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melluvsuu · 2 months ago

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“ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐑 . ”

character : dazai osamu

context : you’re an agent going undercover, you encounter port mafia executive dazai. he finds you interesting. yeah..

authors note : you should listen to the diner by Billie ellish to get the vibe to it.

warning : stalker briefly mentioned, stalker!dazai, can be interpreted romantically or whatever, shout out to my bbg @riiwrites 😼☝🏽, murder and blood mentioned too, gender not mentioned, literally we rock with they/them 💋‼️.. uhm I think that’s all gays yeah..

,, 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐔𝐓. 𝜚

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐊𝐘 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐅𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐏𝐔𝐑𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐒, the last remnants of daylight clinging stubbornly to the horizon. It was a view [name] had come to appreciate, standing on the balcony of the modest clinic where [name] built their cover. As a doctor specialising in human behaviour, their role was simple enough—listen, observe, and blend in. Standing there in viewing the people going about their days, [name] ran their fingers along the balcony’s iron railing, feeling the coolness of the metal beneath their skin. In this quiet neighbourhood, [name] was simply known as Dr. [name]—a doctor who listened to the woes of the weary, a person who could help people understand the storms in their minds. In some ways, [name] had taken to the role more naturally than they expected. It wasn’t far from what I had trained for, after all. But beneath that calm exterior, my real purpose was far more pressing.

The wind picked up slightly, rustling the papers on my desk inside the small office. I stepped back inside, closing the door behind me as I glanced at the scattered reports and profiles I’d been reviewing. Every interaction I had here was a potential lead—every patient, every conversation was a thread that might lead me to the missing documents. I was hunting for the whispers in the crowd, the signs that something was about to crack.

I sat down and opened one of the files again. A name stared back at me—Takeda Masaru, a local journalist with a reputation for being nosey. He had been in to see me twice, under the guise of seeking help for stress and insomnia. But I knew better. Knocking me out of my train of thought, my smartwatch started vibrating. It was morse code.

‘GOOD EVENING AGENT [NAME], IT'S NICE TO YOU ALIVE AND WELL.WE HAVE NEW INTEL. THERE'S BEEN SIGHTING AT THE LOADING. THE DOCUMENTS SHOULD BE THERE. IT SHOULD BE A DARK RED CARGO BOX WITH THE NAME ‘MELLUVS ART AND WRITING SUPPLIES’ . QUICKLY GET THERE BEFORE ANYBODY INTERVENES. BEST OF LUCK TO YOU.’

I quickly changed my clothing still keeping my pants and shoes and swapping my glasses with sunglasses, my shirt with a business shirt. Taking my coat off the rack I jumped off of the railing onto the pavement. The cold air hitting my face, I felt that familiar rush of adrenaline. The peaceful exterior I’d adopted as a doctor was peeling away, revealing the true purpose behind the mask.

I arrived at the loading dock slipping past guards. While remaining on my toes, looking around, finding the maroon cargo box, picking the lock, catching it before it could fall can make noise. Opening the door and sorting through papers. I found the papers of the document, putting the papers in my doctors folder, I turned to step out just to be greeted with…

"Are you lost?" a voice rang out behind them.

“I’m sorry?” You turned towards the stranger with a simple smile.

“I said, are you lost? Dr. [name].” He repeated.

Standing in the shadow of a weathered chimney was a young man, barely older than them, with an unsettlingly casual grin. His black hair fell messily over his eyes, his posture loose and unthreatening, but I knew better than to trust appearances. There was something sharp beneath that smile.

“Ah. No I’m not..”

"Dazai Osamu," the man introduced himself, stepping closer without a care in the world. "What a coincidence, meeting you here."

"Coincidence?" [name]’s voice was flat, unamused. "I don’t believe in coincidences."

Dazai’s grin widened. "Smart. I don’t either."

This wasn’t good. My mission had suddenly become complicated—this was Dazai, a notorious figure in the Port Mafia, rumoured to be both brilliant and dangerous. Getting caught up with him was exactly what their agency warned them about. But retreating now would be even worse. They couldn't afford to show any weakness.

"You’re in my way," I stated plainly, their eyes locked onto him. Dazai’s expression flickered briefly with interest.

"Am I?" he mused, not moving an inch. Instead, his eyes gleamed with curiosity. "I wonder what someone like you is doing up here. You don’t seem like the usual riffraff the mafia deals with. You're different."

I said nothing. They were trained to maintain a poker face, but they could feel Dazai’s gaze piercing through them, searching for cracks.

After a tense silence, I decided it was better to end this encounter quickly. "I have no business with you. Walk away."

Dazai’s grin softened into something almost playful. "I could say the same. But I don’t feel like walking away just yet. You intrigue me."

Before you could respond, a shout echoed from the alley below—footsteps, too many of them. The mission wasn’t over yet. With a sharp glance at Dazai, [name] moved quickly, shoving him out the way with the documents I hand, disappearing into the shadows of the cargo port.

𓎢𓎟𓎟𓎟 . ♡ . 𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎢

The mission was complete, the documents recovered, and the city’s fragile calm preserved. Days passed, and YN pushed the encounter with Dazai to the back of their mind. They believed they had left him behind in that port, a fleeting figure from a fleeting night.

But they were wrong.

It began with small sightings—first at a diner near one of their agency’s hideouts, a quaint place where [name] often went to clear their mind. They walked in for a quiet moment, only to find Dazai, seated by the window, sipping his coffee as if it was the most natural thing in the world. His eyes met theirs, and that familiar grin spread across his face.

The next time, it was at their ‘job’. [name] worked as a hired security operative for a private military company, and the sight of Dazai loitering near the building was more than unsettling. He didn’t approach them, but his presence was a constant reminder that he was watching.

The evening air felt heavy as [name] returned home from a long shift, exhaustion pulling at their every step. They hadn’t noticed the lingering presence outside, the demon in the shadows, waiting. The lock clicked into place behind them as they shut the door, and for a moment, they stood still, listening. No footsteps followed. The silence was almost comforting.

They kicked off their shoes, fingers absently unbuttoning their dress shirt, craving nothing more than the solace of the couch. As they sank into it, something caught their eye—an envelope, placed conspicuously on the coffee table. A surge of unease rippled through their tired mind, heart beginning to race as they reached for the envelope, fingers brushing the edge of the paper with caution. Slowly, they opened it, their eyes scanning the contents.

‘THIS IS A REALLY NICE PLACE YOU’VE GOT HERE! MIND IF I MOVE IN? I HOPE YOU’RE READING THIS SILLY NOTE! I MIGHT’VE STOLEN SOME DOCUMENTS AND IMPORTANT FILES FROM YOUR OFFICE, SORRY, AGENT [NAME]~!’

A low groan of frustration escaped their lips as they crumpled the note and tossed it into the garbage. [name] rubbed their temples, too drained to deal with the antics of a certain mafioso tonight. Just as they tried to let the tension slip away, they caught sight of something—someone—standing on the balcony.

Their heart skipped a beat, and instinctively, they reached for their gun, gripping it tightly as they cautiously approached the window. They slid it open with precision, never taking their eyes off the figure leaning against the railing. "You’re persistent," [name] said, gun ready but posture steady.

The man on the balcony didn’t seem fazed by the weapon. Dazai Osamu smiled as if this were all part of a game. "And you’re elusive," he countered, voice light and carefree. But there was something beneath that tone, something deeper, lurking behind the casual amusement in his gaze. "I like people who don’t give themselves away so easily."

[name] sighed, lowering the gun but keeping it in hand. Arms crossed, they met his eyes with thinly veiled exasperation. "What do you want, Dazai?"

He tilted his head slightly, as though considering the question, his eyes glinting with amusement. "I’ve been trying to figure that out. You’re… interesting. And I’m rarely interested in anyone."

"Flattering," [name] muttered, voice laced with sarcasm as their patience wore thin. "But I’ve got work to do."

Dazai’s expression shifted, his grin softening, but his presence growing more intense as he stepped closer. "I know," he said quietly. "That’s what makes this so fun. You, with your little secrets and dangerous missions… I can’t help but want to unravel it all."

"You can’t follow me forever," [name] warned, voice quieter now, each word a warning laced with resolve.

Dazai’s smile softened further, almost genuine. "Maybe not," he agreed, his voice low, "but I can follow you for a little while longer.”

“Get the hell out of my apartment,” [name] snapped, their voice sharp as they levelled the gun at Dazai. The cold metal clicked audibly as they cocked it, a clear threat in the air. They pointed toward the door, eyes hard and unyielding. “Do it now, or I'll shoot you.”

Dazai’s grin didn’t falter. If anything, it widened, his eyes gleaming with that same unsettling amusement, as if the threat didn’t faze him in the slightest. He raised his hands in mock surrender, but his body remained relaxed, nonchalant, as though he were in complete control of the situation.

“Shoot me?” he mused, voice light but laced with something darker. “Now, now, Agent [name] that seems a bit extreme, doesn’t it?”

“You think I’m joking?” [name] growled, finger hovering dangerously over the trigger.

Dazai took a step closer, completely unbothered by the barrel pointed at him. His voice dropped to a near whisper, his eyes locking with theirs. “No, I don’t. That’s what makes this so exciting.”

There was a tension in the room now, thick and palpable. [name] held their ground, but Dazai’s calmness, his lack of fear—it was disarming. He was playing a game they weren’t sure they could win.

“Get out.” [name] demanded, not lowering the gun but sensing this encounter was only going to spiral deeper.

Dazai’s smile softened just a touch, his tone almost genuine. “Nope~!”

“You’re testing my patience,” [name] warned, heart pounding but steady, still aiming squarely at his chest.

“Good,” Dazai murmured, stepping back toward the balcony door. “I like it when people have limits. It gives me something to push.”

With a final glance, he gave them a playful wink. “Until next time, Agent.” Then, as quickly and casually as he had appeared, Dazai slipped out, leaving the tension in the room behind him like a lingering shadow.

[name] stood still, their gun still raised, breaths coming in heavy. The sense of danger hadn’t left—it was only a matter of time before he returned.

additional author notes : ending kinda sucked ass again smh..

word count: 1k

reposts are welcome but do not steal my work!

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nova-amor · 10 months ago

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MDNI. simon riley's used to spending his early mornings alone, in fact, he prefers it. well, that was until you started running laps around him. 1.4k

brown leaves crunched beneath the weight of his soles smacking against the pavement, each step measured and calculated as the frosty morning air nipped away at his lungs. the sun barely peeked over the horizon, casting a blaze of reds and pinks through the sky as the shadows of the night faded away. there was not a soul in sight, the earth around him silent and baren aside from the occasional coo from a morning dove or the purr of a truck’s engine passing by.

this was simon riley’s favorite part of the day.

while everyone else on base was beginning the start of their day, simon took advantage of his alone time through a series of routines. every morning simon awoke around four a.m., his body still sore and exhausted from the prior training day, and always began his day with a tall glass of water and a quick review of that day’s schedule. he’d check in at the gym within the hour, the space empty and devoid of any life beyond the occasional fitness spouse.

the next hour or so was spent on strength and conditioning, rolling through the exercises with great ease due to the intense care he maintained over his physique. after a brief cool down and an even briefer rinse in the shower, simon would continue his exercise outside— regardless of rain, shine, snow, or heat, simon would always finish his routine out on the running track.

donned in grey sweats, a black compression t-shirt, and a training mask, simon would hit the tracks at a steady yet quick pace, keeping a close watch over his heart rate and oxygen intake through the assistance of his smartwatch. simon could run for hours at such a controlled pace, his training both in and out of work had allowed him to garner an incredible stamina.

while lost in his mind, simon would bask in the comfort of following such a tight routine. every morning started the same for him. every morning was perfectly tailored to suit his wants and needs. every morning was quiet and calm, allowing simon the peace and time to gather himself before interacting with another soul at work. every morning was—

“on your left.” a flash of grey passed simon in a blur, their heavy footfall to his left reeling him in from his thoughts.

so much for being alone. simon thought to himself, his eyes narrowed on the sight of another individual on the track.

no one was ever on the track at this time. he hadn’t spent his morning run with another person since he began his routine a few years ago. simon rolled his head around, feeling for the satisfying crack of a tight joint in his neck as he chose to ignore you for the duration of his run. he wasn’t going to allow such a small wedge to ruin his routine.

“on your left.” there you were again. passing simon without a care in the world, your pace nearly twice as fast as his. yet, even from afar, he could tell you hadn’t even broken a sweat— most likely due to the cool winter air.

simon’s eyes grazed over you, drinking in your physique. even at a distance, simon could tell you were another special operator, most likely attached to another unit due to how he had rarely seen you before. but, he was sure he had seen you previously. he never forgot a face; he didn’t couldn’t forget someone with such a tight—

“on your left.” simon was beginning to grow annoyed. the constant interruption of his thoughts was beginning to eat at him, his frustration reflecting in how much he had quickened his pace. his long legs began to carry him at a faster stride, catching up to you within just a few seconds. he was so sure he was going to pass you, so sure that he—

a dust cloud bit away at simon’s vision, the orange dust of the track’s ground kicked up purposefully to distract him. by the time simon had regained his vision, you were gone. no, wait, simon scanned his surroundings intensely, you were—

“on your left, lt.” you teased, an amused smirk tugging on your lips as you synced up with simon’s pace. your hands were curled into fists, arms tucked in and breaths controlled at a steady rate as you leisurely jogged next to him.

“need a medic, lt?” your voice was too bubbly, too chipper for this early in the morning. especially for someone who had been running at your earlier pace. simon rolled his eyes, biting away at his bottom lip to maintain a stoic face. even under the cover of the training mask, you would most definitely catch a glimpse of the smile threatening to bloom on his face.

“no need, sergeant,” simon finally realized why you had seemed too familiar, he had worked with you before on previous missions. you were a fac— a forward air controller, attached to a neighboring unit in the squadron. he had worked with you before on a few particular missions that required the use of a fac, your role was pivotal in ensuring that there was a clear line of communication between ground and air forces. “just need a new set of lungs is all. you were doing laps around me.” simon continued, his speech slightly muffled by the mask.

“quite easy to do when i’m competing against an old man,” you joked, your pace slowing down to a walking one, simon was quick to join you. “and, it’s staff sergeant to you, lt. i made rank a few months ago.”

“well, excuse me, staff sergeant,” simon teased, drawing out the syllables of your rank title. he came to a halt along the side of the track, finding shade beneath a nearby tree. you followed after him, unzipping your hoodie and exposing your bare midriff. the minimal sweat you had produced glistened on your smooth skin, simon’s eyes shamelessly dipping over the curve of your sports bra-covered chest. “didn’t realize there was a competition going on between us, otherwise, i would have left you in the dust.” simon’s attention flickered back up to your face, his arms crossing over his chest— puffing his large pectorals out.

“well, there’s always next time, riley,” you winked up at him with a coquettish grin. you then glanced down at the watch on your wrist, a white message drawing your attention away from him briefly.

you were quick to dismiss the message, “ah, sorry, duty calls. got a pre-mission brief to attend to.” you informed him. you then straightened your posture, rolling your shoulders back as you gazed up at simon. “thanks for the run this morning though— well if that’s what you call running anyway.” you poked at him teasingly.

“ouch,” simon recoiled in faux pain, placing a hand over his heart as if your words had truly injured him. “is that how it is? didn’t your parents teach ya to respect your elders?” he played into the fun, no longer choosing to hide the smile that grew beneath his training mask. even under its cover, he couldn’t hide the twinkle of amusement in his eyes nor the way his eyes crinkled at the corners with the rise of his cheekbones.

you took a step back, pulling a small device out from your jacket pocket— most likely a small key fob for your car. “oh, they did. doesn’t mean i had to listen.” with two clicks of a button, your car just a few strides away turned on, white lights beaming even under the looming bright light of the sun.

“see you later, lt.” you called out as you made your way in the direction of your car. with one final wave of your hand and a playful smile on your lips, you disappeared behind the black tint of your car’s glass, fully leaving simon alone on the track as you peeled out of the gym’s parking lot.

simon threw up his hand in a quick attempt to wave ‘goodbye’ as your car rounded the corner, his heart stammering in his chest. as soon as your car was out of his line of sight, he looked back down to his watch. his heart rate was elevated beyond average, beating almost twice as fast as it normally did whenever he was just standing about leisurely. he stood there for another moment, drinking the information in before he began to head off in the direction of his car.

as he stepped into his car, the sickly sweet scent of pine invaded his senses as he peeled his training mask off, a message soon appearing across his watch face. “same time tomorrow, lt? — ssgt [name]”

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whatsnewalycat · 1 year ago

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Designated Person | Chapter 8

Pairing: Francisco “Catfish” Morales x F!Reader

Chapter 8: Invitation

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 10.3k+

Content / Warnings: Frankie POV, infidelity, past romantic & sexual relationship, angst, food, AA meeting mention, jealousy, alcoholism, lying, conflict avoidance, crying, unprotected piv sex, dirty talk, internal conflict, suggestion of sexual assault, trauma response, verbal argument, we're gonna pretend i know what i'm talking about w the criminal justice system but lets be real i don't

Notes: HEY HI! First of all big thanks to @frannyzooey for beta reading for me, I appreciate you with all my heart. Ok so up until a few days ago, this chapter was going to be this plus the birthday party. But I made an executive decision I think it will be better. So here's this and just know I already have a pretty solid head start on the next chapter lol. ANYWAY let me know what you think, ok love u bye.

[ Previous ][ Series Masterlist ][ Next ]

“…Happy birthday, dear Sarah, happy birthday to you!”

Sarah’s pudgy little feet patter in place on the seat of the dining room chair. Frankie rubs her back and says, “Blow out the candles!”

“Wait sweetie, let me just,” Angie scoops Sarah’s long chestnut curls into a bundle, “Ok go ahead.”

She leans over the small, two-tiered cake and blows them out one at a time.

“One… Two… Fwee… Four!”

All three of them cheer as the ribbons of black smoke dissipate into the air. Sarah claps her hands and squeals, looking up at her parents with big, sparkling eyes. Frankie can’t wipe the smile from his face. His heart aches with adoration.

While Ang plucks the spent candles from the cake and cuts it into sixteenths, Frankie takes a seat next to his daughter and asks, “Did you have a good day today?”

“Yes,” Sarah nods, watching her mom slip a chef’s knife under the biggest slice of cake and plop it onto a plate. Angie slides the plate in front of her and gives her a fork.

“What was your favorite part?” he asks.

“Ummm,” Sarah stabs the chocolate sponge cake with her fork and manages to tear off a wobbly chunk, “The penguins.”

“The penguins! I never woulda guessed,” Frankie chuckles, glancing up at Angie when she hands him a plate, “Thanks, hun.”

Sarah carves a line into the air with her nose, a smile digging out dimples in her chubby cheeks.

“Got to stay at the aquarium for a long time today, huh? What kind of penguins did we see?”

“Mmm,” she pauses her attack on the cake to scrunch her face up and think about this, then resumes as she tells him, “King penguin… rockhopper penguin… emperor penguin… little penguin…”

“So many penguins!” he grins.

She giggles, “Yes.”

“And then we got pizza, and opened presents, and now we’re having cake.”

She wriggles around in her seat and giggles some more, “Yes.”

“That’s a good birthday, huh?”

Sarah nods and plunges a finger into the pink strawberry frosting.

“Use your fork, sweetie,” Angie reminds her, taking a seat adjacent to Frankie.

Sarah sticks her finger in her mouth to clean off the frosting, then obediently picks up the fork.

“What should we do after cake?” he asks Sarah before taking a bite.

The little girl hums thoughtfully, tapping one confectionary-coated finger to her chin, “We can… watch Happy Feet?”

Her big, dark eyes sparkle, a mirror of his own, and Frankie grins from her to Angie, “What do you think, Mama, should we watch Happy Feet after cake?”

She checks the smartwatch on her wrist and shrugs, “Sure, we can watch it for a bit before dropping Daddy off.”

A pleased smile spreads across Sarah’s face as she digs her fork into the cake. Frankie turns his attention to his own plate, and a content silence falls over the table as the three of them eat.

The silence is broken when Sarah asks, “Daddy, why don’t you sleep here anymore?”

He stops chewing and looks over at Angie, who just tilts her head at him like she, too, would like to know the answer to this question.

“Well,” he swallows a mouthful of cake and clears his throat, “Daddy, uhh… Daddy did something bad and got in trouble with the police.”

She frowns at her cake, seeming to consider this, then looks up at him, “Like when you and Mommy were fighting?”

The response zaps him. Stuns him. His lips part to respond, but he finds himself speechless.

What the fuck is she talking about?

He combs through his memory and hits a snag.

They just got back from some kind of a trip. Ang was giving him the cold shoulder. He recalls drinking in the garage, fuming by himself, trying to work up the courage to confront her. Yelling. Not just him, though, Angie too. Both of them just fucking screaming at each other. Blue and red lights outside. Doorbell. Cops.

The scraps of his memory bind together and he remembers… it wasn’t a trip they all went on together. It was just Angie and Sarah. Not a fun vacation, either. More of a spur-of-the-moment trip to her parents’ house in Texas, inspired by his recently uncovered infidelity.

Wasn’t Sarah sleeping? How the fuck does she remember that?

Frankie shifts in his seat, glancing at Angie, whose face is inscrutable, then back to Sarah, “No. Well, kind of, I guess. Except worse. They took me to jail.”

Her dark eyes go wide, “But bad guys go to jail.”

“Yeah, sometimes.”

Leaning forward onto the table, he presses his fingertips to his lips and watches her sponge-like brain absorb this information. He’s getting into the weeds. Keep it simple.

“They let me go, but now I have to have a babysitter like you do. That’s why I don’t sleep here,” he reaches over and tucks a loose ringlet behind her ear, “Does that make sense?”

Her brow furrows, “Is Chacha your babysitter?”

Jesus fucking Christ, this kid. Asking all the right questions to make him squirm.

“Yeah,” he nods, “Yeah, she’s pretty much my babysitter now—”

Angie scoffs.

He shoots her a sharp glance, “Until we know how much trouble I’m in, at least.”

“I saw Chacha at the park,” Sarah informs him, as if he wasn’t there.

The nickname makes him chuckle. She hasn’t used it in forever, now twice in one night?

When he thinks about how your face will light up when he shares this news with you, warmth sparks in his guts.

“You did see Chacha at the park,” he gives Sarah’s arm a playful pinch, “She told me she was happy to see you, and that she misses you.”

At this, Sarah giggles, dimples and all.

And, at this, Angie shoves her chair out behind her and stomps out of the kitchen. Like a fucking child.

I don’t want to do this anymore.

The thought strikes him square between the eyes. Brief, but distinct. He sweeps it under the rug of his mind to deal with later.

“Mommy don’t like her,” Sarah tells him in a loud whisper when the bedroom door slams closed.

He has to stifle laughter.

“Don’t worry about that, princesa,” he waves off the petulant outburst, leaning in to ask, “Would you like it if Chacha came to your birthday party?”

Sarah studies him for a moment. When the question registers, she smiles wide and nods, “Yes.”

“I’ll talk to Mommy about it later, ok?”

“Ok.”

“Whaddaya think, should we finish our cake in the living room? Put on Happy Feet?”

She giggles, hopping off the chair to spin in circles and clap her hands.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he snorts.

Once the birthday girl is sufficiently distracted, Frankie follows his wife’s warpath to their bedroom. He pauses at the closed door, hand hovering over the shiny knob, grimacing at what will follow.

Did Sarah hear their whole argument that night?

What else does she remember?

Does she remember the days he’d call off work to take the two of you to the butterfly house? Or how he would sneak up behind you when you were cooking and kiss your neck? Does she remember you scrambling out of the house, half-naked, gasping for air, while Frankie held Angie back?

Probably not.

Hopefully not.

He takes a deep breath and twists the knob, pushing the door open.

Inside, Angie is sitting at the foot of the bed, texting furiously. Frankie enters the room, closing the door behind him. He approaches cautiously and sits down beside her. Brings his hand to the small of her back.

She doesn’t acknowledge his presence.

“Amor,” he murmurs, sliding his palm up and down her rigid spine, “You can’t get pissed at me every time she comes up in conversation. It’s not—”

He cuts himself off with a thick gulp.

This catches her attention. She tosses her phone aside and blinks, “It’s not what? Not fair? Is that what you were gonna say?”

“Fuck, I don’t know, Ang,” he shakes his head, leg bouncing, “It puts me in a weird spot. Whether you like it or not, she’s a part of my life—”

“Oh, for fucks sake—”

“And—and Sarah, she picks up on that, you know? That you don’t like her—”

“I don’t give a shit if she knows I hate that bitch, Francisco,” Angie spits, “Why shouldn’t I, huh? Give me one good reason I shouldn’t.”

Answers deadlock his throat.

Because I care about her, and Sarah cares about her, and she cares about us. Because she has helped me more than any other human has, more times than I deserve. Because she saved my life, and you should be fucking grateful.

The thought makes him shiver as it replays.

You should be fucking grateful.

He tries to bypass the question, clearing his throat before taking Angie’s soft hand and meeting her eyes, “I know this arrangement has been hard for you.”

Her features sharpen. She pulls away and crosses her arms in front of her chest. Unease rings out his stomach.

But a sense of familiarity dawns on him, too.

It reminds him of conversations he’s had with you the past two months. Those “State of the Union” discussions that loom, dark and terrifying, but end up making him feel ten pounds lighter when they’re all said and done with.

And, fuck, he wants this to feel better. Wants to be in the same room as his wife and not feel like he’s walking on the razor’s edge.

“Hey,” he takes back her hand, “Stick with me, ok? We can talk about this.”

Angie glares at him, but waits.

“We are friends. That is it. Just like Santi and Benny and Will—”

“Remind me, did you fuck any of them?”

I don’t want to do this anymore.

He stares back into her piercing gaze, with pleading eyes, “Ang.”

Her jaw clenches and she shakes her head, but doesn’t storm off or start screaming at him, so he continues.

“I know I fucked up by having sex with her. It was—It was a mistake.”

Angie’s features soften. Relief floods his veins, warm and buzzing and sedative. Like the first drink at the end of a stressful day.

And, much like when he would finish his first drink, he aches for more.

“It was impulsive. I was so fucking numb, I needed to feel something, and she was around. I’m not, you know, into her, or attracted to her—”

Angie scoffs.

“I know it sounds like bullshit. I know,” he squeezes her hand, “But if I could go back in time and do anything over, it would be that day.”

She studies him, eyes narrowed in scrutiny.

I don’t want to do this anymore.

“It didn’t mean anything, amor. I love you. I mean, fuck, I’m here, aren’t I? I’m trying.”

Her shoulders slump. She swallows hard and looks down at the floor. Her nails twitch against his palm and the rush it gives him flips his stomach upside down.

“I’m sorry, Ang.”

“You’re sorry you got caught.”

“I’m sorry I betrayed you. I’m sorry I broke your trust. I’m sorry I was so fucked in the head I found comfort in someone else. I took you for granted, and I’m so sorry.”

Angie lets out a little sob. He should feel remorse. At the very least, he should feel something other than sick satisfaction at her finally breaking. Just a little bit more. Almost there.

“But that day is behind us now, and what I have with her is entirely platonic. She has Rory, and I have you, and we are friends. She’s helping me out right now by giving me a place to live, and driving me places while my license is suspended, and just being… a really, really good friend to me. I know that’s hard for you, and I’m sorry that it makes you uncomfortable, but I promise that’s all it is.”

“I hate it.”

“I know,” he nods, pulling her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles, “I know, baby. I just need you to trust that I’m doing this for you and Sarah. The two of you are everything to me. I love you.”

Angie sniffles and straightens her spine, then looks over at Frankie, “Can you promise me something?”

Her warm gaze is glossy and full of emotion. He leans into it, answering, “Anything.”

“When the trial is over, and you leave her house—I don’t want you to talk to her ever again.”

It sobers him instantly.

He pulls back, shaking his head, “Ang, I can’t—”

A fire comes to life in her eyes.

“If you give a single fuck about our family, you can and you will. You told me your friendship with her is a means to an end. Is that still true, or no?”

Slowly, he nods, but it feels wrong. The dull blade of guilt rips his belly open.

This isn’t what was supposed to happen.

“Then you cut ties with her when this is done. Do that for me and I will put my feelings about her aside.”

That’s what Angie tells him, but what he understands is this is a reprieve. A stopgap. It buys him some time to figure out what the fuck he’s going to do because—

I don’t want to do this anymore.

He swallows the thought down with a thick gulp and says, “Alright.”

Angie blesses him with a peacemaking smile.

Despite his churning stomach, he returns the smile and squeezes her hand, “Can… Can you do me a favor, though?”

“What?”

“Let me invite her and Rory to Sarah’s party.”

She stares at him like she doesn’t understand, then scoffs, “No.”

“Why not?”

Jumping to her feet, she shouts, “Because she fucked you in our bed, Frankie, do I really have to explain that?”

He stands too, “You just said you’re putting those feelings aside, and she’ll be with her boyfriend, I don’t understand what the big deal—”

“Why does she even want to go?” Angie crosses her arms and scowls.

“She misses Sarah. And Sarah obviously misses her, too. I mean, you heard her at the table earlier.” Frankie approaches her, placing his hands on her waist, searching her face, “I’m with you, amor. I promise. This would just mean a lot to both of them. Especially if they won’t be able to see each other again.”

She softens a little. Her jaw ticks to the side, then she sighs, “Fine.”

He represses the smile from his lips and murmurs, “Thank you,” before pressing a kiss into her forehead.

She hooks her hands behind his neck and drops her eyes to his mouth. His pulse jumps as she captures his lips in hers, alive and wanting. The sugary sweetness of strawberry frosting makes his taste buds perk up and want more.

Her long, red nails work into the curls at the nape of his neck, scratching that deep, aching itch for her favor. That’s the thing about Angie. She gives her affection sparingly, and when he earns it, it feels so fucking good.

He can’t remember the last time she touched him like this, with enthusiasm and hunger.

It was before he quit drinking. Before the failed attempts at marriage counseling. Before Angie came home from work early and caught her husband fucking the nanny.

It’s strange how something as trivial as early dismissal can alter the trajectory of so many lives. His own path seems to be an infinite freefall, always bracing for impact but never meeting the ground.

Drinking more. Fighting more. Pushing you away again and again and again while trying to transplant these feelings into the right relationship.

I don’t want to do this anymore.

Especially now, when Angie kisses him, and all he can think about is your lips, your tongue, soft and slick and writhing on his. The heel of your hand kneading against his stiffening cock.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groans, eyelids fluttering open to meet her gaze, not yours.

He wishes it was you.

But he closes his eyes and lets her guide him back to their bed, settling for the next best thing.

Frankie hears the buzz of an incoming text message from his pants pocket. He kisses Angie’s sweaty forehead and departs from her body, snatching the discarded jeans off the floor.

> MARIPOSA: > Rory is over here fyi, let me know when you’re on your way

A nagging, confusing spring of jealousy bubbles up in his chest. Something else, too. Like guilt, but deeper. An infection festering away inside him.

“I should get going before the birthday girl falls asleep. I don’t wanna have to wake her.”

“Can’t you stay?” Angie asks, stroking his arm, “I mean, really, Francisco. Your PO won’t ship you off to jail for spending the night with your wife, will he?”

Her gentle touch is a branding iron on his skin. Searing. Territorial. He has to stop himself from lurching away.

He slides his pants back on and shrugs, “I don’t really wanna find out.”

“So fucked up.”

“I know, baby,” Frankie fishes his shirt off the foot of the bed, tugging it over his head, “I have to, I’m sorry.”

She releases a sigh and pulls her shirt back on, “Oh, don’t forget, on Thursday my parents will be here.”

Nodding, he stretches his arms above his head. How could he forget?

“Try to get along with my dad.”

He rolls his eyes before turning to face her, “Tell him the same, yeah?”

She snorts and fastens her jean shorts, raising an eyebrow, “I will, but you know how he is. Don’t take his bait.”

Frankie grunts in response while buckling his belt. Fully dressed, they meet at the door. Angie looks him over, giving him a rare warm smile before telling him, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

She kisses him, and he places that rotten feeling: shame.

Frankie walks up the cement path, craning his head up towards the cloudless sapphire evening sky, admiring the way it contrasts the tangerine siding of your post stamp of a house. The sun hangs just at the horizon, and its absence lends relief from the stagnant July heat.

It’s a nice night, but he’s still a little surprised to find you and Rory are sitting out on the front porch swing, his arm draped around your shoulder with you all tucked into his side. Sure, it may be better than coming home to your closed bedroom door, with just the indistinguishable murmur of your voices to drive him crazy, but still… not ideal.

The sight causes something deep within Frankie’s chest to clench and pulse, growling, “MINE.”

Fuck, he couldn’t be more a hypocrite.

“Whatta we have here, a couple of swingers?” he jokes while climbing the front steps.

It’s a bad joke, and in poor taste given the circumstances, but the sneer on Rory’s lips gives him a rush of satisfaction.

Conversely, you light up when you see him. Your smile is fucking luminous. A goddamn heat lamp. He feels himself melting into the floorboards.

Jesus fucking Christ.

You sit up and put a little space between Rory’s body and yours, “Hey! How’d it go?”

“Good,” he crosses his arms, leaning against the banister with a shrug, “Went to see the penguins, had pizza, presents, cake, all that.”

“Did she like her gift?”

“She loved it. She said she’s going to sleep with it tonight—Oh, that reminds me—Ang gave the green light for you two to come to her party on Saturday if you still want to.”

“Holy shit, really?” you ask, eyes widening, then chuckle and shake your head, “Sorry, I’m just surprised. She really said that’s ok?”

“Yeah,” he smiles despite the guilt condensing in his stomach, and asks Rory, “Know if you can make it?”

Rory’s head jerks back a little, and he frowns, “Well, this is the first time I’m hearing about it. But, yeah. I have nothing else going on,” he looks at you, “If that’s ok.”

“Yeah, of course.”

Your words come out airy and unconvincing. Rory studies your face.

Frankie calls your attention back to him, “Guess what she called you earlier.”

You avert your gaze from Rory’s, tucking your hair behind your ear before you chuckle, “Oh god, did she learn it from her mother?”

He laughs at this, shaking his head, “No, she called you Chacha.”

“Shut the fuck up, did she really?” you gasp.

Frankie nods, “Hand to god.”

You sit with this for a few gleeful seconds before your smile falters, and you say, “I miss her.”

“She misses you, too,” he tells you, “She’ll be happy to see you this weekend.”

You nod, then look to Rory, whose mouth is flattened into an unamused line. He stares at you a beat too long for comfort. The air around the porch swing seems tense.

Frankie glances between you and Rory, then clears his throat and says, “Anyway, I’ll get out of your hair.”

You mumble a brief, distracted, “Oh, ok,” before he walks into the house.

As he closes the door and leans back against it to untie his work boots, he hears you ask, “What?”

Both the sharpness in your voice and its volume make Frankie halt. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the curtains rustle from a light breeze. Quietly, he pulls his boots off and sets them on the shoe tray. Morbid curiosity keeps him rooted in place, barely breathing as he listens in on your conversation.

“You didn’t tell me we were invited to his kid’s birthday party.”

“He said he would ask, but I wasn’t going to invite you until I knew for sure whether or not we could go.”

More silence, then your voice again, “Oh my god, what is your problem?”

“I don’t like how you are with him.”

“How I ‘am’ with him? What the hell does that mean?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb. You know what I mean.”

“I really don’t, could you explain it to me?”

Rory pauses for a beat, then says, “You’re flirting, both of you, right in front of me. I don’t like it. And—and I want it to stop.”

“What am I doing that you think is flirting?”

“It’s not just you—”

“What he does is irrelevant, he is his own person—”

“It’s fucking disrespectful.”

The silence that follows writhes under his skin.

This is private. He shouldn’t be eavesdropping. But he can’t bring himself to move. Some fucked up part of him wants to hear what you say to Rory about him. How do you defend yourself? Do you throw him under the bus, too?

Are you just as bad as me?

Your voice comes through the window again, metered and firm, but shaky.

“What am I doing that you consider flirting?”

Rory scoffs, then says, “It’s the way you look at him and talk to him. Always smiling at him, and joking with him, and asking him how his day went—”

“Wow, how dare I ask my roommate—my friend—how his day was.”

“That’s not what I mean. It’s—it’s—I know it when I see it, ok? There’s obviously something going on between you two.”

“Obviously,” you deadpan, “Because I smile and joke with him, and ask him how he’s doing, we are so obviously fucking. You’re totally right, Rory. You caught me.”

“He’s a fucking loser, you know that, right?”

Another long pause.

“I want you to leave.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously, get the fuck off my porch.”

“I don’t have my—”

“I’ll get your shit.”

Frankie hears the porch swing creak and his heart jumps. He launches himself forward and manages to collapse on the couch as you swing the door open.

You freeze when you see him. Your eyes flick from him, to the open window, then back to him before you scoff and stomp off to your bedroom.

Rory steps into the doorway, standing at attention with his hands shoved in his pockets. Frankie stares at him. Something protective and instinctual, almost paternal, wells up inside him and fine tunes his nerve endings.

From the back hallway, you holler, “What the fuck are you doing? I told you to get the fuck off my porch.”

Frankie can’t stop himself from laughing.

Rory glares at him, “Fuck you.”

You steamroll into the room wielding a backpack and shove it into Rory’s chest, “LEAVE.”

“You’re fucking crazy.”

“I sure am. Get the fuck off my property.”

Rory holds your gaze for an intense moment before turning to go. You slam the door behind him and deadbolt it, then go to the front windows and do the same with them.

“I’m—”

You hold up a hand to Frankie and exit the room. A few seconds later he hears your bedroom door click shut.

After scrubbing his skin raw in the shower and changing into pajamas more comfortable than he deserves, Frankie tries to go to sleep early, but finds himself restless.

He stares at the ceiling, at his phone, at the walls. When he hears running water in the bathroom, he wonders if you’re getting ready to go to bed. Wonders if you’re ok, and if you would accept his company.

He thinks about his wife. Her nails digging into his shoulder blades, her hot breath on his cheek. The electric squeeze of her cunt as he came inside her.

What would you do if you knew?

Would it tear you apart, or could you care less?

Fuck, why does he feel so guilty?

For the sex just as much as the tentative agreement he made.

You know he intends to stay with her, and there’s nothing going on between the two of you. Not really. Nothing certain, at least. Right?

Sure, there was the slip up the week after he moved in. And the panties. And, yeah, some flirting. Not intentional when Rory is around, despite what he may think. And maybe you got off next to each other once. Then there’s the cuddling, and the hand holding, and this deep, aching, maddening desire to spend every ounce of his free time with you. To know all of your favorite things, and your life story, and your ticks. To make you feel happy and appreciated and safe and loved.

And loved.

I don’t want to do this anymore.

His muscles and tendons vibrate with anxious energy.

It brings him to his feet and compels him to wander through the dark, silent house, into the living room, confirming its vacancy. He starts off towards your bedroom. The light from your open door slices through the dark back hallway like a beacon. Floorboards creak under his step as he makes his way towards it, and when he arrives, he leans against the door frame.

You’re stretched out horizontal across your bed, belly-side down, facing away from him, hovering over a thick book. He studies the curvature of your body, lingering on the generously exposed swathes of soft skin that lead to the hem of your shorts.

“Are you just gonna hang out in the doorway like a weirdo?” you glance over your shoulder, then back at your book.

“Sorry, I, um... I wasn’t sure if I was interrupting.”

“You’re not,” you sit up and crawl to the head of your bed, tapping the empty pillow beside you, his pillow, his spot. “Come on in.”

While he walks over to the furthest side, you plump the pillows on your side of the bed and stuff them behind your back, then resume reading.

“What’s that?” he asks as he stretches out across your bedspread.

You lift the cover to show him and sigh, “Still chipping away at Doctor Sleep.”

“It any good?”

“Terrible, that’s why I’m reading it.”

Frankie snorts and shakes his head while digging his phone from his pajama pants, “Are you doing ok?”

“Wow, you’re full of great questions tonight, huh?”

“Maybe you’re just full of sass tonight, ever think of that?”

“Doesn’t sound like me.”

He raises his eyebrows and murmurs, “No comment.”

“That’s, like, actually a comment though, in itself—”

“Weren’t you reading?”

“Weren’t you—I don’t know, reading the news or whatever dads do on their phone?”

“Looking for car parts,” he corrects.

“Same thing.”

Frankie drops his phone on his chest and looks at you, “Not even close.”

You peek around the corner of your book, “It’s like, equal levels of dad-ness, though, so basically, yeah.”

“Levels of dad-ness,” he chuckles under his breath, shaking his head, “You’d know something about that, huh?”

“About what, how daddy you are?” you laugh.

He shrugs, meeting your eyes. You hold his gaze, mouth cracked open in a mischievous smile, then shake your head and look back at your book, “No comment.”

Grinning like idiots, you both go back to reading and browsing, respectively, although Frankie can’t concentrate for shit with you next to him. His skin aches with the heat of your body so close.

He listens to every breath you take, every wet swallow, every microscopic wiggle bringing you closer. Minutes go by, but he doesn’t hear your page turn once.

Eventually, you let out a powerful yawn, and it spreads to him.

You grab the bookmark off your nightstand and tuck it between the open pages before closing it, “I should go to bed soon—” another yawn interrupts you, “It’s getting late.”

“Yeah,” he sits up, stretching his arms over his head, then looks back at you, “I’ll see you in the morning?”

Your features melt and soften, lips parting as you meet his eyes. This invisible force keeps him anchored there, tugging at his chest, urging him to move closer to you. He glances at your mouth, at the pink flash of your tongue wetting your lips.

He doesn’t want to go.

He wants to stay and kiss you breathless, to fall asleep with the warmth of your body lining his, to wake up in your bed and never fucking leave.

He wants to take back everything he said to his wife earlier today, to defend your honor like he should have, like you would do for him, like you did for him.

Fuck, he doesn’t deserve you. The hole he dug for himself is a just punishment. He needs to let you go and allow you to find peace with someone else who won’t hurt you like he has. Like he will inevitably do again.

You reach out and place your hand on his arm, thumb grazing his tingling, heated skin, “Do you want to stay?”

The contact floods him with feel-good chemicals that his hungry synapses gobble up.

“I, umm—”

His throat swallows around his thudding pulse. It fucking hurts how bad he wants you right now. He finds himself leaning back on his elbow, gravitating closer to you, resting his hand in the dip of your waist as you roll on your side to face him.

“Is that a good idea?” he asks.

“Probably not,” you search his face, your gaze catching on his mouth.

His heart skitters and he doesn’t really notice that his fingertips dig into your side until your whole body shivers in reaction. Doesn’t really notice he’s been inching closer to you until your breath grazes his lips.

The sound of your ringtone cuts through the thick air between your bodies.

You sit up and shake your head, trance broken, then reach for the source of the noise with shaky hands, “It’s Rachel. She’s full bridezilla mode, this might take a while.”

“Ok,” he nods, “I’ll go.”

You look over at him, apologies written all over your face. An impulse yanks hard on his body and urges him forward. Before he can talk himself out of it, he slips a hand behind your head and pulls you into a kiss.

Your lips are soft and warm, fucking perfect, just how he remembers. They barely have time to respond before he draws back and tells you, “Goodnight.”

You watch him crawl out of your bed, stunned silent for a moment, then answer the phone, “Hey, Rach—what’s wrong?”

Frankie glances up at you as he closes the door behind him, and sees you tracing the dumbfounded smile on your lips.

When he turns out the lights in his room and crawls under the covers, even though he knows damn well he won’t find sleep for hours, he does the same.

Frankie is at work, elbows deep in the engine compartment of a Bell 407, when the call from his attorney comes.

“Your case is on the docket,” the voicemail tells him when he returns to his small, shared office space, “Trial is scheduled for Wednesday, September 6th. We might still be able to find a favorable plea deal, so I’ll get working on that, but either way, I’d like to set up a call with you early next week to discuss your options moving forward. Give me a call when you get this, thanks.”

He takes a seat at his desk and stares at his phone for a minute, then replays the message to make sure he heard correctly. He did.

The earth tilts.

Everything seems to crumble as reality dawns on him. All he can see are cold steel prison cell bars and stiff orange jumpsuits. Angie’s words from the other night echo in his head:

“When the trial is over, when you leave her house—I don’t want you to talk to her ever again.”

A vast, unshakable hollowness overtakes him.

Or… or maybe it’s the opposite.

Maybe he’s so heavy and full he’s just sinking deeper and deeper into the dark, endless pit of his mistakes, down, down, down…

He unlocks his phone to return his lawyer’s call, but pauses when he tastes the salt of his own tears. Confused, he wipes his eyes and stares down at his damp hand.

Frankie just sits there for a moment, watching tears splatter onto his palms, stunned. When did he start crying? Why did he start crying?

He knew it was just a matter of time before the consequences of his actions became real. Now it’s happening and he’s blubbering like a baby.

I need to get my shit together.

He stands and shoves his phone in his pocket, shaking out his hands.

A string tugs at his chest, leading him to Michael’s desk. He watches the closed door as he carefully pulls open a drawer. Inside, he finds a half-empty bottle of whiskey. The string pulls taut, urging him to do it.

He thinks about Angie. How her sour attitude always poisons his mind. How this thing between them feels so distant, so vacuous, he doesn’t know how he will ever restore it.

He thinks about Sarah. How much he’s failed her as a father. He thinks about his own father and wonders if it’s pointless for him to keep resisting fate. Was it always going to be like this for him? Does it matter if he tries to be better, or is this all futile?

He thinks about you. His chest aches and he feels tears burn behind his eyes again. He wishes you were here. You’d know what to say or do to make him feel better.

Frankie takes the cell phone from his pocket and dials your number. He glances up at the door again as the line rings.

“Hey,” you answer, sounding slightly confused, “What’s up?”

Kids squeal in the background as he tries to find his voice. Words catch in his throat, the only thing that comes out is a rasp. A sob. He’s fully crying now. Staring at the whiskey.

“Frankie, what’s wrong? Are you ok?”

Your concern is audible. It reaches through the phone and coaxes him to speak.

“I, um,” he swallows hard and shakes his head, “I don’t know. I’m kind of freaking out right now.”

“Why, what’s going on?”

“I just got my court date,” he sniffles, clears his throat, then says, “I feel… hopeless.”

“Where are you?”

On your end of the world, Frankie hears a door click shut and the chaotic background noise becomes muted.

“In my office.”

“What’re you doing?”

He pauses, so you repeat the question.

“I’m staring at a bottle of whiskey,” he admits quietly. Just a whisper.

“Ok,” you breathe, and he can hear your mind start to whiz into action, “Ok. Did you drink any of it?”

“Not yet.”

“Thank fuck,” a sigh of relief crackles in his ear, “Ok, that’s good. Good job. Can I come get you? I—I mean, do you want me to come get you now? Because I can—”

“No, sweetheart,” his eyes flick to the ceiling, trance broken, and he pushes the drawer closed, “You don’t have to do that.”

“But I will—”

He turns towards his desk, “No, really, it’s ok—“

“Oh my fucking god,” you huff, “Look, I am responsible for you. Not only that, but I—I care about you, Frankie. I need to know that you’re safe. And dry.”

Warmth sprouts up beneath his sternum and branches out under his rib cage.

“And—and it’s ok if the answer is no, because I can just come get you and bring you h-home,” you stumble a little on the last word, but you recover quickly, “Are you safe?”

“Yeah. I just needed to, um,” he turns and leans back against the desk, pressing his fingertips to his mouth, then drops them and says, “Thanks for picking up.”

“You promise you’re not falling off the wagon?”

“I promise.”

“Good,” you say, your sweet, soft voice tinged with a smile, “If you’re lying to me, though, I’m gonna break your thumbs.”

“Break my thumbs?” he chuckles.

“Yeah, you know how many bottles you can lift with broken thumbs? None.”

He snorts and shakes his head, “Alright, alright. Don’t get out your vice grips just yet, buster.”

You laugh and Frankie feels his heart swell with adoration. There’s a bit of an awkward pause when your laughter fades out, then you murmur, “Thank you for calling me. Instead of… you know.”

“Yeah.”

“Still need me to pick you up from your meeting later?”

“If that still works for you.”

“Of course it does,” you coo, and he can hear the smile in your voice again when you say, “So, about my movie pick for tonight...”

He grins, “Uh-huh. You got a good one?”

“Well, the thing is, I was going to pick The Shawshank Redemption, but that seems a bit too topical now—”

Laughter bubbles up Frankie’s throat, and he shakes his head, “Hey, maybe it’ll give me some pointers for tunneling my way out of a prison.”

“That is so true. In that case, maybe I’ll keep it. We’ll see,” you chuckle, “Ok, well… I’ll see you tonight, then?”

“I’ll be there.”

When Frankie sees your car pull up to the strip mall coffee shop that holds his Friday night meeting, a few thoughts populate his head almost instantaneously.

At the very forefront is the reminder that he kissed you.

It was a peck, really, just a quick kiss goodnight. But for three days, the first thought on his mind when he sees you or thinks about you or breathes or does anything really is that he fucking kissed you.

After being notified of his court date, Frankie should only be thinking up ways to see minimal jail time. But every time he finds a still moment, before anything else, he pictures you sitting on your bed, rubbing your lips and smiling as he leaves your room.

The thought that follows this one, on par for the past three days, is that he fucked Angie.

Has anyone ever felt this fucking terrible about having sex with his wife?

Then, on top of that, he said shitty things about you and let Angie do the same. He knows he didn’t just betray you, but he betrayed himself, too. It wasn’t just wrong, it was disingenuous. That knowledge fills him with a heaviness so profound, at times he thinks it might break him.

Which brings up the last thought that shotguns through his head following the kiss, then Angie:

I don’t want to do this anymore.

What “this” is, he hasn’t quite figured out yet. His marriage? His obsession with you? Sobriety? Life itself?

Fuck, all of the above?

All he knows is he means it, and that “this” is not sustainable.

He built a timebomb with no countdown. If he concentrates hard enough he can hear it ticking in his bones, whispering in his ear:

I don’t want to do this anymore.

Frankie opens the passenger door to your car and sits down, closing it behind him, “Hey.”

“Hey,” you throw the car into reverse, craning your neck around to check for oncoming traffic, “How was your meeting?”

“It was… good, actually,” he stretches out in the seat and shrugs, “Yeah. I, uhh, I think I needed that today.”

“Yeah?” you glance over at him, “So your opinion that it’s, and I quote, ‘total bullshit’ has shifted a bit?”

He chuckles, “I guess so.”

“Wow, look at you. A changed man,” you smirk, “You’re almost two months sober, you know that?”

“Feels like centuries,” he taps his lips, then tells you, “But also days, sometimes. I don’t know. It’s weird.”

“Is it getting easier?”

Not at all.

The thought surfaces from the hungry part of his brain. The beast that just wants and wants and wants, regardless of the cost. But that’s not necessarily accurate, even though it’s the loudest part of him.

“Sometimes,” he admits, “Sometimes I can’t imagine being that person again. And—and sometimes all I want to do is drink until I don’t care about anything anymore.”

“But the meetings help?”

“Yeah, they do.”

“What step are you on?”

“Well… I haven’t actually started the steps. So, zero.” Before you can ask, he adds, “I don’t know why. I should. I mean, I’ve been thinking about it.”

You nod in acknowledgement, then a few seconds pass before you tell him, “Last time I talked to Ralph, he suggested I check out an Al-Anon meeting.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I’ve been thinking about doing it,” you glance between him and the road, “Would that be weird?”

“I don’t think it would be weird at all,” he answers, tapping his fingers against his knee.

“Really?”

“It might be helpful, talking to other people in similar… situations, I guess.”

“Ok. Well, yeah, maybe I’ll check it out.”

“You should,” he gives your arm a playful pinch.

A smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth. Your hand moves towards his, then the fingers curl back and you mutter, “Sorry,” before returning it to the steering wheel.

Frankie studies your face, watching your jaw gnash around like you’re chewing on your goddamn tongue again. He lays out his hand, palm facing up on the center console.

You look at it, then release your white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel to place your hand in his.

Once you do, he interlaces your fingers and pulls your clasped hands to rest on his leg. His thumb absentmindedly works against your skin as he looks out the window at storefronts and restaurants rolling past. And, for the first time all day, he feels sated and calm, like he knows everything will turn out ok.

As the end credits to Moulin Rouge! run, Frankie looks down at you sleeping peacefully with your head on his lap. He rubs your arm, murmuring, “Sweetheart.”

You wake with a start, jolting upright, and clamber to the other end of the couch. Your wide, frightened eyes glow with the ambient light of the TV. Every muscle in your body is rigid and guarded. You look like a cornered animal.

“Hey,” he holds up a hand, “It’s just me.”

It takes a moment for you to recognize him and your surroundings, but when you do, you slacken, burying your face in your hands, and release a sob.

He stares at you, afraid to move, not wanting to rattle you further. A minute goes by like this, while you cry and he sits there frozen and uncertain.

“Sorry,” you sit up and wipe your eyes, shaking your head, “That was fucking weird I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t apologize. It’s ok.”

“Ok,” you stand on shaky legs, “Well, goodnight.”

When you walk past him, he calls out, “Hey, wait,” and grabs your hand, “Are you ok?”

You don’t say anything, but you don’t pull away, either. For a moment he doesn’t even think you’re breathing. When your breath returns, it’s a sob that racks your body. You shake your head and choke out, “No.”

“Do you want me to stay with you?”

You nod, so he stands and follows you to your room. The lights stay off as he crawls into bed beside you, ushering you into his arms. You feel so warm there, fit so perfectly, even with your stuffed panda bear cuddled into your chest.

When he thinks about your nightmares, your panic attacks, the times like this when you seem stuck somewhere far away, he desperately wants to know who did this to you.

He can connect the dots. He doesn’t need you to tell him the gory details. If he could put a name and a face to the scars in your psyche, though…

He cuts his thoughts short, not wanting to see all the methods of vengeance his volatile brain can come up with. Not with you right here, safe in his embrace, drifting to sleep.

The long, slow breaths expanding and contracting your rib cage lull him into a hypnotic state, and sleep comes to him easily, the way it only does when he’s with you.

Frankie wakes in your bed at dawn.

Eyes still closed, he frowns when a breeze slices through the thick, stagnant air and cools his skin.

He mutters to himself, “You stole the goddamn blanket again, didn’t you?”

One eye peaks open and confirms his suspicion. At some point overnight, you managed to twist yourself up into a cocoon on the opposite side of the bed.

“Hmm?”

The noise is muffled and groggy. He chuckles and shakes his head, “Nothing. Go back to bed.”

The heap jiggles a little. Your hand pokes out from underneath it and grabs around for him. He scoots closer, peeling back a poofy duvet layer to reveal your serene, still mostly sleeping face. You wince at the dull light of day, but a smile ticks across your lips when you make contact with him, smoothing your palm against the heat of his chest before worming your way into his arms. He pulls the blanket with you, draping it over himself, even though the air is hot and soupy, just to feel your warmth because it’s yours.

You mumble something into his shirt. The words all stick together when they dribble from your comatose lips and he can’t make out a single one.

He smirks, “What’s that?”

This time, you tilt your head to the ceiling, notching the crown of your head between his collar and jaw, smacking your mouth a few times before repeating yourself.

This time, he understands.

“IIiii love you.”

His heart skitters electric through his fingertips.

He tries to keep his countenance calm when he peaks down at you. Your eyes are closed, breath passing through your slack lips in long, halting strokes. One foot in the door of consciousness, if that.

Fuck it.

“I love you, too.”

Every synapse in his brain shoots off like the grand finale of a fireworks display when he says it. A sweet, sleepy hum sounds from your throat as you feel around blindly for him, patting up his arm like you’re searching for a light switch in the dark.

When you reach his face, your wobbly fingertips twitch a little. They graze his stubbled cheek, then follow the curve of his smile. Your eyelids flutter open, and it takes a moment for your eyes to focus, but when they do, you don’t go to move or push him away like he was half-expecting.

No, instead, your gaze slides to where you trace his lips, your own parting with a sharp breath.

If he says anything, he’ll fuck this up, he’s sure of it. And he wants to squeeze every last drop from this moment. So he just watches you and tries to subdue the wildfire scorching his bones to dust.

“I had a dream about you,” you tell him in a hoarse whisper, as if someone might overhear.

His pulse surges. He feels his limbs wiggle a little closer to you as he asks, “A good dream?”

You nod.

“What happened?”

The answer tucks into the corners of your mouth and spreads across your face in a big party banner smile, “I dreamed that you, um…”

You lick your lips and shrug, raking your nails along his jaw, reeling him in closer. He doesn’t want to be the fool that makes the first move. Not unless you want him to be.

“That I what?”

The question leaves his throat in a rumble. Permission, he needs your permission, baby, please—

Then you kiss him. Delicate and hesitant, like a question: “Do you want this?”

“I do,” every cell in his body cries, aching with restrained force when his lips move in response, pressing hard against yours like a declaration, “I don’t just want this, I need this. I need you.”

A moan bows your vocal cords, vibrating onto his tongue as you yank on his shirt and roll onto your back, pulling him on top of you. It’s like second nature, how his hips arch into yours, the dull edge of your pubic bone grinding against his already stiff, throbbing length.

He keeps expecting you to come to your senses and shove him away, but you don’t. You keep kissing him, pulling him closer, tongue rolling soft and wet against his—morning breath be damned, thank fucking god. If you tried to shoo him now, he might die, too much inertia from this pulsing, maddening energy rippling beneath his skin, it would tear him to shreds.

Your lips part from his and you peer up at him through your lashes, studying his face as you tug at his cock over his shorts. His whole body shudders, a groan spilling from his chest, and you smirk, “Take them off.”

“Are you sure?”

You glance at his lips, then meet his eyes, “No, but do it anyway.”

Frankie sits up and strips off his clothes, watching you do the same. You pull him with you as you lay back on your elbows, lips meeting again and again in frantic, desperate kisses. His cock nudges against your slick entrance, and you whine, “Please—”

He pushes forward, swallowed up by your tight, wet heat, catching the whine of “Fuck yes,” that escapes your mouth. A thick wave of pleasure rushes up his spine, and your hips work against his, taking him faster, the shared movements quickly escalating.

“So fucking good,” he pants, nipping at the column of your throat as your head falls loosely back, “Sweet girl, you take me so well, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasp, nodding up at the ceiling, mouth hanging open slack, eyes pinched shut, “Oh my god, yes, Frankie—”

“That’s it, baby, say my name,” he growls, this insane gush of hot, writhing ecstasy flooding his body, “Look at me.”

Your head snaps up and you meet his eyes. He slips a hand behind your head and cradles your skull, holding you here, fucking you in deep, long strokes, asking you, “Whose pussy is this?”

“It’s yours, Frankie,” you gasp, nodding, “It’s yours, it’s always yours, fuck—”

“Fuck yes it is,” his voice sounds far away, babbling all on its own as he grapples with the fire growing inside him, “Does your little boyfriend fuck you like this?”

You let out a pathetic whimper and shake your head, “No.”

“Do you think about me when you fuck him?”

A nod, continuing frantically when he asks, “Think about how you wish it was me to make yourself come?”

“Fuck, holy shit, Frankie—oh my fucking god—”

You’re so fucking close. His muscles start to clench at the overwhelming pleasure.

“That’s it baby, come on, let it go, it’s ok, be a good girl let me feel you come on this dick—”

Your moans grow louder, matching his fervid thrusts, and he feels you suck him in, the spasming squeeze of your plush, hot walls yanking him violently over the edge. Liquid static condenses, then pulses through him, and he lets out a guttural noise as he fucks his load into you.

The rhythm of his hips slow, then come to a stop.

He looks down at you, panting, and brushes his thumb against your cheek, searching your face for signs of regret, and notices you’re studying him in the same manner.

You smooth your hands over his shoulders, then pull him into a sweet, lingering kiss. When your lips depart his, you release a heavy sigh, dragging your nails through his damp bed head as you ask, “What time do you have to go?”

An old, familiar ache returns. Reality setting in. He realizes what the day holds in store for him. Sarah’s birthday party. Spending the day with family and friends, playing pretend.

When he thinks about being around you and Angie simultaneously, how he will have to act neutral or even cold towards you, his stomach twists and a sour taste rises in his throat. He’s been here a million times and it always leaves him nauseous with shame. It doesn’t feel right. It never felt right.

I don’t want to do this anymore.

Everything seems to click into place. He understands what he has to do.

“Pablo is picking me up around 9.”

Your throat bobs and a crease forms between your brows as you avert your gaze, fingers still working through his hair, “Today’s gonna be a fucking nightmare, isn’t it?”

“Mmm,” he presses a kiss into your forehead, right on the little worry lines, mumbling against your skin, “It’ll be ok.”

“Yeah,” you scoff, “We just fucked, now we’re gonna spend the day with your wife and daughter, what could go wrong?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he chuckles, but you don’t find it funny.

You flinch and look down, hands curling to your chest. Frankie tilts your chin up. When he meets your eyes, they’re bloodshot and watery. He opens his mouth to say something, frantically searching his brain for some kind of band-aid, but the box is empty. He’s not sure what to say to comfort you. All that comes out of his stupid fucking mouth is, “I—fuck, sorry.”

“No, it’s ok,” you wipe your eyes and sit up, so he draws back, watching you scramble to put your shorts back on, “I, um… I’ll go make some coffee.”

He wants to assure you it will be ok, that he’s going to fix this, make things right. Something he should have done years ago. But the words lodge in his chest. What if he can’t fix it? What if it’s another promise he can’t keep?

So he just sits there and lets you walk away for the millionth time.

After taking a shower and getting dressed, Frankie pours a cup of coffee and walks into the living room, where you’re scribbling in your notebook, limbs twisted up into a tight knot. Uncertainty paralyzes him in the archway between rooms. He takes a step back, pauses, then steps forward.

You smack the notebook and blink at him, “Oh my god Frankie, just sit down, you’re making me nervous.”

He nods and strides over to the couch, lowering himself onto the cushion beside you with a groan. Meanwhile, you return your attention to the notebook, furrowing your brow as you write.

Curiosity flips his stomach. Is it about him? About what just happened?

Desperately, he wants you to share your feelings on the matter with him like you would your journal. The unfiltered truth.

Do you want this like I do?

He takes a big, burning sip of coffee, then asks, “What’re you writing about?”

Your eyebrow arches and you continue to scribble as you narrate, “Dear diary, he’s gonna be super fucking weird about this now, isn’t he?”

Frankie snorts, shaking his head while you spear your pencil down the notebook’s wired spine and smirk at him. He tugs at one of your ankles, and you welcome the invitation, stretching your legs out across his lap and he scoots closer.

“Am I being weird about it?” he asks, glancing down into his steaming mug.

You exchange the notebook for your coffee and raise it to your lips before shrugging, “A little. But I think I am, too, so…” You take a loud sip, then lower your mug and ask, “Do you regret it yet?”

He doesn’t even think about it. The answer barrels from his heart to his mouth.

“No.”

A timid sort of smile curves your lips. It reminds him of the way a neglected animal would react to an outstretched hand. Cautious. Not sure if he’ll slap or pet you, but hopeful.

“Really?”

He nods, searching your face, “What about you?”

“No. But—” your smile falters, eyes dropping to your coffee cup, “But I’m scared.”

Guilt pools icy cold in his guts. His throat bobs on its own accord. He takes your hand, weaving his fingers with yours.

Your face twists into a pained expression and you croak, “What are we even doing here?”

“I don’t know yet,” he shakes his head, “But give me some time—”

“I can’t be your mistress again,” you whisper, shaking your head as tears pool in your eyes, voice escalating, tinged with panic, “Please don’t ask me to do that again, it would kill me, Frankie, I fucking can’t—”

“Hey—no,” he sits up to place his mug on the table, takes yours and does the same, then scoops you up onto his lap.

You bury your face in his neck. Sobs work through your body with violent force—a horrible, tortured sound that pulverizes his heart. All he can do is squeeze you tight and do his best to restrain his own tears. It barely works. Self-loathing bubbles under his skin.

His voice cracks as he tells you, “I won’t do that to you again, mariposa, I promise. I’ll fix it, I promise I’ll fix it, ok?”

He clenches his eyes shut, cradling you as a few more strangled noises burst from your chest, each one driving the thought deeper: I don’t want to do this anymore.

“Give me some time,” he rasps into your hair, “I promise I’ll fix it—”

“You’re just saying that because I’m crying,” you choke out in an accusatory fashion, then take a big, wet, gasping breath.

“No, I’m not—hey, look at me.”

He pulls back to meet your eyes, but you shake your head in protest, covering your face, “I don’t want to, I’m ugly crying.”

“Ugly crying?” Frankie snorts, “I don’t know about that, let me see.”

Your shoulders bounce with a soggy, muffled chuckle, “Shut up.”

He smirks at the spunky response as you sniffle and drop your hands, shooting him a glare he knows you don’t mean. Feigning seriousness, he pinches your chin to inspect your damp, puffy face.

“Hmm,” he clicks his tongue and sighs, “Just as I thought. Too goddamn pretty for your own good.”

To this, you roll your eyes and chuckle, “You’re a liar.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs, thumb sliding across the plush of your bottom lip, “But not about this.”

Your gaze softens as you search his face, “Which part?”

“All of it.”

“Really?”

Frankie nods.

You study him, brow furrowed, eyes welling up. Everything is so silent and still, he wonders if the world stopped turning. A fat tear rolls down your cheek and you croak out, “You better not be fucking with me, Francisco.”

“I’m not—”

“Because, I swear to god, if you’re lying—”

He cups your cheeks and holds your gaze steady on his, “I promise, ok? I’ll tell Ang later this week. But today…” He trails off, shaking his head, “I don’t know.”

A few tears break loose, so he wipes them away.

The column of your throat bobs and you ask, “Do you still want me to go?”

He tucks a lock of hair behind your ear, “Do you still want to go?”

“You first.”

“I’d like it if you did. And it would mean a lot to Sarah,” he slips his arms around your waist and leans back onto the couch. You follow, laying your head on his shoulder, melting into him as he pets your hair and says, “But it’s up to you. It might be hard.”

“Because you’re still… with her, right? Like this?”

His chest aches. You flatten your palm against his heart and he tells you, “Yeah. Well, kind of. It’s different, but yeah.”

“Different how?”

I don’t love her. Not like this.

“I, um… I don’t know how to explain it. She’s just a different person. Our relationship isn’t like this. It’s kind of like it was, but, you know… worse.”

You’re quiet for a moment, then ask, “Do you still fuck her?”

“No.”

The lie slips out automatically. Immediately, his stomach drops to the ground. He wishes he could take it back, and for a second, he considers it. But, at the same time, you don’t need to know about a one-time fuck up.

He shifts a little, looking down at you, “But we’re still… affectionate sometimes. Which could be hard to see. So, it’s up to you.”

You smooth your hand up his chest, to his neck, and sit up to meet his eyes, “I’ll go.”

Frankie nods, searching your face.

“We can behave, right?” your eyebrow quirks, and you glance down at his mouth.

“Uh huh,” he leans closer, inhaling your breath, brushing his knuckles against your cheek.

But when his lips meet yours, and sparks ignite under his skin, he knows it’s just another lie.

#designated person #frankie morales #francisco morales #francisco catfish morales #frankie catfish morales #triple frontier #triple frontier fic #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales fanfiction #francisco morales x reader #francisco morales x you #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fic

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oliviaischillin1204 · 2 months ago

Note

IN THAT C A S E--- 👾 with ler!deceit and lee!logan or remus (or b o t h bc I'm that much of a multishipper hA—) ~ Sensey

,,,,,, felix i’m actually sorry for dragging this old ass ask back KDJFHDSJFHDSJDHJ. this was one of the very first requests i ever received on this blog and i. never did it. but i also never deleted it KDFJHDJFHDJFHDJ. soooo anyways :3

tickletober day 2- “chase”

word count: 1,571 words

Logan couldn’t tell you how this had happened. One moment, he and the others had been having a nice picnic in the Imagination. The next moment, he and Remus were diving through the leaves of the thick jungle Remus had created for the afternoon, adrenaline pounding through their veins as they desperately tried to escape.

“This way, smexy!” Remus hissed, yanking Logan none too lightly by the wrist as they bobbed and weaved through the trees.

“Do you even know where we’re going?” Logan asked, speeding up so he and Remus were running side by side.

Out of his peripheral, Logan saw Remus grin wildly. “Anywhere but there! Just keep running, nerdy Wolverine!”

“Fine,” Logan replied, pulling ahead to run in front of Remus. “But you know we can’t run forever. I still think we should double back and head for the exit, before it’s too late.”

Logan waited for Remus to respond, but there was nothing. He slowed his run until he was standing still, listening for Remus’ footsteps behind him. Nothing.

“Remus?”

No response.

Against Logan’s better judgement, he turned around, cautiously treading back the way he’d come. Part of him wanted to keep running, but a greater part of him wanted to make sure Remus was alright.

(Plus, although he’d never admit it, there was an infinitesimal part of him that was petrified by the idea of being found alone, in unfamiliar territory, by the monster they’d been running from.)

The tall trees cast threatening shadows across the entire jungle floor, making it impossible to tread quietly: every time Logan stepped on a branch and heard it crack under his feet, he was certain that the noise would attract the monster they’d been running from. But despite how loud he was being, nothing came to help or hinder him.

It wasn’t until he reached the edge of a small clearing before he realized: something else was making much more noise already.

“You stupid, pointless– who would even put a rock right there?”

Remus’ voice cut through the ambient noise of the Imagination. Creeping forward in the shadows, Logan came across the creative side sprawled on the ground after apparently tripping over a rock. Remus was scowling darkly and muttering to himself, but there was an air of electric excitement around him that even Logan could pick up on.

Hurriedly, the dark side rose up and turned in a circle, looking around the edge of the clearing until his eyes locked with Logan’s.

Remus sighed in relief, a small smile on his face as he stepped forward.

“Took you long enough, Smartwatch, I thought I’d have to leave you behind–”

Something shot out from the treetops above Remus and grabbed him by the back of his shirt, yanking him up into the air and out of Logan’s sight.

Logan froze, his heart rate drastically increasing at the sudden terror. He heard rustling in the trees, and through the bushes, and all around him, and he spun in a circle in a frantic attempt to find where it was coming from.

A scream from behind him made him jump around again, peering into the clearing with wide eyes. There was a rustling, a crackling, and suddenly Remus dropped into the clearing– but he didn’t hit the ground.

From his half hidden position, Logan could only see Remus’ feet, kicking wildly in midair. He dared to step a little closer so he could make out Remus’ current position, but a dark laugh made him freeze in place.

“Thank you for dropping in, Remus. I was beginning to worry I had just missed you.”

Janus stepped forward from the other side of the clearing, smirking upwards. Logan craned his neck, and finally he could see Remus: the creative side was suspended in midair, held aloft by one of Janus’ arms. The arm was coming from the treetop above them, and apparently had stretched long enough so that it could securely wrap once around Remus’ waist, before stretching back upwards to grab the tree branch and leaving Remus dangling in the air by his waist.

“Oh, lurking in the shadows again, you wannabe Bond villain?” Remus hissed, struggling fiercely in Janus’ hold. “I’ll bite the shit out of your arm if you don’t let me go!”

“Is that so?” Janus asked. “Well, let’s give your mouth something better to do, then, shall we?”

Remus barely had time to gasp the word “kinky!” before he was screeching with laughter. Logan’s heart beat wildly in his ears. He tried to peer closer to see what was happening, but all he could make out was a flurry of yellow-gloved hands scrambling all over Remus’ torso.

Janus laughed along with him, moving closer and gently lowering Remus in his restraints until the creative side were merely a dozen feet above the ground.

“You know, you should really watch where you’re running, Remus. Anything could be lurking in this jungle of yours. Aren’t you so glad it’s just little old me who caught you first?”

Remus shrieked, wiggling fiercely. Logan could see a hand squeezing his hips, and his chest trembled in giddy solidarity. He couldn’t imagine being in Remus’ position.

“Now, where can I find my next victim?”

Logan’s heart dropped to his stomach. Please, Remus, he thought desperately, stay quiet for once–

“There!” Remus shrieked, kicking one leg straight forward directly to where Logan was crouching among the bushes. “Fuck him up– ahahahahaha!”

Remus’ laughter overtook his words again, but it was too late. Logan understood for the first time what “fight or flight” truly meant; his brain and his body couldn’t agree on what to do against the threat right in front of him. His eyes drifted around the clearing, slowly, trying to look for any escape routes–

Only to lock eyes with Janus’ piercing golden stare.

“Found you.”

Logan ran. His shoes slammed against the forest ground, hyper aware of the rocks and tree roots that lined the path, desperate to avoid meeting the same fate as Remus. Blood rushed in his ears. His lungs burned. And despite it all there was a wide, feral smile on his face. He was going to be caught. He was going to be found, he was going to be tickled, and there was nothing he could do about it.

He whipped around the trees, barely aware of where he was going, making sure to leap across yet another tree root in his way–

Only for the root to shoot up and catch his ankle in midair.

Logan shouted, more in shock than anything else, but before he could fall face first into the ground there was something grabbing him by the back of his shirt collar, and finally around one outstretched arm. His heart hammered, adrenaline still running through his veins, as the hands– because that what they were, of course, more yellow-gloved hands– gently maneuvered him to stand on his feet again, but facing the way he’d come from. The hands on his ankle and collar released, but one stayed wrapped around his arm.

Logan stared at it. Giggles were building up in his chest already. “Please, no–”

The hand pulled. Logan hesitated, pulling back, but the hand pulled harder, and harder, until he was forced to stumble along with it as it dragged him none too gently back down the path.

Back to the clearing where Janus had trapped Remus.

“Nnnnnnno, no no no, wait wait wait–” Logan pleaded through his growing smile. Could Janus hear him? He stumbled through the dirt, stomach swooping as he saw the light of the clearing come closer and closer. Remus’ laughter still rang out amongst the trees.

“Welcome back, Logan! Thank you so much for joining us,” Janus said grandly as he pulled Logan back into the circle. The hand returned back underneath Janus’ cape, shortening until Logan was standing only a few feet away from his hunter. “You are late, of course, which is incredibly rude, but I think we can figure out a way for you to make up for your tardiness?”

“Please!” Logan burst out. He stamped his feet, yanking against the grip on his wrist again. “J-Janus, please, this game is ridiculous, we don’t need to go any further, please, wait–!”

He yanked again, and Janus immediately let his wrist go. Logan, stunned, fell backwards onto the ground.

Just in time for two hands to shoot out and grab his ankles.

“Wait!” he shrieked, but it was mere moments before he was hoisted by both ankles and lofted upside down, lower than Remus but still several feet above the ground. His head spun as he reoriented himself, and it took him a few seconds to find Janus’ upside-down smirk in the chaos.

“Oh, why wait, Logan?” Janus said innocently. “I’m not one to play with my food.”

Logan could barely process that statement before he felt his shoes being removed from above him.

“Nahahahaha!” he burst out, already squealing and kicking his legs helplessly against the restraints. Janus stepped closer, his face mere inches from Logan’s, and laughed lowly.

“I did catch you both, you know,” he said. Remus’ laughter blended in with the shrieks Logan himself was now making, now that there were ten gloved fingers dancing all over his soles. Janus stepped forward and reached for Logan’s stomach directly. “And I think I should be allowed to savor my prizes.”

#Anonymous #my posts #my writing #tickling #tickle fic #tickletober 2024 #augtickletober2024 #tt24 #prompt #sanders sides tickling #lee!remus #lee!logan #ler!janus #requested on march 20 2020 #iirc the emoji meant tickle monster lmaoooo

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tiramisuucakeee · 2 months ago

Text

4. LOSING MY MIND

( sunflower, yang jungwon )

it was the early morning, and you were out running through the city in your white sport set, hair pulled up neatly with gel, and face flushed pink from the exhaustion. a few blocks away, you spotted a small shop, making you sigh gladly. being the forgetful girl you were, you forgot to bring water bottle, but this shop was your salvation.

picking up your pace, you weaved through the bustling commuters, flashing smiles at the friendly faces you passed.

when you finally reached the shop, you paused to stop the timer on your smartwatch, feeling proud as you glanced at your heart rate and steps. fishing out a bill from the pocket of your shorts, you headed toward the fridge, debating which brand of water to grab.

“personally, i like smart water, you should try it,” a voice called out from behind you. you spun around to see jungwon, the boy whose presence recently managed to catch your attention.

“hey, jungwon, what are you doing here?” you asked, panting slightly as you placed your hands on your hips. he looked effortlessly cool in his all-black sweat set, a striking contrast to your bright outfit.

“i really like the sandwiches here, so i’m buying one for me and my aunt for breakfast,” he smiled, showing off his two precious dimples. “you’re out running this early? that’s impressive,” he asked, opening the fridge next to you to take out a water, seeing as you completely forgot about it.

“uh huh, my parents leave early, and i always do so too, i just run around for a while, and when i feel like my legs are about to give out, i go home to prepare something to eat” you replied, walking alongside him toward the cashier, your heart racing a bit more than usual.

“so you’re usually on your own in the mornings?” he asked, his eyebrows raised in disbelief. unlike him, who always seemed to have a warm home to return to, you were often left to your own accord, both parents swallowed by their demanding corporate jobs.

giving him a frown, you asked “yeah, kind of, why?”

“would you like to join us for breakfast? it’s just me and my aunt, i live a block away. i really don’t want you eating alone, please y/n,” he admitted, waiting for your answer. there was something about jungwon made you trust him, he gave off a sense of comfort and security that you were a bit familiar with.

you hesitated for just a moment, then a small smile crept onto your face. “uh… yeah, sure,” you replied, feeling a lightness in your chest as he grinned, nearly bouncing on his toes in delight. but he kept his composure and ordered three sandwiches to the cashier with an effortless charm. as he completed the transaction, you suddenly remembered something.

“oh wait, i forgot my water” you realized, about to head back to the fridges, but the boy stopped you. “i picked one up for you, here” he handed the cold bottle to you, your hands grazed gently against his, and you felt a spark of warmth that made you momentarily lose your breath. he swallowed hard, his gaze lingering on you for just a heartbeat longer than necessary.

after you got the goods, and jungwon telling you he could handle carrying the food and drinks all by himself, even if you insisted to help him, you both made your way to his apartment.

the building was a bit older, and smaller than most, the elevator didn’t work, which left the only option of taking the stairs. you kept insisting about carrying at least your food, feeling a bit embarrassed about him paying and also having to transport it all.

“no, i’m okay, but you could help opening the door,” he said, as you got to his floor, and you followed him to the apartment door.

“opening the- yeah, and the keys are?” you asked, as he arrived to the wooden entry. “necklace ‘round my neck,” jungwon simply said, but was internally screaming and rolling around, trying to control the blush that would most likely show in in his face in the next two seconds.

you reached out under his hoodie from the neck, gulping hard, his skin felt cold against your warm hand. trying to keep a straight face, you felt around to get his necklace, noticing he wasn’t wearing anything underneath, and clasped it open, taking the key in your hand.

“here,” you awkwardly sniffed, looking away. key in hand, you slid it inside the lock and twisted it right to open the door.

jungwon’s eyes fell on the back of your head, noticing how the front of your head was neat and gelled, but the back wasn’t, having a few flyaways.

“jungwon,” you sang out to him, taking him out of trance.

he motioned for you to open the door and step inside, and went in after you, speaking up. “aunt may! i’m back from the store!” he called out, kicking the door closed with his foot.

you held the necklace-key and your water bottle in hand, looking around the modest apartment. the walls are painted a warm beige, but they’re slightly scuffed in places. the small living room area was crammed with mismatched furniture, an old couch, a rickety coffee table, and a couple of chairs that look like they’ve seen better days.

but it seemed like the coziest place ever, it just radiated a sense of ‘home’ that your penthouse did not.

“uh, i am going to set the table,” jungwon said, glancing around apologetically. “you can stay here in the living room. sorry about the mess.”

you waved your hands, telling him it was alright. “don’t worry, i don’t mind, it’s nice being in a home,” you smiled, and walked over to a wall near the hallway.

“right” jungwon murmured a bit troubled by your words, watching your figure as you skimmed over some photos on the wall, imagining how it would be like to live with you. his dream was to be with someone that would bring a sense of warmth into his life.

the wall was a collage of memories, with various pictures capturing jungwon at different ages. one of young jungwon, in a taekwondo outfit, throwing a kick in the air proudly, a small gold medal around his neck..

another one of a woman who you thought to be his aunt, she looked quite young, and was sporting a big smile, standing next to a freshman grade jungwon, who had big glasses on and tidy uniform.

but the last photo really caught your eye, it was a picture of him recently at the stark tower, you could tell by his messy hair and tall figure. his dimples were on full display as he beamed, a smile of pure joy, as he stood next to the legendary tony stark, who held his hand in a strong handshake.

“oh my god!” a voice exclaimed to your left, jolting you from your thoughts. you turned to see the woman from the picture, aunt may. “are you y/n?” she asked, rushing over and gently taking your shoulders as she studied your face.

“yes? hi?” you gulped, “i don’t know if jungwon told you about me coming over-” before you could finish, she ushered you to the living room couch, her warm presence instantly putting you at ease.

“oh, psh! he has told me all about you” she waved, “about the famous y/n, cheerleader and who almost got hit by a football! i didn’t think you’d be this pretty,” she nodded agreeingly.

“oh! uh… thank you?” you let out a chuckle, fixing your shirt sleeves.

“like, jungwon has barely ever brought a friend over, of course there’s jay, who is always here, he’s like won’s brother at this point!” she laughed, pulling her disveleshed balayaged hair to the front. “but he’s not a girl, i imagined someone else completely.”

as if on cue, jungwon walked into the living room, his eyes widening when he saw you chatting with his aunt, wondering what kinds of things she told you about. he just hoped she hadn’t told you she would show you his baby pictures.

“aunt may! y/n!” he said loudly, interrupting the moment, as you both turned to him.

“won! why didn’t you tell me your new friend was so pretty!” aunt may stood up, walking over to him and ruffling his hair playfully, causing him to blush. he swatted her hand away, trying to regain some dignity, but the grin on his face betrayed him.

“aunt may… don’t be weird,” he groaned. “breakfast is ready.”

the three of you walked into the small cluttered kitchen, and sat down around the table, all having different colored cutlery and cups. you waited for jungwon to take out the sandwiches from the toaster-over, and he placed one on your plate with an award-winning smile.

“i hope you like them,” he said, as he sat down, and served some juice in every glass.

you waited for his aunt to start eating, and then did so yourself, moaning in delight at the food. “mm, this- is really good” you placed the sandwich down. your words made jungwon light up, happy that you like something he did as well.

“so, y/n, right?” aunt may started, “what color is your dress?” she asked, sipping some juice.

you blinked in surprise, caught off guard. “for the dance? i was thinking about red. why?” you tilted your head, curious about where this was going.

“so we can match jungwon’s tie to your dress,” she said, and you both looked at eachother, understanding what she was implying.

“oh, aunt may, we- we are not going to the dance together- she’s just a friend..” he gulped, suddenly finding his sandwich very interested.

and then the thought of going to the dance with him made its way to your head, something you hadn’t considered before. you wouldn’t mind going to the dance with jungwon at all.

so you three continued eating, chatting about other things, football, cheer, his internship with mr. stark, and a bit about your life. aunt may was probably the most excited about jungwon own having a girl over.

when breakfast was done, aunt may leaned back in her chair, a twinkle in her eye. “you can stay over for as long as you want, y/n. and jungwon can walk you back home after you two are done hanging out,” she said, her tone cheerful and a bit mischievous.

you had told her you would call the family’s driver from your phone, and she shouldn’t worry about it.

but you couldn’t help but think that it was crazy how life turned out, never in your wildest dreams had you imagined you would be in yang jungwon's room, spending time with him after he saved you from getting hit by that football and invited you for breakfast. as you looked at him, the realization that you actually enjoyed his company made you smile. the moments you shared felt effortless, unlike any other boy you had been with before.

where had yang jungwon been all your life, and why had you not noticed him before?

“you like photography?” you asked, walking over to him slowly, standing in your tippy toes to look over his shoulder at the camera he had in his hands.

jungwon’s spider sense was going absolutely crazy about you being so near, feeling your body right behind his, inches separating you both from touching.

“yeah, it’s just something i like to do,” he replied, his voice a little shaky as he coughed to clear his throat. he took off the lens cover and turned the camera on, the soft ‘click’ sound echoing in the small room.

“really? wait, can you try it on me?” you beamed, jumping back and posing, getting a fond laugh from him. “as you wish.”

you held up a peace sign next to your face, and smiled brightly, waiting for him to take the picture. as he looked through the lens, jungwon’s expression softened, his focus entirely on you.

the camera clicked again, and in that instant, it felt like your heart skipped a bit, suddenly aware of the whole situation. you were interested in him, actually, inexplicably. he made you curious about what it would be like to feel a dream.

“done,” he grinned, and pressed some buttons on his camera, turning the picture to you. “look.”

you blinked rapidly, feeling something of a slight preassure on your heart at being so close to jungwon. he zoomed in the picture, that captured you like a painting.

“wow, that’s amazing,” you said, also holding the camera, barely grazing his hand and glanced up at him, seeing that he was already looking deeply at you.

he was just so close, so absolutely close, his gaze couldn’t help but fall into your lips. you felt drawn to him in a way that was both exhilarating and terrifying. jungwon’s breath hitched, and he took a small step closer, your bodies almost touching.

your heart raced as you were momentarily falling into him, as if something magnetic was pulling you closer to his body. you were aware of everything - his dark eyes, soft face and messy hair - and also of nothing at the same time, your entire being focusing on how much your blood rushed to your face.

everything was perfect, almost in those final moments before your lips brushed, where the line between friendship and something more blurred into an intoxicating haze. it was as if the multiverse had held its breath.

“won!” aunt may loudly barged into the room, watching her phone. “why don’t you show y/n that huge lego star thing you have, huh?” she looked up just in the moment you two pulled apart, careful not to look too guilty.

“yeah, okay…” jungwon nodded, still yearning for what almost happened a second ago. “i will, aunt may.”

you swung back and forth on your feet, looking away awkwardly, as his aunt closed the door after making sure everything was fine.

you prayed that he wouldn’t mentioned what had just happened, and he didn’t, only kneeled under his single bed, taking out a lego structure. jungwon sat criss-crossed on the floor, and you joined him, a bit of distance between you two. “what’s this?” you but your lip, glancing around the round thing.

“it’s star wars, the death star, uh, have you seen any of the movies?” he asked. you wanted to agree, not wanting to get made fun of from not seeing a movie, just like all the others you had dated did.

“no, i haven’t,” you answered mindlessly, cursing at yourself for telling the truth.

but instead of mocking you or laughing, jungwon slowly nodded. “i see, you should though, they’re really good, it’s basically like, an epic space opera, right? it’s set in a galaxy far, far away, filled with all these incredible worlds and alien species. there’s this guy, anakin, he’s one of my favorite characters…” he rambled, his hands slicing through the air as he continued. “oh, also! you’ve got the jedi, who are like these super cool knights with lightsabers and the power of the force - think of it as a mystical energy that connects all living things, they fight against the sith, who are basically the dark side’s version of the jedi, with their own lightsabers and trying to take over the galaxy.” jungwon paused, seeing your focused face.

“was that too much information?” he chuckled, placing down his lego darth vader and yoda, with a lopsided smile. but you were just too taken aback by all of him, something just made you notice ever single detail about jungwon, he was a complete nerd and somehow that made you even more attracted to him.

“yes- no, it’s not,” you corrected yourself. “you should show me one of the movies someday, you know? we could-“ you wanted him to get the hint, wanting to know if he was actually interested in you or not, but it completely flew over his head.

“that’s such a good idea! i got the dvd’s, hold on-“ he stood up, and went to his desk, rummaging through calculus papers and school books, finally landing on the plastic cases. “okay, i have, the phantom menace, attack of the clones, revenge of the sith, a new hope, the empire strikes back..” he kept reading the titles, as you rolled your eyes and stood up, heading over to where he was.

“whichever comes first of course,” you shrugged, as he handed you the first movie, still too occupied to look at you, busy with his movies. “i swear i had this one over here…” he mumbled, still lost in his world of movies.

you took the dvd, and glanced between him and the case. “jungwon,” but he kept searching around for something, just so happy you showed interest in his favorite films of all time.

“won!” you called again, getting his attention, who looked like a deer in headlights. “yeah?”

“i said…” you took his hand in yours, placing the dvd back in it, and kept it there, stepping forward, “we both should watch it someday.”

jungwon’s eyes widened in disbelief. could this really be happening? or was it just a friendly gesture? he didn’t want to waste the chance to find out. “you mean as in a…” he trailed off, searching your face for confirmation before risking embarrassment.

you let out a soft laugh, shifting. “yes, as in that,” you confirmed his suspicions, which somehow, made him still doubt. “i was also meaning to ask about the, uh, the dance, you, know, what your aunt said-“

and just like always, just when the hundreds of existing heartbroken spider-man’s who were rooting for the pair were about to celebrate, the moment had to get ruined by mr. time. your phone started sounding with a cheeky ringtone, letting you know your driver was here to pick you up.

TAGS: @jiiyen

EXTRA:

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#jungwon yang #spider man jungwon #yang jungwon x reader.#yang jungwon x reader #jungwon x reader #yang jungwon #jungwon #kpop x y/n #kpop x fem reader #kpop x you #kpop x reader #enhypen x reader #enha x reader #enha scenarios #enha imagines #enha fluff #enhypen #enha

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killervelveteenrabbit · 10 months ago

Text

"The Ghost and Molly McGee", Ten Years After

Molly’s ongoing work to improve the economic, cultural, and mental well-being of Brighton has earned her the love and respect of everyone in town, a few write-ups in statewide and national publications… and a full scholarship to the University of Iowa’s civil and environmental engineering program. She’s returned to Brighton, working for City Hall as assistant city planner (with her dad as her boss, which isn’t awkward at all, really) while earning her master’s online.

Molly wasn’t alone while she attended UI—Libby was her dormmate all four years that she was there. She earned a scholarship of her own, majoring in English. She also returned to Brighton after graduating, becoming a part-time reporter for the town newspaper while helping run her mother’s bookstore. All of this is in addition to her literary career. Matias, her father, took a second look at the fantasy novel she wrote and realized it was publication-worthy. It wasn’t a best seller, but the royalties from this and two other books Libby has written since let her live comfortably and pursue her passions in life. Her latest project is a series of books helping small children understand and live with the effects of divorce.

Molly and Ollie hit a rough patch after an admittedly stupid argument during their senior year of high school, and their two-month breakup proved just as hard on their respective families as it was on each other. They got back together just in time for graduation from Brighton High, only to part ways as Molly went to UI and Oliver headed for Iowa State. But they carried out a successful medium-distance relationship (it was only a two-hour drive between the two campuses).

Ollie has parlayed his experience as a researcher for his parents’ MeTube videos into a career as a freelance researcher for an assortment of psychological and medical foundations. While he travels all over the Midwest and occasionally beyond, he’s based out of Brighton… specifically, the rental house he shares with Molly. Ollie and Molly are practically married already, but their parents are eager for them to make it official. The couple are waiting a while to save enough money to stage the dream wedding and after-party they always wanted without breaking the bank.

Several years ago, an ill-advised deal involving a shipment of counterfeit designer smartwatches and the Uzbek mafia landed Darryl in hotter water than usual. He’s lucky all he got away with was lockdown in juvie until his 21st birthday… which got commuted to two hundred hours of community service and time served due to an unexpected (and slightly suspicious) governor’s pardon. At any rate, the whole debacle soured Darryl on similar schemes. He’s kept his nose clean since then, barring a few school detentions. He takes business courses at a local community college with plans to transfer to a four-year institution this fall. His current side hustle involves promotions and advertising for assorted boutiques and under-21 nightclubs that have popped up in Brighton's revitalized downtown.

June lives away from home, majoring at Drake University. But she remains Darryl’s best friend, the only person outside his family who’s consistently been there for him after his schemes blew up in his face—figuratively and almost literally; she was the one who detected that leak in the ammonium nitrate storage tank Darryl stashed out near the water tower. They even dated for a while before mutually acknowledging the situation was “weird” and deciding they were better off as friends. On a related note, maybe Esther shouldn’t have paid out all that money to have her wedding dress remade.

Pete and Sharon are still happily married. Pete takes great pride in the improvements he’s helped make for his adopted hometown of Brighton, and he’s especially flattered that his daughter is following in his footsteps. The town’s successes have become Pete’s successes—in the last ten years, he’s fixed up the family home and bought his first non-used car. He’s even dusted off his vinyl for a few gigs at some of the new clubs downtown. Meanwhile, Sharon offers painting classes at the local community center and retirement home. These days, she primarily uses her Gig Pig account to set up painting parties in and around town, sometimes as far out as Perfektborg.

The Chens’ enlightenment about the true nature of ghosts has led them to step away from their “Ghost Chaser Chens” MeTube channel. Ruben has had far more luck marketing his brand of small-batch root beer, now available in grocery and convenience stores all over the state. Recently, Esther inspired Ruben to introduce a “spiked” version flavored with Habanero peppers. Reception has been mixed.

Grandma Nin and her friend Patty are the self-described “Bad Girls of Brighton Hills”, but their adventures have proven more constructive than mischievous. They’ve organized concerts at the bandshell, joined the Senior Construction Crew on home-repair projects for needy families, and hosted a weekly potluck dinner/board game session in the home’s cafeteria. These dinners always feature Patty’s homemade gumbo—Nin helped her fine-tune the recipe so now it’s actually edible.

The McGees look forward to David and Emmie’s annual visits, a chance to catch up with family and connect with their heritage. The Thai lessons Molly took on Triolingo have helped her feel slightly more at ease when the Suksais come to call. Also, Sharon has tried practicing some Thai dishes, with Pete’s assistance and (critically) while Nin isn’t in the vicinity.

A year after Davenport’s closed its doors, the family rolled the dice and started a supermarket specializing in organic groceries, local produce, and hard-to-find foreign brands… items Bizmart couldn’t or wouldn’t accommodate. The gamble paid off, and Davenport's Turnip Patch sells and ships to customers across the region—yes, even to Perfektborg. (Sharon and Nin are frequent visitors since they carry Thai specialties like jackfruit, pandan extract, and even durian.) Andrea maintains the store’s computer systems but pointedly avoids appearing in advertising. She’s back on her socials, but not as an influencer. Her “Girl Code” series on MeTube provides tips and tricks for entry-level coding enthusiasts. The videos feature occasional cameos by her girlfriend Alina, who’s also taken an interest in the subject.

Three months after Scratch cast off his Chairman’s robes, they settled upon the recently departed spirit of a retired manager of an IRS branch office. Since then, the Ghost Council has basked in bureaucratic bliss, leaving the denizens of Ghost World alone and happy. Not long after Todd left, Molly conducted a séance and told Geoff what happened to Scratch. He realizes it will be a while before he sees his friend again, but at least he has Jeff to keep him company.

Todd and Adia have photographed wild horse herds in Montana, kayaked off the Antarctic Peninsula, biked through Croatia, snorkeled with manta rays in Hawaii, and helped refurbish a centuries-old mosque in Brunei… and that’s just in the last year! Their adventures included a meditation retreat in India where Todd astrally projected his spirit out of his body for a few minutes. He “came back” talking about a young lady back in Brighton who showed him how to live even though he was already “dead”. On their next swing back to the United States, Molly is the first person they plan to visit.

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witchcraft-in-wonderland · 5 months ago

Text

My Muse's Mirror (Pt.1)

-------------------------

“Virgil it's been three hours- are you coming to bed or not?” Virgil looked up from the couch, legs hanging lazily over the top as he leaned against the center coffee table.

“In a minute! I'm finishing up a commission!” he said, turning his attention back to the. . . Interestingly dressed mishmash of fur and colors that was his latest art request.

“You said ‘in a minute’ 3 hours ago, that commission isn't due until next week- I'm sure you can pick it back up in the morning,” Roman said, Virgil listened as his husband shuffled off of the bed, feeling making a slight pattern patter sound as he approached.

“Trust me when I say this, Ro, you don't want to look at anything on screen right now,” Virgil chuckled at the already dawning horror on Roman's face as his bright green eyes traced over to the drawing tablet.

“It's good money- pretty sure the guy's got a science job or something,” Virgil said nonchalantly, saving the drawing and plugging the tablet in on a side table.

“Alright- fine- bedtime for me I guess,” Virgil stretched his arms out before getting up from his precarious couch position.

“That's what I thought,” Roman stepped behind him, evidently in a vague attempt to block him from running back to the tablet to do some ‘last minute detailing’. Virgil glanced at the smartwatch on his wrist, which read 3:47am. Geez, he really had been up for a while.

“Don't forget your teeth tall dark and sleep deprived,” Roman said before climbing back into bed.

Virgil made his way into the bathroom, taking his phone out of his sweatpants and pulling up YouTube to find a decent 3-minute song.

With the insides of his mouth now thoroughly engulfed with the overwhelming taste of mint Virgil climbed into bed, wriggling his way into Roman's arms.

His peaceful sleep was interrupted by the God forsaken sound of Roman's alarm clock. Virgil let out a small whine of protest as he felt the warmth of Roman's body slip away to leave him in the cold dark abyss of an empty bed.

“Aaaww, don't worry my chemically imbalanced romance, I will return shortly from my quest with chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese for dinner,” Roman said with a laugh, ruffling Virgil's hair.

“It's not a quest it's a 9 to 5 where you get paid to sing at people while they try to order food,” Virgil said with a laugh.

“Well- if you're so incensed shout it then maybe I won't take you out to the carnival after my shift,” Roman taunted.

“Wait- carnival?”

“They just opened for the winter, seems like a pretty spooky theme, I thought you might like to go, but if you're just sooooooo upset about my job. . .”

“Nononono forget I said anything! I want to go pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease!-” Virgil, in a surprising turn of usual events, had gotten out of bed before 12pm at the news.

“Fiiiinnneee- I suppose I'll take you after work,” Roman said, smiling.

Virgil, deciding that since he was already up, he might as well get a few things done, decided to get himself some coffee and breakfast with his cousin Janus, and his new boyfriend.

“So Virgil, what'd you do for a living?” Patton was a very- Spunky- Person, not the kind of guy Virgil would've pegged for Janus, then again, he doubted Roman would've been the expected choice for himself.

“Oh uh- I'm an online artist,” Virgil responded, face flushing slightly pink.

“Oh wow! You must be very talented,” Patton said, all smiles and encouragement. Virgil was having a very difficult time figuring out if he was ever serious about anything he was saying, or if the sweetness was some kind of weird power trip.

“Uh- thanks- I guess-”

“Don't mind him dear, he hasn't quite figured out the concept of self confidence yet,” Janus said, chuckling.

“My confidence has nothing to do with my hesitancy to talk about my career and you know it,” Virgil said, eliciting a small snrk sound from Janus, who was very clearly trying to avoid breaching the topic of what kind of commissions Virgil usually earned the biggest salary from.

“So- this carnival Roman's taking you to later tonight- is it far?” Janus asked.

“Not by much, only like an hour or two,” Virgil responded, finishing off the last of his croissant.

“Oh, then I'm sure you'll have plenty of animation ideas by the time you get there,” Janus said with a laugh.

“What can I say? There's nothing like a good long dissociative spell to get rid of a little art block,” Patton looked vaguely alarmed, but held back whatever he might have wanted to say about that particular statement.

“Well I'd love to stay and chat about your unhealthy coping mechanisms, but I'm afraid Patton and I have a train to catch- big business party tonight,” Janus said as he stood up from the table.

“Don't get too drunk, don't want your new boyfriend seeing you cry about snakes again do you?” Virgil said, snickering as Janus moved to pull his hat over his rapidly darkening face.

Virgil watched the two of them leave, then hopped into his own car for a quick drive to his brother-in-law Remus’ house.

“We finished up the paperwork yesterday, so now we're just waiting to hear back from the adoption agency! I don't think Logan's ever been so excited in his life- well- other than getting Valedictorian in high school- or after that trip to Spain we took to visit Ro and I's grandparents- or-”

“I think Logan might just be very excited about new things, Remus,” Virgil said, admiring Remus’ newest addition to his pottery shelf.

“Is this one a commission? Or are you keeping it?” Virgil asked, tilting his head at a particularly horrific looking sculpture.

“Oh yeah- that one's for me, one of my ‘therapy pieces’,” Remus replied.

“Ah- that explains it,” Virgil said, taking a seat on the nearby couch and giving a resolute scratch behind the ears to Remus and Logan's dog, Rosalie.

They sat and talked for a while, about Logan's new job at the local daycare, about emotional expression through art, about some of Roman's newest embarrassing stories that he didn't need to know they were talking about.

“Well- I should get going- Roman'll be heading home any moment now and I want to make sure I'm ready to head to the carnival when he's off,” Virgil said, standing up from the dining room table.

“Have fun- take pictures- and if you find any fun souvenirs I'd love to see them,” Logan, who'd just gotten home from his own shift, said as Virgil left through the door with a small wave.

“See anything interesting?” Roman asked, watching Virgil eye some of the carnival shop stands curiously.

“What about. . . This? I think it would look good on you,” Virgil said, holding up a silver dragon necklace with red gems where the eyes would be.

“Oh you'll want to be careful with that one my dear. . . Legend says that the soul of a selfish and arrogant prince is trapped inside. . .” The woman manning the counter spoke in a low raspy tone, her black hair covering her face under the raggedy cloak she wore.

Virgil laughed it off, handing her a few bucks and clasping the necklace around Roman's neck.

They spent the rest of the day riding around on the carnival rides until the amount of snack food they'd been eating felt like it might catch up with them, before heading home for the night.

“Don't go to bed too late my dear, I'll be waiting,” Roman said as he headed off to bed, the silver chain of his new necklace peeking out from his pajama shirt.

“I'll go to bed before 3am, promise-” Virgil responded, setting up his work station, maybe he could finish up that commission tonight so he and Roman would have the whole day to themselves tomorrow, to see if maybe there was a matching necklace or something at that carnival.

Virgil could've sworn he saw a spider, somewhere. . .

#sablewrites #work: my muse's mirror #ts virgil #ts roman #ts janus #ts patton #ts remus #ts logan #romantic prinxiety #prinxiety #romantic moceit #moceit #romantic intrulogical #intrulogical #oc: lyssa sable

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mushrubes · 2 years ago

Text

Faint

Masterlist | The walking dead Masterlist

Requested : No

Inspired by faint by @/lulushoeshoe on tik tok!!

Pairing : Rick Grimes x reader (No use of Y/n)

Pronouns : you/yours

Type : fluff

Contents : slightly canon divergent / different timeline (Certain things that wouldn't be there are involved), idiots in love, soft Rick :)

Word count : 646

Have a great day / night !!

——–

"You have a visitor." Michonne smirked, walking into the kitchen to let Rick know. You trailed behind her, leaning on the doorframe as he handed Judith over to her before she sent you a smile and headed outside where Carl was waiting for them. "Are you excited to see me?" You teased, grinning at the man as he shook his head, a small smile on his face. "No, I already saw you yesterday." he huffed, a playful tone evident in his voice. Your eyes settled on the new smartwatch that was on his wrist, and an idea came to your head.

You walked over, sitting on the stool opposite him as he waited for the coffee maker to finish. "Let me see your watch." you asked, tilting your head slightly. He looked back at you in confusion. "What?" he questioned, hesitantly holding it out. "Pull up your heart rate." you demanded, biting your tongue as you swore you saw his cheeks redden. "Why would I pull up my heartrate?" he wondered, trying to not get flustered. He shook his head, moving to the hallway and picking up his boots. "Just do it." you huffed, folding your arms and following behind him.

"This is so dumb. We have to go now." he excused, getting slightly anxious as he knew the others would be waiting for the two as they had planned to tag along on a run. "Hey, relax, we'll make it ton time. Show me." you assured, pressing your hand to his shoulder as his body immediately stopped being tense. "Fine." he grumbled, giving in and pulling the app up. The two of you waited a few seconds for it to read, a smug look on your face. "Ha! If you said you're not excited to see me, why is your heartrate so high?" you asked, knowing you were right. "I...watched a horror movie before you came. That's why." he came up with on the spot, knowing you wouldn't fall for it.

"Yeah? With Carl and Judith? It really stuck with you, huh?" you smirked, rolling your eyes at him as he tied his laces before standing up and opening the door, letting you go first. "Yeah, uh..." he paused, thinking of a character to use. "The ghost's face still exists in my mind." he continued, putting up the facade and not backing down, his face betraying him. "Hmm. Why'd you lie?" you interrogated, grinning as he got flustered. "I didn't lie! I'm being serious." he argued, walking down the stairs as you followed swiftly behind him.

"Your mind can come with lies Grimes, but your heart can only tell the truth." you mocked, earning a sigh from him as you chuckled at the look of defeat plastered on his face. "Okay, fine, so what if I was excited to see you?" he huffed, eyes on the ground as the pair of you made your way through the town. "It's just funny messing with you. It's cute to see you act all calm and collected around me." you mocked, Rick scoffing at the dig. "How are you so calm?" he wondered, trying to find a single sign of even a tiny bit of being flustered but failing.

"I'm not. Here, feel how fast my heart is beating." you admitted, grabbing his hand and placing it on top of your chest. "It feels like you're running a race." he chuckled, his gaze lingering on you slightly longer than normal, feeling your cheeks heat up. "See we're both trying out best to stay cool." you shrugged, turning to carry on walking as he followed. "Just don't faint on me." he joked, winking at you. "Wow. You think you can make me faint?" you gasped, pretending to be hurt. "Oh, I'll bet money on it." he added smugly, freezing as you reached up and kissed his cheek.

"You're on."

92 notes · View notes

beckettj · 9 months ago

Text

The Heart of a Villan - Chapter 3/5

Chapter Three - Dangerous Play

Summary: Three-thousand miles from home, Henry drags Emma into a land she never imagined venturing to; the realm of English football. She holds no interest in the sport but when she’s approached by Villa Captain Killian Jones, she determines that there could be something in the sport for her after all.

Words: 6907

Chapter One, Chapter Two

Read on AO3

Killian’s fingers drum absent-mindedly against the table as the gaffer’s pre-matchday briefing hits the thirty-minute mark. A morning of training followed by an afternoon of travelling on the team bus, getting stuck in traffic early in the journey on the M6, has Killian quite done with the droning sound of Gold’s voice. He knows, from over a year of experiencing Gold’s meticulous patterns, that he’ll only repeat himself during the morning’s pre-match briefing.

With that in mind, Killian allows himself to switch off, to block out the gaffer’s talk of positions in transitional moments, as he dreamily stares out the large windows of the hotel’s conference room. He’s in London. After five days, he and Emma are finally in the same city once again. It’s a city of almost nine million people and her hotel is right by the Thames whilst his is three miles away in Islington but it’s closer than bloody Birmingham, nonetheless.

His phone is on silent – dutiful, professional club captain mode initiated – but he feels it vibrate in his pocket and a message flashes up on his smartwatch – do not disturb mode not initiated due to a slight lull in his professionalism, caused by the expectation of receiving a message from a particular blonde he can’t shake from his thoughts.

He glances at the notification, a small smile creeping onto his face when he reads her name.

Henry sporting the colors at the palace. The guard doesn’t look too impressed. Think you can use your connections to get us in?

Killian frowns at the message; they’d already done the Palace a few days ago – Emma has been regularly keeping him updated on her London adventures – and she had even referenced his royalty connections then too. He can’t imagine them doing it twice, not when the only thing to do was to stand outside the gates and take in the enormous grandeur of the building.

There’s a picture with the message, one which can’t be displayed on his watch, and it’s driving him crazy. He can do nothing but imagine what the image may be; perhaps Emma and Henry in front of the big, tall gates, a royal guard in the background, watching them closely as if expecting the American mother and son to attempt to storm the place. Emma had made reference to Henry sporting the colours and Killian wonders whether the guard could be a bluenose, not appreciating their rival club’s success being rubbed in their face. His mind focuses on Emma, drawing up images of her also sporting the famous claret and blue; a tightly fitted professional shirt, highlighting her curves, combined with the white shorts ridden halfway up her thigh, the long blue socks rolled down to her ankles, exposing the flesh of her toned legs.

He can’t bare it any longer. He would rather risk the wrath of Gold than allow his brain free reign to draw up such mouth-watering images of Emma. He pulls his phone from his pocket, turning to old schoolboy tactics of hiding it under the table, and pulls up the image.

It is one of Henry and Emma, though Emma’s fully covered up wearing dark blue jeans, a red t-shirt and a blue leather jacket, and they’re not stood in front of the palace Killian envisioned. They’re pictured outside Selhurst Park, stadium home to Crystal Palace FC and the ‘guard’ in the text is in reference to the security guard scowling at the claret and blue scarf Henry is holding aloft.

The second message which pings through provides much more context;

Help me! It turns out we are going in after all. I’ve been unknowingly dragged to an Aston Villa women’s game. Because one match per weekend isn’t enough, apparently.

Killian marvels at how, once again, Emma has managed to sport the colours of the opposition team, her blue and red outfit complementing the blue and red of Crystal Palace perfectly. He shakes his head slightly as he types.

One of these days I will see you in claret and blue.

She replies almost instantly.

That was my plan for tomorrow, but my dad has just informed me that the fancy seats you got us tickets for is a smart casual dress code and strictly prohibits away team colors. What a bummer.

The flashing dots on his screen tell him she’s not finished there.

Henry’s just found out too. He’s mortified. I hope you realize what you’ve done.

He has no chance to reply before another massage pings through.

He’s on a mission to find claret and blue underwear before tomorrow’s game now.

The scheming villan.

Killian is silently impressed at her correct spelling of ‘villan’. Even players at the club had made the mistake of adding that tempting ‘i’ in their social media addresses, an open invite to a flood of comments making them well aware of their innocent mistake.

For a self-professed non-Villa fan, she wasn’t entirely acting like it.

He’s halfway through a response, instructing Emma to find her own claret and blue underwear and beginning a witty remark about proving her allegiance after the game when he’s elbowed in the ribs, hard, by Robin. His teammate snatches his phone from his grasp and glares at him pointedly.

Killian huffs and folds his arms as he’s forced to switch his attention back to Gold’s deep analysis into the areas of weakness across Arsenal’s back line.

“I don’t like this.”

Robin speaks apprehensively the very second Killian disconnects from his call with the London Eye’s management. Killian turns to find Robin making himself at home on his bed, as if the man doesn’t have his own hotel room just across the hall.

Robin places his hands behind his head, leaning back against the headboard.

“This is the Eloise Gardener infatuation all over again,” Robin says warningly.

Killian scoffs, “Please, I wasn’t infatuated with Eloise Gardener.”

“The woman was actively jeopardising your career and, even knowing that, you kept crawling back into her bed,” Robin recounts. “Tell me, how is that not infatuation?”

“Stupidity, maybe,” Killian concedes but remains adamant, “Infatuation, most definitely bloody not.”

“Whatever you want to call it, it’s happening again,” Robin maintains. “I mean, think about it Killian, first you’re hooked to your phone during an important meeting, then you sulk like a teenager who’d lost his phone privileges for a week when I took it from you, and now you’re talking about sneaking out to see her the night before a big game. This woman has you acting like a schoolboy.”

Killian ignores him, his plans in place, his mind set. He grabs his jacket from the chair he had thrown it over and shrugs it on.

“Don’t worry, dad,” Killian shoots at him sarcastically as he carries out one final mirror check. “I’ll be home by curfew.”

“Killian,” Robin groans tiredly.

Killian ignores him, walking straight out of his hotel room, letting the door shut behind him, and leaving Robin behind. He pulls his phone out and sends Emma the latest in a series of hilariously bad football themed lines he’d pulled from the internet.

You’ve got me feeling like a substitute, eagerly awaiting my chance to impress you.

As bad a line as it is, there’s truth to it; he is keen to impress her; the precise reason why he’s headed to her hotel, a whole twenty-four hours early, without even so much as a head’s up. He can’t wait any longer.

Killian hesitates as he stands outside her hotel door – room 205; the very room he’d sent a bouquet of red roses and blue delphiniums to earlier in the week – realising he has absolutely no idea whether she’s on the other side of the door.

He should have called her. He knows he would have; were it not for the fogginess of his head from training, travelling and a two-hour analysis meeting. He could still call but since he’s right outside the door, he opts instead to go ahead and knock.

“That’ll be the food!” Emma’s voice, slightly raised; she’s in there. “Can you get it?”

He waits for Henry to open the door, wondering whether he’ll be disappointed at the lack of food or excited at his unexpected arrival, or both.

The door opens. Killian’s eyes naturally drop to the expected height level of the ten-year-old; they do not fall on the lighting up brown eyes of Henry but onto the dull grey of a shirt. His gaze slowly adjusts, raising higher until he’s eye to eye with an adult man and trying his best to cover his surprise and the way his heart drops in his chest.

The man stood before him – the man in Emma’s hotel room – appears around a decade older than Emma, early-forties at a push, but Killian can’t imagine an age gap deterring Emma from pouncing on the man who could well have walked straight off the page of a bloody GQ magazine. He looks right at home in the doorway of Emma’s room, leaning his left elbow against the doorframe, bicep bulging around his tight grey sleeve, and his blue eyes hover over Killian warily.

“Killian Jones,” his tone matches the look in his eyes.

Killian hopes he’s not about to get punched.

“Err… hi there, mate,” despite being utterly thrown, Killian attempts a friendly tone. “I was- I was looking for Emma.”

He glances briefly over his shoulder, to the closed door just inside the room, then tells him, “She’s in the shower.”

“Right,” Killian says, his mind jumping to unwanted thoughts of the unidentified man and Emma fooling around in the unmade bed he eyes across the room. “And Henry?”

Speak of the devil.

Henry crashes through an adjoining door on the right-hand wall and throws himself onto the tousled sheets of the bed. He’s up in an instant, bouncing on the bed as if recreating the classic scene from Home Alone, minus the popcorn, and Killian raises an eyebrow at the sugar high the lad is most clearly on.

The man at the door rubs his forehead tiredly, “Henry, we spoke about the bed.”

A similarly exhausted woman with a pixie cut enters through the adjoining door, lamenting, “I warned you that this would happen, David, but did you listen to me? No! You went ahead and got him the extra large pick and mix!”

The man at the door – David – turns to her, “Come on now, Mary Margaret, I didn’t expect him to eat the lot in one go!”

“He’s a ten-year-old on vacation!” Mary Margaret stresses. “How could you expect anything less?”

Killian stares at the light chaos before him, utterly lost as to the connection between Henry and the two adults in the room but the lad looks more than comfortable in their presence, continuing to jump up and down on the bed. Henry’s eyes fall on him and a grin flashes across his face. In a ginormous leap, he’s off the bed and halfway across the room.

“Grandpa!” Henry exclaims, running to the man in the doorway. “Look! Killian’s here.”

David laughs and ruffles Henry’s hair as he returns, “Yeah, I know.”

Killian stares. Grandpa? The man in front of him doesn’t look old enough to be a grandparent.

“Mom! Mom!” Henrys yells, banging on the bathroom door. “Killian’s here!”

The bathroom door opens suddenly. Emma steps out, a towel wrapped around her head, another one around her body. Killian’s quick to notice that his daydreams of toned legs stands true and his eyes linger on her exposed collarbones before drifting downwards, to where the beginnings of the towel wrapped tightly around her chest is an invitation for his imagination to go wild.

David steps across him, blocking his view, and the pointed look in the man’s gaze makes it clear it was a purposeful move.

“Killian, hi,” Emma greets him quickly, sounding panicked, “I thought we agreed tomorrow.”

“We did, love,” Killian replies, scratching the back of his ear, all too aware of David’s eyes boring into him. “I just couldn’t wait another day. If you’re not busy, would you care to accompany me around London tonight?”

“Yes!” she replies immediately; a good sign, and then, with more control, “I mean, sure. Just… give me some time to get ready?”

“David, why don’t you take Killian into our room. I’ll help Emma in here,” Mary Margaret suggests.

David places a rather forceful hand on Killian’s shoulder, guiding him into the room and through the adjoining door into an identical room, Henry following fast on their heels.

Killian sits in an uncomfortable window chair, being studied intently by David and he wonders whether it was an intentional decision by the older man to lead him to what looks to be the most disagreeable chair in the hotel room. There’s a tense atmosphere in the room as an oblivious Henry throws question after question at Killian, attempting to gain the inside scoop into the team’s tactics ahead of the Arsenal game.

Killian provides short, worthless, distracted answers; he doesn’t want to think about work. Emma’s still at the forefront of his mind, wrapped in towels, a slight dampness to her exposed skin. David coughs and Killian’s attention is brought back to his presence; a cynical scepticism in the man’s heavy stare.

“So,” Killian clears his throat and glances in Henry’s direction. “Grandpa, huh? I take it that makes you Emma’s father?”

“It does indeed,” David replies with a short nod.

Killian takes in a sharp breath; he has some winning over to do then.

“I’m glad you got hit with food poisoning,” the words fly out of his mouth before he thinks them over.

Shit.

At the very least, David’s hard expression falters, struggling to hold back a chuckle, as Killian attempts to dig himself out of a hole.

“By that, I don’t mean I was glad that you were chucking your guts up, I just mean that from a bad situation allowed me the privilege of meeting your daughter. And to be frank, had you been there when that ball had impacted with the lad’s face, I fear I may have felt the impact of your fist to my face,” Killian has no idea why he can’t just shut the hell up. “And I realise that is a situation which may still yet arise.”

David only hums in response.

Through his years in professional football, Killian has learned a lot about mind games. He knows David’s silence is a tactic to make him uncomfortable, to pressure him into talking, to reveal his intentions and inner thoughts, and despite knowing all that, he finds himself relenting.

“I must say, you look far too young to be her father.”

Killian can’t help but smile, triumphant with himself for finally coming out with something to soften the man, charm him, get him onside.

David grimaces, “That’s not the complement you think it is.”

Killian’s smile falters; of course it’s bloody not.

Henry swoops in, “You know, Grandpa, Killian does lots of work with fostering charities and foster families. They said on the tour that he regularly opens his box up to foster families to watch the game, don’t you?”

Henry turns to Killian, nodding him on eagerly. Killian’s eyes shift momentarily towards David whose expression has softened slightly, watching him curiously.

He thinks about his response, considering carefully, not wanting to inadvertently put his foot in it again, not when Henry had swooped in and helped him make a minor step towards progress.

“From time to time,” he confirms modestly.

David folds his arms across his chest and tilts his head curiously, “Of all the causes, why that one?”

“Some children don’t get the best starts in life. Some go through more heartache and misery in their formative years than some adults experience in their entire lives,” Killian’s more confident in his words since the conversation has been moved onto a cause he has been fighting for his entire career. “If I can provide a small gesture which brightens one day in their lives and gives them hope that their future doesn’t have to be defined by their past, then it only seems right to do so.”

David stands suddenly and Killian tracks his movement across the room to the fridge where he crouches and opens the door. He reaches inside and glances to Killian.

“Want a beer?” David offers.

Killian relaxes into his seat at the friendly display.

“I’ll never say no, mate,” Killian accepts.

“And me!” Henry eagerly tries his luck.

“Not a chance, Henry,” David laughs.

Killian takes the bottle from David with an appreciative nod and they dive into an easy conversation. Emma’s father is officially onside; Killian’s hit the back of the net, with a brilliant assist from Henry.

One beer turns into two and David is deep into a hilarious tale about a nine-year-old Emma flat out refusing to have any part in the soccer practise he had taken her to, sneaking away when he had turned for a few seconds, finding a bus to get herself home and sending him into a wild panic in the process. Between joint bouts of laughter, David attests that as much as they laugh about it now, it had been the most horrific moment of his life at the time.

Mary Margaret enters the room and looks at the amicable pair suspiciously, as if determining whether her husband had been replaced by an imposter.

“Not to interrupt… whatever this is,” Mary Margaret, in fact, interrupts, “but Killian, Emma is ready for you.”

He stands immediately and considers downing the half a bottle of beer he has remaining before deciding against it, setting the bottle down on the side. He receives a parting handshake from David and a huge smile from Mary Margaret as he passes by Emma’s parents and steps through the adjoining door.

He has to catch his breath.

Emma stands beside her bed, in a delicate, soft pink dress which immediately draws his eyes to hover longingly over the v-cut neck which gives him just a teasing glimpse of what lies beneath the material. If it weren’t for her parents and her son in the adjoining room, he would have forgone all his plans for the night in favour of ripping the delicate clothing from her, falling into the territory of her already tousled sheets, and inviting Emma’s attacking pressure upon him.

Only her parents and son are right there and he’s only just succeeded in winning her father over. He catches himself, collecting his racing thoughts, and lifting his gaze so to make eye contact.

“You look stunning, Emma,” he tells her.

He offers Emma his arm and she takes it.

“Where are we going?” she asks as he leads the way to the door.

He smiles knowingly, “Wait and see.”

Killian always forgets how much he utterly despises the Westminster Bridge.

The place is always rammed with tourists taking pictures and lingering around the cup and ball scams; walking across the bridge at a reasonable speed to get to a destination is bloody impossible. With Emma tightly pressed against his side as they manoeuvre through the crowds, he tolerates it; it gets her close to him and he appreciates the way they move naturally, steps in sync with one another.

They emerge on the other side of the bridge, he keeps his arm wrapped around her and she doesn’t pull away. He leads the way down the stairs onto the Queen’s Walk, past Shrek’s Adventure, the London Dungeon and the Build-a-Bear Workshop until they reach a stop, right in front of the London Eye.

The wheel towers above them, lit up in a bright pink, standing out against the dark night’s sky.

“I pushed for claret and blue but they wouldn’t go for it, bloody West Ham, so pink it is,” Killian tells her.

She stares at him, “You did this?”

“Aye, love,” he confirms with a nod. “I know tonight may be all we get together but that doesn’t mean I can’t make it memorable.”

She clutches his arm just a tad bit more.

“This is just… amazing,” Emma remarks, staring up at the London Eye, radiating pink, wonder pouring out her green eyes.

He smiles as he watches her every movement, captivated by it all; the way her head tilts back to truly take in and appreciate the whole sight, barely blinking as she stares, the way her mouth lingers open from her initial surprise, the way she slowly releases each breath-

“Mr Jones?”

Killian’s forced to break his gaze from Emma, turning to the young man working on the attraction who had recognised, approached, and spoken to, him.

“We’re all set for you,” the young man informs him. “Whenever you’re ready.”

The man makes a move away to give them time but Killian calls after him, “We’re ready now, mate.”

The man leads the way, winding around the ramp leading up to the base of the London Eye and Killian follows him, guiding Emma along.

She leans into his shoulder and whispers curiously, “Ready for what, exactly?”

Killian’s reaches the top of the ramp and gestures grandly to the awaiting pod, illuminated in pink lighting. The oval seating area in the middle has a picnic blanket draped over it, champagne bottle taking centre stage, surrounded by fancy, silver cloches.

“Dinner with a view,” he states proudly. “And by view, I am, of course, referring to you.”

She laughs, “I don’t know what’s worse. That line or the football ones you’ve been send me over text.”

He doesn’t respond, he just stares at her, feeling a huge Cheshire-cat grin pulling at his lips and he lets it.

“What?” she questions him obliviously.

“It appears Operation Cobra was a success,” Killian remarks.

She stares at him, lost.

“You called it football,” he points out.

She considers her words and then quickly brushes it off, “Henry’s been rubbing off on me.”

He doesn’t believe it for a second, but he lets her have it, silently revelling in his victory. He steps into the pod awaiting them and offers out his hand which she takes as she step on.

“Welcome aboard, milady.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

The doors are closed on them, isolating them from the outside world. In their pod, slowly lifting into the night sky, it’s just the two of them; no prying eyes, no lingering journalists – he can be himself, without worrying about consequences or reputations. All the talk of preparation and positions and tactics for the coming game is forgotten, his focus entirely and utterly captivated by her.

Emma approaches the far window, her fingers reaching out for decorative lettering on the window; Emma Nolan in blue, Killian Jones in claret – they had at least agreed to do that much in the claret and blue he’d requested – and to the right of their names was a football, following the colour scheme, with a yellow lion in the centre. Killian had turned down the offer to encircle their names in a heart, thinking it too presumptuous, and had requested, instead, the football – a nod to where they had first met.

“Now, I have-” he hesitates, catching himself before the word ‘lovingly’ can escape his lips way too soon, “worked tirelessly to create your perfect three-course meal.”

“That’s what all those texts with questions about food was about!” Emma puts the pieces together immediately.

“Aye, and I’ve commissioned the top chefs in London to cater specifically to your palate and so you can be sure that the food tonight will ignite your tastebuds but first, drinks.”

He steps to the oval seating, picking up the champagne bottle and offers, “We can crack this open right away or…”

He trails off as he reaches for one of the cloches, lifting the lid to reveal two steaming hot mugs.

“Can I interest you to some chocolate chaud avec cannelle?” he entices.

She raises an eyebrow, “Was that French?”

“Oui, le langage de l’amour,” he returns.

He winces, hoping she doesn’t speak French. If there’s anything worse than dropping the L word as he nearly did earlier, it was dropping the L word in French.

“You can speak French?”

She sounds impressed and, from the way she isn’t responding in French, he thinks he may just have gotten away with it, and he lets out a breath he didn’t realise he had been holding.

“I’ve had many a French teammate,” he explains to her. “One particular player, Gaston, was insistent on brushing up the few words I remembered from seven years of French in school. Now it helps whenever I come up against the French squad on international duty – a little bit of earwigging of their tactics.”

“Well it’s certainly impressive,” Emma remarks.

Killian hands her a mug of hot chocolate and she takes a sip as she stares out at the view of London, the lights of the city before them lighting up the shrinking buildings below.

“You’re so impressive. The top-flight football, the French, this,” she gestures to the pod and sighs mournfully, “How is any man back home meant to top this?”

He steps up behind her, wraps his arms around her and rest his chin on her shoulder.

“Can you do something for me?” he murmurs into her ear. “Just for tonight?”

“What’s that?”

“Can you pretend like we have a chance? Like this could go somewhere? Like it isn’t already doomed to fail?” he questions. “Like there isn’t three-thousand miles between us? Like there’s a future beyond you stepping on that plane in two days?”

She leans her head against his, their cheeks touching, and she sighs wistfully, “That sounds nice.”

He smiles and closes his eyes, soaking in the moment, the sensation of her soft, smooth cheek against his, the familiar combined scent of woody perfume and cinnamon sending him back to the moment they’d spent on the grass at Villa Park, lips inches from touching. He craves them, desperate to know if her lips taste as sweet as the smell of cinnamon wafting into his nose.

“The food smells lovely,” Emma comments.

Clearly, her nostrils aren’t lingering on the aroma of Creed Aventus that he was wearing, not that he needed her to notice it; it wasn’t as if he had spent a ridiculous amount of time trying to determine which aftershave she would most appreciate.

“Then without further ado!” he moves on promptly.

He places his hands on her shoulders and guides her to the pink pillows on the floor before the makeshift table. They sit beside each other, and she leans slightly into his chest as he lifts the lids off the cloches.

“Tonight’s menu, devised especially for Emma Swan, a starter of pancakes, a main course of grilled cheese complete with onion rings not fries, and to finish off, what else, other than bear claws?”

The food goes down well, both devouring everything, accompanied by laughter and easy conversation. Killian eases a few more football pick-up lines into their chat and manages to play off a high-spirited ‘are you the Champion’s League trophy? Because I’ve been searching for you my entire life’ as if there wasn’t a deep, sincere truth to the words.

Both stuffed, they lean back against the glass window behind them, taking in the view of the city from the window pane on the opposite side of the pod. Having booked the entire Eye out, the wheel doesn’t stop to let people on or off, instead continuing with smooth rotations and Killian’s long lost count of how many times they have been round. He’d booked the place for four hours – until midnight – thinking they’d only use it until they’d finished with the dinner but sat there, Emma in his arms, conversation flowing naturally, he never wants to leave. He wants the moment to last forever, to keep Emma close by him, to never let her fly back home, thousands of miles away from him.

“I googled you, you know?” her voice is low, a peaceful, calm aura in their isolated pod.

“Oh yeah?” he responds and smirks, “Did you see the modelling pictures?”

The silence that follows tells him all he needs to know.

He continues knowingly, “You did see the modelling pictures! The Calvin Klein ones?”

“They may have been a temporary distraction,” she confesses.

“What did you think?” he pushes.

“You should take that shirt off more often,” she remarks and he does not need tempting. “Very nice on the eyes. And then my eyes nearly fell out of my head when I stumbled upon a website which tells me how much you earn.”

Killian grimaces. It’s a topic he prefers to avoid, not because he wishes to hide his earnings but because the obscene and ridiculousness of it has a tendency to make things difficult and awkward.

“Ah. You’ve seen that?” is the only response he can come up with.

“I mean, it makes sense how you can afford all this,” she comments, gesturing loosely to the pod around them. “A hundred-and-thirty-thousand pounds a week? I converted into dollars and that’s more than I make in three years.”

“Like I said, love, the money in men’s top-flight football is bloody ridiculous,” Killian maintains and feels compelled to delve deeper, “Sure, it allows me to do extravagant things like this, and have a nice car and a nice house and have substantial savings but I don’t keep it all for myself. I give some to my parents – the bloody fools don’t let me give them much but no matter how much I were to throw at them, it would never repay them for everything they’ve done for me. Then a lot of it goes towards the fostering charities; there’s no point it languishing in my bank account when it can help children who have much less through no fault of their own.”

She stares at him with so much admiration that it hurts. He wants her, all of her; always and forever. She looks at him like he can do no wrong and whilst that’s far from the truth – he has many regrets from younger, dumb, more money than sense days – it makes him desperate to be that person for her; to wake up each morning and prove her right only to return home, recount his day to her and maintain the faith she holds in him. His heart aches for it and yet there’s a bloody large pond standing in their way.

But not tonight.

For Emma’s kissing him and he’s momentarily stunned until his yearning melts away and he’s pulled into the moment; she’s there, she wants him, she has him, he has her. Her lips do taste sweet, remnants of hot chocolate and cinnamon lingering on them, and he was adamant that he despises cinnamon and yet there he is, his lips locked on hers, wanting more of her, needing more of her, cinnamon and all included.

When she pulls away, the cinnamon loiters on his own lips and he’ll savour it for as long as it’s there; a little trace of her. A tiny trace, a memory that will always return whenever cinnamon happens to creep into his life.

She settles back down beside him, shoulders pressed against one another, hands clasped together, fingers entangled.

“I was once that child,” she murmurs.

His brain’s not working, lagging behind, reminiscing the kiss and he dumbly returns, “Huh?”

“A child with nothing, through no fault of my own,” she expands. “I was in the system, abandoned by my parents at the side of the road. I know what it’s like to be painfully aware of how much more other children in your class have. I know what a difference your work and your generosity will have on those children’s lives.”

He’s still rushing to catch up, frowning at the words escaping from her mouth, wondering if he’s hearing things correctly, whether he’s fallen into some daydream state; it sounds all too familiar, too close, too understanding.

“You… you were in the foster system?” he checks.

“For eight years,” she nods.

He tries his best not to gape at her and nods slowly, urging her to continue, if she wants to, keen to learn more of her story.

“I was found on the side of the road, taken to a hospital and placed with a family until I was three but then they had their own kid and they sent me back,” Emma recounts, a hint of anger creeping through. “I missed the golden years, the greatest opportunity for adoption and I struggled through the foster system, barely staying afloat. When I was eight, I got pulled from a nasty set-up, foster parents who were only interested in the pay check, and placed with a young couple under an emergency situation; it was only meant to be a night but a night turned into a foster placement and that turned into adoption.”

“David and Mary Margaret. They were the young couple,” Killian realises.

“They were twenty-three when I was placed with them,” Emma confirms.

It makes sense, explaining why Killian hadn’t immediately pegged David for her father and why he’d been so downbeat at the comment of looking young for her father, a reminder that he hadn’t been able to be there for her in the early years of her life.

“I was lucky,” Emma notes. “I found people who cared for me. There’s not many who can say the same.”

“Aye,” Killian hummed in agreement, “but I can.”

It’s her turn to stare at him, slightly lost, as if she can’t quite dare to believe what he’s insinuating.

“There’s a reason it’s a cause so close to my heart,” he expands. “My mother died when I was young and my father moved us around a lot after that. He got into some financial trouble and then some criminal trouble until he got himself into trouble which got him killed.”

“I’m sorry.”

It’s genuine, a full sincerity to it like nothing he’s heard before and he takes his chance, wrapping his arm around her, holding her tight.

“My brother and I wound up in foster care, bounced about a bit and then our social worker started talking about splitting us up, saying finding family’s willing to take in siblings was equivalent to preforming miracles,” Killian recalls. “Then we got lucky. We found Ella and Thomas Rogers. They had a fourteen-year-old daughter of their own but they welcomed an eight-year-old and an eleven-year-old with open arms and never let go.”

“So, Alex Rogers-”

“Is my sister’s name,” Killian reveals, “And an alias I have used on many occasions.”

“There was an Alex Rogers in goal for the Villa women’s team earlier today,” Emma comments.

“I wondered whether you’d pick up on that,” Killian smiles at her. “That’s my sister.”

“Does your entire family just eat, breathe and live football?” Emma enquires.

She’s joking, but she’s not too far off.

“Pretty much,” he confesses with a laugh. “Alex is in the top-level of women’s football and Liam’s currently in the National League but did stints in League One and Two in his younger days. Thomas, my dad, has always been really into the game; I guess it rubbed off on the three of us. He’s the reason I found Aston Villa, as a fan, long before I even dreamed of playing for them, and he dedicated so much of his free time getting us to various training sessions across the county. The day I signed for Villa, twenty-two years old, stepping up from League One to the Championship, it felt like I was repaying him for everything he’d done over the years.”

“I know what you mean,” Emma agrees. “The day Henry was born, the day my parents became grandparents, I watched the way their eyes lit up as they held the tiny baby he once was; I gave them what they’d missed out on with me and, it sounds stupid to most people, and I’d never tell them this, but that day, it felt like I’d proven my worth to them.”

“Earned your keep,” Killian nodded knowingly.

Emma stares up at him, a rare vulnerability in her eyes as she admits, “I’ve never been able to share that with anyone.”

Killian pulls her in even closer and she rests her head on his shoulder. He leans his head gently on top of hers, breathing in the strawberry scent of the hotel shampoo. He understands her, she understands him; it’s perfect, or it would be perfect if it weren’t for the distance issue.

He reminds himself of his earlier remarks, to forget all of the barriers in their way. He stares out at the city of London, lit up like a Christmas tree, with Emma by his side and inside that pod, in their own little world, everything is perfect.

It’s gone one in the morning by the time they stumble into Emma’s hotel room, clutching hands tightly and resisting smothering each other in kisses due to the uncertainty surrounding Henry and her parent’s positions. As hoped, they were all fast asleep, Henry crashing on the spare bed in her parents room and Emma gently presses the adjoining door shut, hastily reaching for the lock, all the while Killian’s planting kisses into her neck, delving in the second they asserted the coast as clear.

She waits until he reaches the tip of her sternum before gently pushing him back, his step backwards hitting against the bedframe, causing him to topple onto the bed. He props himself onto his elbows as she takes small, seductive steps towards him.

“I have a surprise for you,” she tells him, the smile on her face causing her eyes to gleam, “but first, you need to help me out of this dress.”

She turns, revealing the clasps up the back.

“Light work,” he mutters assuredly.

He sits up straighter, his fingers dancing quickly over the fastens, releasing them all in an impressive time. She steps away from him before he has the chance to rip the dress from her. She’s teasing him, dragging it out, and he’s both impatient and utterly mesmerised by what she’s playing at.

She turns back to face him, her fingers clasping over the short sleeves of her dress so she can shrug them off, allowing the upper part of her dress to drop. His eyes drop from her captivating eyes to her impressive figure, subtle muscle tone highlighting her curves; not in-your-face muscle but signs of a silent strength. Her hands cup underneath her breasts, drawing his attention to them; to the lacy blue bra doing half a job at covering them; a sky blue, a familiar blue which has him questioning his own thoughts.

Surely not.

Her hands drop to the dress hanging around her waist and she shimmies out of it, stepping forward, closer, and leaving the material abandoned on a heap on the floor. She reaches for his hands, placing them onto her waist, the lacy material of her revealing thong soft and fresh against his hands. His jaw drops as he eyes the thong – and all it reveals – but his fingers trace over the thin material; the rich claret colour.

“I couldn’t find claret and blue underwear so I bought two matching sets and mixed and matched,” she explains.

He doesn’t process a word of it.

“I need you,” he says breathlessly.

He pulls her onto his lap, engulfing her in a kiss fuelled by her repping his team’s colours, fuelled by his passion for Villa, by his passion for her. She barely knew him – not before the evening they’d spent in the pod – and yet she had donned his colours for him.

She lifts his shirt up his body, the movement forcing him out of the kiss so she can continue lifting it over his head. She chucks his shirt dismissively to the side of the bed and her hands quickly move to wander down his torso, pushing him down onto the bed.

He lies there, staring up at her, taking her in in her entirety, the claret and blue really working on her, even more so than he’d dreamt the kit doing so. She lowers herself onto him, her mouth lingering near his ear, her breath warm against his skin.

“We never got to finish our match at the stadium,” she reminds him. “Let resume now; one vs one, I’ll let you go on the inside of me every time.”

His eyes light up instantly; the claret and blue, the dirty football talk – she’s a quick learner. She burrows into his neck, her lips pressing against his skin.

“I’ll remind you, love, we footballers go for ninety minutes across eleven different positions,” he matches her.

Her lips retreat from his neck and they’re back against his ear, murmuring, “Promises, promises.”

He flips her onto his back, rotating positions, a little squeal of delight escaping her lips at his unexpected display of strength.

“I’m like Arsenal,” he tells her. “I’ll stay on top but finish second.”

She chuckles as he tears the blue bra from her. The claret and blue was fun whilst it lasted but there was much more fun to be had.

“I don’t understand that reference,” she admits.

“I ain’t explaining it now, love.”

The claret thong reunites with its blue counterpart, discarded on the hotel room floor.

#cs ff #captain swan #the heart of a villan

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thedeal-if · 1 year ago

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Name

Joseph Guerrero

Age

Personality

Reflective, Intelligent, Orderly Perfectionist, Competitive, Jealous When Josh smiles he manages to light up a room, which is no surprise, everyone who knows him agrees that he is a caring friend, always ready to make you laugh and to help you, no matter if your issues are big or small

Appearance

180cm Lithe body Honey brown skin color Triangle face shape Warm hazel hooded eyes Swept-back chin-length chestnut brown wavy hair Has a beauty mark on his neck Shaves regularly Honeyed voice

General Style

Camo greens, browns, whites, blacks. Baggy and comfortable. Sweaters, cargo pants, plain t-shirts, sneakers. Heading aids, thin-rimmed black glasses (or contacts), smartwatch, old friendship bracelet.

Other

Has partial deafness. A medicine student. Would've liked to be a nurse but was swayed towards a PhD on Neuroscience and Neurology by his parents. Unbeknownst to you, Josh inherited a terrifying ability.

Tropes

childhood best friends to lovers • love triangle • opposites attract

Josh’s Romance

Romancing Josh is a roller coaster of repression and moments of reprieve. It’s meeting again the one person you thought you knew— and finding out you don’t know them. At all. Josh is a window to your past, and, even in the present, he's a constant comfort to your pain, the logical voice of reason you might lack.

Envy/Humility

#the deal if #the deal #inferno #josh #ro intro

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laurie-stark · 7 days ago

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Chapter VI: Cold Coffee

A/N: crazy sorry for such a long time between updates my friends. the end-of-term brain fog has finally settled in and i care so little for school that i was able to write a bit in my lectures lol. also i must give credit to chat gpt for writing the accords at the bottom. yes i used AI to write up a fake legal document, i aint coming up with all that jargon. gotta use the tools available to you kids. until next time, take care -mimi

TW: There are subtle mentions of accidental self-harm at the end of this chapter, as well as some mention of blood.

Word Count: 2.9K

Series Masterlist

I should have known that sneaking into the meeting room would be harder than just opening the door. I stalked my team over the security camera footage on my smartwatch, following them as they trudged out of the room and down the halls. I struggled to keep up with every turn of a corner. Dumb tiny controls. Eventually they settled in the living room. It was perfect. They probably left the meeting room door unlocked and everything! All I had to do was sneak down the hall and-

Shit.

The living room was directly down the hall. They were directly down the hall. There was no way that I could stroll past them, not without anyone knowing what I was on the hunt for. And in the back of my mind I knew that the security cameras were only easy to crack into because my father wanted me to see that footage. He wanted to remind me that I’d only ever watch from behind a wall.

I tip-toed closer to the living room. Their voices got clearer as I snuck a peak around the corner. Breathing heavily, I scanned for a way to waltz past the group. My eyes darted to the air duct by the ceiling. I could climb through those? I thought. No, there was no way I could even attempt to be as quiet as Clint was when he hung out up there.

My heart jolted out of my chest when Rhodey turned his head in my direction. I whipped back around the corner, hand over my mouth for good measure. This is why they never sent me in to gather intel anywhere. I was way too jumpy.

I scampered back down the hall to my room. Pacing along the floor, I wracked my brain for another way I could get to the meeting room. Surely there was a way around the living room. I had never seen the blueprints for the compound, but my dad had to have installed some sort of emergency exit.

A wicked grin crossed my face. I crossed my bedroom floor and pried open the door to a small balcony that overlooked the compound grounds. It was a sunny Sunday afternoon. The pond was still enough that I could see wiggly reflections of the treeline in it. I stepped towards the railing, hands pressed against the cool metal bars. I heaved my weight to look down at the ground. I was four stories up, which I guessed equated to around fifty feet off the ground. That’s not that terrible, I thought. I was higher up in Sokivia.

I inhaled deeply and swung my left leg over the railing. With incredible incoordination, I carefully pulled the rest of my body over the railing so that I was teetering on the edge. If I looked, I was sure that I’d see white knuckles gripping the bar for dear life on either side of me. This was a great plan. It was a terribly great terrible plan.

Launching myself down a flight of stairs was easy. It was one step after the other with minimal exertion of my powers. I did it without thinking all the time, this was no different. Instead of three or four feet over a wide span, I just had to make it fifty straight down. I could do this. I can’t do this. I could totally do this. Laurie, just do it! I probably didn’t have much time before they realize they forgot the document in the living room anyways. Quit stalling! Just close your eyes and-

My stomach flew up into my throat. I clenched my fists and tucked my arms in tight to my sides, keeping my eyes closed. Even though I couldn’t see, I knew that my body was beginning to glow. I could feel it, as though an invisible hand was reaching out through my chest, desperate to grab onto anything. Grasping at air, I began to panic. I had no frame of reference. Nothing to pinpoint my gravitational pull to, not with my eyes closed. And for the life of me I couldn’t get them open. I felt myself slip and plummet towards the hard ground. This was it. This was how I die.

When I opened my eyes I was dumbfounded. I let out a disbelieving gasp as I took in the world from forty feet in the air. I was completely suspended, my body stuck between atoms like an airplane in turbulence. I mustered the courage to move my head to look up and see what I was tethered to. To my absolute shock, there was nothing but open sky above me. How the hell was I flying?

I slowed my breathing and remembered all that I had learned with Wanda. I focused on my palms first. They were buzzing with energy, alive with a force I needed to control. You are in control. Wanda’s voice echoed in my mind. I was in control. I let myself feel the pulsing inside my chest. It beat and thumped like a drum. Like a heartbeat. Looking inward, I realized with a gasp that I had redirected my gravitational pull to…myself. Well how about that?

Lowering myself down to the ground was tricky business. It felt like trying to control the muscles in your face that you don’t normally have manual control over. Eventually, I wobbled down until my feet touched the grass. I collapsed onto my hands and knees, head lowered. I mentally cracked up at the image of me looking like a poser.

Still in shock that I had uncovered a new layer to my abilities, I dusted my hands off and felt the energy cool down. I had time to unpack all of that later. Right now I was on a mission. Cardio had never been my strong suit, but I managed to jog around the perimeter of the compound easily enough. I hoped that the few straggling SHIELD agents who had nothing better to do but be here on a weekend didn’t notice me gasping for breath as I walked through the large double doors.

As I predicted, the door to the meeting room was unlocked. The document was still sitting in the middle of the oval table. The room felt heavy, and although I knew better than to believe in spirits, I could have sworn that the document was calling my name. Surely it was a normal legal binder, but it felt like it had it’s own gravity, tugging me closer.

I picked it up using two hands, running my fingers over the glossy title page. My heart was beating loudly in my ears, drowning out any other sounds in the room. The Sokivia Accords: Framework for the Registration and Deployment of Enhanced Individuals…Deployment? I thought. My mind had jumped to jumbled up the words deployment and deportation. The government didn’t have the power to deport us. Surely not.

I sat down in one of the empty office chairs and propped the Accords open in front of me. It was thick, nearly the same size as my math textbook. Flipping through the pages, I tried to understand what about this thing got my team into such a tizzy. The more I read, the more confused I got. The legal jargon was far beyond my comprehension skills. There was a reason I used to pass out during the HR meetings Dad dragged me to.

The table of contents was just as hard to understand as the rest of it, but I ran my finger down the pages regardless. I scanned across ink, looking for any semblance of the English language. The pad of my pointer finger came to a screeching halt. I stared at the page with my mouth agape, mind having gone blank. Staring back up at me was my own name printed in bolded letters.

They called me “The Subject.” I kicked myself for being surprised, I should have known that this would implicate me. You didn’t even know what this was five minutes ago, I thought. Yeah but you should have.

I forced myself to read through every single word. Regulations…oversight protocols…stipulations…My heart was racing. I started to feel sick to my stomach, even though I still wasn’t clear on what this meant at all. And then it hit me.

Article XII, Section 3A: Failure to comply. In the event that the Subject violates any of the statutes or stipulations outlined within Article I-XII, the following measures shall be immediately enacted.

Immediate detainment. Placement in a specialized containment facility. Behavioural and ability development assessment. I suddenly felt like eyes were already on me. I started breathing faster, and the heart that was once stuck in my throat had dropped to the pits of my stomach. The curtains were completely drawn back now. If I broke any of the rules laid out in front of me, the government would put me in a lab and study me.

I was seven when my father went missing for the first time. It was rare for him to take work trips without me, but going into an active war zone was no place for a child, so he left me behind. Pepper had moved into our house almost immediately. She made sure I did my schoolwork, that I kept going to my theatre and art classes. She got me into therapy too. It took three months for Dad to come back, and when he did I felt different.

In therapy, I learned how to ground myself. The night terrors were pretty persistent back then. I’d wake up screaming with no recollection of my dreams. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t see, and it felt like I was dying. My therapist taught me how to come back down to earth. She taught me to breathe deeply, to feel the floor beneath my feet. It was around this time that my powers first manifested. The techniques I used to channel the power under my sternum were the same ones my therapist taught me way back when. I stopped throwing things around in my sleep after a while.

The government thought I was dangerous. They called me a threat to civilians, they wanted me locked up. I knew that if these Accords got signed, these people would look for the smallest of excuses to put me away, to put all of us away. Frantically, I flipped to the last page in the document. I was looking for the page where my team would inevitably sign. Angry tears blurred my vision when I landed on the page.

Clint Barton, Wanda Maximoff, James Rhodes, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Anthony Stark, Vision, and Sam Wilson.

Of course, they wouldn’t give me a say in this. Of course they would give that fucking cyborg a say in my future instead of me. My nails dug into the centre of my palms, and I felt the distinct pop of skin breaking. For a fleeting moment, I worried about getting blood on the Accords.

A desk chair to my right went flying over the table, smashing through the window opposite me. Glass exploded and fell in shards to the ground, the lights started to flicker. They wanted a monster? Fine, I’d let them have it. But first I needed to go find my father.

I barreled into the living room holding the Accords above my head like it was a rifle and I was trying to get attention in a mall. The team was scattered around the room, hovering over the brown leather couches or splayed across them. My father was standing in the kitchen by the coffee maker, in front of a hologram projection of something I couldn’t see. It looked like he was preaching to the choir. Clearly, I was interrupting.

“What the hell is this?” I slammed the Accords down onto the coffee table so hard that cold liquid spilled out of the mug I had left early that same morning. Surprise clouded the faces of those around me.

“Laurie,” Steve started. He had another copy of the document in his hands, closing it gingerly like he thought sudden movements might set me off.

“No, don’t ‘Laurie’ me. What is this? What is going on?” It was hitting me all at once that it was the same Sunday and I hadn’t even been awake for half a day. It was just a few hours ago that I was curled up on these very couches with Steve. Finding out about Lagos and discovering the Accords in such quick succession, my head was spinning.

Natasha took a step forward and picked up the Accords I had tossed around. She flipped it sideways, examining the spine, and my jaw twitched when I noticed the splotches of red seeping into the white pages. I shoved my fist into my pocket.

“What happened to this?” She held the document out towards me, her eyes piercing daggers into mine.

“Is that coffee?” Rhodey asked, peering over Nat’s shoulder.

“Did you hurt yourself?” Natasha asked, ignoring Rhodey's breathing down her neck.

“You spilled coffee on that? Come on, that’s a government document!”

“I’m sure the guy with the goofy glasses has it on hard drive, Rhodey,” I said flatly.

“It’s clearly blood man,” Sam said.

“Blood? What do you mean blood?” Dad chimed in, stepping out of the kitchen and putting a hand on my shoulder. I tensed under his touch.

“Laurel, did you hurt yourself over this?” Natasha’s eyes were scanning all over me.

Dad gripped both of my shoulders and turned me to face him, shaking me slightly as he asked. “Why is she saying you’re hurt, are you hurt?” I stuttered over my words and he noticed the hands in my pocket. “Show me your hands.”

“Dad, stop.” More voices were piling into the conversation and I started to feel like I was drowning.

“Okay everyone, let’s calm down,” Steve interjected.

“Show me your hands!”

“GET AWAY FROM ME!” I screamed. I was holding both arms out in front of me now. My breathing had become erratic. Electricity pulsed underneath my skin. I could feel every object in the room, every person’s gravity pulling me in a thousand directions at once. Dad leaned back at my outburst, everyone else took a step away.

“I’m going to need you to watch your tone, little miss,” Dad said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“And I’m going to need all of you to quit the horse shit,” I bit back, waving my pointer finger around the room as I spoke. “You have all been keeping me in the dark for a year. I am sick of it. Tell me what’s going on.”

“You are not an Avenger anymore.” Dad was the only person with the balls to speak up.

“Oh, don’t I know that,” I laughed bitterly. “You never let me forget it. And you know what’s funny, Tony? You preach about child endangerment, you swear that you’re keeping me safe but the truth is you can’t deal with the idea of your kid becoming stronger than you-”

Dad didn’t give me a chance to finish. He grabbed me by the upper arm and pulled. He dragged me out of the living room as if I was a dog who just tore up all of his designer throw pillows. My anger subsided and was replaced with shame. As Dad walked us to the hallway, he turned around and pointed at the red-stained document in Natasha’s hands. “I’ll be back. Sign it.”

Article XII - Special Provisions for Minor Enhanced Individuals with Significant PotentialSection 3.7 - Laurie Stark Clause

Subject DesignationLaurie Maria Stark, a minor and known Enhanced Person (hereinafter referred to as "the Subject"), shall be subject to enhanced oversight protocols due to her unique abilities, which include but are not limited to gravitational and elemental manipulation. Given the considerable power inherent in these capabilities, and the potential risk to public safety, the Subject shall be bound by all regulations contained within this Article.

Mandatory ComplianceThe Subject shall adhere to all stipulations outlined within Articles I-X, specifically regarding the registration, tracking, and supervision of superhuman activity. The Subject is expressly prohibited from the unsupervised use of her abilities in public spaces or in any manner that might endanger civilian life or property, unless explicitly sanctioned by the International Enhanced Persons Oversight Committee (IEPOC).

Failure to ComplyIn the event that the Subject violates any of the statutes or stipulations outlined within Articles I-XII, the following measures shall be immediately enacted:

Immediate Detainment: The Subject will be detained by designated authorities without prior notice or warning, in order to mitigate any further threat to public safety.

Placement in a Specialized Containment Facility: The Subject will be transported to an Enhanced Persons Rehabilitation and Containment Facility (EPRCF), where she shall remain under secure supervision until further assessment and clearance by IEPOC.

Revocation of Conditional Freedoms: All conditional rights or privileges previously granted to the Subject, including but not limited to the right to independent movement and association, shall be summarily revoked.

Behavioral and Ability Development Assessments: In order to better understand and responsibly manage the Subject's capabilities, she will undergo periodic assessments with specialists to evaluate her behavioral and cognitive responses in controlled conditions. These assessments shall be conducted with a view toward ensuring public safety and furthering scientific understanding of Enhanced Persons.

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voraciousvore · 1 year ago

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The Half-Blood Giant (11/51)

Chapter 11: Eren

Eren was glad to have a day off. She urgently needed it. Work was stressful, despite the improvements made when she returned. She was finally picking up the pieces of her broken life and putting them back together, but progress was slow.

She accepted her job back at the dental clinic, as a dental hygienist. She had to acclimate first, practicing climbing into the mouth of her lovely fiancé Joey, before she gained the courage to try on anybody else. Even so, her first day back she had a panic attack and had to go home early. Being in the same environment where she had been kidnapped triggered a negative response.

Despite the setback, Eren soldiered on. She was a strong woman, and she was determined. She didn’t want to stay holed up in her apartment, afraid of the world, for the rest of her pitiful existence. Dr. Larson, her boss, was understanding, fortunately. He felt guilty for pushing her in the past, especially since he blamed himself for putting her in danger. He was careful to check on her frequently, let her work at her own pace, and only matched her with trusted clients whom she had worked on before. He allowed her to take breaks as needed and didn’t overbook her. She was never left alone in the clinic, where she would be vulnerable.

Eren wasn’t back to full time yet. She worked half-days, so she wouldn’t get too overwhelmed. She grew stronger by the day as she settled into a routine. Slowly, she was healing from her traumas. Whenever she was out of the house, she was always careful to wear her smartwatch, so she wouldn’t be caught helpless in a bad situation. Today, though, she was at home, safely locked up in her apartment. She felt secure in her own domicile, even though her protector Joey was at work.

Their shared apartment was small for a giant like Joey, but capacious for a tiny human like Eren. She felt as if she was relaxing in the lap of luxury in a big mansion, sitting on the gigantic couch and leaning into a pillow that towered above her. Being so much smaller than everything around her could be inconvenient, but it had its perks too. She sank into the cushion with satisfaction while she watched a movie on her laptop, enjoying the serenity of a day off.

The peace was interrupted when the air crackled loudly with sparks. Eren looked up from her laptop screen in disbelief as blue electricity tore the fabric of reality, not comprehending what she was witnessing. She was even more startled when a giant whom she had never seen before fell through the gaping hole into her living room and smacked his head on the side of the coffee table, collapsing on the carpet with a tremendous thump. Eren squeaked and jumped to her feet with surprise.

The giant man didn’t move. He lay motionless on the floor, blood dripping from his forehead. Eren hesitated, not sure what to do. She examined the strange man from her perch on the couch. He was dressed oddly, in a vest, a shirt with billowing sleeves, embroidered tan pants, and chunky boots. Eren fancied he would blend right in at a Renaissance fair. Her curiosity outweighed her fear, so she clambered down the rope ladder on the side of the couch to reach the floor. She crept across the carpet to the man’s colossal face. His head injury didn’t look too bad, but Eren couldn’t be certain. He was passed out, after all.

Eren reached down to her wrist to call for help, when she realized she wasn’t wearing her watch. She wasn’t in the habit of wearing it when she was in the safety of her own home. Now that she was alone with a stranger, however, she felt uneasy. She hadn’t anticipated a random giant materializing out of nowhere into her living room.

The giant groaned and shifted, his eyes flickering open. Eren froze up when she saw his irises, so big and close in front of her. They were a resplendent green, like the eyes of a noble beast, glinting with an intense predatory hunger. They were reminiscent of the same green eyes that haunted her nightmares, belonging to that terrifying monster named Trent, the eyes that followed her everywhere in the deepest, darkest recesses of her worst fears. Eren went white as a sheet as those gigantic orbs that eclipsed her vision focused in on her, the black pupils dilating. The giant’s nose twitched as he scented her, and his lips separated.

Eren fled in terror. The giant might be friendly, for all she knew, but the sight awakened horrendous memories within her, memories of a drooling maw full of square white teeth, a red tongue, swimming in grumbling guts, torture and pain. Eren couldn’t handle it. She panicked.

Chester, still groggy, saw the movement of tiny prey and reacted instinctively. His arm shot out like a projectile from a catapult, and he easily snatched up the tiny human in front of him. She squealed in fright and battled his fingers, but he was too strong. Chester groaned, rubbing the bloody gash on his forehead as he sat up.

“What is this place? Where am I? Who are you?” he asked the woman in his hand. Eren was too frightened to answer. She tried to bite his finger, but was unable to break through his thick skin with her teeth. Chester regarded her with interest, turning her over in his hand as if she were nothing more than a little doll.

His stomach growled, and Eren stiffened at the noise, staring up at him with wide eyes. Chester placed his free hand on his belly, noting how empty it felt. At Jackie’s behest, he had skipped breakfast, against his better judgement. He looked over at the small human ensnared in his fist, brought her closer to his face, and breathed in through his nose, inhaling her scent. If she tasted as good as she smelled, she would be quite a delectable treat. He licked his lips as his mouth began to water.

He glanced around him. He appeared to be in someone’s living room, scaled for a giant. Nobody was nearby; he confirmed with his nose. Another giant male must live here, but he wasn’t present. If he ate this human, here and now, nobody would know. Chester opened his mouth with longing, his tongue dancing in its dripping chamber, the little human inches away. He was sorely tempted.

Eren whimpered and pulled away from his open maw as his breath ruffled her hair. Chester closed his mouth and swallowed a flood of saliva. He had to control himself. “Um... do you have any food here?” he asked the little woman in his hand, urgency in his tone. She nodded frantically.

“Th-th-there's leftover p-p-pizza in the fridge,” she stuttered, shaking. She could barely utter any words at all. Chester surged over to the kitchen, making Eren lose her balance in his fist, and opened the fridge door. As promised, there was a box with half a pepperoni pizza inside. Chester took the whole box and returned to the living room. He sat down on the couch and set the pizza box on the coffee table, as if he were a guest and not an intruder, oblivious to social mores. He placed Eren on the coffee table and helped himself to the pizza, shoveling a whole slice into his mouth.

Eren watched with trepidation. Luckily, her watch was on the coffee table nearby, and she gradually edged toward it, hoping the giant wouldn’t notice. Even though he was bolting down pizza slices, she noticed he kept his eye on her the whole time, making sure she wouldn’t run away. Eren knew better than to think she could outrun a giant, especially since she would have to climb down the height of the table to get away. She sat down and gripped the watch in her hands, sending Joey an emergency text. Chester had no idea what she was doing, since smartwatches didn’t exist in his realm. Joey responded immediately, and Eren quietly sighed in relief. She just had to stall until he got here to rescue her.

Chester, as usual, was struggling to rein in his temptation. Where was Jackie when he needed her? He wasn’t sure, but he knew filling his belly was priority. He hardly chewed the pizza at all, swallowing it in great big bites. Eren was disturbed as she watched the spectacle of gluttony before her. Joey was an impressive eater, but he wasn’t as bad as this giant. She had no doubt that this huge man wanted to eat her, and had almost forced her into his mouth just like he was clogging his mouth full of pizza now. She was tense.

Chester gulped down another slice and focused in on the miniature lady on the coffee table. She was huddled up and shaking. He smacked his lips. The pizza was serviceable, but it failed to satisfy in the same way as a human. Her scent suggested a meaty flavor, like steak. He imagined her sliding down his throat and flailing in his belly. His stomach grumbled again.

“Hey, uh… if you’re willing, feel free to hop onto that pizza slice right there,” Chester remarked with a roguish wink and a toothy smile. Without awareness of his actions, he was leaning closer over Eren. He licked pizza sauce off his lip. Maybe she’d be willing to at least let him taste her. If she lived with another giant, as was obviously the case, he was sure she’d understand.

“W-what?” Eren responded with confusion. What the giant was suggesting was so preposterous, Eren thought she had misunderstood.

“I won’t swallow you or anything,” Chester assured her. “Just let me hold you in my mouth and taste you. I’ll eat the pizza around you, but I won’t chew you up or ingest you. Just for flavor.”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?!” Eren shouted. Chester’s face twitched and Eren covered her mouth with her hand. She turned to run, but the swift movement activated Chester’s hunting instinct and he reflexively reached out and pinched the back of her shirt between his fingers.

“LET GO OF ME!!” Eren screamed at the top of her lungs. Chester, mortified by what he had just done, released her immediately, bringing his hand back into his lap.

“S-sorry, I didn’t mean to do that,” he apologized and shoved another pizza slice in his face. He slumped his shoulders and averted his gaze completely from her, his face red as a cherry.

Eren stared at him, baffled by his behavior. “What the hell is wrong with you?!” she asked with exasperation. This giant was different than any other giant she had met. Other man-eating giants had no shame and didn’t give her a choice. If she had been dealing with Trent, he would have swallowed her a long time ago. This giant, on the other hand, seemed almost ashamed of himself, yet he appeared to have no concept of personal space or boundaries. She didn’t understand his behavior.

“I’m sorry,” Chester repeated through a substantial mouthful of pizza, burying his face in his hands. “I-I have strong cravings to eat humans. It’s so humiliating, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m trying so hard to keep it under control.”

Eren’s expression softened a bit at his confession. She could plainly see he was telling the truth. “It’s fine,” she said quietly. “Just don’t you dare eat me!” She backed up a step, raising her arms defensively. She hoped Joey would be here soon. She didn’t think the giant was malicious, per say, but he seemed to have poor self-control. She didn’t trust him at all.

Chester shook his head, still hiding his face. “I won’t,” he promised. He didn’t sound too confident though. He peeked through his fingers at Eren. “Doesn’t your giant friend whom you live with ever want to eat you?”

Eren gaped up at him, nonplussed by the question. Joey had never eaten her on purpose, or signaled to her any desire to do so. Just then, Joey’s voice resounded through the door. “Hang on, Eren!” he yelled. “I’m coming!” He jammed the key in the lock and fumbled to open the door.

“I’m in here, Joey!” Eren called back, projecting her squeaky voice as loud as she could. “Don’t worry, I’m okay!”

“Who’s that?” Chester asked, looking up.

“Oh, he’s my fiancé,” Eren explained. “He’s a giant. And a cop. He’s very protective of me.”

Chapter 12

Chapter 1

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