#I need a good tag for group posts like this

[discodinosaur]

➳ Talk So Sweet (Doin' Bad Things)

↳ the last of us | explicit | manny alvarez/reader | 10.1k | complete

Summary: It was common knowledge that you and Manny did not get on. But, after a run goes awry, you're the one patching him, and if disliked you that much, how come he's told his dad all about you?

--Or-- A slow descent into falling in love with the person you hate the most.

Tags: unprotected piv sex | semi public sex | outdoor sex | fingering | enemies to lovers | secret relationship | near death experience | hurt/comfort | tlou violence | blood/injury | usual apocalypse things | no use of y/n | female reader | either game!Manny or HBO!Manny, whatever takes your fancy - divider by @saradika-graphics ♡ - a massive thank you to @ohhoneypascal for letting me constantly spitball this with you and for naming Manny's dad, you da best ♡ - cross posted on ao3 if that's more your jam.

A lot of people knew that you and Manny did not gel well. It didn’t take a lot to work out between the icy glares, the cold shoulders and, sometimes, going as far as pretending the other didn’t exist.

Which ideally wasn’t the best for the rest of your little group. You hadn’t been part of the Firefly’s when they fell but you had known of Marlene, whisperings about her initiative and what would happen if she set foot in Seattle or even came across the WLF. Yet when the ex-Firefly’s arrived, you had taken them under your wing and in return, you became one with their group, though you figured that sharing a room with Leah had something to do with it.

Which brings you to now, sat in the corner of the mess hall with a greasy rag, absently wiping it over your pistol while Nora and Manny are at each other’s throats for what must be the third time this week.

“—You’re not going to tell Isaac shit,” Nora spits at him, spoon clenched tightly in her fist as she glares daggers at Manny.

Manny leans over the table, leering at her, “Sure, that his senior medic is shirking her duties to what? Bunk off with the armourer?”

Ohh, of course. It would be you that Manny has a problem with. If this was Abby or Mel, you can guarantee he wouldn’t have an issue with it. But you? That man has had it out for you the moment you spoke to him. Besides, you’d had this job cleared for days, a simple supply run and one that would be beneficial to the med-bay too. It’s just Manny being typical Manny that he needs Nora’s help now of all times.

“But it’s fine when you do it to get a piece of skirt, right? Besides, I’m not shirking off any duties.” Nora swings back easily, leaning back on the bench. “Never thought you of all people would be one to tattle to Isaac. Like even has time for you if it’s not Scar related.”

Manny’s jaw ticks and you can feel the anger rolling off him in waves, most of it directed straight at you. 

“Nora, it’s fine. I can ask Owen to come with me,” you try, attempting to placate both of them, but Nora holds up a hand to stop you. 

“No, no. You did get it cleared, right?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” she turns back to Manny with a sickly sweet smile, “so take Mel with you.”

Manny jumps up from the table, jolting it so the cutlery rattles and he swears in Spanish. You glance up as he shoves his hands in his pockets and storms out of the mess hall.

“He really has it out for you, huh?” Nora asks with a shake of her head. 

“Yup, something like that. I’ll meet you down the armoury in ten.”  

You wait for Nora down in the armoury, leaning against the wall with the guns already signed out, while Olive, another armourer who trained under you, talks your ear off about the guy she’s seeing. Eric, you think his name is. 

And then in comes Manny, closely followed by a hesitant looking Mel. She gives you a half smile as Manny struts over towards Olive. He doesn’t even glance in your direction, not when Olive asks you about Manny’s usual, nor when you slip back behind the desk to collect his shotgun and extra ammo. He clenches his jaw, white-knuckling the shotgun and nods his head to Olive in thanks.

Mel, ever the peacekeeper, apologises when Manny’s out of earshot, taking her pistol and rifle with a grateful thanks to you both and hurries after him with Bear in tow, barking excitedly at her heels. 

“You should’ve given him an empty box of ammo,” Olive says quietly to you, eyes on the two of them heading towards a truck.

You snort, “Because that would go down so well when he gets back.”

“He can be so awful sometimes.”

“Dude probably just needs to get laid,” you shrug and then spot Nora making her way towards you and bid Olive a hasty goodbye.

It was late. Later than you usually stayed down in the armoury. But with Danny, Owen and Manny coming back later than predicted from their run, all three looking pissed, you silently took their weapons from them, cleaning them down and letting the three of them cool off in their own way. Owen had tried to help; lingering back and making small talk but you had taken the box of ammo from his hands and sent him on his way towards Abby knowing she’d appreciate his presence more.

You swung the keys to armoury on the keyring around your finger, waiting for whoever was in the shooting range to finish up and leave. But the minutes ticked by, the shots still fired and your eyes were heavy with tiredness.

Six more shots sounded and you gripped the keys tight in your hand, quietly going inside and let out a sigh at the sight of Manny in the end stall. Ear protection forgone and muttering to himself in Spanish as he reloads the pistol. You winced as he emptied it one by one into the target without hesitation.  

“Manny.”

He either ignores you or doesn’t hear you as the gun clicks empty and he mutters again, throwing in another twelve rounds into the pistol and firing them off one by one, you count them as you hear the cartridges clink to the floor.

“¡Déjame en paz!”

You lean against the door, exasperated as he fumbles and picks up the ammo shells on the floor.

“Manny. I need to lock up,” you tell him firmly. The last thing you want is to get into an argument with him now. Both of you obviously exhausted, words would sting a little more and no holds would be barred for the slew of curses that could leave you. 

“Need me to fucking translate for you?”

The frustration rolls off the two of you in waves and you chew on your lip, strutting over and collecting up the pistol and the handful of unused ammo. As you pull back, Manny’s hand wraps around your wrist and your eyes find the smear of dried blood on his knuckles, over his sleeves and up onto his neck. Your lips parting in surprise when you see the slice over his cheek, the split in his lip and the purple undertones of a bruise blossoming on his jaw.

“The fuck happened to you?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

“Nothing,” he snaps, turning away from you. 

“Bullshit, Manny, look at your face! You should’ve gone to the med—”

“No. I don’t need to go to the med-bay. It’s just a small cut, it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

He hasn’t let go of your wrist and the longer you stare at him, the more he starts to wilt under your hard gaze. He turns back to you, meeting your eyes and his grip loosens around your wrist. He lets out another sigh, and runs his other hands through his already rumpled hair. “I’m not going to the med-bay because Mel and Nora will just ask questions. I’ve had worse, now stop fussing over me.”

You wretch your wrist out of his grasp. “Suit yourself. But you’re in my shooting range.”

His throat bobs, jaw ticking as he glares at you with unspoken curses. But Manny turns away without so much as a jab, clearing up the mess of ammo spilling onto the bench. He’s silent, and when he speaks you almost miss it. 

“Scars.”

You stop, turning on your heel, keys clenched tightly in your fist. “What about ‘em?” 

Manny continues to hastily put away the ammo, fingers scurrying over the stray bullets, jaw set as he stares at the box. “They jumped us just past the park. We didn’t see them until they had the upper and then you can put together what happened after.” 

“The park? Isn’t that supposed to be–” 

“Exactly,” he nods, eyes flicking to you, dark under the fluorescent lighting. “Which is another reason I can’t go to the med bay. It was Isaac’s idea. If anyone else finds out they’ll be an uproar.” 

“Of course it was Isaac,” you mutter under your breath and you clip the keyring onto your belt loop, stepping forwards towards him. “I have a med-kit down here that Nora restocked the other day. I’m not a doctor but I know how to treat a cut.” 

Manny seems torn, an internal back and forth going on in his head and in the end he shakes his head with a swear in Spanish. “Fine. But make it quick.”

“Wouldn’t want to drag this out, Alvarez,” you sigh and fetch the small first aid kit. Your hand reaches out tentatively, cupping his cheek to turn his head towards you to get a better look at the cut. With an alcohol soaked cloth, you dab at it and Manny hisses at the initial sting.

“Did you kill them?”

“Course. I’m not Isaac’s top Scar killer for nothing.”

You thin your lips and say nothing as you clean up the mess of dried blood on his skin, feeling his quickening pulse as you wipe his neck, thinking nothing more than it being the adrenaline. You take a half step back and assess him quickly for any other injuries, turning him by his shoulders and noticing the wince as he turns to his left. His jacket, half open, does nothing to hide the creeping stain of blood that’s blossoming on his grey shirt. 

“What happened there?”

He looks down, following where you’re looking and has the decency to shrug.

“Knife wound maybe?”

You roll your eyes at his unhelpful replies and pull his shirt where the wound is, scrunching it up just below his ribs. If he would just let you help him without being a pain in the ass then this would go over a lot smoother.

“I have some gauze…”

He says nothing but holds his shirt up as you gather the gauze and medical tape, your hands skating over his warm body as you take your time to make sure he’s not in any pain.

“If that doesn’t heal overnight, go to Mel or Nora, you might need stitches.”

“It’s not a stab would,” he says, smoothing over the gauze. “You’re just stubborn.”

“I’m stubborn?” you ask, clicking the kit shut and wiping your hands on your cargos.

“Si.”

You almost smile at him but you remember where you are and who you’re with and the urge to get out overwhelms you so you pick up his discarded gun and med-kit then hurry out of the shooting range.

“Turn the light off when you’re done.” 

After that night in the shooting range, Manny starts to avoid you. To begin with, you hadn’t even noticed it, not with how the two of you skirt around each other, always trying to dodge the other if you can and with Manny spending a lot of mealtimes with his dad, and you down in the workshop, it didn’t even cross your mind. 

It was Owen that noticed it first, the second week in while you were sat in the usual corner of the mess hall, Mel on his left and Leah sandwiched between you.

“You ever see much of Manny nowadays? He’s not joined us as much since we came back from that run the other week.” 

Your head snapped up and you followed Owen’s gaze to the other side of the hall where Manny was sat with his dad, turned towards and gesturing with his hands as he spoke. You kept your mouth shut, let the other three speculate as you turned it over in your head. 

But the more you dwell on it, the more it ate you up. You had been with him last that day, patching him up and he had retaliated with what? Avoiding you? Did he really dislike you that much that he would start ignoring his friends? 

So what you do instead is grab one of the breakfast burritos in the early morning, when barely anyone is around and head to the gym, seeking out Abby. Because if anyone understands him, it’s her. 

To your surprise, she’s not there and you chew your lip as you remember the few spots she has tucked away that she goes to that’s not her room. Finally, you check the library, and on first glance it looks empty. If it weren’t for the collection of ottomans pushed together, you would call it a morning and leave it. 

But you know Abby better than that and beeline for ottoman’s where sure enough she’s sat hunched over, reading one of the old battered books on the shelf. 

“Morning,” you greet her quietly, waving the burrito in her direction. “I thought I’d find you in the gym this morning.” 

She shrugs with one shoulder and marks her page, dog earring the corner and takes the burrito. “Eh, I could do with a rest and Manny asked for the room last night. These ottomans do nothing for your neck.” 

You try not to think about Manny asking for the room to be alone with someone else. You really do, but lately your mind is on him a lot more than usual – probably just something to do with that he’s been avoiding you. 

“Does he seem like he’s avoiding you?”

Abby chews thoughtfully and then shakes her head. “No, he seems the same to me. But Owen did mention it too the other day. He has asked for the room a lot more than usual though.” 

“It was Owen that made me notice it,” you admit, and sit cross legged on the ottoman next to her. “I saw him when he came back from that run with Owen. He spent some time in the shooting range, taking it out on one of the targets.” 

The corner’s of Abby’s lips turn up into a small smile, “Yeah, he did mention that. We haven’t talked a whole lot about it if I’m honest. Owen hasn’t even let up about what the hell happened out there.” 

You don’t bother to let on about patching him up. Both of you keeping it to yourselves but she does ease your mind and you manage not to think about him. You move on to other things, asking her about her workouts are going, being careful to pry too much into the details. 

You leave Abby, heading back down to the mess hall to grab something for yourself before a long day down in the armoury. The amount of people going out on runs today was insane compared to usual, you figure that Isaac must be planning something soon with the amount of intel he’s gathering. 

Just as you find a table for yourself, your eye catches on the shaky wave of José and your expression softens. Manny might be intolerable, but his dad is a sweetheart and always makes an effort with you. You slip into the chair next to him and you can’t help but worry your lip at how bad his hands seem today. 

“How have you been? I haven’t seen much of you recently, I think you’ve been hiding from me,” he asks you, a warm smile on his face and you can’t help but smile back at him.

“Not hiding from you,” you say softly, “just… busy, you know? You seem well, though, how are you hands?” 

“Oh, you know, some days are better than others. I’ve been meaning to thank you, by the way. For patching Manny up the other week.”

You splutter around your bite of food and blink at José, “huh?” you say, rather stupidly. Manny told his dad about you, but not Abby. 

José smiles at you and pats your hand. “He told me about the run in he had and said that you were the one to find him down in the shooting range.” 

“Oh… yeah I did but–” 

“I know he’s not the best with words and can be a stubborn mule sometimes. But thank you, I appreciate you looking out for him.” 

“It was nothing, mister Alvarez,” you say sincerely. “He just looked in a bad way and it was getting late. If I’m honest I just wanted to lock up.” 

He smiles warmly at you again and grasps the top of your hand. “I know my son, and for what it’s worth I’m sorry he can be such a brat around you.” 

You thin your mouth into what you hope passes for a smile, unsure of what to say because Manny can be so much more than a brat to you. 

“Dad, have you—” 

Manny cuts himself off as soon as he sees you and easily ignores you as he passes to sit on the other side of his dad. José gives you a good-natured eye-roll and turns to his son, saying something in quiet Spanish. Manny glances at you, replies back to his dad and turns his body to him. You feel like you’re intruding as Manny takes José’s hands in his own, turning them over and gently massaging his palms. 

“I should go,” you say quietly to José and scrunch the foil from your burrito into a ball. 

“Don’t be a stranger. You should come sit with me more often.” 

You look between him and Manny, who’s not paying you any attention and nod slowly, “Promise, sir.” 

And you meant it. But the whole way down to the armoury, José’s words about that night in the shooting range bounce around in your mind.

Being out in the field was a nice reprieve from being in the armoury. It gave the time to work on your aim and what modifications were working and which one weren’t. Today just happened to be the day that Manny, of all the people, was assigned partner on the run. You had tried to swap with Leah, even Abby but both of them were on higher priority jobs than you.

Just your luck.

When you got a glance at him in the mess hall that morning. He didn’t look particularly thrilled at the idea either and when he caught your eye, he bowed his head to talk with his dad. You had loaded your pistol forcefully and shoved it into your holster, not even giving Manny a second glance while he collected his own weapons later. You signed out a truck and started the ignition, letting it idle while you waited.

“You’ll waste the gas if you keep doing that,” Manny snipes, climbing in beside you and shutting his door with more force than strictly necessary. 

You ignore him, rolling your eyes and the wheels spin as you overdo it on the pull away. Good, let him know he’s already pissed you off. You stop briefly at the gates and then put your foot to the floor on the Seattle roads. Neither of you say a word to each other on the way to the old garment factory, both of you too stubborn to acknowledge the other. Manny is stiff as a board when you glance over, head turned to stare out the window. 

Getting in was easy. Both of you agreeing, without so many words, that stealth was the better option here. It had only just been scouted out earlier in the week – supplies that you could use but also a number of infected roaming the narrow hallways. This had to be a silent in and out job. 

You took down two runners right away, approaching them from behind and forcing your knife into their throat, cutting at the muscle and sinew, letting them fall with a thud to the floor as Manny took out another. His method wasn’t as practised as yours, getting its attention and then jumping it. Even in stealth, he’s attracted to the violence and threat of getting caught. 

Both of you keep your steps light and your flashlights pointing down as you make your way through the hallways, avoiding the factory floor as much as possible. Manny covers you as you pick the lock, crouching down, ear straining to hear the telltale click. 

It’s when you open the door that everything seems to go wrong. The door swings open, knocking into an old, beat up filing cabinet that echoes around the room. Both you and Manny freeze. The second thing you notice is the ear-splitting screech of a clicker that looms out of the darkness. 

Manny grabs your arm, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pulls you out of your stunned silence. “Run, fucking run!” he calls to you and you become aware of your feet, dragging them to a sprint down a different corridor. 

You turn, unloading a clip from your rifle into the nearest oncoming onslaught of infected. Runners fall like dominoes, and a clicker halts, head drooping as you shoot the fungus clean off, giving you both a few seconds to make distance.

The rifle clicks, out of ammo and you turn, sprinting with all you have down the rest of the corridor towards the bolted door. Manny is just two steps ahead, and rams his shoulder against the lock, forcing it open and grunting as he squeezes through the small gap. You see his hands on the door, fingers tense as he tries to hold it open but it’s too heavy and it shuts on you, slamming into place. 

You reach for your handgun, popping two bullets into the stalker that’s crept up on you and you watch as it convulses on the floor before throwing yourself against the door, hand pushing on the handle. But it doesn’t budge. 

“No, no,” you mutter, shouldering it again and clinging onto the handle. “Manny? Manny!” 

“The mechanism is busted,” his voice sounds from the other side, just as panic stricken. “I’m trying.”

“Manny, open the door. Open the fucking door right now!”

Fear seizes you. Your hands trembling as you check the clip in your hand gun and you let out a whimper as you count the measly seven bullets you have left. That’s hardly enough to take out the whole corridor. Maybe this is how it ends for you, at the hands of infected all because a fucking door won’t open. 

“Fuck… fuck!” you mutter, blood rushing in your ears and tears spilling down your cheeks. This is not how it was supposed to go. Not here, not a run with Manny of all people. You flatten yourself against the door and grip your gun with both hands, though it does nothing to stop the sway of the pistol. You count each bullet, chest heaving as you face death head on. 

One. A runner hit in the shoulder, dropping to the floor and using its hands to crawl towards you, gurgling and thrashing on the floor. 

Two. The runner goes silent, one final yelp and it stills. The door up head bursts open with the noise only a shambler could make, lolloping to one side from the weight of the pustules. 

Three and four – both miss. The bloodcurdling, throaty hisses from a clicker and whines from stalkers join the shambler as they barrel down the corridor straight for you. 

Five. Hits one of the stalkers and it lets out a scream, crawling up into the vents out of your sight. 

Six. Another miss and tears blur your vision, your heart hammering in your chest. There’s nothing that can help you now. 

Seven. You close your eyes, not seeing where the bullet lands and slide down the door, trying to make yourself as small as possible. 

Your back gives out, and you fall backwards into nothing. There’s the sound of a slam somewhere in the room and then something is grabbing you under your arms. You thrash, trying to fight it. 

“No!” you sob, pushing yourself against the wall. 

“It’s me, it’s Manny.” 

You breath catches in your throat and you use your sleeve to wipe at your eyes, blinking through the tears. His eyes are wide, cheeks drained of any colour as he raises his hands, palms up. 

“Manny?”

“It’s me. I’ve got you. I need you to breathe.” 

You keep your eyes on his hands as he slowly and carefully brings them down to hold your shoulders. He gives you a pointed look and you follow his lead, a deep breath in and then out. He repeats this until you’ve got it under control. 

Feud, rivalry, some unspoken third thing between you be damned. You breathing catches in your throat and he steps into your space, one arm wrapping around you, placing his palm on the small of your back and you let your head fall into the crook his neck. 

He’s murmuring in Spanish, other hand cupping the nape of your neck and his body swaying gently. You fit against him like he’s been waiting for this moment. 

You want to be embarrassed, and maybe sometime in the future you’ll start to avoid him. But if he had been seconds later, you would’ve died. Right now, all you want is to be held. And Manny does, without any complaint or any offhand comment. He wraps you in his arms and lets you cry. 

“You’re okay,” he murmurs in English. “You’re safe. Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

Infected throw themselves against the sealed door, muffled screeches and bang echoing around the room but all you can feel right now is Manny. His solid frame, his voice soft as he repeats over and over how sorry he is. You inhale deeply, getting gunpowder and citrus from his jacket and open your eyes and stepping back from him. 

His hands cover yours, his eyes searching your face as you take a few deep, controlled breaths on your own. You’re alive. You weren’t savagely ripped apart and you’ve had much worse than this. You pull one of your hands free from his to wipe over your face. 

“Why are you sorry?” you ask him eventually, your voice croaky and rough from all the tears. 

“Because if I had wasted another minute trying to open that fucking door you wouldn’t be standing right in front of me.”  

“But I’m here,” you tell him and squeeze his hand. “I’m right here.” 

The door bangs again, louder this time and you pull on Manny’s hand. “We need to get to the supply cupboard,” you say, as if the past five minutes didn’t happen. 

He looks at you wildly and shakes his head. “Are you insane? Fuck the supply cupboard!” 

“We came here for a supply run.” 

Manny’s not listening to you, he pushes aside one of the cabinets covering the exit and peers down the short hallway. “We’re getting out of here.” 

“Manny–” 

“No.” 

He grabs your hand again, leading the way down the hallway. You have no idea where you even are, it’s too easy to get turned around in a place like this.

“We’ll go out one of the fire exits, should be easier to find the truck,” he says, walking slightly ahead of you. You nod numbly and follow him. You mind is buzzing with what just happened, between the infected almost getting to you to Manny holding you like you were something precious. 

The sunlight attacks your eyes as soon as you step outside and you use your hand to shield your eyes while Manny barricades the door. You sweep the overgrown parking lot and don’t notice anything out of the ordinary then Manny taps your shoulder, pointing down the side of the building. You nod, and the two of you scurry through the weeds and fallen debris until you see the truck and your heart eases at the sight of it. 

“Keys?” you hear him ask and you fumble the ring on your belt loop, unclipping it and handing it to him, silently getting into the passenger side.

Just like the drive there, neither of you say a word to each other, except the roles seem to have been reversed, and now it’s your turn to stare out the window. You know that you should be keeping an eye out but there’s still a tremor to your hands that you can’t quite shake and you want nothing more than to be back at the stadium, curled up in your bed. You just hope that luck is on your side and Leah doesn’t ask questions or, even better, she’s staying with Jordan for the night. 

Fortunately for you, she’s not there when you get back. You’d dropped off your weapons, feigning a smile and a humourless laugh as Steve tries to joke with you, making a quick getaway with the excuse of needing a shower. But the walk up to your room, the seemingly endless flights of stairs to your level feels never-ending. You’ve never been so glad for the silence that greets you when your door swings open. 

In a daze, you drop your pack off in the small kitchenette and grab your wash bag. You don’t remember the walk to the showers, or the hot water pelting down on your back. Getting back to your room is a blur, but when you crawl under the comforter and your head hits the pillow, you’re out like a light. 

The knocking does not stop, and it worms it’s way into your dream – an incessant rap against wood that sounds like a timer, counting down the amount of ammo you had left in your pistol as the memory plays over and over in your unconsciousness. You wake with a start, sitting up and squeezing your eyes shut, hoping that whoever is on the other side of the door just gets the hint already. 

When they don’t stop, you groan and swing your legs over the side of the bed and pad barefoot over the worn carpet. You grab the key, forcing it into the lock and the door swings open.

Abby, maybe, you expected. Nora, even Mel. But you certainly did not expect Manny to be on the other side of the door. Especially not holding a foil-wrapped dish and with his hair sticking up in disarray as though he’s ran his hand through it one too many times. 

“Manny?” you ask, blinking at him to make sure that you’re definitely not seeing things. 

“I noticed you weren’t at dinner,” he shrugs, looking way out of his depth and avoiding your eyes. “Least I could do is bring you some after today.” 

“Oh, um, sure,” you say, opening the door wider to let him in. “Come in, I guess.” 

Manny hesitates only for a second and then sidesteps past you without another word. He fills the tiny room with his presence alone. You know that it’s not the first time he’s been in here – not when you share with one of your friend group, but he’s not even glancing in the direction of her things. Instead he’s staring at the wall behind you, reading over the posters and prints tacked up haphazardly on the wall.  

You take a seat on your bed, legs hanging off the side as your back hits the wall and Manny steps forward, looming over you, holding out the dish.

“It’s chilli. Muy picante.”

Your lips twitch as you take it – steam rising as soon as you lift the foil life and your stomach groans, you don’t remember if you even ate breakfast, today has been nothing but a rush then a blur for you. 

You notice that Manny moves around the small kitchenette in a familiar way, it’s just a little jarring to see in your room. But you give the faintest of smiles in thanks when he hands you the spoon. What surprises you even more is that he unlaces his boots and sits the other side of your bed, being sure to keep some distance between you. 

You take your first bite of chilli, thinking that the silence between you would be uncomfortable and awkward. But it’s not, though it might have something to do with Manny not speaking, it’s easy. It’s different than being around Owen or Jordan, even Nick.

He lets you eat in silence but something gnaws at you and you feel the need to break the quiet.

“I don’t… these things don’t usually affect me so bad. I’ve killed infected before and been in worse situations,” you tell him, your spoon clinking against the dish. 

“I didn’t say you couldn’t handle yourself.”

“I know. I just, I feel like I overreacted.”

“Overreacted? You were seconds away from being ripped apart from infected. The door wasn’t supposed to get jammed, I don’t know what happened but I wouldn’t live with myself if you died on a run like that because of me.” 

“Is that why you brought me food? Because you felt bad?” you bite out, pushing the dish onto your nightstand, suddenly no longer feeling hungry. 

“No… no. It’s– it doesn’t matter. ” he snaps abruptly, running a hand through his hair and you let out a long breath through your nose. 

“How’s your dad getting on?” you ask instead, figuring that the best thing to do right now is change the subject. It works, taking Manny by surprise that his frown wilts away, replaced by a softer expression only reserved for Jose.

“Bien, though his hands are still seizing up a lot,” he pauses for a moment and then adds, “he asked about you earlier.” 

You give him a quizzical look, tilting your head and narrowing your eyes. Manny shrugs, not quite meeting your gaze. “He knew we were out on a run today. Guess he just wondered how we got on when he didn’t see you in the mess hall.”  

Though his words sound honest enough, you can tell that Manny’s hiding something from you. So you wait him out and he shifts, crossing and uncrossing his ankles before he finally caves. “I told him –just him – that it didn’t go well.” 

“Why? You barely say two words to me any other time so why are you now going to your dad about me?”

“Papá, he cares about you.”

“Right, right. But you? You can’t fucking stand me.”

Manny stiffens, even with the distance between you you can feel how he tenses up. Given the circumstance, you probably should back down, put it one side and curl back up in your comforter. Except, no. You’ve not wronged him, yet he continues to treat you like some nobody. 

“Why is that?” you ask, “What have I ever done to you to make you dislike me so much when the others are so fucking friendly towards me and treat me like an actual human being.”

He clears his throat, and for a second you think he’s going to answer. But the silence just lingers, heavy in the air. You shake your head and get up, taking the dish towards the small kitchenette that Manny had to fit so well into. You run the tap, too many thoughts running through your head and a too heavy silence over the room.

Then he’s behind you, reaching past you to turn the tap off, so close that he’s almost pressing against your back. 

“I don’t hate you.”

He says it too quietly and he sounds too honest for you to doubt him. You turn in the little gap between you and lean back against the sink.

“Then why—”

“Mierda,” he curses, voice strained and brows pinched together. “Because you’re so fucking radiant. You’re lighting up every damn room you’re in and I don’t want to snuff out that light with my past. And today? Fuck, today I could’ve lost you and it would have been my fault.” 

“Your past? Manny, you think my past isn’t as fucked up? But I’ll be damned if it stops me from living.”

You meet his stare, eyes black in the low lighting of your room and so close to you. Just looking at you, his eyes flicking over each inch of your face, your neck and your shoulders. 

“What are you doing?”

“Admiring you. Up close for the first time.”

You don’t know which one of you moves first, but your hands curl into his jacket and his lips are so fucking soft and they’re on yours and you want to drown in this feeling. His hands cup your jaw, tongue running over the seam of your lips desperately seeking more and more of you. 

You let him in. Opening your mouth and hands moving up to twist in the curls at the nape of his neck that has him panting into your mouth. This shouldn’t feel as good as it does, but there’s a small nagging part of you that feels like you’re making up for wasted time.

You pull back, catching the sight of his wet lips and drooping eyes. He leans in, chasing you for another taste and you move your head to the side, his lips catching your cheek.

“Manny,” you murmur, breath fanning into his ear.

“Si, el sol?”

“You couldn’t have done this earlier?”

He chuckles, hands sliding under your shirt to grip your hips and you tilt back to look at him.

“Maybe. But my dad taught me that good things are worth waiting for.”

You pull him in for another kiss and this don’t time, you don’t pull away. 

 That’s how it goes with you and Manny. Like you two could play this game forever, the dancing back and forth, the hate with no heat behind it – it makes sense to you, unravelling since the first kiss you shared. It was always inevitable.

You share stolen moments – when Leah stays out overnight with Jordan, when Abby’s too focused in the gym, straining and overworking herself. Other times are when Manny sneaks into the armoury, pocket full of tin foil wrapped food, perched on the edge of your workbench while you finish up.

Somehow, god only knows how, you manage to keep it quiet. None of your friends seem to catch on. Mainly because Manny still goes out of his way to not be around you or you around him.

But as the days turn into weeks, you feel like Manny starts to know you, really know you. Little things that you didn’t even know about yourself and letting him in to see the deepest parts of you. He eventually tells you about the real reason José kept asking about you, that he could see right through his son, seeing it for what it was. 

Manny, in a surprising turn of events, opened up to you. Outside of his bravado and arrogance, he could be incredibly sweet, spending every night he could with you, if not in your room, he would spend hours down in the armoury with you or up on the roof, out of sight from the patrolling watchmen.

“Abby’s asking questions.”

You adjust the focus on your binoculars and follow the movements of the Scar you’ve been tracking for the last couple of minutes. You’re laying on your front under the canopy of some ferns, damp dirt clinging to your clothes as you and Manny are on lookout. He lays next you, one hand on the small of your back, the other scribbling over a map in red marker. 

“I’m surprised it took her this long,’ you reply, lowering the binoculars. “We’ve been together for what? Just over a month now?” 

Saying it out loud still sends butterflies straight to your gut. Together. You and Manny weren’t just fucking around, he wanted to actually be with you. Though you two of you kept it under wraps, Manny couldn’t keep something like this from his dad. Who knew that José already had an inkling about how Manny really felt about you.

“You might not be keeping track, but my dad sure is,” he says with a huff of laughter right by your ear. “It wouldn’t be a bad thing, if Abby knew.” 

Your mouth drops open in surprise and you turn your head to look at him, “Won’t she tell Owen?” 

Manny shakes his head, pressing his forehead to your shoulder. “Honestly, she has so much on her mind right now I don’t think she’d even bat an eye to it.” 

The radio clipped to Manny’s vest crackles and he yanks it off and you take the moment to look at him – damp from ever-rainy Seattle, unruly curls sticking to his forehead and the wiry beard that’s starting to get just a little too long. He catches you looking and smirks as answers the radio. 

“Alright,” he says and tosses the radio into the grass. “We’ll watch them, take note of their paths and then I’ll write up the report once we’re done.”

“Ain’t you a gentleman.”

“Only the best for my girl.”

His girl. That gets a smile out of you and you raise the binoculars back to your eyes to hide your expression, biting down on your lip.

“You hiding from me, baby?” he asks, and you can just hear the smug smirk in his tone.

When you say nothing, feeling the heat creep higher into your cheeks, Manny plucks the binoculars from you, and takes your chin to turn your head towards him, pressing his lips to yours. You chase his lips with your own and Manny moves to roll you onto your back hidden with the greenery, letting out a soft gasp as your back hits the dirt. 

“Manny!” you exclaim in a hushed tone, grinning at him. 

“Shh, cariño, you want them to hear us?” he whispers against your lips, trailing a hot path of open-mouthed kisses down your neck. He props himself up on his forearm, hovering over you and the other hand caresses over your shoulder, to your jacket zipper. 

Another gasp leaves you as you feel his warm palm on your stomach, pushing your shirt up and lowering his head to run his tongue on your heated skin. 

“Here?” you whisper to him, pushing a piece of damp curl of hair from his face. “You’re doing this here?” 

“Why not? Not like anything interesting is going on over there,” he replies, deft fingers already working at the button of your pants. “Besides, my girl looks cute when she’s all flustered.”

You tug on his hair, urgently wanting to feel his lips on yours again. He grins and pulls back with heat in eyes and then delicately kisses, you slow and languid, the complete opposite of what you were aiming for. It keeps you distracted enough to not notice his wandering hand, and you sigh when his fingers dip below the waistband of your underwear, trailing along your wet seam. 

“Your hands, Manny,” you groan, “God, I’m obsessed with what your hands can do.” 

“Just my hands, huh?” he teases you, dragging his middle finger down through your folds, gathering your arousal. He keeps his movements slow, deliberate, watching your every move. “And there was me thinking you liked me.” 

He drags his finger, torturously slow, up to your clit and rubs cruel, teasing circles that leave you breathless. His smile widens, and leans down to whisper in your ear. “You do like more than just my fingers, right cariño?” 

You nod, squirming beneath him as he moves his fingers in a tantalising pattern. “Say it,” he murmurs. 

“Yes,” you gasp, “Course I fucking do.” 

Manny smirks, seemingly satisfied with your answer. He pulls his finger back, over your wetness and then slowly pushes the digit inside of you, feeling how your tightness envelopes him. 

“You’re so fucking tight,” he groans, stroking your walls and pulling all the way out and back in, stretching you open. 

“Uh-huh,” you whimper, opening your legs wider and arching your back as he curls his finger in just the right way that has you wanting more. 

“God, I wish I could taste you,” he murmurs, pressing you hard against the grass and attaching his lips to your neck. He pulls his finger out, dragging it through your wet folds, teasing and playing with you. Then a second digit joins and your eyes flutter, mouth hanging open as he fucks you open with his fingers. 

“Manny,” you moan as your eyes flutter at the sensation. He knows just how to touch you, what makes you shiver and cry out his name. You curl your fingers into the front of his jacket, the other hand cupping his hard length through his pants and he lets out a raspy groan, hips rocking into your palm. 

“This is about you, baby,” he tells you, though his voice is rough and breathy. “Let me do this for you.”

You realise very quickly that you’re helpless in his hands. His teeth nipping at your neck, sure to leave marks, his eye on you. Every step of the way he keeps fixated on you. His fingers move rhythmically, finding a brutal pace that has you crying out for more. 

It’s his thumb that does you in. Pulling his hand back slightly to get the angle, thumb moving in tight circles on your clit, all the while praising you in whispered Spanish. 

Pressure, hot, tight, coiling pressure builds in your stomach, a feeling that you want to chase and chase as it gets hotter, burning through you and Manny catches on quickly to what’s about to happen as his fingers move faster, with more urgency and his thumb rubs deliciously on your clit – finally letting your bathe in that high as it hits you.

Manny works you through, his dark eyes sparkling in wonder as you come on his fingers, hips rolling to chase the feeling for as long as you can. 

“You’re so gorgeous,” he grunts out as you pant and keen, riding out the aftershocks of your orgasm. “Look at you.”

He’s beaming down at you, and you smile, eyes half lidded and breaths coming in heavy. He leans down, softly kissing you while pulling his fingers out of you and buttoning up your pants. 

“Alvarez,” the radio thrown in the grass crackles and Manny starts, reaching for it to turn down the crackling static. “Alvarez, this is Boyle, come in.”

“Yeah, I’m here, give me a fucking second,” he mutters, using his clean hand to find the radio. “What?”

“Scars sighted coming your way. Both of you, get out of there while you can. Regroup at the old FEDRA checkpoint.”

 “Copy that.”

He tucks the radio back into his belt and gives you an apologetic kiss to your cheek, “Guess the afterglow was kinda ruined, huh?” he jokes, getting to his feet and wiping his hand on his pants, leaving a glistening trail over his thigh. 

He helps you up as you stare at the patch, and you would kiss him again. If only it weren’t for the whistle of a Scar and the whizz of an arrow that barely misses your left arm.

Getting called up to the FOB was never high up on your to-do list, and lucky for you it was only a rare occurrence that Isaac personally asked for you. You could count the amount of times you’d walked through the door to the once high-rise apartment block, echoes of screams and the smell of rot invading your senses. At least this time you were given some warning, quickly scribbling out a note and passing by Manny’s room, slotting the piece of paper underneath.

Right now, up high in the room that Isaac had relented and given you for the few days, all of that was drowned out – window cracked open to air out the room and a thick layer of dust coating the counter-tops. The only high point was that you weren’t here for long. The FOB was intense, a certain hum in the air of impending doom, so when you got back to your room – three days in, feeling like you couldn’t breathe you almost missed the crumpled slip of paper under your door.

Wiping your hands on an old rag for what must be the hundredth time you picked it up, oil stained fingerprints instantly smearing the paper as you unfold it, turning it right way up.

Hideout at sundown.

Firstly, when the fuck did Manny get called up to the FOB? And Secondly, how haven’t you managed to spot him yet?

You read over the note again, following the loop of his messy handwriting and shove it deep into your pocket. You’ve never been to his hideout before, but he’d told you enough to work out the route to get there – if you weren’t spotted first.

Time ticked by, even slower than usual until the sun started to set. You slipped out of the apartment window, being careful to not let it close all the way and sneaking around to the back of the FOB building. The path was overgrown, but that only meant that you were going in the right direction. You hop, almost losing your balance as the stairs give out under you. Three doors in front of you, and your best guess is the one directly ahead.

Inside, the whole place is aglow with the setting sun and the if the manga on the counter is anything to go by, you’re definitely in the right place. The space he’s created for himself is untidy, just how you pictured it but not messy. Stacks of old comics and card games litter the battered coffee table, mismatched blankets strewn over the couch and empty bottles sit nestled by the door. It’s almost too much pre-outbreak to you, the casual-ness of it all.

“Manny?” you call out softly, running your hand along the old dresser on the side. “You here?”

“Right here, cariño,” he replies, coming out of what must be a bedroom, given that his hair is all mussed and clothes rumpled. He takes your hand, lips against your knuckles. “You find the place okay?”  

“Yeah, you breathe, letting out a long exhale, your eyes on him as he kisses up your wrist. “What are you doing here, at the FOB?” 

“Isaac called us up. Jordan, Abby and me. We’re being sent out on a recon scout tomorrow morning.”

“A recon scout?”

“He wants us to get into a scar camp, take what intel we can, and report back. He thinks they are plotting some big attack on us soon.”

“The guns,” you say softly, “he’s tasked me with upgrading them with silencers and better capacity in the clips.” 

Manny nods, expression sombre and then he swoops in, finally pressing his lips to yours, hands settling on your hips to bring you flush against him. The kiss is consuming, his tongue mapping out your mouth, memorising you in wake of tomorrow.

“This way,” he murmurs, walking you backwards into the room he came from, hands easily flipping the hem of your shirt up, making you shiver as he caresses over your bare hips. “I missed you.”

“Such a sap,” you chide, kicking the door closed with your heel.

“Maybe. Maybe I just can’t get enough of you.”

You paw at his shirt, pulling it over his head and run your hands over his defined chest. His answer to this is to pull off your own shirt, unhooking your bra and throwing it carelessly to the side while he gets a good look at you. His mouth finds your breast, taking the hardened nipple into his mouth and lavishing it with attention.

You let out a string of soft, breathy noises, cupping the back of his head to keep him close and the other hand unbuckling his belt, pulling the coarse canvas away and letting it join the growing pile of clothes.

“Been thinking about you ever since you left me that note,” he murmurs, string of saliva between his lips and your nipple before paying attention to the other, the more sensitive of the two.

A gasp leaves you, head tilting back and you grasp the hair at the nape of his neck, keeping him in place as he lavishes attention on your nipple. His hand skates down your leg, gripping it and moving it to hook around his hip. 

You can’t help but grind yourself against him and he pulls away from your breast to grin at you and then sink his teeth into the heated skin of your neck, hands grabbing whatever they can of you and holding you as close as possible. 

He maneuvers you down onto the bed, pulling off your shirt as you lay back and while you unbutton your pants he pauses for a moment, lips slick and hair mussed just watching you. 

“Fuck me, I’m so lucky,” he murmurs and he unbuckles his belt, shucking off his cargos, revealing the impressive bulge of him tented against his boxers, a dark spot of precum seeping into the fabric. 

The sight of him sends a wave of desire through you and you reach out for him, scratching your nails over his hip and he leans down, claiming your lips with your own once more. You both get caught up in the kiss, both wanting this after days being apart and the impending question mark that hangs over tomorrow. 

He moves you so you’re now on top of him, guiding your knees to either side of his hips and letting you rock down against him. The pull of his clothed cock against your heat is a delicious friction that you can’t seem to get enough of. 

“That’s it,” he grunts, squeezing your hips and trailing his fingers down to the waistband of your panties. You quickly get with the picture, moving away from Manny to take them off, throwing them to join your pile of clothes. 

“Like what you see?” you ask, fully naked in front of him. 

“Very much so.” 

Manny lifts his hips and you pull off his boxers, hard length springing free, precum smearing over his stomach. You bite your lip and climb back over him, taking his length in your hand. 

“Mierda,” he sighs, lifting his hips to fuck your fist. You grin at him, gathering the precum at his tip and coating it over the rest of his cock. “You gonna ride me, baby?” 

“Mhm, that’s the plan.” you whisper and Manny moans, rasping and low, in the back of his throat. 

Manny breathes heavily through his nose, his hands can’t seem to stop touching you. Running over your thighs, your hips and your waist, thumbing circles on your skin that have you shivering with arousal. 

You swing your leg over his hip, back in the same position you were originally in. Manny’s hand drops from your waist to touch himself, jaw slack and eyes stuck on you. He’s beautiful like this, so openly devoted to you and waiting for your next move. 

He lines himself up with you, breathing hard and you duck your head down to kiss him sweetly as you ever so slowly sink down onto his cock. Normally, you’d want to drag this out and he’d get you to least two orgasms before fucking you. 

But you’re pent up and oh so fucking wet and you can’t help yourself. It’s not like Manny seems to mind, guiding your hips down onto him, teeth biting into his bottom lip and his long eyelashes fluttering as you fully seat yourself onto his cock. 

“Take me so well, baby-girl,” he mutters, because Manny does not know when to stop, running his mouth with praise and sweet nothings. 

God, you feel so full when you take him like this. Heat creeping up your spine as you give an experimental rock of your hips. 

“Fuck, Manny,” you moan, finding purchase with your hands on his shoulder. He starts to thrust up into you, changing the pace to something desperate. 

“Again. Say my name again.” 

“Manny.”

He leans up, cupping the back of your neck and kissing you fervently, tongue diving into your mouth, mapping out every inch of you, committing it to memory. It makes you roll your hips slower and he pulls back, dark eyes meeting yours. 

“Tan hermosa,” he mumbles to himself. “Tan buena para mi.”

He pulls out, brows pinched in concentration and grabs your hips, throwing you down onto the bed, switching your position. He puts one of your ankles over his shoulder and fucks into you faster, hips snapping brutally against your own, filling the room with the lewd slap of skin on skin. 

The new angle does something for you. Every thrust of his cock hitting you perfectly, making your eyes roll back and your whimpers become high and raspy in your throat. 

“Oh my– fuck!” you cry out, feeling your orgasm approaching, the familiar pooling in your stomach. “Fuck, keep going.” 

“Yeah, you’re close aren’t you?” he moans, lips against your ankle as he thrusts his hips harder, driving into you with a renewed intensity. “Yeah, you’re fucking close.”

You let yourself go, pleasure tingling through your veins as you spasm around his cock. A whine leaves your throat, eyes screwed up as he fucks you through it, unrelenting pace and lips on your leg, murmuring how good you are. 

“Yeah, that’s it, baby, so fucking pretty when you come.” 

He slows, dropping your ankle from his shoulder and he swiftly pulls out once more. You whimper at the loss, reaching out for him and he links your fingers with one hand while the other strokes himself rapidly, hand flying over his cock. 

Manny throws his head back, hand faltering and you feel him climax, splattering onto your thighs and you let out a breath, watching him reverently. 

“You’re so fucking good for me,” he murmurs, guiding you to lay next to him, eyes heavy and a dopey smile plastered on his face. He rests his head on your shoulder, lips soft against your skin. 

You huff, leaning over him to grab an old shirt of his and as you move to wipe it over him, he takes it from you, hands on yours. 

“Let me,” he says and wipes at your inner thighs, over your stomach and then himself. He tosses it into the corner of the room and presses a faint kiss to your forehead. “Did I tell you that I missed you?” 

“You might’ve mentioned it,” you whisper, smiling at him and settling down, hand playing with his curls, his hand on your thigh and bringing the threadbare blanket up to cover you both. 

You found when you first spent the night with him that Manny’s a cuddler in his sleep. It was cute, finding yourself wrapped around each other, both of you getting as close as you can even unconsciously. This morning was no different – limbs tangled together, an arm slung around your waist, legs entwined with your own and his head in the crook of your neck, soft breaths against your shoulder.

You move your hand over his back, fingertips dancing up over divots in his muscles and you lace your fingers in his hair, letting the curls free in the pale morning light. Sunlight streams in through the gap in the blinds, soft yellow rays catching on the dust and coating the bed in warm haze. You smile against his hair, closing your eyes at how content you feel.

Manny stirs, the watch on his wrist beeping incessantly. The sound too loud and too jarring in the fresh morning peace. He fumbles, hands moving away from you as he struggles to turn it off then he slumps back down onto you, warm hands wrapping back around your waist, pressing against you.

His lips are soft as they place absent kisses along your shoulder, over the dip in your collarbones and to the sensitive juncture of your neck.  

“Morning, querida,” he murmurs, voice thick and raspy with sleep. A sound that you’re more than used too but doesn’t stop the swoop in your stomach.

“Hi,” you grin at him, tilting your head to meet his lips in a soft, lazy kiss. His eyes flutter and he grins into your mouth.

“God, I wish I didn’t have to go out on this recon run. Not now when I know what you sound like.”

You chuckle quietly, his thumb resting on your cheek as he looks at you reverently, like you held the sun for him.

“I can be here when you get back. I’m supposed to be heading back to the stadium later tonight.”

Manny groans and leans in, lips pressing to yours as his eyes close and sighs, breath fanning against your cheek.

“You’ll wait for me?”

“Always.”

[ak-vintage]

This is Personal

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader

Prompts: Frankie Morales | Established Relationship | As Quiet as Possible | Orgasm Denial | Talk Them Through It

Summary: While on vacation with his friends, you can’t resist the temptation to test Frankie’s limits. Written for the PPCU Smut Writing Challenge hosted by @mushgloomz. (I know I am a week late to this party, but I hope you enjoy anyway!)

Tags/Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Post-canon. Established relationship. Dual POV. Second-person POV. No use of Y/N. Guest appearances by Will, Benny, Santiago, and Yovanna. Definitely a PWP – the framework of the plot exists only to enable the smut (teasing, mild exhibitionism, semi-public acts, getting caught, orgasm denial, oral sex (f receiving), vaginal fingering, P in V sex, filthy dirty talk, pussy pronouns, trying to stay quiet, switch-y vibes from both Frankie and Reader).

Word Count: 11.6K

Dividers by @saradika-graphics.

Read on AO3 | Main Masterlist

“Thought you’d be in the shower by now.”

You glance up from your nook in the hot tub where you have been lounging, half-asleep behind your sunglasses in the late afternoon warmth. A broad-shouldered shape has blocked out your sunlight, sending flares of gold around tanned, freckled skin, leaving you in shadow. The form crosses its arms, shifts its weight to one leg, leaving the opposite knee to bend, the stance full of attitude, refusing to be ignored. Bringing one hand up to shield against the glare, you meet its eyes, finding the dark, squinting gaze of your boyfriend staring down at you.

Offering him a lazy smile, you drop your head back on your neck, letting the bowl of your skull rest against the edge of the bubbling, foaming jacuzzi. “In a bit,” you reply easily. “Too relaxed right now to move.”

And you are. It’s been a long time coming, this trip to Key West with Frankie and his close-knit group of friends. It isn’t the first time you’ve met them; on the contrary, even in the relatively short amount of time that you and Frankie have been together, you have already spent a significant amount of time in their presence. Nights at their favorite local dive bar, barbecues at Santiago and Yovanna’s house, beers shared ringside at Benny’s fights – it hadn’t taken Frankie long to start inviting you, folding you into his life as easily as if you had always been there. You could see how someone else in your position might have found it intimidating, but in truth, it brought you nothing but comfort. It told you Frankie was serious about you, about your relationship, and fuck, you were serious about him, too.

Frankie is the best thing that’s come into your life in a long time, so when he first broached the topic of taking you away for a week to an oceanfront, beach house rental – fully equipped with a stretch of private beach, a pool, a hot tub, and more bedrooms than you would need even as a group of six – you hadn’t been able to say yes fast enough. Today had been your first full day here, having arrived here yesterday afternoon after a lengthy drive from Tampa, and you can already feel all of the tension melting from your bones and muscles after a day in the sun and sand.

“It’s a good look on you,” Frankie says, his voice low and rasping, worn after spending most of the afternoon shouting back and forth with the other guys over a game of beach volleyball. His eyes sweep the exposed length of your neck, across your collarbones, down to the soft pillow of your breasts bobbing gently just below the frothing surface of the water, and you feel his stare like a physical thing against your skin.

Unlike you, he holds himself rigidly. Even from your sunken vantage point in the hot tub, you can see the tightly-strung pull of his traps, keeping his wide shoulders near his ears. Your eyes follow the clench of his jaw, the feathering of the tendons there, the way his prominent brow knits and furrows beneath the brim of his Standard Oil Company baseball cap. It’s as you expected. He has been strung out since you left his apartment early yesterday morning, the stress rolling off him in waves like those crashing against the shore. At first, you had thought that perhaps the travel was wearing on him. Now that you have been at your destination for a full day now, able to enjoy all of the distractions and amenities the Keys have to offer, you aren’t so sure.

“Yeah? Well, maybe you should follow my example and come join me,” you prod teasingly. “You need to unwind.”

Frankie’s lips quirk upward, the corner of his mouth tucking into his cheek in an expression that reads as something between playful and accusatory. “Do I?”

Scoffing, you straighten up a bit in your seat, choosing instead to drape your arms along the edge of the sunken tub as you peer up at him. “Are you kidding? You’ve been wound tighter than a two-dollar watch since we got here.”

“Can you blame me, hermosa?” He uncrosses his arms and brings one of his thick, broad-palmed hands up to scratch at the patchy stubble of his beard. The sparse strands of silver there glint in the golden glow of the sun, catching your eye, making you smile. You catch the moment he notices your dreamy, enamored expression – he shakes his head, pressing his fingers to his lips as though to silence a chuckle. “You’re driving me crazy,” he confesses, so quiet you can barely hear him over the tub jets.

“Me?” you gasp. “What did I do?”

At that, he finally relents and approaches the edge of the hot tub, directly across from where you’ve been lounging.

“Don’t act all innocent with me,” he grumbles. Lowering himself slowly into the steaming water, step by step, one hand on the railing, he fixes you with a glare so fiery it has a wave of heat rushing up the back of your neck. He gestures vaguely in the direction of your torso and adds, “You’re the one who’s been wandering around in that piss-poor excuse for a swimsuit since we showed up.”

That startles an incredulous laugh from you, and you don’t miss the way his dark brown eyes drop almost instantly to the swell of your breasts that bounce with the sound. “It’s a bikini, Frankie! It’s supposed to be a little skimpy.”

With a sigh, he settles himself onto the bench that runs along the outer perimeter of the tub, and you feel the firm, hairy warmth of his shin brush against the tips of your toes. At first, you attempt to draw your legs in, not wanting to encroach on his space if he really is serious about relaxing here with you, but you don’t make it very far before one of his hands darts below the surface of the water, snags itself around your ankle, and hauls you bodily out of your seat and across the narrow diameter of the tub.

You squeal and let out a shrill giggle, the sound deadened only mildly by the roar of the jacuzzi jets. “Francisco!” you yelp as your hands fly out to steady you, to keep you from capsizing like a dingy in the surf and toppling under.

But your boyfriend is immune to your protests, turning a blind eye to your struggle to stay afloat as he grips your thighs, your hips, your waist, pulling you limb by limb onto the bench next to him, tangling his legs with yours beneath the water.

“And yesterday,” he continues, uninterrupted, as though the kicking and splashing and giggling of the last few minutes had been less than a blip on his radar, “on the drive down, sunning your bare legs on the dashboard of my truck like you didn’t know what that would do to me? Could barely keep my eyes on the road.”

“That’s what that was?” Laughter in your voice, sugar on your tongue, you keep up your squirming, fighting to get out of his clutches even as you tease and taunt. “I just thought you were tired!”

Quick as lightning, those special forces reflexes make themselves known once more as Frankie ensnares one of your flailing hands, dunks it beneath the roiling surface of the water, and molds the meat of your palm to the seam of his swim trunks. You gasp at what you feel there in spite of yourself, the sound ripped from your throat as if you hadn’t expected exactly this reaction from him, as if you hadn’t wanted it, hadn’t spent all day thinking about it as you lazed beneath the summer sun. He was straining there, the heat of him detectable even in the swelter of the hot tub, thick and throbbing and growing more insistent by the minute.

“This feel like ‘tired’ to you?” he groans. His voice is hoarse, his jaw tight as his words grit out from between his teeth. Under the water, unseen but still so very present, his cock pushes against you, seeking your touch even through the layers of fabric that separate your skin from his.

God, but you love him like this – a little raw, a little desperate, strung out and needing you in a way that speaks directly to that deep, low, hollow place inside you that never quite stops craving him. It’s delicious, and it sends a bloom of heat to the apex of your thighs just thinking about it.

“No, Frankie,” you reply, all sweetness and false contrition with your wide eyes, your teeth sunk into the pillow of your lower lip.

He nods, and the brim of his ballcap casts a shadow across his dark eyes with the motion. “No, it fucking does not. This is all your fault, and you know it. You been teasing me.”

Under your hand, you feel his hips shift, arching up off the bench to grind into your touch. His eyelids flutter as the thick, spongy head passes over the heel of your palm, distinguishable even through his trunks, and you feel answering goosebumps erupt across your skin in spite of the heat.

“I’m sorry.” The response comes automatically, thoughtlessly, and the quickness of it has Frankie huffing a laugh under his breath.

“I don’t think you are,” he counters. “I think you been doing it on purpose.”

Pulling your gaze from his, you glance down, the faintest hint of self-consciousness starting swell in your chest at the intensity of his stare, his words, his touch. “…maybe just a little,” you admit bashfully.

Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as Frankie’s grim, set mouth softens and morphs instead into a knowing smirk. His free hand, dripping with pool water, tucks itself under your chin, gripping the tip of it gently between his thumb and forefinger. The pad of his thumb leaves a damp trail across your skin as he strokes you there, and you are overwhelmed by the scents of the beach – salt, sand, sunscreen, man.

“Just a little, huh?” he rasps. “You like knowing how fucked up I get for you, hermosa? How I can’t stop thinking about you, watching you?”  

His words are taunting, almost angry, but the crinkles at the corners of his eyes bely his amusement as he watches you squirm in his grip. You know he can feel you beneath the water, shifting in your seat, squeezing your bare thighs together, brushing your knees against his in evidence of what his words do to you. Beneath your palm, still held fast by his other hand, his cock pulses and twitches in sympathy. You tighten your grip on him all on your own, no encouragement from his hand needed.

“Mm hm.” Your response, nothing more than a hum, comes out soft and closer to a whine than a word.

Frankie’s dark eyes are sharklike in the shade of his cap, black and hot and predatory as he smells blood in the water, senses the tides turning in his favor as your heartrate picks up behind your ribs. “You like knowing I been half hard since you rolled up to the truck yesterday wearing my hoodie and those little shorts?”

Nodding, you can only reply, “Yeah.”

“What about when we got here, and you couldn’t get out fast enough?”

That question takes you aback, and you instinctively try to pull your hand out from under his grip as your eyebrows reach your hairline. “What do you mean?”

“You let every single one of my friends put their hands all over you,” he continues, as if he hadn’t heard your question, felt your protest. He grips your hand harder under the surface of the water and spreads his thighs wider so he can move your hand further down to cup his balls. The feel of them under your fingers, delicate and so warm, has heat rising in your cheeks. “Don’t you remember? All of them hugging you, kissing your cheeks? How do you think that felt, watching Benny swinging you around like that? Or Pope putting his mouth on you?”

For the first time, you feel the lightness of the easy flirtation, the soft arousal begin to falter in your belly. Instead, it is eclipsed by swelling intimidation. “I-It was all innocent, Frankie. Just friendly,” you insist.

Had you truly upset him? Was this perhaps a side of Frankie you hadn’t seen before? You had thought that your antics were all in good fun, and yet –

“And then last night, when I’d been climbing the walls all day, and I was ready to put you through the mattress, what do I find when I come to bed?” The hold he has on your chin tightens, drawing you closer. His breath is hot on your cheeks, and your eyelids flutter in overwhelm as he growls, “You were already asleep.”

His voice rolling over your skin like thunder, the deepest parts of you throb at the sound. You can feel yourself starting to leak wetness into the gusset of your swimsuit, slick and warm and entirely different than the heat of the hot tub.

Frankie has always been so tender with you, so gentle and kind. In the past, when Will or Santiago accused Frankie of being a bit of a hothead, you had rolled your eyes and brushed it off as simply friends giving each other a hard time. In the months that you had been together, you had never once witnessed anything even remotely resembling a temper out of him.

Now, trapped in this jacuzzi with him in broad daylight, the stifling heat already starting to make you a bit lightheaded, you find yourself trying not to swoon at this sudden display of jealousy, of possessiveness. You don’t know what it says about you that it turns you on to have such an effect on him, but you do know that you’re finding it difficult to hold his eye contact now.

You want his mouth on yours. You want his big, rough hands on more of your exposed skin. You want his thick, throbbing cock between your legs.

You want him to fuck his frustration out on you while you simply…let it happen.

“Nothing to say for yourself? Eh? Mírame.”

You startle out of your reverie, eyes flying wide as you scramble to reply. “I was tired. From the trip,” you explain lamely.

“Uh huh.” Frankie doesn’t buy it, but he lets it slide, instead allowing his mouth to drift closer to yours. You swear you can feel the soft brush of his pouty lower lip against yours, and your pussy trembles and clenches at the tease. He tastes like the ocean, savory on your skin. “But you’re not tired anymore, are you, nena?”

Breath short and gasping, heart beating thickly against your sternum, you shake your head, and then his lips are on yours, and you couldn’t stifle the whimper that burst from your mouth if you tried.

It’s been less than a handful of days since he last had you, and yet the hunger with which Frankie devours you has you feeling like it’s been months. He’s always been a passionate kisser – eager to be close to you, to taste you, to feel any part of you he could with his lips and tongue – but there is a fierceness to the way he dives in, the way his hands fly to the dip of your waist, the way the curve of his prominent nose digs into your cheek as he presses you close. The grit of his facial hair scrapes across the delicate skin of your chin, and the hard brim of his beloved ballcap knocks into your temple as he deepens the angle of the kiss. It takes mere seconds for his tongue to beg entrance, hot and slick against the seam of your lips, and you eagerly surrender to the onslaught. You’re his – every secret and tender part of you is his to enjoy, his to claim; you couldn’t even think to resist.

So lost are you in your surrender that you hardly notice his hands traveling from your waist to your hips to the swell of your ass under the bubbling surface of the water. When he seizes you there, wrapping his fingers under your cheeks and hauling you into his lap, you pull away from his kiss with a breathless gasp of his name.

“Frankie!”

He does not deign to reply with words; instead, he settles your knees on the bench on either side of him and uses his grip on the meat of your ass to press you down onto him, driving his clothed cock into the soft cradle of your core.

“Oh, my god,” you moan, eyes falling shut once again, head lolling on your neck as though suddenly too heavy to hold up on your own. Fuck, he is so hard. You had known he was, had felt it swell beneath your hand as he teased himself with your touch, but feeling it in your palm and feeling it hot and thick against your aching pussy are entirely different experiences, even through both of your swimsuits.

“That what you wanted?” Frankie asks. The strain in his voice has you opening your eyes and meeting his gaze once more, and the wrecked look on his face inspires a fresh swell of confidence and satisfaction even as he grinds you down onto his lap. “That what you been after this whole time?”

The press of your suit against you keeps you wet, keeps your slick from being washed away by the tumultuous water as you slide against him again, again, again, the length of him nestled between your lips, the tip of him catching the swell of your clit on every downward stroke. You’re gone for him – you have been since he first put his hands on you – and yet the power of driving him to this kind of desperation is like a drug, overtaking your own need, bringing a sly, breathless little smile to your lips. Dragging your hands up to toy with the damp curls poking out of the bottom of his hat, resting your forearms along his shoulders, you nod your agreement.  

This is exactly what you wanted. And he is giving it to you beautifully.

Your insolence earns you a growl from deep in his chest, and you barely have enough time to gulp a breath into your lungs before he is grabbing onto the side of your face and pulling your mouth back against his.

Thumb wedged into the sensitive muscles of your jaw, Frankie opens you up, his tongue delving behind your teeth with an eagerness you match. Beneath the water, his other hand creeps to the edge of your bottoms, his fingers tucking under the flimsy elastic waistband, seeking your skin. You let loose a soft moan into his mouth at the feel of that calloused palm against your softness. He touches you with such attentiveness, such urgency. It would be enough to make anyone swoon to be touched like this by a man like him – competent, steadfast, and strong.

Breaking the kiss, you trail your lips along the scruff of his jaw and run the tip of your nose against that soft, vulnerable patch of skin just beneath his ear. “You’re so hard for me,” you whisper sweetly, and you watch as goosebumps flood his damp skin.

Beneath you, Captain Francisco Morales trembles.

“Damn right,” he admits. The words sound like they have been pulled from somewhere deep in his chest, raw and ragged and gasping. “You’re k-killing me, baby. Me vuelves loco.”

You smother a smirk against the juncture between his neck and his shoulder. His skin is hot there, darkened by the day in the sun. “Think that’s your fault.” Your fingers tug at his hair as you plant kisses where you’ve landed, soft and wet and gentle against each and every freckle in your path. “Could have had me anytime you wanted. You know that.”

He hisses when your tongue darts out to trace a delicate line along his collarbone. “Too many people around,” he grits out, jaw tight, fingers digging hard enough into the flesh of your ass to threaten bruises.

Making your way back up his neck, you draw the soft lobe of his ear between your teeth and nibble on it gently. Beneath you, Frankie’s hips stutter, pulling a whine from you. You speed up the drag of your hips in response, the edges of your control beginning to fray.

“Not right now,” you pant. Your fingers tighten in his hair, every thrust of your hips sending bolts of white-hot pleasure down your spine. The sensation pools in the low cradle of your hips, slick and molten and pulsing as it winds itself deeper, hotter, tighter. “We’re all alone out here, aren’t we? Let me help.”

The former special forces pilot lets out a hiss and drops his head back, his fucked-out gaze pointed toward the sky as though seeking divine intervention. “Help?” he echoes weakly. The sharp bite of his ferocity is beginning to calm, and it is leaving only throbbing, desperate need in its wake.

So you do not reply with words. Instead, you allow your hands to slip below the surface of the water and wedge themselves between your two bodies.

You keep your eyes on his face as you work the drawstring of his swim trunks loose, as you pull the elastic of the waistband out away from his body, as you carefully drag that waistband down to tuck underneath his balls. From the surface, your view is so obscured that the shape of his cock bobbing in the narrow gap between you could be anything. But you don’t need to be able to see him to make him feel good – your body knows your way around his by now. With gentle fingers, you take hold of the length of him and set a slow, steady pace.

Frankie’s eyes slam shut at the sensation, and you watch as his throat bobs thickly against the sound of a groan threatening to burst from his chest. “Fuuuuuck,” he whispers, hoarse and low, the sound drowned almost immediately by the persistent noise of the tub jets.

Leaning forward on your knees, you continue to stroke him as you drop a soft, wet kiss to the hollow of his throat. The plush, swollen head of him bumps against your stomach, and you feel a shudder pass through every muscle and fiber of his body. His hips hitch, the move frantic and uncoordinated, dragging the tip of his cock against your soft skin again, and you can’t help but smile.

“You feel so good, Frankie,” you say as you allow your thumb to brush against the sensitive underside, catching droplets of precum before they are quickly washed away by the water.

Your praise has him finally abandoning his grip on your ass, instead cupping your head in both palms and dragging your mouth to meet his. The kiss is wet and needy, tinged with desperation in place of the fury of just a few minutes prior, and goddamn it, you love him like this. You’ve always been of the opinion that there is nothing hotter than a man who needs, and Frankie needs like no one you’ve ever met before. Beneath the cover of the water, in between the tight press of your bodies, you speed up your strokes, taking him harder, faster, twisting your wrist on the down stroke, playing with the head on the upstroke. He twitches in your grip, unable to hold his hips still, and you absorb his every tremor with the meat of your thighs.

Around you, the steaming hot tub water churns with more than just the power of the jets, splashing up onto your heaving chest, your neck, the patio around you. So lost are you in one another, neither of you catches the sound of the back door opening and closing, nor the rhythm of approaching footsteps on the concrete.

“Fish? Hey, Fish!” A pause, the sound of low conversing, and then, “Well, well. What do we have here?”

The sound of Benny’s smug, taunting voice might as well have been lightning with the way it strikes you both, and you are quick to yank yourself away from Frankie’s kiss as a wave of mortification rips through you. You still your hand under the water, ducking to press your forehead against his shoulder to hide your burning face. Beneath you, your boyfriend hisses a string of curses, a seamless blend of English and Spanish, and while he wraps one arm around your back protectively, the other he uses to cover his eyes.

“The fuck do you want, Benny?” he barks. You can feel his body growing stiff and rigid again against you, all the comfort and ease of moments before evaporating like chlorine-scented steam.

But instead of Ben’s hearty baritone, it’s Santiago’s voice that answers. “At ease, Catfish. Not our fault you and your lady can’t keep it confined to your room like the rest of us.” You can hear his smarmy grin even over the sounds of the hot tub, and you resist the urge to curl yourself into an even smaller ball. “Just wanted to see if you’re good to be one of the drivers tonight.”

Frankie groans, and you echo the sound of exasperation. That was all this was about? That was the question that couldn’t have waited another 15 minutes for the two of you to make your way inside? The group of you weren’t due to leave the house for your dinner reservation for at least another 45 minutes.

“Sure.” His voice is flat, unenthused. “Me and who else?”

“Will volunteered,” Pope replies.

Ben chuckles deviously, sounding to you like a boy who has managed to sneak an extra piece of dessert. “We broke out the tequila a little early.”

“No kidding,” Frankie scoffs.

“Hey, we’re on vacation, man!”

Pope interjects before an argument can ensue. “Be ready at 1900 hours,” he says, directing his instruction to Frankie.

“Understood.” You feel certain that if he hadn’t been effectively pinned beneath you, he would have sent his friend a mocking salute. “Now, get the fuck out.”

That earns a laugh from Santi, good-natured and warm. “Fine, but only if you promise not to contaminate the hot tub. It’s the only one we’ve got, and I am not calling the property owner out here to treat the water because you jizzed in it.”

“Pope, I swear to god – ”

The sound of both Benny and Santi’s raucous laughter echoes off the walls of the house, momentarily drowning out both the sound of the tub and the racing thud of your heartbeat in your ears.

“All right, all right, keep your shorts on.”

“1900, Fish!” Ben repeats, and one of Frankie’s arms flies out, flinging water up onto the patio as he flips the younger man the bird.

“Fuck off, Benjamin!”

Laughter continues to reverberate around you until the sound of the opening patio door reaches your ears. You wait until you hear it swing closed and latch into place once again before you risk pulling your face out of Frankie’s flushed neck. Sitting back on his thighs, you pull yourself upright to lock eyes with him, finding his face and chest to be just as heated as your own. You hold his gaze for a beat, the both of you catching your breath as your mouths twist into flustered grins.

Knocking your forehead gently against the brim of his cap, you snicker, “That was a close one.” You have let go of his dick at this point, but the way it bobs in the gap between your bodies tells you that, in spite of the interruption, Frankie’s arousal has not dimmed.

Still, he groans in complaint, scrubbing his face with his hands. “Couldn’t have been any closer,” he admits, and you stifle a giggle behind your lips. You really shouldn’t laugh, you know, but you can’t help it. You may not have planned for Santi and the younger Miller brother to barge in during the middle of your first moment of alone time since you arrived, but regardless of the heartbeat-synched throb in the depths of your core, hollow and aching and frustrated, you can’t say that you are too disappointed by it.

There’s just something about the way that your boyfriend gets when you make him wait.

When you draw it out a little. When you make him work for it. His eyes go all soft and hot and unfocused, and sweat gathers in the dark brown hair at his temples, in the dip at the base of his throat, in the dimples in the small of his back. You love the sounds he makes, how fucking desperate he gets for you. Just the thought of it has you squirming in his lap, unintentionally dragging the skin of your lower stomach against the underside of his cock.

Frankie lets out a soft whine, low in pitch but edging into neediness regardless, and then his hands are on you again, hooking around the swell of your hips and urging you against him once more. “Now, where were we?” he pants, leaning back into your space, eyes slipping shut, seeking your mouth with his.

Before his lips can connect with yours, you draw back and instead brace both of your palms against his bare chest.

“Actually, you know what,” you say, watching with no small amount of amusement as his eyes pop open and he stares at you incredulously, “I really should go start getting ready for dinner. And so should you, Mr. Designated Driver.”

Frankie blinks back at you, deep brown eyes like a baby cow’s, all wide and disbelieving. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

You slip off of his lap and adjust your bikini bottoms discretely below the surface of the water. “I don’t want us to make everybody late. We could miss our reservation.”

He stares at you for another second or two then seems to come to a decision. Reaching beneath the frothy water to tuck himself back into his trunks, he gets to his feet, suddenly all business. “Fine. We’ll finish in the shower,” he says matter-of-factly.

You’re halfway out of the hot tub by the time you process his words. Once you do, you turn back around, peeking at him coyly over the curve of your shoulder as you hover on the steps. “No way. I have to shave.”

Frankie’s dark, prominent brows disappear into the shadow of his Standard Oil cap, and the sheen in his eyes takes on a naughty glimmer as he smirks. “Shave? Shave what, muñequita?”  He reaches for you, fingertips catching on the edge of your suit, dancing around the swell of your hip to seek your heat through the fabric. “Maybe I could help.”

Arching a single eyebrow, you hit him with a pointed stare. Your voice is firm, uncompromising as you reply, “No. I’ll let you know when the shower’s free.”

“You’re really going to leave me like this?” His incredulity returns, swift and shocked, and you are unable to stop yourself from glancing down at the thick, hard, unmistakable swell of his cock straining against the front of his trunks, visible just above the waterline now as he stands. The sight draws the corner of your lips into a smirk.

“It’s like you said, you’ve been holding out for a couple days already, right?” Flicking your gaze back up to meet his, you send him a teasing wink. “What’s a few more hours?”

The heat of Frankie’s stare as you step out of the hot tub is like a physical thing, scorching your skin with more ferocity than the sun had managed even after hours of exposure. You feel it tracing from the back of your neck, to the space between your shoulder blades, to the tie of your bikini top, to the plush of your ass, and down the length of your legs as you collect your towel from a nearby lounge chair. And it follows you even as you make your way across the patio and into the house.

You’re going to pay for leaving him unsatisfied.

You can’t wait.

Frankie is going insane.

He has to be, he’s sure of it. Either that, or he has fallen ill, come down with some manner of virus that makes his blood boil and his hands tremble and his brain pulse behind his eyes. All he knows for certain is that whatever ails him, it must have originated with you.  

Taking you away had been a big step. Your first trip together was a relationship milestone, one that he had been eager to share. He has wanted so badly to get it right – to take care of you the way you deserve, to give you an experience you would remember, to show you off to all of his closest friends in a way that felt permanent, felt real. After all, this is the kind of thing people only do with a serious partner, someone they saw a real future with. And that is certainly how Frankie sees you.

But then you had rolled out of bed on the morning of the trip, looking all soft and warm and delicious, tugged on a pair of sandals and your favorite hoodie (which had once belonged to him, of course), and sat yourself in the front seat of his truck looking like a goddamn angel, and suddenly that anticipation morphed into torture.

Had you meant to tease him with the way you slowly shed your layers to get more comfortable throughout the course of the drive? Had you intended to draw his gaze away from the road and onto your soft, supple, perfect legs as you propped your feet up on the dashboard, skin gleaming in the summer sun, little manicured toes bouncing to the beat of the radio? Surely you must have been doing it on purpose. No one could be that tempting, that seductive and have no intention behind it.

From where Frankie had sat, white-knuckling the steering wheel with sweaty palms, jaw clenched tight enough to ache, throat dry and jeans tight and blood hot and rushing through his veins, it had felt as though you had designed the entire trip down to the Keys as an exercise in restraint. Then the two of you had arrived at the beach house, and just as he thought he might finally get a bit of relief, you had to go and exacerbate the issue by springing out of the truck cab, eagerly darting over his friends, and throwing your arms around every. single. one of them.

Even now, a full day later, the images remain burned into the backs of his retinas, refusing to grant him any reprieve. Ironhead’s thick arms crushing you to his chest, heavy hands molding to your spine. Benny snatching you out of his brother’s grasp and quite literally sweeping you off your feet to spin you around with a boyish laugh. Pope pressing his shadowed cheek to yours, dropping kisses to each one…

Even Yovanna, Pope’s girlfriend, who you had only met once before, hadn’t been able to resist your magnetism. In particular, the way she had toyed with your hair, commenting something or other about the color or the style, had made Frankie’s vision blur red at the edges.

There had been a moment when he thought he might finally be able to satiate this need, this hunger – in the hot tub, the two of you finally alone, finally in each other’s arms again after so many excruciating hours of teasing, tempting, inviting. But even that had been thwarted, and then you had gone so far as to deny him, and that…

Well. That was when Frankie had felt something within himself snap and fray, and now he is certain that he must have left his sanity behind in that steamy jacuzzi tub.

Dinner is torture. The soft scent of your hair catching in the breeze on the restaurant patio. The glisten of your wet, pink tongue darting out to lick away the salt from the rim of your drink. The teasing flash of your gaze each time you glanced his way or laughed at one of his jokes. The flutter of your delicate, flowy dress brushing against his legs as you tucked up close to him during dessert. He has been throbbing behind the oppressive zipper of his khakis all night.

When Pope suggests heading back to the beach house for a nightcap around the firepit, Frankie gets to his feet so quickly its dizzying. With any luck, he will be able to get away with only finishing a beer or two before he is able to make his escape with you.

If you happen notice the stiffness of his shoulders, the tension of his hands, the twitching of his brow on the drive back to the rental house, you make no comment on it. To Frankie, it seems like you are lost in your own world as you bask in the balmy breeze floating through the open windows. You keep your eyes fixed on the ruddy sheen of the sunset throughout the short journey, a gentle smile softening the curve of your lips, and although he cannot deny how enchanting you look painted in streaks of rose and gold, the fury simmering just below the surface cannot help but thrum with resentment.

How are you so…calm? So unbothered by everything you have put him through over the last two days? How are you not ready to burst out of your skin at the slightest provocation?

Somehow, Frankie manages to navigate back to the beach house without incident, Will pulling up in his extended cab truck just behind his.

“I’m gonna go change into something more comfortable,” you say as you swing open the passenger door. “Would you mind grabbing me a Modelo when you go sit down? I’ll be there in just a minute.”

You don’t really even wait for his response before you slip out of the truck, the delicate skirt of your dress flouncing behind you as you go. A gust of wind picks up a waft of your perfume, and he has to press the heel of his hand over his mouth to smother a groan at the fragrance. Amber and musk, something deep and warm and ever-so-lightly spiced. Hints of sweetness offset by the salt of sweat, unavoidable in the Florida heat.

You smell like sex, and it makes him want to die.

When you finally arrive at the firepit, mere minutes later but an eternity to Frankie, you have swept your hair up on top of your head and traded your elegant dress for a pair of cotton shorts and a soft, open-knit sweater. The neckline of that sweater droops casually off of one shoulder and leaves miles of soft neck and collarbone on display, and he could swear that you glow in the flicker of the firelight. You take the open bottle of Modelo from his hand wordlessly, offering him only a grateful smile in return, but still, your fingers brush against his, and even that meaningless touch is enough when he is on a hair trigger like this. Goosebumps break out along his arm, and he suppresses a full-body shiver.

Frankie goes somewhere else as you settle in beside him, your well-cushioned patio chair angled toward his, the sound of your laughter melding and harmonizing with Yovanna’s, Pope’s, Benny’s. This was everything he had wanted when he invited you to come along – his friends adore you and you them. You fit so seamlessly into his life, like a puzzle piece that he hadn’t realized had been missing, and it’s never been more apparent than it has over the last two days that you are exactly what he has been needing. He hopes you feel the same, hopes you feel this ease and this sense of rightness that vibrates all the way down to the marrow of his bones. But even as his heart clenches behind his ribs at the perfection of his moment, the gentle softness and the love he feels for you do nothing to drown out the soul-deep hunger that he swears is going to eat him alive.

If anything, the tender sentiments only make his appetite sharper.

Frankie is going insane, and with every hour that passes, he becomes more and more convinced that the only cure is your skin under his tongue.

“All good over there, Catfish?”

It’s Ironhead’s voice that finally pulls Frankie out of his own mind, and with a subtle blink, he realizes that he somehow has nothing but a single swallow left in the beer bottle clutched in his hand. As for you, you have long since finished yours; the Modelo bottle sits abandoned on the concrete surface of the patio at your feet, bone-dry.

Thank fuck.

“Actually,” he replies, “think it’s about time I turned in.”

He gets to his feet amid a chorus of protests, ribbing from his Delta Force brothers and a playful whine from Yovanna, but he pays them no mind. Instead, he tosses his bottle and yours into the nearest trash can, dusts of his palms against his pant legs, and then holds out a hand to you.

“Hermosa?”

He can tell that at first, you think he’s joking with you, that he isn’t serious about taking the both of you to bed so uncharacteristically early. It’s dark outside now but only barely, the summer sunset long and late, and Frankie watches as your gaze darts from his hand to his eyes then to his friends, all of whom are staring at the two of you with bemused smiles. Once it becomes clear that he is, indeed, waiting for you to take his hand, your lashes flutter demurely, and you let out a breathy chuckle.

“Ooookay,” you sigh, slipping your hand into his and allowing Frankie to pull you to your feet. “Guess I’m going, too. Night, guys.”

Just outside of his field of vision, Yovanna snickers. Her tone is warm and knowing as she says, “Sleep well.”

He doesn’t allow the two of you to stick around long enough to hear any of the guys’ comments. Instead, fingers wrapped tightly around yours, the pilot tugs you along behind him as he retreats to the beach house and your shared bedroom within.

So focused is he on his destination that he makes it about as far as the stairwell before the sounds of your laughter and your protests finally reach his ears.

“Frankie. Frankie!” Your exclamations come in short bursts, breathless and happy and deeply incredulous, like you cannot believe what is happening and yet cannot bring yourself to do anything to stop it. “Slow down! What’s gotten into you?”

He pauses on the stairway landing and turns to face you, meeting your gaze in the dim lighting, hitting you a hard stare. “Are you seriously asking me that right now?” he snaps, short-tempered, nostrils flaring with the heaving breaths surging through his lungs.

A look of realization descends over your features, and Frankie watches as the laughter leaves your eyes, as your mouth takes on a twist of contrition even as you draw your lower lip between your teeth. “I guess not.” Your voice is quiet, tinged with remorse even though he thinks he sees a faint glimmer of satisfaction lingering in the dimples of your cheeks.

The soft, full pillow of your lip shines in the low light, and before he can think better of it, he closes the scant distance between you and takes hold of your jaw, firm but not unkind. Pulling that lip loose from where you have bitten it, he watches with dark intensity as it springs free – plump, lush, ripe for tasting with his tongue. Instead, he swallows thickly and asks, “You know what’s about to happen?”

Within his grip, you nod. “Yes, Frankie.” You’re all sweetness now, syrupy and pliant under his touch, and the shift in your demeanor seeps into his pores like a balm, like a drug, hot and heady and soothing.

“You know why?” His voice is low and rasping now, intimidating even to his own ears, but you do not flinch away from it. Instead, you receive it with a blown-pupil gaze and a subtle nod.

“Yes, Frankie.”

“Good girl,” he groans, and he drops a quick, gentle kiss to your forehead. “Now, get upstairs.”

You take the remaining stairs two at a time, Frankie close on your heels as you dart down the narrow hallway to your shared bedroom. He doesn’t touch you, but you feel his presence just the same – impossibly broad and looming, the heat of his skin, his need emanating off of his body like a mirage on asphalt in the middle of summer. A part of you wishes that you could pause this moment just so you could bask in that warmth, luxuriate in it like a cat in a beam of sunlight, but the heavy, swollen ache between your thighs has become too great for you to ignore. You’ve been gathering wetness in your panties for hours now; the thrill of knowing precisely what you had done – were doing – to your boyfriend was simply too delicious.

Because you knew what all of your teasing would get you in the end. You knew what delectable torture you had been incurring for yourself all evening, since he had first drug your hand across his bulge beneath the obscuring surface of the hot tub. You had been counting on it.

For all his steadiness, all his softness, all his introversion, there is something deep inside of Frankie that burns. Something a bit angry, something a bit vengeful. You haven’t had the opportunity to see it often, but on the few rare instances where something managed to provoke the beast within him to the surface, it had been…enthralling. It spoke to a primal part of your own psyche that had rarely been acknowledged, and god, now that you had tasted what it could be like with him – when you drove him to that place, when you pushed him just the barest measure over the edge – you couldn’t seem to stop craving it.

You know precisely what you are in for tonight, and the mere thought of it has you soaking your shorts before he can even slam the bedroom door shut behind you.

The lock sliding into place is barely audible over the sound of your own thundering pulse, your own panting breath, but it hardly matters. You won’t be disturbed here; Frankie won’t allow it. Giving no thought to the presence of your friends, still just outside on the patio, you melt the moment his hands touch your skin.

His mouth is on yours in an instant, one big, calloused hand coming up to cup your face as the other slinks around your waist, to your hip, to the swell of your ass. He grips you tightly there, tongue hot and slick and begging for entrance as he hauls your hips up against his own, and fuck, you can feel him already – even through his khakis, even though you’ve hardly touched him. Hard. Warm. Unbearably thick. You swear you can feel him pulse at the friction, at the drag of your body against his, and the sensation pulls a faint whimper from your throat.

His tongue tastes like beer as his hands attack your clothes, stripping your sweater and your well-worn cotton bralette over your head in a single swipe. Groans of satisfaction reverberating through his mouth into yours, he goes for your shorts next, and you nearly trip over the bundle of fabric as he bears you back toward the bed. The last remaining scrap of fabric on your body as you collapse onto the crisp, white sheets is the pink lace thong you wore to dinner, flimsy in the best of circumstances but now visibly sheered through by the drip of your arousal.

“Frankie,” you gasp breathlessly, your head spinning as you fumble with the deep brown leather of his belt, the only bit of him you can reach as you lay on the mattress. Thankfully, he seems to understand exactly what you want in spite of your inarticulate protests. Brushing your trembling hands aside effortlessly, Frankie unbuckles his belt with quick, economic movements. He leaves it threaded through his belt loops, instead shucking his belt, his pants, and his charcoal gray boxer briefs all in one clean jerk.

A low, eager sound escapes you as you watch his cock spring forward, deep red and glistening with precum, the tip of him brushing just along the hem of his button-down shirt and leaving a streak of dampness in its wake. You watch as a shiver trips down his spine at the sensation, and then he is lifting one hand to the back of his shirt collar and ripping the offending thing off over his head in a single swoop.

Goddamn it, he is so beautiful. Wide, sturdy shoulders, long limbs, strong arms and thick thighs and a soft give to his belly that never fails to make you blush. Tanned skin made even deeper by a day in the sun, with delightful freckles sprayed across his chest and a dusting of dark hair leading down from his bellybutton to his groin. His cock stands at attention, familiar and yet perfect – thick, curved, temptingly heavy. You imagine that you can feel the stretch of him just by looking at him, the way he will fill you so completely, the way he will press so perfectly against all of the places that long for the weight and the drag of him. Your deepest muscles clench at the thought, and without any further consideration, you reach for him, all soft palms and open lips.

However, just as you are about to wrap your fingers around his length, he steps back and meets your doe-eyed gaze with one that is almost scolding.

“You think I’m gonna give you my cock that easily?” he growls, a dark, prominent brow arched. “Uh uh. You’re gonna have to earn it, nena.”

Frankie drops to his knees, the thud of it muffled slightly by the pale blue area rug that decorates your bedroom floor, and then his hands come up to wrap around your ankles, just as they had in the tub earlier that evening. With a swift yank, he drags you across the surface of the bed, hooks the soft bend of your knees over his shoulders, and buries his face in your cunt.

“Oh, fuck me,” you whine, hands flying to the back of Frankie’s head, fingers threading through his loose, dark brown curls, so rarely available to your touch without the scratch of his well-loved ballcap. Your nails trail along his scalp, and he practically purrs at the sensation, the vibration traveling through his lips and tongue into your tender wetness in a way that has you squirming.

That purr turns into a muffled chuckle as he processes your exclamation, and he pulls just far enough away from you to quip, “That’s the plan.”

He’s back at it again in no time, though, his fingers spreading your lips apart so his tongue can access every inch of you. He is thorough, soft and wet and perfectly firm in his exploration, and like he has since the very first night you ever spent together, he knows precisely how to take you apart. No partner has ever eaten you the way Frankie does – with such single-minded focus, with such eagerness to please, as though he got just as much enjoyment out of tasting you as he did fucking you. Frankie sinks into the act like he wants to get lost in it, to get lost in you, and the thrust of his tongue and the drag of his hard, hooked nose against your clit is enough to make you want to let him.

“Goddamn,” he groans, his lips still pressed to your folds, his warm breath dancing across your wetness and drawing a shiver across your nerves. He sounds like he’s in pain, and when you glance down at him, you can see his brows drawn tight, his eyes squeezed shut as he shakes his head in disbelief. “Best thing I ever tasted. Pussy’s so fucking sweet.”

His words have you throbbing, and you feel those same muscles deep inside you tremble and clench, begging for more. “Frankie, please don’t stop,” you whimper, hips writhing in his grasp, thrusting, seeking more of his tongue. “I need – ah! Please!”

The low rumble of a chuckle buzzes through your nerve endings, skating across your clit like a livewire. “Sé lo que necesitas, hermosa.” Dancing the very tip of his tongue around your quivering entrance, he teases as though about to thrust it deep inside you where you need him most. You arch up into him on instinct as your fingers clutch onto his hair, and though you’re certain you’re hurting his scalp by now, you can’t bring yourself to care.

“She needs something inside, doesn’t she?” Frankie murmurs. His nose traces across your swollen bundle of nerves as he speaks. “Something to bear down on when she comes. Isn’t that right?”  

Delirious, you’re nodding before he can even finish the question.

“Ask nicely, baby.” Soft, wet lips seal gently around your aching clit, and he suckles at you so gently that your back bows up off the surface of the bed. “Ask me to stretch this tight little pussy out with my fingers.”

A wave of heat rises up the back of your neck at his words, the sound of his voice, gritty and raw and yet gentle, patient, as if he suddenly has all the time in the world now that he has the taste of you on his lips. With weak and wobbly arms, you bring yourself up onto your elbows and risk a glance down at him. A pair of deep brown eyes meets yours from between your spread thighs, and you feel your mouth drop open involuntarily as you take in the curl of his disheveled hair, the shine of his lips and chin, the way the tip of his nose disappears into your damp curls as though scenting a bouquet of flowers. He looks drunk, loose and fuzzy but somehow determined, and the sight is enough to have you nodding once more.

“Please, Frankie,” you beg. “Please give me your fingers. Let me come on them. I need it so bad, please.”

Between your legs, your boyfriend smiles with deep satisfaction. “Why didn’t you say so?” he taunts, and before your hackles even have the chance to raise, his middle and ring fingers sink all the way into you, all at once, and your protest dies on the back of a moan.

“Thaaaaat’s my girl.” The pads of his fingers press deep inside you, seeking that soft, spongy spot he knows so well, the one he found so quickly the first time you were together, it stole the breath from your lungs. You melt beneath his touch, his other arm coming up to brace across the span of your hips as he holds you in place. You’ve started to buck against him, but you get nowhere with that band across your belly. “Let me feel you come for me, and then I’ll give you my cock. How’s that sound, huh? That what you’ve been after this whole time?”

“F-Frankie – ” You can hardly speak, can hardly think, the press and the thrust and the stretch of his fingers driving you so quickly toward the edge that you can’t seem to string any more words together besides his name.

And then his tongue descends on your clit, and even his name is too much for your frayed mind to hang onto. It doesn’t take long after that.

When you fall, it’s with a long, whimpering shout. Your belly floods with heat as the coil that has been winding tighter and tighter within you suddenly springs free, and you swear you are launched out of your body and into the stratosphere as your cunt throbs and clenches around his fingers, as your clit pulses beneath his tongue. Your whole body shakes with the force of it, your hands pressing down on the back of his head to keep him in place as you ride out your high, then to quickly push him away the moment it becomes too much for your tender nerve endings to bear. Sweat breaks out along the insides of your thighs, the backs of your knees, the base of your spine, and while you are still too weak to protest it, you feel him dragging his tongue along your skin to collect the salt of you on his tastebuds.

“Fuck,” you sigh, joints loosening, muscles melting into the bed. “God, Frankie, that was – ”

But you do not get to finish your sentence, for one moment you are basking in the afterglow of a spine-melting orgasm, and the next, Frankie is surging to his feet, taking hold of your hips, and flipping you over onto your stomach.

“Scoot up the bed, muñequita,”he commands. “Hands and knees.”

You’re so tight like this, Frankie swears it’s going to make him go cross-eyed one of these days.

Hotter than that damned jacuzzi out on the patio, absolutely melting around the length of him, your wetness has gone thick and creamy with your pleasure. It’s sticky and lewd and so fucking sexy he could die as he watches it gather at the base of his cock, watches it slick the dark, dense hair there with every thrust. He’s got one hand open wide, splayed across your lower back, the other molded against your spine as you arch deeply into him. Your arms gave out beneath you after less than a minute of this, and now they fold beneath your head like a cushion as you present yourself to him.

The way you bend, ass high in the air, knees spread enough for him to kneel between… The swell of your hips, the small of your waist, the miles of soft, irresistible skin all on display, all just for him… It’s like art, like poetry. He is hypnotized by the way you meet him there, elegant and smooth, like it’s easy, the most natural think in the world. He’s captivated by the soft, generous ripple of your ass cheeks every time he sinks into you. He could watch the way your pussy spreads for him, the way your body gives way to him for an eternity, and he would never tire of it.

If you weren’t choking the life out of him with that pussy, that was.

“Ah! Ah! Frankie – ”

You’re getting loud now, forehead pressed to your forearms, hair disheveled and sticking to your sweating face as it springs from your ponytail. The sound of your pleasure takes root at the base of his spine, searing his nerves, tightening his stomach. You’re so delicious like this – hanging on by a thread, utterly wrecked, all for him, because of him. It makes that fierce, possessive part of him preen to know that he can do this to you, that he can reduce you this.

Rolling eyes. Open mouth. Dripping cunt.

But as much as he would like to continue pulling every whimper and cry from your lungs, he can’t pretend that he didn’t hear the patio door opening right as he flipped you onto your stomach. He can’t pretend that the sound of Ironhead and Pope rooting around the refrigerator for more drinks or the sound of Yovanna and Benny’s laughter hasn’t reached his ears.

For the briefest moment, he considers ignoring it. He considers allowing you to continue to plead and moan and curse regardless of his friends’ presence in the house. If he keeps going like this, they will surely hear you eventually – if they haven’t already – and Frankie would be lying if he said there wasn’t a certain appeal to that. Then everyone would know how hot you sound, how well you take him, how perfectly he gives it to you. The idea sends a molten shiver across his nerve endings, has hot coals settling in the pit of his stomach.

But no. This is for him. The clap of your ass, the pitch of your whines, it’s all his. No one else gets to experience you like this. He’s so greedy when it comes to you. He’s not ready to share.

So instead of speeding up, of tugging your hips harder, faster into his, he pulls out and bears you down onto the mattress. You whine at the loss of him, one of your hands flying back to grip onto his hip. Nails digging into his flesh, you pull ineffectually, trying to coax his cock back into the clutch of your body, but he ignores your pleas. With soft, gentle shushes, he widens the spread of your legs and settles into the plush cradle of your ass.

Slipping the head of his cock down between your lips, seeking the heat and the wetness of you once again, Frankie braces himself over you and drops a kiss to your shoulder blade.

“Can’t have you making all that noise, nena,” he murmurs against your skin, tongue darting out to taste the sheen of sweat coating your back. “Everybody will hear.”

Beneath him, he feels you shiver, your muscles trembling as you tilt your face to the side. Your hair obscures your eyes, but he can still catch a glimpse of your puffy, open lips. You’re panting, breathless, but you nod your acknowledgment all the same.

“Think you can be nice and quiet for me?” he asks. His hips tuck down and then up, dragging his swollen tip across your entrance, a torturous tease for both of you after he had just been so deep inside you. “Think you can hide all your pretty noises in the mattress?”

Weakly, you nod again. “Mm hm.” You’re so quiet now, your voice high and quavering. Completely fucked out.

Frankie feels a grin, salacious and slow, pull at the corners of his mouth. “That’s my girl,” he says, and then he drops his hand down between your legs to guide his cock back where it belongs.

He pushes until he bottoms out – one smooth, slow thrust until he reaches the root of you – and then you’re letting out a gasping moan, and Frankie hears the distant commotion from the floor below pause, suddenly silent.

So he does the only thing he can do given the circumstances. He threads his fingers into your tangled hair and turns your head himself, forcing your face into the cushion of the mattress.

He might as well have poured liquid fire down your spine. Beneath him, you melt, all of your muscles loose and pliant in your surrender as you release a series of muffled whimpers and curses into bed. You tilt your hips up as much as you can, pinned down as you are, and the deepened angle has Frankie growling into the back of your neck. It’s so much – almost too much. He can feel your pussy fluttering around him, drawing him deeper, sucking him in.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans into your ear, soft and low, his hands gripping the sheets so hard his knuckles go pale. “Feel so good – like she’s trying to milk me dry.”

Plastering himself against your back, he revels in the heat of your body, in the slick slide of your skin against his as he pounds into you. He can feel you panting, your lungs struggling to expand beneath the weight of him, beneath the force of his thrusts, but you take it all, never once asking him to stop, never once attempting to throw him off. He babbles about just that into the bend of your neck, his head spinning as he growls a whispered take it, take it, take it, as he drags his teeth across the tendons there, as he presses his forehead to the space between your shoulder blades.

All you can do is sigh and moan into the mattress, the sounds coming out weak and thready, near-silent as you bury your face deeper into the padding.

When you start to squirm beneath him, when the walls of your pussy begin to tighten down around him, he lets out a huff of a laugh. His hot breath stirs the hairs clinging to your sweaty neck as he taunts, “You getting close, huh? Gonna come for me, muñequita?”

You attempt a nod, forehead scrubbing against the sheets, and as quickly as he can manage, Frankie shoves one of his hands between your hips and the mattress. His fingers quickly find the apex of your thighs, a sticky wet patch evident there on the bed against the back of his hand, but he pays that no mind. Instead, the tips of his fingers dip down to seek your slick, swollen clit, and he circles you there, fast and focused.

A squeal forces its way out of your throat, deadened by the softness of the mattress, and for the first time, you buck your hips as though to fight off his touch. But Frankie simply digs in harder, driving you into the bed with his full body weight and every ounce of army-honed strength.

And that’s all it takes. One more swipe of his fingers over your clit, one more devastatingly deep thrust of his cock, and you’re gone. Utterly silent, too overcome to make any noise now, you shudder and shake and writhe beneath the press of his body, a fresh wave of wetness dripping down the length of him as your cunt squeezes, squeezes, squeezes, a rhythm that has become so familiar to him over the last few months, it’s almost comforting.

But still, just as it always does, it pulls him right to the edge of his own pleasure, and just as you’re beginning to soften and soothe, the tight coil of heat at the base of Frankie’s spine springs loose, and over the edge he falls. Hips losing their rhythm, fingers gripping your hip, your shoulder, your hair, he spills himself within the hot clutch of your body with a smothered grunt.

After, you are both utterly spent.

Boneless, sweating, and trembling, Frankie collapses onto your back at first, then eventually works up the strength to roll off of you. You remain on your stomach, feeling like a pile of gelatine as you breathe shakily into the mattress. Between your legs, your slick mixes with his cum, dripping from your body onto the sheets, and you make a mental note to check the hallway closet for extra linens. You have a feeling now that the tension between the two of you has broken, this won’t be the only set of sheets you and Frankie ruin on this trip.

Downstairs, the night continues on as you would expect from this group – someone is digging around in the fridge again, and someone else has hooked their phone up a Bluetooth speaker, the distinct rhythm of reggaeton drifting up the stairwell telling you it’s either Yovanna or Santiago. The sound of laugher accompanies it all, and you find yourself grinning. If any of them are aware of the debauchery that just happened one floor above them, they make no indication of it. Instead, you hear the clack of pool balls and cues, and you know that you have at least an hour or two before any of them start filtering upstairs for bed.

Turning onto your side, you take in Frankie’s silhouette – long, loose, and completely at ease, head sunken into the downy pillows, arms thrown up toward the headboard. His dark eyes are closed, but you can tell by the cadence of his chest rising and falling with each breath that he is still awake, just basking, luxuriating. Like you. Your gaze traces the outline of his profile, his unruly curls, prominent brow, hooked nose, strong jaw. His scruffy cheeks are flushed, and sweat cools on his hairline. He’s so fucking pretty, you could die.

Brushing your hair out of your eyes and folding your arms beneath your head, you offer him a soft smile and murmur, “Feel better?”

 “Depends.” Frankie grins, eyes still closed. “You gonna keep wearing that fucking bikini?”

You snort a laugh and shake your head fondly. “Oh, Francisco. I brought a whole suitcase full of them.”

Tagging a few friends who expressed an interest:

@half-moon16 @sunshinehaze1 @peepawispunk @80ssong

[solarstranger]

CHAPTER 1 | ALL OUT OF LUCK

w.c. 3.3k

tags. fem!reader, pro-hero!katsuki, aged-up (26), some cussing, this chapter is pretty mild so not many tags are necessary (buckle up for the ride, though)

a/n. here it is, y'all! the product of pursuing my random brain child that one fated day in november 2024. this has been my biggest writing endeavor yet, and i worked so incredibly hard on this, from conceptualizing to penning it down to editing it until it was decent enough to post. so i sincerely hope my love and excitement for this fic translates into my writing. i'd absolutely love to hear what you think, so please don't be a stranger and talk to me! enjoy <3

links. masterlist, ao3 (coming soon)

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think someone with a time-slowing quirk is manipulating this shoebox of a room they unceremoniously stuffed you in with nothing but this middle-aged, bearded man roughly 30 minutes ago.

If 30 minutes is even an accurate approximation.

The said man is clicking away at his keyboard behind the desk in front of you, humming a non-descript tune, and, having already studied the room that seems to be an abandoned office, you take the opportunity to clock him. Aside from being around his mid-40s and sporting a full-grown beard, there’s something about him that rings the metaphorical alarms in your mind, signaling some sense of familiarity.

And it’s either you need to work on your subtlety or he’s just plain out observant, because he must have noticed your staring, shifting his gaze from his laptop screen toward you, mouth formed in a friendly smile. “Getting antsy?”

“I—” you start, before trailing off. You weigh your options for a second, before settling with: “It’s hard not to be, sir. Would you care to tell me what I’m here for?”

At that, the man merely purses his lips in a thin line. “Unfortunately, it’s not my place to say. I was just assigned to meet you here. At least,” he checks his silver-plated watch, “until further company arrives.”

You feel yourself frown. “And the men who arrived out of nowhere and fetched me from my apartment?”

He nods, “They were simply assigned to get you, yes.”

A burning question bubbles right up your throat, but you tamp it down, thinking better against it. It’s too soon, you think. You have to dig a bit deeper. And so instead, you finally prod at that inkling from a moment ago that’s been vying for your attention.

“Have we met before, sir?”

That must’ve been the right thing to ask, because the man visibly lights up. He swivels on his office chair, turning a bit so that he’s now fully facing you. “Why, yes! I thought you wouldn’t remember.”

You toss him the most genuine smile you can muster back in courtesy, but also to goad him into continuing. You hope that’s enough for now. “From a while back, right?”

“Yes!” he enthusiastically responds, whatever document he was working on now completely forgotten. “I was one of your earliest escorts until the commission relocated me overseas. I just got reassigned to you for this project, you see.”

Hook, line, and sinker.

However, you don’t get to revel in how you successfully coaxed information and confirmation out of him without lifting much of a finger, because he quickly realizes his mistake. He splutters as you watch the blood drain from his face, and you can’t help but feel bad for the man.

“Don’t worry,” you offer with that placating tone you’ve mastered over the years. “I won’t tell them you just said all that.”

He eyes you suspiciously, as if he’s debating whether or not you’re saying the truth, and you’ve half a mind to use it on him just so that the sole person you’re stuck in this jail-like space isn’t looking at you like you’re after his head, but you don’t get past considering that because the only set of doors bursts open and in comes an all-too-familiar face.

The both of you whip away from your stare down to look at the unannounced guest, and you instantly stiffen when you get a good look at the person leading the group.

Clad in a two-piece slate gray suit, the head of the Special Quirks department of Japan’s Hero Commission waltzes in, seemingly decades older than the last time you saw him. It hasn’t even been five years since, you think, yet he’s aged so much. Trailing right behind him is the woman you vaguely remember trailblazing the Missions committee, hair pinned up in a no-nonsense low bun and sporting a navy blazer and skirt combo.

And, perhaps in an effort to ground yourself in the face of impending danger that always came with the two, you’re about to look down at what you’re wearing in comparison, which, you recall is a baggy T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants you never intended for people to see you wear, when it happens.

You lock eyes with the third and last person entering the room, and instantly it’s like you’re doused with a sobering bucket of ice-cold water at the same time someone lights a fire under your ass. One glimpse at his firey gaze has your brain screaming at you to look away—anywhere, anywhere but at him—and pretend that didn’t just happen all the while mentally willing him away from existence, but you find yourself frozen in your seat.

Bakugou, who’s dressed casually in a plain black shirt and loose jeans, stares right back as he follows the two officials. You’re the first one to break eye contact, and words aren’t uttered as the guy from earlier scurries out of his seat, offering it to Asahi, the man in the gray suit, who accepts it thanklessly. Moriyama takes the seat the underling drags next to Asahi, and Bakugou plops himself down on the one around a foot to your left, the both of you now facing them.

“Thank you, Tanaka-san,” Asahi says, finally breaking the silence. The familiar escort who you now remember as Tanaka only bows at him, before standing silently to the side.

At that, Asahi shifts to regard you, the corners of his lips twisting upwards in what you think is an effort to smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. With both arms on top of the hardwood desk and hands clasped together, he clears his throat.

He says your name as a start, which sends an eerie tingle down your spine. “Long time no see, huh?”

You don’t know how to reply to that, also acutely aware of the man beside you, so you merely nod.

“We apologize for dragging you here on your day off,” he continues, “It must’ve been quite jarring—having our men be at your doorstep.”

You fight back the urge to ask him how the hell he knows it’s your day off today, deciding in the last second you don’t want to know the answer. Frankly, you wouldn’t be shocked if he said they’d been keeping tabs on you and that they even know what brand of underwear you wear.

“I was surprised, I’m not gonna lie,” you respond, voice small. And just because you’re over this whole suspense factor, you cut to the chase. “What’s this all about, Asahi-san?”

“Skipping the pleasantries, aren’t we?” he chuckles, and you resist the itch to scowl at him. You never liked the guy—although you think it must have to do with all those extreme assessments he made you take growing up. To your relief, though, he relents. “I’ll get straight to it, then. We have an important mission for you.”

And as if you weren’t already stiff enough, you feel yourself tense even more, and the action doesn’t go missed by Bakugou, whose eyes you feel boring into the side of your face.

Asahi takes your stunned silence as a cue for him to go on. His gaze drifts to the pro-hero beside you, a knowing smirk decorating his features. “I trust that you’ve met?”

Despite yourself, you chance a glance at the ash-blonde, only to find him already looking at you. You feel yourself flame as he studies you with mild recognition, as if he’s seen you before but can’t quite figure out where.

Bakugou finally speaks up after a beat, voice gruff and eyes remaining locked on yours. “UA Gen Ed, same batch as me, right?”

“Y-yeah,” you reply dumbly, surprised he even remembers. “And you’re pro-hero Dynamight.”

To that, he gives you a curt nod, donning a serious expression as he turns back to face Asahi. “Go on and brief her about it already. I ain’t got all day.”

“We’re getting to that, Bakugou,” the old-ish man retorts, seemingly unfazed by the pro-hero’s impatience, before readjusting his focus to you. “As I’ve said, we’re assigning you to a very crucial mission. We got word yesterday that an up-and-rising quirk supremacist group is planning an attack somewhere in the city.”

“A-attack?” you croak, “Who’re they gonna attack?”

“That we’re not sure yet,” Moriyama joins in on the conversation, her countenance stern. “But we’re guessing quirkless individuals or people with weak quirks. We won’t know for sure, though, unless we get people on the inside.”

“And that’s where you two come in,” Asahi finishes, eyes darting back and forth between you and the man beside you. “You’re going undercover.”

You gawk at him, suddenly robbed of all words. From the corner of your vision, you sense Bakugou side-eye you, and that’s all the warning you get for what he’s about to say next.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks, prominently exasperated by the entire situation. “‘s like you’re feeding a sheep to the fucking wolves.”

Instantly, you feel a sense of indignation wash over you at the comment, which is immediately followed by the familiar feeling of resignation.

You’ve gone through these motions before. Over and over again, in fact.

And normally, you’d let snide comments about the status of your quirk slide, like you’ve been taught to the entirety of your life, but apparently this time that’s not an option.

Because Moriyama gives him a pointed look, as if chastising him on your behalf. You don’t dare to check how Bakugou’s receiving it, but you’re assuming not well.

But before the pro-hero can say something in his defense or provoke the woman, Asahi interjects with a good-natured laugh. “Slow down there, hero. Don’t get too cocky now that you just got named Vogue Japan’s Bachelor of the Year.”

Bakugou doesn’t miss a beat. “Shut the fuck up.”

With a dismissive wave of a hand, Asahi continues. “And no, I am not making a reckless move here,” the middle-aged man peers at you, “This woman right here has a special quirk.”

At that, you steal a glance at Bakugou, and the look on his face betrays the thing he’s evidently trying hard not to say.

‘What’s so special about this girl from Gen Ed?’

He manages not to blurt that out, though, instead going for: “How special?”

“Let’s just say it’s because of her that departments like mine exist in the commission.”

“Quit being fucking cryptic,” Bakugou spits out, just as you say: “It’s really not that special, though.”

That catches his attention, and you feel yourself shrink when his intense, crimson eyes land on you. You, however, fight to maintain his scrutinizing gaze when he pipes up. “What can you do, huh?”

“I—”

“How ‘bout you show him, dear?” Moriyama cuts you off with a knowing smile.

You don’t get to argue because the woman promptly sends Tanaka off to the door, and the four of you watch the guy as he rushes out, leaving you in a few moments of silence, before hurriedly walking back in with a nervous-looking young man in tow.

You decide then and there that you really don’t want to do this.

“An intern, Moriyama-san,” Tanaka announces in front of you with a booming voice, gesturing to the person beside him. “Just as you requested.”

“The hell do we nee—”

“Go on, Y/N,” Asahi encourages with a quiet voice, which you note is in an attempt to not be heard by the poor intern.

The poor intern who’s gaping at #2 pro-hero Dynamight, looking like his soul just left his lean body.

Your gaze shifts between the pro-hero and the young man, and you sit watching the silent exchange unfold before you. You can tell Bakugou is getting annoyed by the unabashed attention of someone who’s likely a fan, and the latter isn’t looking all too hot.

And so with reluctance, you do it.

“Hey,” you call out to the intern, who whips to look at you after another attempt when he doesn’t respond to the first.

“Wha—” he starts, but trails off when you decisively tug on the imaginary strings, and in a split second, it’s like the nerves that were just frying his system a beat ago get washed off his body, his face morphing to that of tranquil calmness in a blink of an eye.

You toss him a tight-lipped smile as he stares right back at you, serene and perhaps a tad bit confused, although you doubt someone not privy to your ability could recognize it on his face.

“Amazing, isn’t it?”

You turn to look at Asahi, who’s now leaning back on the office chair with a proud grin on his face, as if he’s the one who just did the demonstration.

You try to suppress the mild annoyance at the sight of him.

You reason to yourself that he’s the one who made all this possible, after all. He deserves to be proud of the stunt you just pulled, at least to some extent.

And just as quickly as he entered, the intern is promptly ushered out of the area by Tanaka. Once the door clicks closed, you then shift to examine Bakugou, who you quickly find is already staring at you, an inexplicable expression etched across his sharp features.

“You make people calm, is that it?”

“Oh, she can do much more than that, boy,” Asahi boasts. “She has the ability to tamper with any person’s emotions. She can diffuse or exacerbate existing ones or transform them into another affect entirely.”

“But very few people know that, Bakugou,” Moriyama adds with a warning edge to her tone. “It’s why the commission took her under its wing at such a young age. It’s why—”

“You disguised her quirk as something else and made her take the Gen Ed route.” Bakugou finishes with such certainty that catches you off guard, despite being well-versed in the fact that he is insanely perceptive.

You would know. Really, you would.

Because that’s one of the main reasons why you liked—

“It’s so that the wrong people don’t catch wind of her and her quirk, Bakugou,” Asahi supplements. “It’s for that very reason we’ve named her quirk as luck instead of manipulation. Which is what you’re going to do undercover.”

“What’s he gonna do, exactly?” you ask, tilting your head to gesture to the pro-hero beside you.

“He’ll infiltrate the group alongside you, dear,” Moriyama answers. “He’s one of the best heroes we have, and well…”

She glances at Bakugou with such hesitance that juxtaposes the confidence she’s been sporting this entire exchange, before continuing. “…We’ve heard this group has been eyeing to recruit Bakugou, specifically.”

You almost choke on your spit.

Recruit the #2 pro-hero of Japan?

What kind of stupid agenda is that?

To your surprise, Bakugou doesn’t say anything in response to Moriyama’s weighty statement, his usually penetrating gaze fixed on the ground.

“He’ll make sure you’ll be safe, Y/N,” Asahi furthers. “He’ll introduce you to them as a useful tool, what with your ‘luck’, which you’ll tell them works by boosting the chances of success of the people you’re working with. And, given how your quirk actually operates, Bakugou here will emphasize your importance by requesting for their protection of you, so that you can get closer to the people you’ll need to manipulate.”

“How’s he gonna do that without raising suspicion?” you can’t help but ask.

“That’s the thing,” Asahi quips, before heaving a deep sigh. “At this point, there’s no saying for sure, but you’re gonna have to be ready to play the part of a couple if the situation calls for it.”

“A c-couple?” you barely manage to get out.

To that, Asahi and Moriyama only nod at you with such seriousness that you can’t find it in you to protest any further. Still, you try to express your uneasiness.

“I don’t know—if I can pull that off. I—”

“You have your quirk at your disposal, Y/N,” Moriyama assures you, to your chagrin. “You’ve trained hard enough to know when and how to use it.”

Well.

There’s not much left for you to do than nod in resignation, especially with the finality of her tone, so you do just that.

None of you says anything for a brief moment after that, a rather tense silence enveloping the tiny office. And you’re about to ask them one more time if they’re fucking sure about all this, but Asahi beats you to it.

“Do either of you have any more questions?”

You open your mouth to try again but this time Bakugou speaks first. “I do. Let’s say shit goes down and we have to engage this shitty ass group in combat. Does she know how to fight? You know, beyond just playing with emotions?”

You feel yourself bristle, and before your brain can catch up and rein you in, your mouth is already running off. “I’ve had extensive close-combat training, actually. So worry about saving your own ass, hero.”

Bakugou doesn’t get the chance to spew something right back at you, though, because Asahi cuts the tension with a booming laugh. “She actually has, Bakugou. Like I said, we’ve been training her since her quirk manifested.”

“Really?” he asks, a little bit too sarcastically for your taste. “And what’s in it for you, huh, Y/N?” the pro-hero turns to regard you, tone riddled with just enough taunt to make your blood simmer. “Why’re you going along with their whim?”

“They pay well,” you state as simply as you can. “My job as a guidance counselor isn’t exactly the most lucrative.”

“That we do,” Asahi chimes in before Bakugou can drop any borderline degrading remark, which you’re thankful for. You don’t know if you can handle any more backhanded comments from the man you used to fucking dream about way back in high school, who—apparently—also happens to be the man you’re gonna have to pretend you’re dating if things go south.

“If you don’t have any more questions,” Moriyama interjects, “There’s one last thing. We don’t expect them to go lax on either of you despite what you can bring to the table. So anticipate restrictions on your speech and movements—there’s a high probability that they’re gonna place bugs and trackers on you. The same goes for your online footprint.”

At that, you and Bakugou wordlessly nod in unison, the gravity of what you’re about to get yourself into finally sinking in. Shortly after, Moriyama goes through a few more technical details before announcing that they have another meeting to attend, and just like that, and with a promise to get in touch soon albeit clandestinely, she and Asahi exit from the very door they entered what seemed like an eternity ago.

Leaving you and Bakugou.

Alone.

Which is something you’re going to have to get used to for what lies ahead.

But that shit can wait until tomorrow, when the mission officially starts.

And so with much vigor, you quickly gather the purse you barely managed to bring with you when you got dragged out of your apartment earlier this evening, and stand. Bakugou’s head tilts up to look at you when you turn to regard him, an eyebrow raised in question.

“What?”

You force a smile. “I’m looking forward to working with you, Bakugou-san.” Not. “See you tomorrow, then.”

And, before he can say anything in return, you spin on your heel and leave without looking back.

˗ˏˋ while likes are appreciated, they don’t do much on tumblr! if you want to support me and writers in general, reblogs, replies, and tags are the way to go. feel free to drop an ask, too—i’d love to chat. have a nice day! ´ˎ˗

[tgmsunmontue]

Build you brick by brick... 3/? (WIP)

A Hangster fic that starts with a Lego set...

Especially for @phisworld14...

PART ONE PART TWO

PART THREE

The next morning when he wakes, he’s got a headache, his mouth feels furry and sour. He stumbles blearily into the kitchen for some water. Knows he should have drunk water last night, but Natasha had definitely been encouraging him to make the most of having her as a ride home. Fuck. He’s not in his twenties anymore. He’s pretty sure she needed to undo his seatbelt last night and help him inside. That’s a little mortifying. There were definitely cocktails involved.

He blinks against the sun streaming through the windows, curtains long forgotten last night before he left, and again when he got home. He sips at the water and is fairly confident he’s going to be able to keep it down. As per his now standard morning routine he looks to his bookcase, smiles at the twelve little Hei Hei roosters. Then he realises that for the first time since he got all twelve he’s had one of the Daggers in his house. It was only Nat, but he steps closer, takes another sip of water and looks them over carefully, suspicious now.

Then he sees it. The yellow-gold circlet balanced precariously on the coxcomb of one of the Hei Heis and he knows that it’s meant to represent a halo. He glances at the Hei Hei he now considers as Phoenix and does a double take, peers closer, because the little nameplate that he would swear read Hei Hei yesterday, now reads Phoenix. Huh. He looks at the Hei Hei that has the cowboy hat still balanced on its head, lasso looped over one of it’s wings, looks at the name plate and it now reads Hangman.

He feels like he’s loosing his mind, goes and grabs his phone to look at the pictures he took and is relieved to see that originally, back when he’d first noticed, the names hadn’t been changed. He’s not that unobservant. Obviously they’re playing some convoluted game of tag, with trying to make alterations without him seeing or noticing whoever it is… even when he knows who did it and when they must have. He should have known Nat had ulterior motives last night in offering him a ride. And obviously now Halo has just been tagged, because while this Hei Hei is clearly meant to be her, the nameplate hasn’t been changed. Yet.

He chuckles softly, wonders at how weird the mind must be that thought of doing this elaborate long-game. At least he doesn’t have to do anything except be himself. And maybe make it a little more difficult to alter the Hei Heis he has on display. He could maybe get a locked glass cabinet and he grins as he taps out a message to the group chat.

>>Someone is vandalising my Lego collection. Think I need to put them into protective custody or under 24/7 surveillance.

Nat>> You should totally do that.

Hangman>> Show us the damage Rooster.

Bradley obligingly takes a photo of the halo-bedecked Hei Hei and sends it through, feeling pretty light-hearted and in a better mood than he has in a while.

Halo>> Damn. No doubting that one. Clever mysterious person that did it.

>>So mysterious. Definitely not the person who got me drunk and drove me home last night.

Coyote>> I just backspaced what I wrote. I don’t need to put that out into the universe.

Hangman>> But you didn’t see them did you? So the game’s still on?

>> What game? I don’t know about any game?

Hangman>> Every game needs it’s spectators Rooster. Just sit there and enjoy. You’re good at that.

Bradley rolls his eyes, even if no-one is there to see him. He doesn’t type out asshole, because it’s almost affectionate in his head and he doesn’t actually want Hangman’s ire again. Everything reverts to fairly normal for a week or so, and then a few more days pass and Bradley’s wondering if they’ve forgotten. Then he gets home and there’s a package waiting for him. It’s small, bubble envelope and clearly posted from local and he opens it carefully. A handwritten note falls out, stuck to it one of the little nameplates which this time has Halo written on it.

I’m not breaking any rules, but I’m sure this will no doubt get called into bending them. However if you could do me a solid and decorate one and name mine and then let everyone know… Up to you whether you want to say I mailed in, or you can pretend I broke in. But either way, you didn’t see me… which is the main rule.

Bradley grins, shaking his head as he drapes the tiny little blue scarf with it’s white Y around the neck of one of the previously unadorned Hei Heis. Then there is a tiny little cap with YALE across the front and he balances it carefully on the head. He has to give Halo points for creativity, because these look handmade. He snaps a picture and throws it into the group chat.

>>Yale, looks like you’re up.

Yale>> HOW???

>>It’s a mystery.

[crows-bite]

Since people answered whose route they'd pick in a dating sim I thought it was a good time to repost my oc dateability sheet and I Have To Say I'm scared by how many of you picked Ted.

[thatfriendlyanon]

i think part of my problem is i lived with my best friend for two years of my life and have been searching for the same feeling of joy & acceptance & support ever since

[triglycercule]

who asked for this. nobody. but unfortunately as a creator i actually have to CREATE for my au 😞😞😞😒😒😒 jk fashion au ink and swap designs ig,,,,,,

ink. ink. ink. she's totally not holding a gun to my head as i type this,,,,, because she CANT break the fourth wall ok she totally doesnt realize that she's forever gonna be stuck living life as a high schooler with no chance of ever graduating or progressing in life,,,,, BECAUSE THERE'S NO ANGST IN JK FASHION AU HAAHAHAH 😁😁😁😁 anyways she's soooo silly :3333 i'm not a connoisseur of anyone that's not the mtt (biased 🙂🙂🙂) but i wanted her to be silly but also a bit freakish,,,, ya!

what do the people think about INK???? featuring everyone in jk fashion au so far 😇😇

dream: "ink is another one of my close friends. she's been there for me when even nightmare couldn't, and i've supported her likewise. sometimes her head is in the clouds, so i send her texts to remind her of things like homework and such. maybe she forgets lunch sometimes, so swap and i give her a share of ours. and when ink wants to talk about anything she's thinking of, whether it's a painter's use of color or the reason we exist, i'm always open to listening. she's an amazing person, really."

nightmare: "ink. ah, that girl is an enigma, truly. somedays she supports me on my path to world domination, and other days she just laughs at me and says as if it were a fact that i would never achieve it! ugh... but despite my slight grievances, she's dream's friend, and i've grown fond of her. quite often, without me even requesting, she gifts me paintings. now, they may seem normal at first, but recently i've discovered a pattern with them. as if ink had peered into the mind of god and depicted it visually, the paintings assist me in handling dream appropriately. i must say, she's skilled as well..."

killer: "see now ink? she's my type of gal. we get along pretty well, hehe! we're on the same wavelength or something, i dunno. not like she can predict what i do, but i wouldn't be surprised if she could, but ink and i just click. we talk about all sorts of silly stuff; similar sense of humor, after all. ink and i can yap about different shows and movies we've watched and stuff, she gives really good insight on the more technical stuff like color psychology and framing, and she once drew me art for one of my big follower milestones on twitter! she's suuuuper cool, haha!"

dust: "okay, just... keep this between me and you, but i think ink has some sort of secret sixth sense? i dunno. nothing against her, she's a fun person. just that, uh... sometimes she just comes up to me when i least expect it and starts asking me about my progress on my writing. which is... confusing. i've only ever told killer and horror about my writing, so i don't know how she knows...?"

horror: "y'know, dust and i have a bit of a bet going on. all jokes and all, but i've got a feeling ink's pulling some sort of elaborate spying prank with how much she knows about us... dust doesn't think so. but i'm betting 20 bucks she does. like, once i was at a vending machine and the stupid thing didn't give me my goddamn candy bar, ugh. i had to stay cool. but then ink just pops out of nowhere, says its okay for me to drop the act and get mad around her, and then does some sort of vending machine trick to get the candy?? yeah, she's definitely a wizard or something. in a nice way, i guess."

NOW SWWAAAAAAPPP she's silly. i included the bit of her getting into trouble because of her good will SOLELY because swap gets bullied a lot in other aus 💀 (askerror, something new, etc,,,,,,) i also read a canon underswap doc??? SWAP IS SO SILLY!!!!! i cant really explain her personality through text i'd need to draw comics for her which uhhhh,,,,, (looks away)

THOUGHTS ON SWAP????

dream: "ah, swap! she's one of my dearest friends, i truly care for her deeply. out of sheer coincidence it seems, that she, ink, and i were chosen to be the star students of the school, but surprisingly it works out well... swap's truly a delight. she's a great motivator, and she's saved me from a few situations that would've ended up terribly had she not been there, hehe."

nightmare: "sometimes the world hates me. ah- well, what i meant was, the path of fate has me set on a predetermined path of struggle! and yet, when even i, the queen of negativity, could not stop my kin from slipping on a ridiculously placed banana peel and almost breaking her neck, swap was her knight in shining armor and caught her. needless to say, just as fate despises my bloodline, fate also has angels sent down from heaven. i do suppose swap is one of those, bless her soul."

killer: "heh, swap?? that girl's a riot! couple years ago i tried convincing her to show me some of those sick moves she learned at kickboxing, or karate, taekwondo, whatever... she broke my wrist, haha! but then i pulled a knife on her and then we both got in trouble. hah, good times, good times. no, i didn't stab her?! in fact, she's very good friends with mr. mew and the grumpen, thank you very much! a friend of my kitties is a friend of mine!"

dust: "she's nice. her type of energy is something you only see is like... a sugar-rushed ink, and killer normally. but anyways, swap's a good help around the school. she's a bit ridiculous every now and then with all her "the magnificent swap" and how she's a bit of a showoff, but whatever. aren't we all? anyways, at least the scavenger hunts she makes during school dances are fun."

horror: "swap is uh... she's something. gotta admit, she's pretty normal compared to some of the people at this school. but man... enthusiasm, much? eh, whatever. i'm not the type to complain when her burritos are to die for. we're partners in cooking class... let's just say, she carries us hard."

anyways jk cross and epic soon. sooner than you think heheheh

[lunar-wandering]

i don't think i've gotten over reading those few chapters of that one version of the Bible we used for a university class cause it was so fucking jarring like;

the version of the Bible I grew up with: god is a gentle but occasionally strict father who genuinely cares for his children and creations. as punishment for eating the apple, Eve and all her descendants will now experience the pains of childbirth + periods.

the version of the Bible a lot of people have read, apparently: God is an Authoritative Figure to be Feared, and you must do anything to please him and avoid punishment. as punishment for eating the apple, Eve and all her descendants must now serve Men, forever. oh and also the childbirth and period thing.

like. wow. holy shit. a lot of Specific People's behaviour makes a Lot More Sense if that's the version they grew up with. I mean, "respect all figures of authority and do whatever you can to please them Or Else" sure is something that would fuck someone's brain up

[miraluking-respectfully]

felix being referred to more or less exclusively as "your soldier" in-game speaks to how little the writers put into his character beyond his noggin full of sith secrets & his relationship with the consular; still, i do find it kind of sweet and funny, in a way. he's not a republic soldier, not even your personal bodyguard; he's your soldier. the consular is a small nation-state in and of herself

[rat-detector-24]

Didn't think I'd need to explain this post to people but some people are so lost in the AI hate to recognize a good message about AI being predatory lol. The meaning of this post is pretty simple. A bot keeps posting things like this in one of the rat detector communities. This post was mocking/bringing attention to the fact it's AI generated slop. It literally is in the title of the post! I didn't even tag it because it's just a quick vent post about how shitty that is.

How anyone can think this is a positive take on AI is beyond me. It's a message about bots preying on people with cute flashy AI images and words that make you seem alone. I cannot make the same message without an AI gen picture. The lifelessness was part of the message I was seeking to convey. The link takes you to a real rat eating cheese because I thought it was cheesy shit to think we'd click that link in the group. So for you to click it I brought you cheese lol.

Real quick, a reminder that anything you post to social media becomes their right to use as they see fit until you revoke that right. Since some people think I'm making that up? It doesn't count you just posting about not using your stuff either. You might retain the copyright of the original work you post, but that doesn't mean it wasn't already used to train AI. You can ask them to delete it but did they really delete it? (Same with opting out. That doesn't stop other countries from doing it illegally/legally). Tumblr customer support won't even delete my old photography blogs because "I can't prove it's really me" despite giving them old passwords and emails. I'm a broke artist I can barely afford food, let alone a lawyer. I basically lost the rights to my work. My point being, don't post on social media if you don't want your art stolen. Copyrights are meaningless if they make it too hard to prove they stole or too expensive to fight.

One vent post with an AI rat making fun of AI posts isn't going to change how mainstream gen AI has become (the president uses it to make racist memes even). It's not remotely contributing to the loss of art. Art is and will always be alive. So many artists worried about losing out to AI when they themselves fight tooth and nail to silence other artists. No matter how much I have suffered to share my art with the world, no matter how much I have starved just to express my soul. No matter how much I support and boost other artists when I have a platform. There will always be another artist who looks down on me and says "you're not an artist for X reason". Today it was this post. Tomorrow it will be something else. I've heard this my whole life. That's sad to me.

Whether or not the meaning resonates with you is personal tastes. It resonates with me and will stay. If it makes you think about it, then it's done it's job.

Meet your new AI Generated Slop wiggly friend!

Are you lonely 🥺? Does your heart lack the warmth of love❄️? Restless nights alone💔? Mr. Whiskers is just a click away🖱️. He will cuddle you every night🥰. He is already trained in love and atmosphere👀. He will never let you down like your family 🎉. For the low price of a $100 Ebay gift card (do not redeem it) 💳. Mr. Whiskers can be yours today ✈️. Click below 👇👇👇

Sketchy.Link.Whiskers

[fudgecake-charlie]

[kalosian-woods]

I know I already sent one but. The Bonds of Mega Evolution. The flower arranging scene but from Serena’s perspective. I beg of you. Her thoughts on being praised over Ash and Korrina who are everything she admires. Mabel’s analyses. I have so many thoughts -W-

(ps I had to do this one because my mind would not let go even through my busy day, but dw i'm still filling out the other asks + extra dw because i love this one and i can go for maybe 1 more extras from others as well if yall want... might just take a while lol but i'd rather pace myself with these and build up my writing rather than rush)

The flowerfields of Pomice Mountain were so incredibly pretty it was almost unreal in its ethereality, like a delicate watercolour painting set up in the most protected portion of Lumiose Museum and protected from human hands.

Serena looked behind her, noting the… very long distance that they made on their own legs. Well, that she made on two legs, considering how Fennekin was still a little finnicky about tracking mud sometimes. Letting the fox down, she crouched on the tip of her toes and smiled as she watched her partner frolic in the flowers. “I'm glad you like it, Fennekin!”

Coming up here was a good choice. No doubt that the likes of Ash and Korrina would travel far, but not even they would come all the way up here for a few flowers. And if Serena really wanted to impress Mabel, she had to make sure that her bouquet was as unique as can be!

Fennekin yipped at her after coming back from her moment of exploration, tail wagging happily. A small giggle came out of Serena’s mouth then as she picked out a few petals that stuck to the Pokemon’s ear. “Found something you like?”

“Fenne!” It didn’t hurt that she had Fennekin by her side. That fox was a master at ordering things, and Serena started to defer most organising details (that are doable by Pokemon) to her fuzzy little friend. It was fun and nice and such a big help to have Fennekin go through the Pokepuff ingredients, especially now as there were more tastes to account for (and more bellies to fill); just as much as there was the need to track down lost clothing blown off the clothing line or what flowers to use for their flower crowns. Fennekin started to trot forward, mouth split in a wide and toothy grin as she rounded the small hill with Serena at her heels.

Serena kept pace, letting her gaze rove over the magnificent landscape. She couldn’t believe all of her friends would want to leave this place as soon as possible: it was almost an insult to the natural beauty blooming all around them. Sure, they were here to help Korrina and Lucario master Mega Evolution, but that didn’t mean that they couldn’t relax and have some fun on the way.

Nothing was a waste of time, including now.

And breathing in the fresh mountain air, Serena couldn’t imagine it to be any other way.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·. 

There was a certain type of aura that can be sensed when it comes to ikebana.

With the bright and showy demonstrations, Mabel can already see the youth that shone brightly in all of her new wards—even the scientific young lad had that spark of childishness that was separate to what his Chespin had. Moving across the room, she shook her head; it didn’t matter if they nailed the technique for flower-arranging as it was.

Even though she was expecting Gurkinn’s granddaughter Mabel had opened her door to all of Korrina’s friends, and so, she would judge them all equally.

“Haha, d’you like it? I tried my best with Pikachu, but then a Ursaring came outta nowhere and started chasing me for picking some of—”

Ash was a spirited fellow, for certain. Some may say that danger followed him, as she had heard from the group’s late-night talks, but Mable thought differently. Was it relevant to his bond with his partner Pokemon? If it were Pikachu, certainly not—their joint work showed a sort of oiled-quickness to their every move, every kink that was possible ironed out for the most part. But still… there was a certain kind of disconnect between the pair: the tall and towering flowers alongside the more bushier and stout ones were telling in their own way. Ash longed for height, for growth, for greatness beyond everything he’s ever known. Pikachu wants the same, but there was some distance between that primal urge that were bared with every cut-up petal and splintered wood. She internally filed those observations and moved forward, coming to face a very vibrant display by a very familiar face doing a very unfamiliar pose: bowing.

“How do you like our work now, madame?”

Mabel chuckled once, using her cane to nudge up Korrina’s chin. There was no need for her to flatten her pride now, not without cause. Appraising the work, she can see some improvement this time—at least the plants used weren’t from two completely different fields this time. She gave a surreptitious look towards Lucario, who let out a surprised bark before turning away, and Mabel grinned. Of course, youth rarely liked to be challenged, and this young lady was still desperately scrabbling for some approval. The Lucario too. It’s clear that there is much work to be done in regard to the two of them, but at least they are moving a little closer to the true intent of the activity here, and that’s what counts for today. Refocusing lens takes time, after all.

“I’m so sorry, I was working on the Little Flower Arranger 2.55—”

“Why’s it called that?”

“Ash, let him finish!”

Mabel sighed good-naturedly as she looked around Clemont’s waist to the creation that he made alongside Chespin while the rambling flowed on above her. Normally, she would expect a Grass-Type to know their plants, but she was sorely mistaken when the other day Chespin had contracted a rash from sleeping on some poison ivy. Clemont seemed to balance out his Pokemon well with his worried nature, but they have yet to learn how to cater to both without leaving one side wanting, which could be expected if one knew of his adolescent Gym Leader status and focused Typing. Today seemed to be more of a Clemont-day, with the machine’s smoking remains blowing up a small portion of flowers and leaving the ground smoky and charred. At least he had some extras on hand to fill up the empty space—she can appreciate readiness whenever it appears, in all of its forms.

“Hey, look, Dedenne! It’s our turn now!”

Bonnie may be too young to be a Trainer yet, but she held some very interesting insights alongside the Pokemon of her choice. Their bouquets always held the most changes and variation, with some surprises being found around whenever they came back with their flowers. Yesterday was a freshly plucked Budew that they played around with while waiting for her to come around. Today seemed to be the pebbles that they arranged in a smiley face on top of the soil, with both of them mirroring the face. It was a very charming attempt, and if the group wasn’t on a quest for Korrina’s sake, Mabel might’ve indulged in her own desire to work with her as it was. The difference between this young girl and her brother was as clear as night and day, and yet, there were always the one clue (straight stalks this time). Patting the child’s head, she moved onto the final stop.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·. 

Serena held her breath next to Fennekin, heart pattering in her chest as she held her hands in front of her. It was her turn to present their work of art, and bearing her and Fennekin’s heart to someone so critical… it was a lot different than just running around in the fields and doing whatever they wanted.

It felt like being on a stage.

Terrifying… and yet, exhilarating as well.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·. 

As usual, a bright smattering of gold and crimson in her work. Serena was different to the others, as she didn’t strive for big or showy or even imitations of famous works from long ago. Her creations always were related to something around her—the rainy sky yesterday, the Pokemon battle on the first day the group came, and today, it seemed to be based on Fennekin itself. It’s clear that the Pokemon approved of it with the bite marks on some of the stems, but there were signs of a human hand plucking some of the flowers as well. While both Pokemon and person shared similarities, there was a focus with the delegation of each task—finding the flower, placing it, arranging it. It was unique. It was the product of them, with the skills they both displayed.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·. 

“Wonderful and in sync,” Mabel murmured, too quiet for anyone but the two of them to hear.

Serena’s breath caught, and her right hand slowly rested on her chest as Fennekin shot a triumphant look towards Chespin’s dour face.

With two claps of her hand, Mabel called out, “Good work as always, everyone! See you all tomorrow!” and it was all Serena could do to stop herself from jumping up with a shout.

The first time she actually got praise, before Korrina or even Ash. It felt… thrilling, to know that she can surpass them in this way. In her own way.

Grabbing Fennekin, she quickly made her way out of the doors before she shared a conspiratorial giggle with her partner.

[scionshtola]

like i do for my own purposes (affair au) headcanon some homophobia in ishgard due to the importance of heirs to the nobility but it would not then follow that there are no gay ppl ahdjdkskdk

[sweetvalentinescandy]

trying to make some tweek designs just to like practice or somethin idk ell oh ell im not feeling very confident in my art anymore lowkey

big yap fest for each design under the cut !!

Barbarian Tweek

"ive never really thought of tweek as afab outside of TSOT, but i feel more comfortable drawing top surgery scars [than i do like.. nipples.] ive always seen tweek as trans, usually non conforming/non binary/androgynous in general, but ive never considered transmasculine. but i like the idea!

this is probably my least canon compliant design of this bunch. i feel like the fantasy of TSOT is just so ripe for headcanons. i NEVER draw sp characters with canon in mind really, probably the autism taking over or somethin, but i always at least age them up [more in the main tweek design]. for this design, i was thinking more of what tweek thought they looked like, if not the more au version of TSOT. like, The Thief by Wintergrew on ao3 kinds of non canon compliant. thats also most of the inspiration for basically every TSOT thing i do ever. i love that series (i did cry) (a lot)"

Tweek Tweak

"its the original guy lets have a round of applause honestly..., not my favorite time ive drawn bro. he looks so boring when hes just standing there. i always see tweek as non binary, just because i project on them a LOT.. like. i know that hes a guy and probably doesnt care [in canon], but i just headcanon like that i guess. i also age him up, along with every other sp character, to be around my age so like 14-17. i know thats controversial [and by "i know" i mean i saw someone on sp whisper pinterest say they hated it] but i just dont know how to write kids. theyre kinda boring. i can project more onto teens i guess. thats kinda all there is to say. sometimes i draw tweek with brown pants, but thats because i just like the earthy aesthetic [on them]"

Wonder Tweek

"this is the most canon compliant one. im just not that much of a TFBW guy honestly (which is sad because its the only source of not really canon twenny sigh) but i guess its also the source of some of the best creek. i am not a creek hater but sometimes its hard to fight the allegations when i start crying over them having a cute scene in a video game [not because im mad its because i miss being in a relationship] [frowney tumblr loser behavior] when i say this is the most canon compliant one, i mean it. this is SHORT HAIR TWEEK. [i usually draw tweek with like longer hair like 2021 wolfmullet hair and with the little twin sideburn things idk what theyre called, mostly because i didnt know how to draw short boy hair before getting into sp and thats just how i drew them instead but a year later i finally decided to just do it and thought it was okay for startin out] code red. sound the alarms. theres not a lot to say besides that. (can you tell i hit my peak with barbarian tweek.) [i ordered this by order of how i finished them and yes you can tell sigh]"

[esteemed-excellency]

OC Ships List:

Hiram x The Quiet Deviless: they started as an excuse to draw cool outfits and look how far they've come. They live rent free in my head and I'm rotating them at lightspeed velocity. Sweet, romantic and a bit obsessive, but all in all very lovey dovey. Extremely scandalous in the eyes of polite society given their tendency for PDA, and a predictable affair if you ask anyone who personally knows Hiram. More about them here and here.

Hiram x Captain Dargor (@thunder-threnodies): fellow associates to friends to lovers to estranged acquaintances to distrustful collaborators to accomplices to friends again to lovers once more to partners to old married couple. What if you lose the person you trust the most? What if you meet them again after a decade, only to realise you both have been irremediably changed by your respective obsessions? What if you choose to keep trusting that person regardless of their changes, and despite their choices? The Narrative did a number on them but they just kept going until they found each other again. Soulful guy who is very tired of life x soulless guy who can't get enough of it. Sensucht x Streben. Immovable Object x Unstoppable Force. More about them here and here.

Hiram x Captain Snipsnop (@that-fella-snipsnop): old pals. Crazy partygoers. Senior citizens on the loose. Listener x infodumper. Amnesiac x eidetiker. Chaotic x chaotic. Research buddies. They enable each other's weirdness. The loveliest old man you will ever meet x the most annoying bastard you will ever interact with. Pov you want to avoid your correspondence class because sometimes the professor is a bit too sinister even for Benthic standards. You apply for an apprenticeship with the nice old captain who seems very sweet and a little out of place at the University. You end up on a dirigible witnessing The Horrors on the Roof. Poor Edward is there. The nice old captain just stole Poor Edward's zeppelin. Why is this happening. You manage to get back to London alive. You decide to attend a party to try and forget about the week you just had. The creepy correspondence professor and the old captain from your Roof adventure are there. Together. They're chugging absinthe shots. What the hell.

Hiram x Giorgione (@that-giorgione): Friends? Enemies? Something else? Something more? Who knows. Guy who owns the entire city x guy who knows every single person in town. They courteously exchange business plans. They politely sit through the same board meetings. They keep sending each other assassins. They keep having lunch together. They undermine each other's affairs. They keep sharing wine. The weirdest business associates situation you've ever witnessed. Guy who can't forget (affectionate) x guy who can't forget (derogatory).

Hiram x Virginia: The funniest crack ship imaginable to me. They had a thing almost 40 years ago and they're both cringed about it. Why are they even talking again. They always end up owing each other favours. They're building a railway. They despise each other. They know each other too well. They both think building the railway wouldn't be as fun without the other. They won't ever admit it. They would love to never meet again. They would love to keep pestering each other forever. Acquaintances (neutral) to lovers (cringe) to enemies to allies to acquaintances (derogatory) to enemies again to whatever is going on with the railway board meetings. Passive aggressiveness champions. Nuisance x nuisance. They're both so annoying god bles.

[quadrantadvisor]

I'm trying so hard not to be a hater but the more I learn about other ttrpgs the more the way that people talk about dnd annoys me