfriend enough that he wrote a song about it. I wish though that listening to that song gave me the giggles rather than could send me into tears. Unfortunately, the song refused to leave me alone. It followed me into stores. It followed me into the paddock. It followed me into every single rewind playlist Spotify gives me every single year. No one allows me to forget that damn song.

I ran to the car and climbed in, managing to wave down the driver. “Arabella Lazaar, right? Four seasons?” He asked.

“Yes, yes. Thank you so much,” I answered. I quickly dialed down Toto.

“Hello?” He answered.

“I’m on my way. We have to remind the engineers about clothing requirements at customs again,” I sighed.

“Who was the offender this time?” He laughed.

“Sarah with a Schumacher Senior shirt,” I explained.

“What could be the problem-”

“Marlboro,” I interrupted.

“Ah. Got it. Well, send out the email tonight. Should I meet you in the lobby? I have you checked in already.”

“Already? Sure. I’ll be there in half an hour. Looks like traffic is a mess since everyone’s coming in for testing.”

“Not too bad, Ms. Lazaar. I can make it happen in twenty.”

“Then twenty! He says we can make it in twenty,” I explained to Toto.

“Then twenty, I’ll see you here in twenty.” I could practically hear him smiling through the phone. “See you soon.”

“See you,” I answered. “Thank you so much.”

“No problem,” The driver answered.

Cathal Lynch’s girlfriend accidentally revealed through new song

Cathal Lynch, lead singer of Irish pop-rock band Four Odd Bottles, has long kept his love life private. For the past 3 years he has referenced his girlfriend at shows and in interviews, but has never revealed her identity. Fan theories have suggested supermodels, ex-classmates, and that perhaps, she doesn’t even actually exist! However, the release of the band's newest song - 4th From the Gate - accidentally revealed her identity.

Simple references such as “racing stars,” and “dry tires on a wet pavement,” implied to listeners that Lynch may be dating a member of the Formula 1 community. Fans further found that Cathal’s posts on Instagram seemed to be located near or close to locations where Formula 1 races had taken place. None of this directly pointed to the woman who inspires Cathal’s boisterous love songs. However, several final details collided in the perfect storm to reveal her identity.

At the recent Formula 1 Japanese Grand Prix, Lynch took a picture with now 6-time world champion Lewis Hamilton. This picture, taken from within the garage, told many fans that Cathal Lynch was either a big fan of Mercedes-Petronas, or with the recent song, his girlfriend works for Mercedes. Fans recalled that earlier songs had referenced Cathal Lynch’s girlfriend’s long curly hair, her tanned skin, and even that she may be Dutch. In the background of this picture was Arabella Lazaar - Curly haired, medium skinned, Dutch executive assistant to Mercedes team principal Toto Wolff.

This afternoon, Cathal Lynch half-confirmed this was a simple Instagram story that showed a long curly hair on his pillow captioned “Always leaving pieces of herself with me. Even the ones she knows I hate.” To many fans, this was all they needed to immediately determine Arabella Lazaar was the woman inspiring Cathal Lynch’s music for the past 3 years.

Four Odd Bottle’s did not respond to our request for comment.

We arrived at the hotel after 10 minutes, on the dot. I thanked the driver and was sure to grab my bags that I had placed in the trunk. As soon as I walked in, Toto was practically waiting by the door.

“Arabella, haven’t seen you in a while,” He joked.

“Oh, those two hours must’ve been so tortuous for you,” I spoke, immediately catching myself on the basis it may have sounded just a little bit flirty. Toto didn’t seem to notice though and laughed.

“You just know they were. Every single minute, I was thinking, oh, how will I know what I am going to do in the next 5 minutes? Oh right, she sent an email, and I am to do absolutely nothing until she tells me what to do.”

“I’m not that bad,” I defended myself.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” He smirked. “Let me take your bags.”

We started walking towards the elevator and he lead me to my room. “I’m right next door, so you can bother me first thing in the morning.”

“And you know I will,” I smiled, taking the key from his hand. “Has someone already checked over your room?”

“I did. I know how to look over my own room.”

“Surprising,” I sassed. I walked in and immediately went to shut the door, but toto caught it with his foot.

“Uh, sorry. Do you mind if I was to finish our earlier conversation?” He asked, sweetly offering me a smile.

“Oh. Sure. It had already slipped my mind,” I poorly lied. It had stuck in my brain like a leech. “Did you want to step in?” Fuck, why did I say that?

“Sure, sure,” He answered, closing the door behind him. “I just wanted to apologize for interrupting your date last night. I had a few too many drinks at the event, and saw you…and I’m not sure. Something just came over me. And suddenly I recalled you heading up to the room, and I figured, why not just ask? It just wasn’t appropriate and I wanted to apologize.”

“Oh…um…no worries! It wasn’t a date,” I quickly deflected. Why did I say that? Why not just accept the apology? Klootzak.

“It wasn’t?” Toto asked, seemingly just as surprised at my statement as me. “Oh, well good, I suppose. Not good. Just…yes, okay.”

“Yeah, I was just uh…meeting with my lawyer.”

“Your lawyer ?”

Yes, of course. That was somehow better. I’m planning on suing you, Toto Wolff.

“Just uh…with contract renewal coming up soon. He’s been my lawyer since the incident with Cathal,” I mumbled. I’m very bad at lying. “Just good to have someone on my side.”

“Oh, of course. Well, then, I’m deeply sorry for implying that you were on a date by asking if he was your boyfriend from the Christmas party,” Toto answered.

“Mauricio? No, uh, we split up shortly after that.” Please stop talking, Arabella. Why can’t I just shut up sometimes?

“That's right. Mauricio. I’m sorry about that, though.” Okay, Arabella, take a breath and think for a moment about how you’ll respond.

“Ah, we weren’t that serious. I’m not bothered. What’s done is done,” I smiled. I do not have the heart nor emotional capacity to tell Toto that Mauricio and I dated for about 3 weeks and had already broken up when I made him come to the Christmas Party with me. I just didn’t want to look lonely. It was a nice deal though. As a massive fan of Lewis, he didn’t mind getting the opportunity to meet everyone on his team. When my ex-boyfriend and I had been together, I rarely let him come to events with me. Of course, the one time I did, all hell broke loose. That’s why I don’t date celebrities anymore. Unfortunately, it being the one time I brought someone with me to the Christmas Party, it had stuck in everyone’s brains and to this day people ask me if Mauricio and I are still together.

“Regardless, Arabella. That was my point. I apologize,” He smiled.

“I understand that, and I accept your apology. It really isn’t anything to apologize for though,” I explained.

“Okay,” Toto sighed. “Can I make it up to you though?”

"Give me a day off, you mean?” I chuckled.

“We both know you wouldn't accept that. But we have some free time tonight. In exchange for ruining your last dinner, I propose you at least let me buy you dinner. You don’t have to sit down with me or anything, but I can at least buy it for you.”

“Can I think about it?” I asked.

“Think as long as you’d like,” He conceded, throwing up his hands. “I’ll head out. If you want to take me up on the offer, just shoot me a text.”

I nodded and he left out the door. I immediately crashed onto the bed, holding my face in the pillow. Perhaps Jeffrey was right. I did, in fact, desperately need someone to talk to. I looked at the text message again and tried to use the little bit of legalese I knew to understand it. I’m nowhere near a professional but this seems reasonable enough. No part of me wants to just sign this…but what options do I have? I downloaded it and sat on it for a moment, staring at it. I decided to call Jeffrey himself. I might not know legalese but I can interpret bullshit when I hear it.

“Oh, Arabella. I didn’t expect this,” Jeffrey answered the phone.

“I know. But, do me a favor here,” I spluttered. “Just…explain to me what all this means. I think I get the idea, but just walk me through it, and I’ll let you know if I have any questions.”

“That’s not a problem. Go ahead. What’s your first concern?”

“I’m not sure what section 1.3 really means. I think it’s saying that your retainer is typically 50% of expected hours, but since the expected work hours here are unlimited…then the retainer is $50,000? But also since it’s pro bono, there isn’t a retainer?”

“Basically. Here, let me walk you through it. So you see…”

“Cathal, I can’t do this,” I cried, burying my head in my hands. “The calling, the texting, the death threats. It just isn’t ending.” I thought I would puke as my phone just continuously buzzed.

“I know,” He whimpered through the phone. “I’m really sorry.”

“Why did you post that stupid fucking photo?” I begged. “Everyone knows it's me.”

“How the fuck was I supposed to know that they could figure out your god damn name from a picture that barely had you in the background? How the fuck was I supposed to know that, Belle?”

“I don’t fucking know! God, fuck!” I screamed. I could feel my chest getting tight, and suddenly I felt the need to lower my curtains. I could not look at Brackley right now. Absolutely not. “If anyone, and I mean anyone, finds my fucking address I will fucking kill you.”

“Then I’m dead. Because I already have the fucking team paying off paparazzi after paparazzi. I fucking care about you, Belle. I do. Do not blame me for this level of insanity.”

“People want to kill me because I’m dating you. Even though, to them, I’m the reason for all your music. Yet, they want me dead for it.”

“None of them are real, I assure you, Belle,” He tried to calm me down. “None of them. They always send bullshit like this and they never mean it. It’s just one of those great perks of being famous.”

“I do not want to be famous,” I complained.

“Really? Running around with Formula drivers and working for actors and actresses, and dating a fucking musician? No part of you wants to be famous? It sure as fuck seems like you do.”

“No, I do not, Cathal. It’s my job. It’s my fucking job,” I wept. I could feel my tears staining the pillow beneath me. Every inch was slowly becoming covered with tears. I touched it. I had cried so hard and for so long that the other side of it was becoming damp. I would surely have to throw this pillow out. I would have to carry it to the trash in the kitchen, and then drag the bag out to the trash bin. I would have to take the bin to the curb, and make sure it didn’t block the garage, so I could take my car and drive it to work in the morning. I would have to stay at work trying to avoid thinking about this or risk dropping into a sad mess of tears. I would have to drive back home, and be careful not to hit my garbage can if it had shifted since they picked it up. I would then have to get out of my car and drag the bin back into the garage. I would have to do all of this without running into paparazzi because I doubt Cathal’s team could stop all of them. I would have to do all of this without for a second having a panic attack. I would have to do all of this without letting anyone know just how much it had fucked me up.

That to me was the most important factor. No matter what happened and no matter how bad this made me feel, absolutely no one would know how fucked up this had me. Whatever pictures the paparazzi took of me, I would look fucking good. This could be the worst day of my life but there’s no reason for anyone to know except me and Cathal. I pulled myself together as Cathal ranted about my hypocriticism.

“You know what, Cathal? You can blame me all you want. You can say I’m the reason why my life was ruined. The truth is though, I know you better than anyone else. I know you better than all your fucking fans do. I know that you left all those bread crumbs on purpose. I know that you wanted them to know who I was because you thought it was so silly that I didn’t want to be known. You thought it was so weird that someone could date a magnificent celebrity like you and not just want to date them for their fame. You thought it was so absurd. Why don’t you go fuck a groupie about it? Why don’t you pass some venereal disease all throughout Europe about it? I don’t care anymore. I did exactly as I was told, Cathal. Go fuck yourself,” I spoke, hanging up. I turned my phone off. If someone needs me, they know how to get a hold of me without calling or texting me. I cleaned my face up, and put on a nice bathrobe. I threw the pillow out in the garbage, and made sure my house was clean. I then opened up the blinds. Sure enough, as soon as I did, I saw a camera flash inside a car that was neatly parked outside my house.

At least I knew that when that picture hit the tabloids, it would be a good one.

“And there we go. Everything explained. What do you think?” Jeffrey asked, sounding like he nearly needed to catch his breath. I yawned deeply, becoming sleepy after Jeffrey had managed to run through the entire contract in excruciating detail without stopping.

“I think you really like being a lawyer,” I yawned again.

“I do, yes,” I could practically hear him beaming through the phone.

“Yeah, really boring for me, honestly,” I deadpanned. “Anyway, yeah, sounds good. I’ll sign it.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. And after I sign it, how long until it goes into effect?”

“Instantly.”

“Great.” I instantly signed the paperwork and immediately returned it to him.

“Thanks. Just got it.”

“Okay. Should I go to dinner with Toto?”

“Oh-we’re starting right away. Jesus Christ, Arabella. I’m not a magic 8 ball,” Jeffrey answered. “I don’t know if you should go to- wait he asked you out?”

“Asked me out is a strong sentiment,” I explained. “I really hope the walls here aren’t thin.”

“Is he right next to you or something?”

“His room is.”

“Oh my God, Arabella. That man wants you so bad.”

“Fucking hell, Jeffrey. I set up the rooms. Do you know who is also right next to him? Bono. Do you know who is also right next to me? Musconi. Because we’re all taking the same fucking car in the morning,” I explained.

“So…you want him so bad?”

“No, fucking hell, Jeffrey. It was just luck of the draw, I guess,” I replied. “All I did was say we should be on the same floor. In case something went wrong with the car.”

“Fine, fine. Whatever you say. So, he asked you for dinner?”

“Technically. He’s making up for interrupting our date…that I told him wasn’t a date.”

“Rude.”

“Rude? You gave me the idea with the whole ‘contract coming up’ bullshit. I just went with it. I didn’t want him to feel quite so crap for putting me in this situation.”

“Oh, situation? I’m a situation now?”

“Yes, Jeffrey. Yes, you are.” I looked out the window and could clearly see the signs of the impending dust storm. My family didn’t visit Morocco frequently when I was a child, but since we usually visited Marrakech in May, they were incredibly frequent. The wind would start blowing over the desert, and soon the sky would turn to a bright orange, the sand devouring us whole, while my father practically slapped us with face coverings to keep each of us from falling into unstoppable coughing fits. In a particularly bad one, I would stumble over my own feet trying to grab my sister’s shoulder, just to know I had someone with me.

“You know, this is supposed to be a mutually positive experience. You get to complain about work. I get to complain about work. Pretty good deal, I think,” Jeffrey argued.

“I think it’s closer to blackmail. Besides, you have given me very little advice in this situation.”

“Well, what exactly did he say, Arabella? Can I call you Bella?”

“You cannot. I’m not a crusty white dog,” I sighed. That was my go to line when someone asked if they could call me Bella. I found it made them far less difficult about it. “He just apologized and said he would make it up for me. I could pretty much take him up on dinner or just let him buy my room service basically.”

“Does…does he not already pay for your food when you travel?” Jeffrey asked.

“Oh fuck you and your cleverness,” I sighed. “So…do you think it was a date then?”

“I promise you, I’m not trying to play therapist with you, but two things. For someone who says that she’s positive her boss isn’t into her, and she’s positive she isn’t into her boss, you’re awfully preoccupied with whether this is a date or not. Second thing, how would I know? Arabella, I barely know you and this guy. I can make assumptions based on my own knowledge about how I think things work but I can’t just come outright and say ‘Yes, for sure’ based on 3 hours of talking and maybe another hour of having sex,” Jeffrey explained. “You would actually have better luck with a magic 8 ball.”

“I’m really not into him. Just…curious,” I confidently spoke. “I’m 32 and lost out on my one realistic chance of marriage a year and a half ago. I get my hopes up at the slightest bit of attention even if I try to pretend I don’t.” As I spoke, the confidence quickly wore off.

Jeffrey took a deep sigh. “Cathal, right?”

“I thought you were joking about Googling me,” I laughed, trying to soften the fact that my eyes were welling up with tears. I was over my ex. I had been for a long time. Nonetheless, the way he constantly crept up in my life had a strange way of never allowing old wounds to heal properly. We weren’t together for some crazy long period of time, but fame just wasn’t really for me. He just couldn’t understand that. Eventually, he was over it. Eventually, I was over being disrespected. Having your business out there all the time makes it impossible to ignore everything. Him being a musician means I constantly notice the way I don’t think he’s over me though. Releasing two breakup albums is a bit much, don’t you think? I could forgive one, but a second that was clearly still about me? Freaked me out a bit, if I’m honest.

“I wasn’t. It was the first thing I saw. Your name plastered over all those headlines. Pictures of your house, pictures of you at races, pictures of you at Brackley. Just everywhere,” Jeffrey explained.

“Most people forgot about it a long time ago. It was a Shakespearean tragedy in 5 acts for pop culture nerds. For everyone else, it really wasn’t anything.” I hate to admit it, but perhaps Cathal was the reason why I hated staying in Brackley so much. The way the discomfort lingered, and the way I swore sometimes I could smell him on my couch. It was stained with him, practically. Every inch was Cathal, Cathal, Cathal. Guitars on the walls, albums on the shelves, and a closet full of outfits he had worn while touring. It took months of vacuuming to stop finding his cat’s hair.

“Not you though, huh? I can hear it in your voice,” Jeffrey answered.

“In my voice? Are you talking nonsense again?”

“Do you really think I’m not at all perceptive? I’m a lawyer, Arabella. Stop underestimating my people skills for once, or I’m going to hang up the phone.”

“Fine, fine. You’re right. It hasn’t really left me, partially, because it follows me around everywhere. You yourself said that you found it just by googling my name. Article after article detailing start-to-finish every aspect of our breakup and potential relationship history. None of that to mention that he’s two albums into the breakup and he won’t stop making songs about me.”

“How do you even know they’re about you?” Jeffrey asked innocently.

“The last album had a song called 100 degrees, which was entirely a reference to the perfect tire temp on an F1 tire. Not to mention the song just literally was about how hot I am but for some reason talking about me like I’m a car,” I sighed.

“I bet that didn’t sell well.”

“Lookup ‘Cathal Lynch objectifies ex-girlfriend quite literally in newest single.’ That one actually gives me quite the giggle,” I told him, thinking about the article. It had some great one liners, such as ‘ He compares her body to a Ferrari, which considering their recent performance in F1, she will certainly take as an insult.’ They were right. I did.

“Is he trying to win you back?”

“More like he’s trying to annoy me. Every single time he puts an album out there talking about me, or mentions me at a concert, or talks about it in an interview, it gets my name right back in the tabloids. He knows I hate that. Thankfully, the press doesn’t really care to get my pictures anywhere but F1 races since they know I’ll always be there, and why waste resources when everyone else has seemingly moved on?”

“Except him.”

“Obviously,” I groaned. “Anyway…you’re right. I’ll figure out on my own what to do when it comes to the dinner thing. I need to be a grown up, I suppose.”

“Yes, you should. Now, do you mind if I have my own little moment here about my life?” Jeffrey asked. What am I supposed to say? No? After bitching for very long about everything in my life? It wouldn’t be fair.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Do you know what I hate? More than anything else?”

“Hmm?”

“So many people think I do DaVinci code type shit, and have the tomb of Jesus Christ himself locked away in a vault in Switzerland just because I work for a Swiss Bank.”

“Really? What’s the weirdest thing you have stored away?” I asked.

“I don’t actually know. We don’t ask questions. One client was storing just a single banana, and got pretty mad when the thing went rotten.”

“Did…did they think you would keep it fresh forever?”

“Somehow, yes. It was apparently one of those super rare plant species and his personal fruit tree had grown that singular one that year. I told him we’d buy him a box of those bananas to satisfy him.”

“What? Really? You just had the company shell out that that money just because this dude doesn’t understand a single thing about safety deposit boxes?”

“Y’know, when I was a kid, my dad made me work at Tesco. He wanted me to see how retail worked because he swore that I would otherwise grow up an entitled rich kid. And when I was a cashier, I would sit there and complain about my managers giving random people free things for things that were their fault. Then suddenly, one day he left early, gave me his pin and told me to handle any problems that arose. One customer in, and I realized how much easier it was to just satisfy them with whatever silly request they had even if it wasn't our fault.”

“Nice story, Jeffrey. My parents own a tiny hotel on an island. We weren’t playing poor, we just were. The hotel to this day barely stays afloat. And whenever someone came in and begged for something free or said they were upset with the way the room was cleaned, whatever, my parents would check and make sure it wasn’t their fault. If it wasn’t, they would happily tell them to fuck off,” I storied back to him.

“Alright, Arabella. Whatever you say, huh? You can’t just let someone have an opinion, can you?” He asked.

“That whole story was an opinion? What are you, a Tory?” I joked.

“Oh, shush,” He laughed.

“Now you tell a woman to quiet up, huh? Jeffrey…tsk, tsk, tsk.”

“Alright, alright. I get it. Well, run off now and figure out what you’re doing tonight. I’ll let you go now.”

“Oh, really? I thought there would be more.”

“I just didn’t want you to feel weird. It’s supposed to be a tradeoff. I wanted to trade,” Jeffrey shrugged.

“You know you don’t have to say something. You can just wait until something happens and then call me,” I explained.

“Except if I turn on Sky Sports and see Mercedes is at the paddock?” Jeffrey asked.

“Unless it’s the race or qualifying, that’s probably the perfect time to call, actually. I’m an assistant, not an engineer, Jeffrey.”

“Oh, right on. Well, I’ll speak with you later, Bella.”

“Nope.”

“Thought I’d get away with it,” He sighed, hanging up the phone. I laughed hearing my phone beep away. As useless as I suppose that conversation was in practicality, in theory, it felt very safe. Somehow, despite the literal contract I had just signed and argument we had last night, I might as well had been speaking with someone I knew for a decade. Perhaps he knew so much from looking me up that he could truly act like that, or maybe we just truly have the perfect matching energies for a platonic relationship.

I stared at the door thinking about my next move. I realized that if I did what I wanted to do, I would be locking myself in this room, keeping to my strict comfort zone. I don’t want to do that. I sent off a text to Toto.

Me: I’ll take you up on the offer.

Tags: @daddyslittlevillain

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