#I worked fast so I apologize if anything looks out of place bestie ;//;

[dreamerawaken]

*Slams down Dandy lovingly before you because I love them sm*

I can't believe!!! It took me so long!! To draw Dandy!!! What a delightful fella, my goodness! 💚

@sketchy-tour

[justmyguiltyggpleasure]

2nd Chance at Love (pt.2)

Summary: Ningning gets your number from Eunchae and asks to hang out together. Karina finds out and she doesn't like it at all.

Warnings: none for this one

PT.1

- Y/n-unnie, Ningning-unnie is asking for your number. Can I give it to her? - Eunchae asks from her place on the couch. You got home from the restaurant a while ago and were both waiting for your turn to shower.

- Why? - to that the maknae only shrugged - yeah, sure.

Eunchae typed something on her phone and blocked it going back to laying her head on your shoulder and closing her eyes. Not even a minute later you got a text from an unknown number.

| Hey! This is Ning from aespa. I just got your number from Eunchae. Hope that's not a problem

'Well, that was fast' Frowning a bit you answer right away just hoping it got nothing to do with your ex. 'Why would it now of all times?'

| Hello, sunbae-nim. Not a problem at all, is there anything I can do for you?

| Please, just Ning. Yes, actually, I want to know if you're down to hang out together

| Sounds good, just let me know when so I can tell the girls

| Oh, I was actually thinking on hanging out 1x1

'1x1?'

| I'm a bit shy but Eunchae was talking about you earlier and I think our personalities match. We could be good friends. Y'know aespa got no friends >.<

At that you chuckled. You've heard from Ryujin the girls were kind of shy around strangers and had a hard time making friends. Well, you knew that about Her.

| Totally get you. I'm down, we just finished promotions so I got some free time. Let me know when and where, I'll be there

| I'll text you later. You must be tired and it's already late, I'll let you sleep now. Goodnight ^-^

| I'll be waiting. Goodnight ^-^

- Bro, who got you smiling like that? - Yunjin asks in English while drying her hair with a towel, coming out of the bathroom with a cheeky smile.

You roll your eyes smiling back at her

- None of your business. But for real, I think I made a new friend.

- Friend or Friend? - she asks wiggling her eyebrows

- Stop, just a friend - you answer laughing

- Unnie l, stop shaking so much. - at the maknae's complaint you apologize

- Aren't you going to shower, miss? - Yunjin asks

- Ugh! I am. - she stands with a groan and makes her way to the bathroom leaving you and your bestie alone in the living room

- So… who was it?

- Ningning- sunbae-nim

- Ah, she's so nice, I was a trainee with her

- You were a trainee with everyone at this point, Jen. - you say laughing and she follows you

- True

Aespa's Dorm

- And how do you plan on doing that exactly? - Minjeong asks her friend after being told of the interest she had in the well-known player

- I'll just let it happen naturally. We'll become friends first and see where it goes from there. I want her and the only thing I know about her that I don't like is that she sleeps around a lot and only once with each girl - Minjeong hums and Ning continues - I'll just have to make sure she likes me before sleeping with her

- That's not a bad plan but… it's not great either

- I know but that's all I got for now

- What are you talking about? - Jimin peeks her head in through the door

- Just Ning's amazing plan to get y/n to fall for her - Minjeong answers, sarcasm clear in her voice

Jimin's world stopped spinning for a moment

- … right, Jimin-unnie? - she heard the maknae say and came back to her senses

- w-what? - Ningning sighed

- I'll just get close to her and show what an amazing catch I am, and then I'll just let things happen from there, it's good enough, right? - Ningning summarized her plan.

It could work… Jimin was once your friend too and things did happen from there

- Y-yeah. Yes, it is. - her voice was low and kind of sad, the girls blamed it on tiredness - Anyways, I just came here to tell you both to sleep soon. We've got a schedule early

Both girls nodded their heads. They all said their goodnight to one another and went to their respective rooms.

Jimin laid on her bed and looked at the ceiling. She tossed and turned a few times before sighing. She knew she wasn't getting any sleep that night.

Picking up her phone, she texted that one number

| We need to talk. It's important, y/n

___________________>_<_________________

Taglist: @desireyu @xen248

Want to be tagged?

[intheorangebedroom]

Pleased to meet you, epilogue

Summary: It's the dawn of a new life for you and Frankie, amidst the ruins of your former respective lives. He made a promise to you, and to himself: that he would fix everything. But can everything be fixed? Are you ready to let go, and let him? And how will you deal with your homesickness?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Gabrielle Tourneur (OFC)/French fem!Reader

Rating: disgusting fluff & explicit fifth 🔞

TW: non-descriptive allusions to past abuse and self-harm

A/N: Dear orange besties 🧡 Happy Frankie Friday ❤️‍🔥 This is the end. I am sorry it took me so long, and if anyone is still hanging in the orange bedroom, I am sorry this is so long. It's most likely bad planning on my behalf; it's also because Gabrielle was never meant to stay. I'm so scared I'll never be able to write anything else because this story fucking drained me. It's one thing to smash the keyboard and reblog unhinged gifs, but I'm very uncomfortable expressing my feelings publicly, mainly but not only on account of my ass getting very gothic, very fast. So if I've hidden some dedications at the end 🧡 But I want to say here, to anyone who's ever read and/or interacted with me and/or this story (likes, comments, reblogs, asks): THANK YOU 🧡 From the bottom of my gothic orange heart. Thank you 🧡 I really hope you like this. *presses post now and runs to hide*

Word count: 20k (I– listen, I'm sorry)

[prev] * [series masterlist]

Epilogue: Songbird

Summer

The summer is laced with sawdust. It’s everywhere.

In your nostrils, the blond, warm, toffee-like scent blending with the smell of the overworked electric sander’s gear. It’s in the sound of his boots scraping the kitchen tiles when he comes in through the backyard screen door to get a beer in the late afternoon sun. It’s in the texture of his tanned, freckled skin, soaked in with his sweat, catching at your fingertips when you run your hands over his forearms, before you lead him to the bathroom to get him cleaned up. 

It’s in the longer curls of his hair, on his cap and all of his clothes, and more often than not, it’s on your clothes too, when you join him outside the toolshed, to make sure he’s wearing the protection goggles you bought, and the dust mask he takes off the minute you look the other way. 

And you don’t know it yet, but you will forever associate it with his kisses. Languid, unhurried, they don’t lead to anything more than simply kissing. His hold on your body loose, his large hands spanning the expanse of your skin, his plush lips teasing yours, tongue swirling inside your mouth. You float together for what feels like hours, until you’re left deliciously disoriented.

And no matter what you do, it always ends up in the bed, dusted between the celadon sheets he chose for you. It scrapes at your shoulders and the round of your ass when you arch up from the bed, bucking your hips into his face. 

But that’s August. 

July is spent mostly at your place. 

Your first days together are lost to the haze of your brain. Wrapped in the hushed, draped atmosphere of your small apartment, you let him take all that he needs. His lips only ever leaving your lips for your skin, sucking in harshly, leaving new marks, his kisses more teeth than tongue. 

His body moulded around yours, inside yours. Sweat, spit, spend and slick. His palms relentless, roaming your body. Restless fingers digging into your curves. 

On Monday morning, the drive to the bookstore is tense and silent, his brow deeply creased, that tick of the jaw you haven’t forgotten. But there’s a life for you, here. One that you are looking forward to living. One you have to be able to afford. 

In short, you need to go back to work.

Out in the street, by the double-parked truck in front of the store, his emotions bleed into his kiss, fingers threaded in your hair holding you still in their grip, his bite on your lower lip nearly drawing blood, and you have to whine yourself out of it. 

You offer Suzanne a short apology, disarming in its sincerity. 

“I’ve been very ill, but I’m better now,” you say, and she silently nods because it is quite plain to see. You are better. There is life in your face and light in your eyes. She can’t possibly miss the marks on your skin, but as usual, she chooses to keep to herself and you carry on with your tasks and your day, quietly humming. 

Going through the backlog that built up during your absence, your mind wanders back to his kiss, its urgency contrasting with your relief. Beyond the tiredness weighing down your bones, deep down, you had been waiting for him. Like you always did. Sitting at the pitch-dark bottom of your exhausted heart, the knowledge that he’d be coming.

When you leave the store in the late afternoon, you find him there, standing across the street, arms folded over his chest, his tall figure, dark and intense, leaned against the truck’s hood. 

Goosebumps break out along your arms when you step together into your apartment, chilled air hitting your skin. On one of the bedroom window sills, the ancient AC unit is softly droning. Behind you, Frankie leans down to kiss the raised skin on your nape, whispering, “I fixed it, hope you don’t mind.” Not giving you time to answer, he nips at your neck and tugs at your shirt, but you turn around and stop him with your searching gaze. 

“Please, Frankie, talk to me.”

The night slips away in whispers, two quiet voices rising from under the baby-blue sheets in the cool darkness. What went down at the bar, who said what, how he got hit. When he’s done, you press him further than you think yourself able to handle, for his sake, but all he gives you is, “I don’t regret anything” and “I will fix it.” You believe him.

In the silence between his words, you lie still. You listen, you understand. His needs, the proximity of your body and the soothing contact of your skin, to be cooped up with you in the smallest possible space for as long as it takes for him to absorb the fact that he hasn’t lost you. That he never did. That he never could. 

So, the days pass. Sweat, spit, spend and slick. Stifling heat and sleepless nights. 

You bite your tongue every time you look at his weary face, every time you want to argue that the daily three hour commute to his workplace is far too long. He’s not flying yet. So you let him. 

Until July 23rd. 

Off on weekends, he picks you up on Saturdays, but today is Thursday and a quick shudder of panic runs down your spine when you step outside into the scorching heat and find him parked there. You scrape your knuckles in your haste to roll down the iron shutters, but it’s only when you join him that you realise what’s different: he’s waiting inside the truck. 

Elbow propped on the door through the rolled down window, he starts the engine as soon as you get in and the entire hold lights up with his smile. 

“Hey baby, how was your day?” he beams from underneath the brim of his cap, “Wanna go for a ride?”

When he pulls out an hour later onto a Brooklyn street you don’t recognise, your heart is pounding too fast, already. You have a notion of what this might be about, but you can’t bring yourself to hope you are right, even when he turns to look at you with that smug grin you haven’t seen in a long while. 

“Where are we?” you rasp, your voice cracking around the words.

“Climb here, baby, you’ll get a better view,” he smiles, tilting his head down and slapping a hand on his thigh. His smile deepens, to his dimple and to his eyes hidden behind his aviators, at the familiar, tell-tale sight of your pulse thrumming wild under the soft skin of your neck. 

But your chest feels too heavy, it’s pinning you down, tears prickling your eyes at what you’ll see, so he unfastens your seatbelt, then his, and reaches to haul you onto his lap with that easy strength, that surprising softness. 

The steering wheel bites into your lower back and you can’t peer out the window, instead you crumble onto his chest, your fingers twisting his shirt and your face buried in his neck, your own personal safe place. And anyway, you don’t need to look, you know what’s out there. 

A tall brick building, its brown facade streaked with iron fire escapes. 

A dry sob quakes your frame, and you feel the pressure of his large hands on your back, their warmth flowing through you. You remain limp in his embrace until he can talk around the memory choking him. That of a young man, driving up to basic training in his sister’s VW, wondering where he would have taken you if you only had more time to spend together. Daydreaming on the promise of later. 

More time then. Now years to erase. Rewrite and live again.

“Alright baby, alright,” he breathes into your hair, “how ‘bout we go to Coney Island?”

It’s bright and busy and loud. It’s rowdy teenagers laughing over the crashing ocean’s waves. It’s neon rainbows and blaring pop music and kids’ high-pitched screams on convoluted rides. It’s his hand splayed wide and protective in the small of your back, steering you through the crowd. It’s cotton candy on his lips, and sticky sugar on your fingertips; it’s a black and white photo booth stripe underneath the Wonder Wheel, split up in two, the upper half tucked inside your wallet, where a torn paper with faded ink used to be. 

It’s your life, now, and for the second time, you’re not standing warily on the outside. 

That night, he drives back to his place. That night, he’s out of the truck in a beat and you barely have time to climb down before he grabs the back of your head and the swell of your ass. He tastes of candy apple, sweet and sour, licking into your mouth, and his scent fills your lungs. He carries you inside with your arms around his shoulders, fingers digging into the strong plane of his back. 

That night, in many regards the first, you don’t make it to the bedroom. He puts you down in the living-room and he throws a couch cushion on the floor, shoving you down onto it, kneeling between your thighs, tugging roughly at your clothes and you scramble on the smooth leather to undress him. 

Leant over you, his grip on your wrists a bruising one as he pins your arms along your sides, fucking into you at a blinding pace, sweat dripping down his sideburns, your legs entwined around his, your breasts bouncing with each thorough trust. 

“Fucking look at you,” he grunts, again and again and again, and you come so fast, so hard, your back arching off the leather at a painful angle, but he doesn’t slow down. He fucks you through your high, and when you come down he’s already asking for “another one, give me another one.”

—

The phone keeps sliding down between your sweaty fingers. You swap hands, waiting for Dolores to pick up through what feels like a thousand ringing tones. 

The relief in her voice is audible, which confirms what you expected: she’s heard about the fall-out between you and Rosie. And soon enough she’s scolding you as if you were still the schoolgirl she first met 20 years earlier, and you realise you missed the mother nearly as much as you did the daughter. 

“Dolores, I just need to find out if she’s working next Tuesday. We need to talk, but I’m scared she won’t answer if I just call her. I need to see her, Dolores.” 

Her voice drops to a conspiratorial tone. 

“Just come home for dinner on Monday night, ok?” 

You get there half an hour early and wait, sitting on the edge of the couch, the back of your thighs sweating on the crocheted quilt draped over the cushions. 

A whole month without talking to each other, the longest ever you’ve spent without communicating in a way or another. Even back when you had no money to spare for transatlantic phone calls, you had never let such a long stretch of time come between you. 

You shoot up at the sound of her keys in the lock, looking at Dolores with sheer panic, and it doesn’t help that she reciprocates your look. 

Rosie darts inside the cramped apartment, grumbling in Spanish about parking in the Lower East Side, and stops short on the living-room threshold at the sight of you. 

Your rehearsed speech remains stuck in your dry throat. She crosses the room in two strides, dropping her bag to the floor, rushing to hug you with all of her strength. 

You breathe in her scent, shea butter, white musk, eyes shut to hold back your tears.

“Oh, Gabbi! I thought you went back home, I got so fucking scared,” she whispers, and under your clenched fists, her back is heaving.

Home. Did you always have so many of those? 

There’s a lot to unpack, but neither of you will let the other one talk, let alone apologise. Strongheaded as ever, Rosie, however, makes sure you listen. The panic that triggered what she calls her “disproportionate reaction.” The guilt and regrets behind her silence. Her misplaced pride. 

Atoning has always been easy for you, too easy, in fact, but you offer her words that have never passed your lips before. Words you now feel confident enough to fathom, and pronounce out loud: “I do need you.”

The two of you speak in turns until Dolores sits you down at the dining table, and then you keep talking with your mouths full. She’s cooked enough food to feed you both for a month, but you still eat most of it. 

It’s past 11pm when the chatter subsides. Stifling a yawn, she offers to drive you home. 

“I’m not sure, Rosie,” you start, uncertain, apologetic, “it’s quite the detour. He lives way up north,” you add as a way of explanation. 

“And is he going to succeed where we all failed and get you to drive your own car, Gabrielle?” 

You giggle with sheer delight because everything is different but nothing has changed, her beautiful black eyes alight with a mischievous flicker when she pulls out her phone to type in your new address. 

—

“Wouldn’t it be cheaper to just buy a table from Ikea or something?” you risk, putting on the construction gloves he’s handing you. You look down at the solid oak planks sticking out of the truck’s tailgate the two of you are about to carry to the backyard through the kitchen. 

He huffs and pauses dramatically, with an ostentatious roll of his eyes.  

“It would be cheaper, Gabrielle, but it wouldn’t be good. My girl is not eating off some cheap wooden melamine in her own home.”

Considering his frugal lifestyle, you were surprised to find out money is not really an issue. His pilot income, while not extravagant, is still sufficient by most standards, and it adds up to his veteran pension, making for a comfortable living. However, you know there are monthly installments for the mortgage. There’s food, electricity, gasoline and all this goodman premium quality wood.

You’ve offered to pay him a rent and share the common expenses, which has earned you another huff, followed by a sarcastic, “sure, I’m gonna have you pay fucking rent. How about you keep your money and get a car, big girl from a big city?” 

The suggestion punctuated by a nonchalant wink, before his plush lips found the slope of your shoulder, with a sharp scrape of teeth. 

You’re Alice, falling down the white rabbit hole, discovering him all over again, only everything feels safe because you know you’re landing in your own private wonderland. 

His quiet confidence, his occasional cockiness. His deadpan jokes quietly delivered under his breath. And the deeper you dive, the more you learn, the more you melt. 

His humble selflessness, his kind attention to others. His practical, methodical, efficient thinking. His sharp mind and keen eye. His determination. What little remains of the hermetically sealed lid, and the hard shell underneath the soft one. The limits to his patience, too. A threshold not to be crossed, but only where others are concerned. 

His playfulness when he whispers filth into your ear at the most unexpected moment, in the most inappropriate places.

It’s all intoxicating, unknown yet familiar. 

You’re like a flower seed that has lain dormant for years, finally blooming under his benevolent care. 

Nights are short and the right kind of exhausting, and you’ve never felt better. You dress in colourful shades: daffodil yellow, marigold orange, poppy red. 

As soon as you moved in, at the end of July, it started with shelves for your numerous books to join his collection. Most of the novels in two editions: one in French and one in Spanish. The Master and Margarita now standing in view, next to Le Maître et Marguerite. 

More shelves in the bedroom closet for your clothes and shoes, and a large standing mirror to check your outfit in the morning. 

Electric shutters installed on the bedroom window, so you can sleep in the dark – your shocked gasp met by another soft huff, when you found out about the price. 

And one Sunday morning, a dusty cardboard box he brought in from the garage. The orange curtains flowed out of it in a musty puff of air, dust particles floating in a sunbeam and you smiled at each other in silence, crossed-legged on the hardwood bedroom floor. 

You closed the distance between you to straddle his lap, the position quickly becoming a habit to deal with just about anything, from joy to frustration to fear to contentment. 

At the bottom of the box sat a green plaid shirt. He pulled it out as you wrapped yourself around him. 

“Doesn’t fit me anymore,” he murmured against your temple. “You can have it back, baby.”

You handwashed the shirt and the curtains with unnecessary care, and helped him hang the latter on the bedroom window. 

They clashed violently with the rest of the room, and you stood in silence, wrapped in their orange glow, Frankie’s chest pressed to your back.

Just like your grandmother, his mother was a seamstress. She’d sewn them. 

“It was her favourite colour,“ he’d said. And he’d never mentioned her again. 

You looked at them, unsure. Hadn’t you already lived too much of your life in the past? 

“The colour’s really– loud, Frankie. Are you sure about this?” you murmured. 

He lowered his face into the crook of your neck, as he so often did, and his lips brushed at the shell of your ear, the thin hair on your nape standing with the rush of air when he spoke. 

“I can’t wait to fuck you in this light, baby.” 

He pressed his body harder at your back so you would feel just how much he meant it, expertly unfastening your button fly, his hand inside your jeans shorts, travelling down your belly where heat spread in its wake like a wildfire.

You leaned back into him, closing your eyes and smiling at his appreciative grunt when the tips of his fingers met the dampness pooling in your sensible underwear.   

“You’re gonna sit on my cock now, Gabrielle. I want to watch you come in the orange.”

Afterwards, as you basked, naked, sated, exhausted, in the familiar glow, you tried and failed to affect a casual tone to ask him about the one thing that had been taunting you since you’d first been in this room, back in June.

“Why is this bed so big, Morales? How many women have you fucked in here?”

He’d scrunched up his face, feigning hurt before flashing his dimple.  

“Believe it or not, just the one with the French accent.”

—

Some time around mid-August, you come home from work to a faint smell of fresh paint hanging in the house. The loud, now familiar buzzing rumble of the Makita guides you to the small office next to the master bedroom, where you find him looking dishevelled and bright, his grey t-shirt stained with white paint, the power-drill cooling in his hand. 

The walls are clean, freshly painted in a luminous white. Underneath the single window overlooking the backyard, where he’s hung the blue drapes, a small wicker sofa is covered with a plastic screen he hastily lifts off and starts folding. Your two Modotti prints hanging on each side of the room, one over a tiny desk where he’s placed your laptop and a round cactus in a blue china plant pot, and the other over a breathtakingly beautiful mahogany display cabinet, that already contains all your photographic treasures. 

“I didn’t make this,” he explains sheepishly, tilting his chin toward the piece of furniture as you run your fingers over the sophisticated marquetry work. “Izzy helped me find it. D’you like it, baby?” his left hand twitching nervously, the plastic screen creasing noisily. 

You shake your head awkwardly in the middle of the cosy room. It looks like you. A refuge of your own. Love and gratitude swelling in your chest, laying heavy on your lungs. At a loss for the proper words to express a feeling so simple and earnest. 

“Frankie, I never… I never had anything so beautiful. Why– what is this all for?” you murmur, your voice unsteady.

“For when you need space,” he simply answers with a sweet, puppy-eyed face.

—

With early September comes the relief of cooler nights, and Frankie launches himself into yet another building project: lounging chairs for the backyard. 

“Who taught you how to do all that?” you keep asking, and he grins bashfully, the shadow of another dimple on his left cheek, his answer always the same. 

“I don’t know, baby, I just taught myself.”

Of the two wide, sturdy chairs he’s crafted, you only use one. Evenings are spent stargazing, sipping beers and talking, your bodies intertwined, sunk into each other’s scent. Oblivious to the street noises, hiding away in a world of your own. 

When you join him in the backyard with two beers on a chilly Friday evening, nothing indicates it will be any different. Until you lay your head on his chest and feel the constricting tension inside it. 

Is it because of your insatiable fascination with everything that touches him? Curiosity killed the cat, your mother would always tell you, enough that you ended up living your life forever treading on the edge of most relationships. 

Is it because he found his own equilibrium readjusting your imbalance? 

Whatever the reason, from the moment you curl up into Frankie’s side, you can tell something’s off.

Pressing yourself closer to him, you slide your hand under the hem of his t-shirt and bring it to rest over his scar, grounding him with your touch.

Only then, Frankie starts talking. 

His childhood in San Diego, growing up with a hot-tempered sibling and the shadow of a mother, her melancholy, her obsession, her passing… all the way back to his parents getting married. The happy memories only borrowed, reimagined through faded photographs. Absence, forever unanswered, hanging over him like a chiming mobile. The father he never met.   

Holding your breath, intently listening to a story he had so far only ever told in scraps, you’re struck by the realisation that both of you grew up without a father. Gone, already, before you were born. 

Under the canopy of the purple urban night sky, Frankie, at last, confides in you about his ghosts, his fears, his rage. About the strangeness of moving through life with questions in lieu of bearings, of being older than his father will ever be.

And when he’s done talking, when his words have run dry, you take the hand he runs over his face and bring his palm to your lips. You hold on to it tight for balance as you climb on top of him. Vulnerability altering his face and it carries you back to a windy Brooklyn street on a forever ago Monday morning, it slices through your heart, bittersweet, sharp-edged. You once felt so helpless to erase the crease of his brow. But that was forever ago. 

You lower your lips to it, and with a kiss you absorb all the pain it withholds. In the still of the night, in the near darkness, a fleeting light glimmers in his dark eyes, the sliver of a swelling tear. 

You cup his face, and you whisper, “I’m so proud of you, Francisco Morales. My man.” 

He sucks in a sharp breath. It trickles down your spine. 

You tug lightly at his shirt and he offers no resistance, sitting up and letting you slide it off above his head. 

Another kiss to the side of his nose, to the edge of his jaw, to the heart-shaped bare patch of his beard. Down along his neck, and he’s the pliant one, for once. Over the slope of his shoulder and to the dip between his collarbone, his suprasternal notch, where you lick and linger. Your palm pressed to his scar. 

A scrape of your teeth over his nipple and you feel him thicken between your hips, until his hands grab hold of your legs and he rasps, “Not here.”

He carries you back inside your home, through your kitchen and down the hallway to your bedroom, your legs hitched around his waist. Lays you down onto the bed where he spent too many nights avoiding sleep so he wouldn’t dream of you. 

In the heat of your mouth, under the caress of your hands, with the sway of your hips, Frankie is whole again. 

—

Autumn 

Your happiness makes him giddy. A grown man, a veteran, and every time he looks at you, shuffling over to the bedroom, a dance in your steps, or when he hears you sing along some classic rock tune as you prepare coffee on Sunday mornings, he’s fucking giggling.

He’s done some things he would have deemed ridiculous, no, downright crazy, only a few months ago. He’s picked his T-shirt from the laundry basket after you’d slept in it a couple of nights, and wore it to work. He washed his hair with your shampoo to carry the scent of you; he kept it long because you asked him to. He’s taken this colourful thing you tie your hair with, and wore it on his wrist all day, breathing it in every time he’s alone.  

He, who’s never been late anywhere, can’t make it on time to work anymore, despite waking up earlier than ever before, because he can’t tear himself away from the sight of your tranquil, sleeping face. 

And in the evenings, he brushes your hair. He’s discovered a birthmark on your nape, a little red fleck hidden in your hairline. On some days, he can’t think of anything else, counting down the hours until he can see it again. Press his lips to it, eyes closed in rapture. 

He doesn’t give a fuck how it looks, or what his friends or anyone would think if they knew. He’s longed all his life to experience that blissful balance with you. The one you two settled in so rapidly, with such ease. 

By 4pm, he’s done with his working day and he drives home. This once was a dreaded hour, but not anymore. Evidences of your presence are scattered all over the house. 

In the bathroom of course, your French cosmetics and lotions neatly aligned in the small cabinet, two towels, two robes. The small room constantly smells of you. 

In the bedroom, in the way you leave the bed open when you leave after him in the morning, the comforter folded over, in stark contrast with his military bed-making habits. 

In the living-room, whatever book you’re currently reading lying on the coffee table. Framed pictures of you and Rosie smiling at him from the bookshelves.

Foul smelling cheeses in the fridge. Your tin mug drying on the rack next to the sink. Two knives, two plates, two forks. 

A house that feels like home, at last. 

Instinctively, he understood your need for independence and learnt to navigate it. A big girl from a big city indeed, he’s known it all along. You’ve only had yourself to rely on for most of your life. And he gets it. 

So in spite of his primitive impulse to provide for you in every way, he refrained from protesting when you expressed the will to pay for food, and gas whenever you get the chance. You can be stubborn, if you need to be. He’s learnt that too. 

You sometimes go to the movies alone, or visit art exhibitions, and there are the occasional girls' nights out in the city. 

When you come back home afterwards, it’s a real treat, one he can’t get enough of. He feasts on your buoyant tales of what you’ve seen, experienced, discovered or learned, on your eagerness to share it with him. He could listen to you for hours. He does.

Some other times, however, you feel small, your anxiety crawling back out from within, settling to the forefront. You’re still the same girl he met, vulnerable, incredibly courageous. Seeking his reassurance. 

And he’s equally happy to make sure you get both space and safety. The single most important purpose he could ever be entrusted with. 

Out in public, in the street or amongst friends, you two never hold hands. There’s a modesty about you and him. 

Still, it’s always his hand in the small of your back before crossing the street or going through thick crowds. It’s brief, stolen knowing glances, fingers intertwined under a diner’s table. 

When you think no one is watching, you tuck yourself into his side, his large hand gripping your hip. As if you can’t live in the open, yet. As if you’d rather hide your happiness from the rest of the universe, lest it be taken away again. 

And there are his eyes; they always find yours. Watchful and intent, years of training and acquired instinct put to use to protect you, keep you close. 

But your behaviour doesn’t matter, anyway. The organic pull between your two bodies is far too obvious to conceal. 

He hasn’t stopped, he never will, leaving marks on your skin. Blooming flecks of his love peeking out just barely from under the collar of your shirts, for you to carry and never forget you are his. You squirm in his hold when he pulls in your skin, hard suck, sharp teeth, squirm and whine in pleasure-plain. 

He brands you. He admits it now. His love flushes your blood to the surface of your skin. He does that to you. You let him. 

Something alien, unbridled, something he can only identify as pride has him puff out his chest whenever he sees you in his clothes. 

As if he hadn’t built rows of shelves to accommodate yours, it seems you’re always wearing his. None of his plaid shirts are safe, you even wear them to work, only to change into one of his t-shirts the minute you come home. 

He pretends to mind, knowing you love that game. Only one day, in early October, you dig up a military tin trunk containing his army stuff in the garage, and you start wearing the things you find in there too.

The first glimpse of you in a green jersey has his stomach turn. Too upset to speak, he watches you leave with it for the day, willing his disapproving glances to be eloquent enough. 

But a portrait of him in his dress uniform pops up on your desk, next, in a brand new fancy frame. And a little over a week later, on a Sunday morning, he walks in from the backyard to find you in a US Air Force shirt, one of his early ones, and the fact that it actually suits you, fits you like one of your own thrift store swag, oversized in just the right way, has his temper simmer. 

He walks straight to the stove where you’re cooking scrambled eggs, his boots thumping heavily on the tiles. A sweet smile curls your lips when you turn around to face him. However sweet, it doesn’t stop the words from shooting out of him, nor contains the anger in his warning. 

“Ok look, I don’t want you to wear those– things, Gabrielle. I don’t want any of it to touch you, entiendes?”

The Spanish slips right out of him, but you hold up your smile, and hand him a mug of freshly brewed coffee. 

“I really love the Morales name tag,” you simply state. 

He grabs the mug by reflex, thrown off by your unfazed reaction. Raising on your tiptoes, you place a kiss on the bare patch of his jaw. 

“I’m proud of everything you ever did, Francisco,” you add in earnest. “But I’ll take it off, if you don’t like it.”

The blunt honesty of your answer immediately deflates him, and he swallows thickly at the first sliver of your skin when you unbutton the shirt to reveal your naked breasts. 

—

Familiarity hasn't killed this miracle. Even when, in the intimacy of your house, you’re never more than two feet apart. Skin on skin from the moment you rush home at night until the moment he ruefully passes the door in the morning. 

On his lap is where you sit most of the time, and he fucking loves it, sliding his hand underneath the hem of your clothes, pecking kisses in the curve of your neck, under your ear, where the scent of you is heady, feeling the weight of you shift against his body when you talk. 

Your hand on his thigh when he drives, his arm on the back of the seat when you take the wheel. Brushing your teeth side by side before bed. Curled into his chest, slouched on a pile of pillows to watch movies on his computer (he’s offered to buy a television, but you declined). Your legs propped over his when you read together on the couch. 

At night, in the ridiculously oversized bed, your bodies lie entwined. You need him around you to fall asleep, need him to crush you with his weight, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“You run so hot,” you mumble with delight, seconds before tipping over into unconsciousness, your voice heavy with your day. 

You taste so good, he murmurs against that spot he likes too much under your ear, his kisses rippling in shivers along your skin; you taste so good, he moans into your mouth, never sated, never pulling back first; you taste so fucking good, he grunts into your cunt, pinning you down on the rumpled linen. 

You’re here, at last, for him to love and to revere, for him to taste, taste, taste.

He had you in his truck, pulled over to the side of the road in a rainstorm, on the way to an upstate farmers market. He had you in the garage, against the hood cooling down. He had you in a bathroom stall in the Guggenheim, his mouth fastened over yours to keep you quiet, his fingers buried inside your cunt. 

He has you in the storage room in the back of the bookstore, more often than he should, when Suzanne’s not there on Saturday afternoons and he can’t wait for you to come home. When you come around him, he calls you his good girl. 

He had you in your room; you sat him down on the wicker sofa, rucked up your pretty dress and rode his thigh clad in raw denim, “Remember the first time you made me come, Francisco?” 

He gripped your ass so forcefully your skin bore bruises for days, and you gave him that sound, that two-tone moan, straight into his ear and then you dragged your teeth along the column of his throat. He flung you down on the carpeted floor and fucked you limp. 

He had you in the bathroom, more times than he can count, and in there, whether rough or languid, he always fucks you with a delightful, ironic revenge. 

He ate your cunt on the dining table like you were the main course in a fancy dinner, and then he flipped you over and fucked you so hard you cried out his name. 

He brought your shoulders up against his chest, clasped his hand over your mouth and fucked you harder. 

You bit his fingers and clung onto his arms, your nails carving lovely pink crescents into his flesh, your entire body jerking when you came again, your cunt gripping him and you sobbed as he filled you up. 

He dropped to the floor, exhausted, chest heaving, drenched in sweat, and you crawled over him, curling into his side. 

When he fucks you with such feral rage, you’re soft for days afterwards, as if relieved by the reminder of his intensity. And just like with everything you need, he’s only too happy to provide. 

“Frankie—” you breathed out, but you trailed off and you hugged him tighter, and he thought you were about to say it, those three little words you spoke daily in a million different ways but never with actual words. 

But you stopped short, once again. 

He often wonders if you’ve ever told them to anyone. To Rosie, you might have, even Will, perhaps. To Ben, he’s now certain you didn’t. 

He can’t tell why it’s so important to him to hear them. After all, he’s never pronounced them either. Not in English. Not when you’re awake. 

But this isn’t only about a shared feeling. He knows your family never taught you how, and the thought makes his body ache. 

—

In the weeks leading up to Halloween, you grow more and more excited, decorating the house, scheming about matching costumes. It doesn’t even occur to him to deny you any of it, he’d dress as a pink bunny if you asked him to. Even though, given what you have labelled “your fascination for all things morbid,” he can tell a bunny isn’t in store. 

Here he is, falling in love with you all over again. Your childlike enthusiasm, your unabashed enjoyment, your bubbling excitement. These are the things he lives for. 

At long last, he gets to introduce you to his sister on Halloween’s eve. Out of town for most of the summer, Izzy’s invited over you for dinner, but the evening doesn’t play out in the least the way he thought it would. 

You pretend otherwise, but your silence betrays your nervousness on the drive to Manhattan. His doesn’t talk either, tense and anxious until you get out of the truck and he can splay his hand on your back, feel you loosen under his touch. 

For weeks, months, he imagined the two of you vibrantly sharing your similar views on politics, when in fact the interaction remains polite and policed, at first, nearly distant. 

Until you zero in on a couple of old pictures displayed in his sister's apartment, in the hallway to the bathroom. 

Izzy’s entire demeanour shifts. She’s delighted to provide you with embarrassing anecdotes on “babyface Frankie.”

“Look at this lanky teenage boy,” she grins, and Frankie, a grown man, a veteran, Frankie feels his heart skip a beat and trip over the sight of your wide eyes filling with tears. 

Back at home, in the dark bedroom, you open up. Tucked under the comforter, wrapped in his arms, with your head resting on his chest. Those are the moments in which the words you had to swallow down all your life come easy. 

“It’s because of the dead,” you begin. “It’s almost like a promise. That they can come back and walk amongst us for one night. I know it’s childish of me, but I would— I would like to see my grandparents again. Especially now. I can’t even lay flowers on their grave.”

He pulls you in closer. Waits for you to keep going, hoping you will. Guessing you are being mindful about his own ghosts. Adamant not to press, he simply gives your hip a light squeeze. 

When you resume, your voice drops lower. And you tell him everything. 

Your mother got pregnant during her senior year in high school, and sought an abortion her mother didn’t let her get. Taking you in when you were born, she watched as your mother left home in rebellion. 

“It was wrong of her. My mother had the right to decide,” you say in a little voice, and the implication makes him physically sick, a foul taste sitting in the back of his throat at your resignation. 

You go on to describe your happy, albeit short years with your grandparents. The orange curtains, summer vacations by the ocean, your grandfather teaching you how to read a map and ride a bike. 

And how it all ended abruptly with your grandmother's death. 

You had to go live with your mother, then, and as you briefly recount some of your most difficult moments, you make excuses for her. It wasn’t that bad. I was too sensitive as a kid. I wasn’t her choice. She was only 23 then. 

Your father had long bailed, and again you provide reasons and excuses. You chuckle sadly when you mention two half-sisters. “Strangers,” you say. 

You’ve long severed ties, with all of them, and it’s probably better, you say. For your mother, anyway. For you too, you have to believe. Some days, some days still, you can’t help it. You look her up on social media. Just to see. Make sure she’s ok. 

Frankie listens. His heart bleeds inside his hallowed chest. Pieces of you falling into place to the muted sound of your voice, your words crawling under his skin. 

I’m sorry. 

Please. 

I never had anything so beautiful. 

And when your voice dwindles at the evocation of a step-father coming into your life when you were seven, when you finally fall quiet, what Frankie hears in your silence makes his inside curl and burn up with a vengeful rage. 

But you’re done talking for the night. You circle his waist and soon, your breathing evens out, your body easing into sleep with little, jerky movements. 

Frankie lies in the opaque darkness of the room, clenching his jaw until the physical pain takes off a bit of the edge. Eyes wide open to the memory of the first time he touched your breasts, on loop in his brain. 

Is the man still alive? You certainly are wise to keep that part to yourself. You really do know him well. Because that would be the one kill he would never regret. 

The following morning, he stays in bed until you wake up, and you don’t question his presence, even if he should already have left.   

He follows you into the bathroom, steps with you into the tub and washes your body, towels you off, brushes your hair. 

You let him. 

—

“How old is Santi, again?” you ask from the bedroom. 

Frankie spits the mouthwash into the sink and straightens up with a heavy sigh. 

You know how old Santi is. But there’s something else on your mind, something that’s been eating at you, causing you to be distracted since the invitation to the party arrived in the mail. Something that’s compelled you to avoid eye contact since you came back from work, today. Something you’re keeping to yourself, probably trying to protect him, if he had to guess.

“He’s turning 37, baby,” he answers, imperturbable, buttoning up his worn denim shirt, leaving the last two buttons open.

“Oh yeah, right. Yovanna told me she invited Rosie,” you continue, “but she didn’t mention who else’ll be there—” you trail off.

There it is. Who else will be there. Or rather, who won’t be. 

“Too many people for comfort, that’s for sure,” he chuckles, stepping out of the bathroom to join you.

Standing in front of the large rectangular mirror he’s built for you, you’re fiddling with the little strings tying your dress at the waist, and the sight of your silhouette in profile has his breath hitching. You don’t often dress up, but tonight you’re wearing a black wrap dress that looks like an oversized smoking jacket, with a plunging neckline and a whole lot of leg. 

You wore dresses all summer, short or long, but as the days got shorter and the air got cooler, you went back to jeans and pants only. 

“I don’t like tights,” you explained once. 

And whatever you wear is fine; he can snap your fly open with two fingers, but seeing your legs clad in the sheer black material does something to him. Something that shoots straight to his cock.

“Damn, baby,” he whispers, and it’s all he manages.

“I don’t know,” you wince, “I have those smart black trousers, perhaps I should chan–” but you fall quiet because he’s come to stand behind you, his broad frame towering over your tall one, his head dipping into your neck. 

His mouth stops half an inch short of your throat, and the magnetic pull it exerts on your skin lifts his lips in a satisfied grin. He draws back, the movement imperceptible, and it’s as though your skin reaches out. Like witchcraft. 

“Frankie, would you like me to wear fancier clothes?” you ask in a small voice, finally looking him in the eyes through the looking glass. 

You lean your head back to rest against his shoulder, and he reaches for your legs, his palms lightly trailing down over the smooth fabric.

“No, baby” he starts, and he watches the goosebumps breaking along your neck at the sound of his voice. “What I want is irrelevant, you wear whatever makes you feel good. Only tonight, I won’t mind if you decide to wear that,” he finishes. 

His calloused fingers span up your thighs, catching at the thin material, all the way to your mound. The tights press into it, and it’s fucking delicious. When you close your eyes, two of his fingers travel downward along your constrained folds, and the low grunt that rumbles from his chest is met by a whimpering sound you can’t hold back. 

His left hand slithers under the side of your dress to find the swell of your breast, teasing your nipple with his thumb.

“We’re gonna go to this party, and everyone there will be looking at you in this dress. Your breasts… your legs… your eyes… your smile…” a stroke over your seam with each word whispered into your ear, and your eyes flicker, you buck into him, “and I’m gonna look at them looking at you while I decide how I’m gonna ruin you and these fucking tights the minute we come home.”

He dives into your neck, pressing his plush lips to your soft skin, giving it a hard suck for good measure. 

Santi and Yovanna’s place stands out from the row of neatly aligned houses. Light pouring out from every window, music, warmth and laughter spilling into the bleak November night. 

His hand finds your back when you climb out of the truck and join him on the sidewalk. You’re wearing shiny black heels he didn’t even know you had. They make you taller, slightly shifting the familiar landmarks of your body at his side, and he thinks the entire party will be able to see it on his face. 

Pride, like the sun reverberating over the surface of a placid ocean.

It’s that ability of yours to overcome your fear, to go headstrong against it. He won’t ever get over it. You’re more courageous than some men he’s fought alongside, and he often wonders if this could be the main reason why Will held you in such high regards. 

And yet, you’ve chosen him to be the one who gets to hold you when you can’t be brave. Most of his life now revolves around being worthy of that.

But tonight, you carry your head high.

All of Pope’s friends and colleagues will be here, save for three of them, and their absence will, most certainly, noticeably stand out. 

Yovanna personally called Frankie to inform him she had taken it upon herself not to invite Tom. Ever the suave diplomat, Santi kept loosely in touch with him after the incident at the bar. But he knows from Santi that Yovanna strongly disapproves of the lasting bond between them.

On the subject of the Millers, however, Santi remains tight-lipped. Frankie assumes they still hang out on a regular basis, probably on Friday evenings, at the bar, where himself has become persona non grata. And he bears no resentment for that, not towards anyone.

However, and even if he would never admit it to you, he misses the two men. He misses the bar, and perhaps most of all, he misses the fight nights. Benny’s jokes and Will’s expressive silence.

He’s texted Benny. Back in September, for his birthday, and his message remained not only unanswered, but unread. He tried again, a week later, and then a third time, to no avail. 

He tried Will, next, and the phone rang out for what felt like a whole minute before he got sent to voicemail. The next morning, Will called him back during his morning commute. A smooth move for a clever man, Frankie thought. He hung his head as he listened to the short, non-committal voicemail that didn’t require any follow-up. Not exactly a rejection. Definitely nothing of an invitation. 

He can tell you miss him too. Miss them. Small telling details permeating your daily life. You change the station every time CCR comes up on the radio. A wistful sigh that punctuates your impressions of an art exhibition. 

So when the invitation came, he picked up his phone again. 

But he knows your presence tonight implies a choice on Pope’s behalf. You’re smart enough to have it figured out, and he doesn’t need to ask you how you feel about it. He hears it in your short replies, sees it in the taut line between your shoulder blades, feels it in the tight squeeze of your small hand around his —a first, in public. 

And yet you step into that party with your chin up and he wills his confidence to seep into you through his touch, to convey it with the pride lighting up his eyes whenever they set on your beautiful face.

Trust me. I will fix it.

The front door is open and you step together into the crowded living-room, where the furniture has been taken out or pushed against the walls to make space. 

Santi rapidly walks up to you to greet you warmly. Beaming, clean-shaven, sharply dressed in a black suit, black shirt, no tie, he looks perfectly at ease in this social setting. But then again, he’s at ease everywhere, whether it is a luxuriant jungle or a parched desert.

Behind him, Yovanna flutters from guest to guest, shining bright as a Tuscan summer sun with all the standing lamps bouncing over the golden sequins of her short, long-sleeved dress. In his peripheral vision, Frankie catches your relieved smile. When she rushes to hug you, you hand her the bottle of champagne you bought two days ago. 

“I don’t know the first thing about champagne,” you’d said, “I just took the most expensive one,” an apologetic shrug he eased up with a lingering kiss. 

Yovanna takes your jackets, complimenting your outfit, and you slowly small talk your way through the crowd over to the other side of the room, where a bar has been set up and a young woman with short dark hair and tattooed hands mixes drinks. Frankie recognises her from the bar, where she sometimes works as an extra. 

He watches over you, intently, through the endless parade of familiar faces coming up to him for a chat. Veterans, friends, vague acquaintances, and nearly all of them enquire about Benny’s whereabouts. 

Your tense body feels small, pressed up against his side, and your grip on your glass is white knuckled. Every so often, he gives your waist a discreet but hard squeeze, and flashes you a reassuring wink.  

Rosie walks in about an hour later, cheerful and bright in her deep-green jumpsuit, moving with confidence through the room to join you and turning heads along the way, as if it were her own birthday. 

A quick peck on your lips, on Frankie’s, and she turns her attention to the barmaid to order a mojito. You untangle yourself from him, and begin to sound more like yourself as you chat with your friend. Soon, you’re too absorbed in your conversation to notice his glance darting toward the front door across the room every time someone steps in. 

A couple of hours into the evening, the alcohol helping, people get loser and louder, and Pope cranks up the stereo. Frankie hangs down his head to hide his grin at the familiar, aggressive playlist, that Yovanna promptly changes. 

Rosie has left your small group and is chatting animatedly with a young officer he’s seen working with Will at the VA, confirming Pope’s invited everyone he’s ever met. 

You’ve already had two whiskeys while he’s still sipping on his first beer, when he feels your hand travelling down from his side and sliding into the back pocket of his jeans. 

Your gentle grasp on his ass broadens his dimpled smile, and he basks in your gaze for a brief moment, before he turns to you. 

“You’re so pretty, Francisco Morales,” you whisper, and he gets the feeling that you waited for him to look at you to tell him just that. 

“Ok,” he chuckles, “are you drunk?”

“Just a little bit,” you concede. “But I don’t need to be drunk to appreciate what I see.” Your voice drops along with your smile when you continue, “I— I look at you, and I can’t believe you’re mine. Are you really mine?”

Frankie takes your glass and puts it down on the bar next to his bottle, so he can grip your hips and steer you toward the wall. You may be a couple of inches taller than usual, but he still towers over you, and his broad shoulders hide you from the rest of the room. 

“I’m yours, baby,” he murmurs. “All yours.”

His lips brush your cheekbone, and he cherishes the slight tremor of your skin under the tickle of his whiskers. It is new. It belongs to your new life together. 

“Would you still ask me to leave with you?” you ask again, bunching his shirts with shaky hands. 

“I would ask you over and over again a million times, Gabrielle,” and he presses his forehead against yours, “I wouldn’t change anything. Except for the rain.”

He places his palm over your collarbone and his thumb comes to rest on your pulse. 

His fingers slide and curl around your nape. Time stills, fading out the sounds and lights of the room around you. He presses his lips to yours, pulling you flush to his chest, and you immediately open up for your man. 

The smooth, malty taste of the whiskey blends in with yours, it goes up to his head and shoots right down to his cock as he licks into you with the same need and hunger he once did on the fire escape, swallowing your doubts along with your moans. 

He does want to leave with you, he wants to leave with you right now, spare you the pressure and the plastered smiles, take you home, brush your hair, feed you. Massage your body from your feet up to the crown of your head, rub your legs through those goddamn tights, feel your slick dampening them, have you come in them once, twice, if he can pace himself, watch your legs twitch in pleasure in the sheer black fabric.  

But he has to wait. Wait just a little longer. There might still be a chance. 

His self-control wears thinner yet when you push away from the wall to mould your body into his, when you whine as you meet the growing bulge in his pants, your leg hitching up along his. Is it a trick of the mind, that he can feel the smoothness of your tights through the thickness of his denim? 

Fuck he can’t give in, he has to wait, stall for more time, the injunction coming from the back of his brain, barely reaching his consciousness. 

He’s already fucking your mouth with his tongue when Pope’s voice rings out on his right, music and lights leaping back into focus, like sandpaper grating his senses. 

“¿Qué haces, pendejo? Jesus! Get a room! It’s not that kind of party.” 

Frankie quickly pulls away from you with a gritted “fuck,” but not so far that you can’t bury your face into his neck. 

Pope’s smug laughter drums on his nerves, adding to his frustration, and he’s about to lash out when he feels you giggling.

As if summoned by Pope’s sarcasm, Rosie appears beside him. 

“They’re unmanageable,” she quips, “you just can’t leave them unattended.”

“Oh, yeah, you’re one to talk!” you retort with a smirk. 

Drawing away from you, he’s reaching for your glass when he sees your features drop. Your eyes widen, strained on the front door, and in an instant, it’s all over your face. Your mouth falls open, you suck in a sharp breath. He doesn’t need to turn around to check what —who— you’re looking at. He knows. He understands. He no longer has to wait. 

Rosie and Pope see it too, whipping their heads to the left to follow your gaze, but you're already walking forward, quick, steady steps. Frankie pivots slowly, in time to see you fling yourself into Will’s open arms.

Oblivious to the couple of men coming to greet him, he picks you up with ease, splayed fingers across your back, and one of your heels drops to the floor. He closes his eyes, for the briefest moment, squeezing you tight in his brawny embrace. 

Frankie doesn’t hear you, but he catches his friend’s answer, spoken through a wistful, brotherly smile that transforms his entire face. 

“I missed you too, Elle.”

—

The dam breaks. The minute he parks in the driveway, the fucking dam gives. 

“Keep your seatbelt fastened,” he orders and he kills the engine. 

With a quick, deft gesture, he unbuckles and slides next to you over the truck’s bench, caging you with his upper body, sinking his face into the curve of your neck to inhale, deeply. His breath pushes back out of him with a grunt like a threat. It rumbles in his chest first, before it rattles inside his throat and fans over your skin. Your skin that raises and reaches out for him. It’s your scent, your smell, and he wants it to be his. 

In your sitting position, your folds feel denser, trapped inside the black nylon material of your tights, and you grab the door handle when he starts rubbing fast circles over your clit, threatening grunts into your neck, scraping teeth, lapping tongue.  

You come in a matter of minutes, head shoved into the headrest, lips pinched to bite down your throaty moans, breathing heavily through your nose, the windows blurred with a transluscent fog. 

He carries you inside, swung over his shoulder, it’s playful but it’s not, it’s a want, it’s a need, a fire that flares in his loins, a dam that finally gives.  

He tosses you onto the bed and you bounce with a little shriek. He takes off his boots and climbs onto the mattress, kneeled before you, strips you down to your tights, knocking your hands away every time you try to undress him, until you understand what he needs and you lay back on the bed, become soft and pliant and let him take it. 

There’s an indentation at the base of your throat where he sank his teeth while you came under his hand in the truck, and the heat in his loins settles down a bit. 

The nylon of your tights brushes smooth and sleek when you rub your legs together, pressed knees, shifting hips. 

Framed by the dark halo of your hair, your face looks pale and eerie, like the slippery ghost he used to dream of, sunk into a restless sleep after rage-fucking women he did not see. 

He parts your legs with his frame, spreads your hips with his breadth. The nylon is dense and brushes louder under his calloused palms and digits, heavy and hot and underneath, your skin too is burning. 

The need to feel you is too heavy, the scent of you heady, he wants it to be his, his scent oozing off your skin, organic evidence that you’re his. He slides off his t-shirt, unbuckles his belt to ease off the pressure of the scorching hunger, it burns in bright anger between his hips, he doesn’t know how to tame it.  

He crawls above you, dives onto you, teeth and tongue and spit and need, scraping your earlobe, your jaw, your lips, biting into the column of your throat, biting new marks and new indentations, would you still ask me to leave with you?

His in every scenario, every dream, every reality. 

Between his lips, the hardened peak of your nipple is hot, still cooler than his mouth when he wraps it around the hard bud and sucks it in, squeezing your other breast, calloused palm, calloused fingers, his.

His teeth find your hip, the soft swell of your flesh, the hard bone underneath and you writhe and arch up into it, his name rumples your lips, the K rips from your throat, ripe, hot, thorny. 

His forehead presses through your tights and into your belly, the little swell of it below your navel, sweat dampened curls of his hair leaving a sweat dampened spot, his scent permeating the fabric, infusing your skin. 

He pulls back, calloused fingers hooked under the back of your knees catching at the nylon, sliding your calves over his shoulders, smooth fabric, hot skin, bright need. He spits on your clothed cunt and rubs it in, blends his saliva with your slick, hot, liquid, sticky.

His strokes are not gentle, they’re rough and needy, your fingers gripping his wrist to ease the roughness and he frees it with a twist, strong hand raising your arms above your head to pin them into the soft mattress. His face right above yours, sweat beading at your temples, on your pinched brow, his sweat dripping into your mouth, opened slack, your tongue pulled out and greedy. 

You come as rough and hard as his strokes, your head trashed back, corded neck, folded in two, twitching legs like squirming snakes of nylon wrapped over his shoulders. 

His forehead pushes down on your collarbone, infusing you with his sweat and his scent, where he can feel your orgasm blazing through your bones and your flesh and your skin.

The heat grows brighter between his legs, angrier, consuming, swelling along his cock, thickening. The urge to taste, and he pushes up from your heaving chest, releases your arms, your fingers a frantic scrabble over the white sheets. He’s pulled back in, instantly, drawn to the wet spot between your legs, dark and leaking nylon covering your cunt. 

He dives in to cup it in his mouth, too hot and burning, to taste it, claim you, and it’s a bite, instead, rough and needy, and you jolt, his name scratching your throat like sand, “Frankie!” and he sucks in, rough and needy, saliva and slick, too hot and burning, would you still ask me to leave with you? 

He sits back to undress your legs, the nylon a smooth drag along your skin when he peels it. He’s holding his breath, holding his spit, the taste of you and him swirling around his tongue, coating his palate.

His mouth travels up your leg from ankle to hip, in bites and licks, your skin hot, hot and smooth and tense between his lips, hot skin and hot lips, and he bites into it, sharp, unrestrained. 

He sees it flicker across your face and in your eyes, wide and glazed, the moment you register what he’s doing, when he twists the sheer black fabric around your wrists, tugs on it, elastic, raising your arms above your head, shuffling along your body, your head caged between his thighs, and ties it to the headboard.

He hears it from the outside, the voice that comes from the back of his skull to ask you if “You ok with this?” and when you nod, the voice insists. 

“Words, Gabrielle,” a warning and a need. 

“I’m ok, I want it, please–” you breathe, sand in your throat. 

“You don’t ever have to say ‘please’ to me.” 

He steps off the bed to get rid of the rest of his clothes, eyes strained on you, hot and flushed and tied up and burning under the dark halo of your hair, bruises and marks of bright red scattered over your skin, you can leave all the marks, high-pitched two-tone moans of your want and your need carving his chest, his. 

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” more growls than words, kneeling between your spread legs, spread folds shining and slick, pressing on your knees, down on the mattress with both hands, calloused palms, calloused fingers, smooth, burning skin. 

The back of his two middle fingers slides along your seam, liquid and sticky and it’s an easy glide into your pretty cunt, hot and burning, deep and slow and then rough and curling, dark eyes sunk into your dilated pupils.  

“Wanna taste how good you did for me, baby?”

You nod and he growls, curling deeper inside, so you nod again and you “Please, please Frankie please—“

“Don’t fucking say please to me, Gabrielle, I’ll give you everything you need,” and he pushes his fingers into the heat of your mouth to smother the word, calloused fingers, hot tongue gliding and swirling, a sharp bite of your teeth and he hisses, would you still ask me to leave with you? 

“I got you, I got you,” more grunts than words, and he lines himself up, doesn’t wait and sinks in, sinks his thick cock into your tight cunt, down to his base, rough and needy, sweat dripping down his back, high-pitched moans. 

Large hands framing your hips, keeping you still under his thrusts, bruising, sliding over your belly where he’s shoving his cock into you, Frankie, can you feel yourself inside me? Slowing down just enough to feel you trembling around him, soft walls, warm cunt, grinding deeper inside under his palms.

“You feel so fucking good, Gabrielle, I can feel your sweet pussy fucking squeezing me,” his eyes drawn to the odd angle of your shoulder blades poking under your skin.

His hands find the headboard, bracing forward, lying heavy into you and he thrusts in and out, rough and needy, your legs bracketed around his waist, your knees hitched along his torso, hot, smooth burning skin, sweat dripping, “oh god, Frankie.” 

“That what you needed, baby? For me to fuck you like this?” ramming into your cervix, tight cunt clenching, hot, wet, his. 

Your head pressing into the pillow, you push away from the comforter, clutching his cock, hard and thick and ramming, and you nod, and you remember, you say “yes, Francisco,” and he’s fucking losing it, pounding harder, sinking deeper. 

Calloused fingers curled around the headboard, white knuckled, taut muscles shifting under his skin. 

Your high rips through you, through a cry, two-tone moan, eyes rolling, empty bound fists clenching, arms jerking against their binding, hot tight cunt gripping him in its endless flutter.

“Frankie, Frankie—“

“That’s it baby, just like that,” growls and grunts and words, “just like that.”

Years spent and wasted wishing he could carry you inside him, before he started wishing he could rip you out like a poisonous seed.

Your heartbeat pulsating under his chest and your cunt thrumming around his cock, the air you draw in gulps filling his own lungs, limbs entangled, sweat on sweat. This is as close as it gets to slicing his chest open to fit you inside it. 

Static fills his brain, the room spins around him in orange waves and he comes like a whip, hot, liquid and sticky, pumping his seed into you, further, deeper, teeth clenched, eyes shut, a hissed curse in Spanish, through waves of orange. 

His. 

—

Winter

Everything you once dreaded, everything he once hated, you are now looking forward to experiencing, side by side. 

It’s not your first Christmas with Dolores and Rosie, but it’s the first time you don’t feel like a rescue puppy, stepping inside the camped apartment with your arms full of presents and your man at your side. 

Everywhere you go, you feel legitimate. 

Everywhere he goes, he feels at ease. 

For once, Izzy’s in town for New Year’s Eve, and he doesn’t think twice before accepting her invitation to what she promises will be a quiet and cosy family dinner at her place.  

She ends up so drunk, Frankie has to put her to bed before you can go home. 

Fairly tipsy yourself, you sober up fast when he carries you over to the bedroom and bluntly declares he’s going to fuck you into the next year.

“Which one?” you joke, “cos technically it’s already next year, big man Morales.”

“2050, baby,” he answers with a cocky grin, unbuckling his belt. “Now get naked and spread those legs. I wanna see everything.”

January brings snow and icy northern winds along with the prospect of flying again, his six-month probation drawing to an end. 

And one evening, it brings you home late, freezing cold, and particularly irritated. 

“I had to wait 15 minutes for that damn bus because of the snow,” you fume, hanging your damp coat on the wall rack by the door. “How does this fucking country get so fucking hot in the summer, and so unbearably cold in the winter?” 

He briefly considers arguing it’s not as much the whole country as just some states, but he wisely opts for compassionate silence. 

You turn to face him, pointing a menacing index in his direction.

“You know what, America? You win. I’m getting a fucking car.”

“Don’t call me America in front of Izzy, if you wanna live long enough to drive that car,” he advises you with a raised eyebrow, his smile widening to his dimple.

He takes the following Tuesday off, and the two of you head back to Autoland, where a blond woman about your age welcomes you and introduces herself as Julie. 

A brief conversation is all it takes to ascertain that Julie is far more competent than Gary could ever dream to be, but the sheer idea of having to explain what you’re looking for once again prompts you to enquire about him. 

“Oh, Gary’s in jail,” she tells you with a hint of a smile. “Embezzlement. Didn’t end well,” she adds, and her lips stretch into a satisfied grin. 

Twenty minutes later, you leave the dealership with a decent bargain and a pre-owned Ford Fiesta in forest green. 

It’s only when you come home the next evening, your hands warm and your clothes dry, that Frankie measures just how relieved he actually is. 

And you won’t admit it, in fact, he’s fairly certain you make a point of complaining about finding a place to park near the bookstore, but he can tell you’re happy too. Happy and proud, because the following weekend, he catches you calling Will to tell him you’ll be picking him up at his place to drive together to the Met.  

A four-month hiatus hasn’t altered the tightly woven fabric of your relationship with Will. You fall right back into your cosy routine of monthly trips to the city to visit exhibitions, followed by drinks and endless talks at McSorley. 

Emboldened by his blunt questioning habits, you don’t walk on eggshells the first time you find yourself alone with him.

“How is Benny doing? Does he know we’re seeing each other, today? How does he feel about it?” you ask after quickly gulping down your first half-pint. 

His steel blue eyes dive into yours and you do your very best not to shrink on your wooden chair.

“Benny’s fine, ok? He’s good. He–” he seems to consider his next words before he continues, “We had a few conversations about it. It’s not easy, he doesn’t really wanna talk. I told him about your history with Fish. He’s still a bit angry, but he’s coming around. I think deep down he understands.” 

He pauses, and when you don’t say anything, he keeps going. 

“But I don’t think he’ll be able to hang out with him for another couple of months, at least.”

Hang out with him. No mention of you, there. As often with Will, what lies within the silence matters as much as his spoken words. 

You get it. You can’t have it all. But you are genuinely relieved to know he’s doing well. And that there’s hope for the two of them. 

It doesn’t occur to you that you only hear what you want to hear.

—

The first banging noise jolts you out of sleep. You sit upright in the bed, dishevelled, confused, not quite awake. Your heart is pounding painfully inside your rib cage, pulsating in your eardrums.

Instinctively, you reach for Frankie. Your hand fumbles under the comforter, only to find an empty spot where he should be lying next to you, and you whip your head around to his side of the bed.

It’s the middle of the night, yet it’s not as dark as it should be. The living-room lamp is on, casting a feeble light inside the bedroom, enough for you to distinguish Frankie’s dark silhouette standing awkwardly by the bed, slowly opening the drawer of his night stand.

Another rattling sound comes in from the kitchen. Metal on tiles. Your sleep-dazed brain identifies the noise as that of one of the bar stools being dragged across the floor. Frankie tilts his head in your direction and silently brings his index finger to his lips. 

Now you’re wide awake. 

Panic trickles down your lungs in icy streaks at the realisation that someone has broken into the house, but it doesn’t compare to the horror that seizes you when Frankie stealthily pulls out a gun from the open drawer. 

He’s still looking at you, the yellow glint from the hallway reflected in his ink-black eyes, his finger pressed to his lips. 

Before you can process what’s happening, Frankie’s moving toward the corridor, his gait precise and absolutely silent, broad shoulders hunched and tense in his downward hold of the gun with two hands. You want to protest, tell him to stay here with you, but your entire body has gone rigid, disconnected from your brain. You’re glued into place. 

Eyes opened so wide they might pop out of your skull, you watch him disappear into the hallway, and in the dead of the night, you can hear the door of the fridge being opened. 

Years from now, you will still remember thinking that this is a fucking nightmare.

You brace yourself for gunshots, a fight, more clatter, but it’s Frankie’s voice that comes in next, resounding into the January night, angry, loud and… surprised?  

“What the fuck, man?”

It snaps you out of your trance. Untangling your legs from the heavy comforter, you climb down the bed and slip on your sleeping shorts before you dash towards the kitchen, and you’re still walking down the short hallway when you hear him.

“Oh fuck, ‘m sorry, Fish, ‘d’ I wake you up?”

Benny’s booming baritone. Audibly shitfaced. 

You see Frankie first, standing in his black boxer briefs, his gun hanging from his hand. Following his angered stare, your eyes fall on Benny, who’s tall silhouette is partly hidden behind the opened fridge door. His face peeks out from above it, a nasty-looking bruise blooming red and purple around his right eye, accentuated by the angled shadows. 

His gaze is unfocused, dazed, and when he sees you, an unfamiliar melancholy blurs it a deeper shade of blue. He closes the fridge, a tall boy of IPA in his hand, and he straightens up like a little boy at Sunday school, his lips curling around a drunken smile.

“Hey, baby. How are you?” he slowly slurs. 

“Jesus fuck,” Frankie grits, hanging his head, and your mind reels, you’re not sure how to handle the situation. In fact, you have no idea how to deal with it.

Walking up to your man, you curl your fingers around his forearm, and the tension you find under your touch does very little to temper down the alarm flaring in your chest. Your hand slides to his wrist, his own hand a tight grasp around his weapon. You don’t dare lower your eyes to it. And it’s probably just a trick of the mind, the way you can see it shine from the corner of your eyes under the crude ceiling light. 

You don’t dare look at Frankie either, so you keep your eyes strained on Benny, who’s swaying on his legs, and ask in a shaky voice you don’t recognise, “Hey Ben. What are you doing here?” 

“He still got a spare key,” Frankie growls in his direction, and you hold on to his wrist a little tighter. 

“Won my fight, tonight,” Benny drawls with pride, as if this were a perfectly rational explanation for his presence in your kitchen at 3 am, and, visibly satisfied, he proceeds to crack his beer open.

“And how the fuck did you get here, Benjamin?” Frankie asks, his tone so aggressive it makes you jump.

Benny takes a long sip before he simply shrugs, “Drove my car, the fuck is this question…”

“Oh god,” you breathe out, and between your clutching fingers, Frankie’s muscles loosen. 

Finally looking up at him, you’re shaken by the emotions playing across his face, far more complex than the upfront annoyance in his voice. 

Frankie himself is not sure how he feels. 

Relieved, at first, to find Benny instead of someone else, something worse. Fuck knows he could have shot down a stranger on sight, had they tried to come anywhere near you, and he’d rather you never see what he’s capable of with a gun.  

Why, then, is he shaking with anger? Is it, deep down, the relief to see him at all? Could it be because Benny came to see you, and not him? 

Most of his jealousy and resentment towards his friend had been drained out of him when you curled up on his naked chest, back in your apartment, over half a year ago. 

He’s well aware of the lasting affection you continue to harbour for his friend, that the concern plainly etched on your face at the moment only serves to demonstrate further. And if it’s not exactly pleasant to think about, his confidence and the daily evidence of your shared love sweetens that bitter knowledge. 

What’s a lot more difficult to stomach, however, are Ben’s lingering feelings for you. He can’t blame the man, he himself never got over you, and he had fifteen years to try to. 

“He’ll come around,” Will had promised. Only Ben’s little stunt tonight makes it impossible to ignore any longer the one thought he has so far deliberately avoided. He broke his best friend’s heart, with a self-righteous determination, without an ounce of regret. 

Benny takes a step in your direction, beer dripping on the tiles from the can, askew in his bruised hand, and Frankie sighs heavily. 

As you release his arm to go to Benny, he tries to slide the gun in the back of his jeans before realising he’s in his underwear. He sets it down on the kitchen table, where it hits the wooden surface with a muted thud. 

“Aww baby, I really missed your face,” Benny mumbles as you grab the can from him, handing it to Frankie. 

“Ok, let’s get some water into you,” you answer, holding his shoulders straight to deflect the incoming hug. 

You lead him to the couch on the other side of the room where you sit him down, while Frankie fills up a tall glass with tap water, and you wait for him to join you to whisper, “We can’t let him go home like that, baby.”

Benny’s muttering incoherently, and Frankie bends over him, taking his legs to pivot him into a sleeping position, his feet sticking out of the couch. 

“No, of course, not. He’s gonna sleep here. I’ll drive him home in the morning.”

He lets you take off Benny’s sneakers while he returns his gun to the night stand drawer, but when you don’t come back to the bedroom, he can’t resist the urge to go see what’s going on.

He’s still in the hallway when he stops short at the scene before him. You’ve draped a plaid over Benny, already fast asleep, and you’re threading your fingers through his hair. A token of your affection, a tender gesture he saw you demonstrate before. In public. You lean down to place a soft kiss on his forehead, and when you stand up and turn around, your eyes find his, instantly. 

He doesn’t wait for you, he can’t, not when he knows you’re seeing right through his gritted teeth, right through the nauseating guilt sitting at the back of his throat, and he goes back to bed, where you soon join him. 

He opens the comforter to let you in next to him, and as you slide underneath it, you tell him, “Scoot over, Frankie baby, tonight I’m the big spoon.”

—

If there’s one thing Frankie has always envied Ben for, it’s the speed at which he pulls through any type of hangover. Mild, brutal, soul-destroying, it makes no difference. The man’s up at the crack of dawn, and by 8am sharp, he’s out the door for his daily run.

Maybe it’s the age difference. But Frankie was never this prompt to recover, even when he was younger. Maybe it’s good genes. He’s seen Ironhead getting shot and still complete the mission with dashing excellence. 

Today, however, as Frankie leaves the safe-heaven of your body, warmly tucked under the duvet, and walks into the living-room with a pack of Tylenol, a little after 6 am, he finds Benny quietly snoring. 

His bruised eye has turned a violent shade of purple, bloody crusts flacking around his injured knuckles. 

Frankie knows exactly who Ben was up against last night. A bulky giant of a man, a force of nature, a major household name in the MMA circuit. 

He’s been keeping track of Ben’s defeats and successes. This victory is one that counts. Important enough for him to get hammered in celebration. So important, he had to get behind the wheel and come to tell you about it in person. 

It’s another two hours of aimless silent roaming around the house, brooding, mulling over what he’ll tell him when he wakes up, if anything, before he decides to start cooking breakfast. 

When Benny begins to stir on the couch to the clanking noise of the frying pan, Frankie focuses on the stove, keeping his nervousness in check. In his peripheral vision, Ben sits up with a hissed curse, and gulps down two tablets with water.

He’s just done lacing his boots when Frankie places a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of him on the coffee table. 

Keeping his eyes to the floor, Benny mumbles in a thick voice, “Thanks, but I’m leaving.”

Frankie’s answer shoots out of him before he can think it through. “She’s gonna want to know you ate something.”

Benny tilts up his head toward him in slow motion. He meets his eyes with a cold, hard stare, and Frankie wouldn’t be surprised if he leapt from the couch to take another swing at his face. 

He holds up his gaze, until Benny lowers his head and starts eating up. Cleans up his plate in complete silence and drinks up to the last drop the mild coffee Frankie’s prepared for him.

And when he’s finished, he gets up without a word and walks towards the front door to pick his jacket from the floor. Fiddling with the breast pocket, he pulls out a keychain and places it on the kitchen table as Frankie observes him, jaw cocked to the side, arms folded over his chest. 

His hand is on the doorknob when Frankie speaks again.

“You had 5 hours of sleep, man. I don’t think you’re sober enough to drive,” he says, pushing up from the counter. 

“Yeah, right,” Ben huffs, “I’m not leaving my car here. Not coming back to pick it up.”

“Alright, let’s take your car, I can ride the bus home,” Frankie says, grabbing his cap from the coat rack.

—

Somehow, he can always tell whether you’re awake or asleep if he’s with you inside the house. Today, he knows you hear them leave together. 

The drive is tense, to say the least, Ben’s leg bouncing up and down nervously as he shifts, restless, in the passenger’s seat, darting sideways glances at him, most likely waiting for an opportunity to lash out. 

But the early Sunday traffic is fluid, and Frankie a smooth driver, leaving him nothing to grasp. 

When Frankie pulls out in front of his house, Ben’s out of the car before he kills the engine.  

In turn, Frankie unfolds slowly from the low seat. The crisp January cold bites his cheeks when he gets out and locks the door. He risks a glance in Ben’s direction. 

“Hey, Ben, wait up,” he calls, white puffs of his breath swirling from his lips.  

Benny stops and reluctantly turns around to face him.

“Congrats on your win, last night,” he offers. 

Ben answers with a dismissive, “Sure,” and Frankie throws him the keys across the roof of the Mustang. 

He snatches them mid-hair in a smooth catch. A bittersweet reminder of their past synchronicity. Their ability to communicate wordlessly. 

“You wanna talk about it?” Frankie asks quietly. 

“What, the fight? Which one?” Benny sniggers. 

“Ok,” he nods, ducking his head under the brim of his cap.  

Ben takes a step towards his front door, but immediately turns around.  

“You wanna know what really hurts?” he barks, his loud baritone thundering in the empty street. “Why didn’t you say anything? After that first night at the bar? You let me fucking parade her to you, guys, and you didn’t say shit.”

“Yea, I don't know, Ben,” he whispers, hanging his head. “I’m sorry. I really am.” 

“That’s all you gotta say? I’m sorry?” Ben retorts, crossing his arms. 

“Look, it’s complicated—“ he starts, but Ben interrupts him.

“I was supposed to be your best friend, that’s pretty fucking simple to me.”

“Ok, listen,” Frankie counters, raising his head and looking straight at him, “I don't know what you know, or what Will told you, but I thought she’d forsaken me. I guess I didn’t see the point of telling you. And by the time she–” he reconsiders, tongue darting to lick his bottom lip, careful not to imply your responsibility, “by the time I found out what really happened, it was already too late.”

“Yeah, well, it still doesn’t add up, Fish,” he argues, prepping his forearms on top of the car roof. “If a girl ghosts you, why wouldn’t you warn your best friend?”

Because she’s not that kind of person. Because she seemed happy with you and you with her. Because I never quit loving her. 

Because I could never give her up. 

“Like I said, man, it’s more complicated than–” he tries again, but Ben cuts him off, again, adamant to get it all off his chest, and if his tone is not exactly aggressive, it’s not particularly friendly either.

“Ten years. Ten years we’ve known each other. We went through fucking hell together, and you still fucking chose her over me. Twice.”

“Yea well, I went through another kind of hell for losing her, Ben, you just gotta take my word for it,” Frankie states with a pointed finger at him and a warning in his rising voice that Ben seems to hear, because he leans back just a bit. 

He softens up to add, “But it’s done. So now what?”

“Fuck, Fish,” Benny answers, softer, “if it was that bad, why’d you never say anything? You never mentioned her, not once! I’ve seen you wasted, high as a kite, buried in pussy and you don’t share that?”

“No, Benjamin, I do not share that. Not with you. Not with anyone.” 

He marks a pause, inhaling the cold morning air to maintain control before he can continue. 

“Look, I'm sorry I did you in like that. I let you down and I feel shitty for handling the whole situation like I did. You were my best friend. You still are. But I’d do it all over again to get her.”

He winces at his poor attempt at an apology. 

Benny remains still for a beat before he leans again over the car roof, joining his hands. 

“So it’s like, true love, and shit?”

“Yea. True love and shit,” Frankie nods.

“Well, this I understand,” Ben concedes, unusually quiet. “She’s something. You lucky son of a gun.”

—

Everything you once dreaded… 

Well, you’ve always dreaded January. It once freed you from Éric, but you still associate the dark, short days with loneliness, and a fast, spinning downward fall into depression. This year, however, you haven’t thought about it once. Not until this morning, that is, when the looming dread rose anew, expanding inside your constricted chest, hindering your breathing. 

The fluffy duvet drawn up to your chin, you’ve lied still as the dead, your ears strained to the sounds coming from the other side of the house. 

You fully woke up when Frankie left the bed, depriving you of his reassuring heat, after three hours oscillating between sleep and consciousness, always acutely aware of his unnaturally stiff body lying wide awake between your arms. 

You mentally followed his barefoot stride, amplified by the early morning peace, the events from the previous night flooding back to your tired brain like rising waters. 

Listened to nothing but silence for an excruciating long time, the growing tension emanating from him thrumming along the walls all the way to your hiding place. 

Hiding, is what you were, and once more your mother’s reproachful tone rang out in your head, “tu ne fais que t’enfuir.” 

“I’m a big girl from a big city,” you murmured to yourself. You were not hiding, they needed to talk, you were merely giving them the necessary space, but nothing you told yourself could ward off your anxiety. 

When you walked into the living-room, after they’d left, you scrunched up your nose at the acrid smell of alcohol. And something else. Something you didn’t want to remember, so you pulled the curtains and opened the two large windows to let in the brisk winter air.   

That’s when you noticed his phone, face down on the console by the front door, where he leaves it when he comes home. 

You disposed of the leftover coffee in the sink and prepared a fresh pot, strong, to your taste. 

While it brewed, you folded the plaid and straightened the couch cushions. You cleaned the stove and washed the dishes, wiped them dry and returned them to their cabinets. 

When there were no more traces of Ben’s presence in your home, you stood by the counter, staring blankly at the microwave, double dots blinking between the red digits. 

Now, it’s nearing 11am. You’ve been alone for three hours. 

Uncertain about the distance between Frankie’s house and Benny’s place, you’ve no idea whether Frankie’s absence is too long or perfectly normal. You could put your mind at rest, even just a bit, if you only checked it out on your phone, but the idea itself irritates you. You’ve lived here just a few months shy of three years. When will you be as capable of navigating the city as you are in Paris, going about the metro and streets on sheer instinct, visualising entire neighbourhoods and calculating routes without the support of technology? 

Driving your own car is bound to achieve that, you tell yourself, stepping gingerly into the tub. 

Why does the entire house feel colder when he’s not there? This is nothing unusual, he’s rarely home when you get ready for work on weekdays, and it’s a beat before you realise you’ve left the living-room windows opened. 

The water runs over your face, set to scalding hot and high-pressure, and you wish it could drain out your thoughts. Perhaps, if you’d see them floating at your feet, you might be able to sort out your feelings. 

When he pulls out in the driveway 20 minutes later, he steps in through the front door to find you sitting by the kitchen table, arms crossed and shivering in one of his sweaters. There’s little to no difference in temperature between outside and the room, he notes with a frown, and his eyes land on the table in front of you, where his black gun stands out against the clear wooden top. 

He stills, fingers on the brim of his cap, elbow raised mid-air. 

He’s in so much fucking trouble.  

“Hey, baby, how–” he starts, before you cut him off sharply. 

“Are you ok?” you ask, more briskly than you intended. 

You clear your throat, willing your hoarse morning voice to sound softer when you ask again, “You’re not hurt or anything, are you?”

“No, baby, I’m good,” he answers, taking a few long strides towards you. “I’m sorry, I meant to call you before I got on the bus, but I think I left my phone here. And the ride home took forever, I don’t know how you had the patience to…”

He trails off, standing in front of you in his jacket, awkward and rigid. For the first time ever, he’s not certain of what you need. And something tells him he’d better step back until you’ve expressed it yourself.

The tension hangs heavy between you, but once your eyes have scanned his face and confirmed he’s alright, your lungs open up just a notch. 

Unfolding your arms, you lower your hands onto your lap, rubbing your clammy palms dry over your denim. 

His eyes quickly flicker to his gun and back to your face, and he takes another step closer.

“Ok,” you shoot, straightening up in your chair, your gaze plunging into his, “can you please tell me why we have a gun in the house?”

It’s not the question that’s driven you mad since they left the house earlier, but this one is considerably easier to formulate. 

His demeanour shifts immediately. He straightens up, planting his hands on his hips. 

“Listen, baby, it’s perfectly legal, alright? I got a permit, and you know I know how to use it.” 

He has the good sense not to point out the gap between your respective cultures, fully aware of your position on the matter of gun control anywhere in the world, but you’re standing up already, stubbornly facing him. 

“Whether or not you got a permit doesn’t make any goddamn difference to me, Frankie. I want it gone.”

He lifts off his cap, slowly runs his fingers through his hair, and you falter. 

This is not going the way you imagined, you didn’t intend to come at him with such aggressiveness, and your tone doesn’t reflect your confusion, certainly none of your fears, it only gives away your conflicted feelings. 

Sucking his teeth in, he tilts down his head, and his eyes disappear. 

“The gun’s not going anywhere, Gabrielle,” he hears himself state, and his point-blank refusal to comply derails you completely. 

“What kind of threat is there that requires that you keep this thing in here?”

“Intruders, burglars, some junky high on bath salts…” he enumerates, shaking his head.

You mirror the movement before you counter with what you expect to be a foolproof argument.

“And what if Benny did something stupid? He was drunk, what if he’d jumped you, for a joke? What if you’d hurt him?” 

Frankie's head shoots up, dark eyes devoid of all light staring you down with a hard gaze that has you swaying on your feet. He’s never looked at you like that, except… Except that first night at the bar. 

And like that first night at the bar, he can’t stop his mind from reeling into the wrong direction, despite your face telling him something entirely different. 

“Is this what this is about? You’re concerned I might have hurt him?” 

“Of course I am!” you answer, puzzled by his reaction. “Look, I’m sure you don’t need a gun. If ever someone breaks in, you can probably subdue them–“

“That’s Ironhead’s thing,” he cuts in.

“Well, you can knock them out, then–”

“That’d be Ben,” he all but spits out.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Frankie!”

You throw your palms up in irritation, tears gathering at the corner of your eyes that only fuel your exasperation.

Back in June, in his truck, he’d told you that he’d been too quick on the trigger, more often than not. Is that what you’re hinting at? Are you doubting his ability to keep you safe?

“Gabrielle, just drop it, ok? I’m asking you to drop it,” he warns, his voice a low threat that brooks no argument, and in turn you dig your heels in. 

“I can’t just drop it, Frankie, I’m sorry but–”

“Please,” he grits through his clenched jaw. 

Something gets stuck in your throat. You’re trying to breathe underwater. It’s escalating too quickly. 

You try to blink the tears off your prickling eyelids before they start running down your cheeks, you want to stab your nails into the back of your arms and draw blood, but the urge to touch him overthrows everything and you place your hands on his chest, palms down, splayed fingers, anchoring your body to his, grounding him to yours. 

“Frankie what’s happening, are we fighting?” you articulate around a repressed sob. 

His hands go to yours instinctively, covering them entirely, and he can’t tell which one of you is shaking, can’t explain how what he means to say is so far removed from the way he expresses it.

“No– no baby, no we’re not fighting, I just need you to understand–” he tries, but it’s too late, your words spill out in moving waves.

“Please, I don’t wanna fight, please, Frankie, I’m sorry, I’m sorry Benny barged in like that, I’m sorry, I don’t want him to hurt you anymore, I don’t want you to hurt yourself—“

“Baby, I’m fine, I’m ok,” he says, comprehension downing on him as your first tears roll down in rivulets to hang from the line of your jaw.

He closes the distance between you, cupping your face to rub them off with a stroke of his thumbs, standing so close your eyes flicker between his. 

“I’m sorry I overreacted—”

“Fuck no! You didn’t over— hey, listen to me Gabrielle, you didn’t overreact, I did,” he says, holding your head up when you try to hide. 

Your hands slide underneath his jacket and find the plane of his back, you bunch up his t-shit in your fists. 

“You just gotta let me watch over you the way I know how, baby, that’s all I ask, that’s all I need, for you to let me take care of you. I know you’re a big girl from a big city—“

“Oh but I’m not,” you cry, pressing your face into his neck, your next words muffled against his collarbone, “I’m scared, you left the room and I got so scared, and I don’t know if I’ll ever fit in here, there’s always something to remind me I don’t belong—“

The spectre of your departure resurfaces and Frankie hisses a sharp breath, a Pavlovian reaction to a pain stimulus. He focuses on the shape of you between his arms, the scent of you enveloping him, the taste of you only a kiss away. 

Broad hand cradling the crown of your head, he leans into your ear, his voice dropping to a low, soft murmur. 

“Last night was scary. You’re exhausted, we both are. We can talk about it later, ok?”

“Don’t leave me, Frankie, don’t leave me alone, I need—” you sob. “Merde, I feel so fucking stupid.”

His lips brush a smile against your temple, eyes closing at the contact of your skin. 

“Hey, I got an idea,” he says. “How about we take a trip to Paris, this spring? You can show me around the city? What do you say?”

He’s been thinking about it for a while, but has so far found himself physically unable to discuss it with you. The whole idea could backfire. What if going back there reminds you of everything you still miss? 

You’d said a purpose. And a goal. 

Between his large cupping hands, your face feels like an evocation, and he’s drawn in, endlessly, on a loop, back to you, to your skin. 

To the way it trembles between his pursed lips. A peek of his tongue to harvest the salty beads of your tears, to swallow the fear and sadness he vowed to see disappear, and you cling onto him with a murmured plea. 

“Take me to bed Frankie, plea–“

“Don’t you fucking say it,” he growls, and he crashes his mouth onto yours. You open up for him, sliding the thick jacket off his frame, knocking the worn-out cap off his head. 

—

The weak January sun, white and crisp through the treasured curtains, fills the bedroom with a hushed shade of orange, weaving together past and present. 

His first thrust inches into your tight warmth slow and measured, and he pauses between your hips to let you adjust. 

His hand a gentle grip around your jaw, he turns your face to the side and traces open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat, a tender suck at the base of your neck, a hard bite on the slope of your shoulder, it makes you writhe underneath his body, crushed into the mattress by his weight, and you keen, legs bracketed around his waist, knees folded high around his torso, heels digging into the meat of his ass, urging him deeper. 

You need him rough and you need him now, you want to feel sore tomorrow and the day after, you want his girth remodelling you into the shape of him, only him, forever him.

But he controls the pace. Attuned to your reactions and the sensation of your clenching walls around him, clutching him, blending pain and pleasure, your entrance catching along his length. 

He shifts above you, tilting your head further to the side, the hardened tips of your nipples a soft drag against his skin, and you can’t breathe with his chest crushing your chest and he knows it, knows you want it this way. He moves inside you. Just a bit, not enough. You moan and you hear it through your need, through your want, like you’re running a fever, like a tiny, needy animal.

“Shhh baby,” he purrs in your ear, forehead to your temple, “I can’t move, I have to open you up for me.” 

The words scorch your skin. You burrow your nails into the taut muscles of his back, eyes shut so tight under your pinched brow you see stars, his lips raising goosebumps all over your body on their trail along your jawline.

“Frankie Frankie Frankie–” you say Frankie like you say please, and your cheek sinks deeper into the pillow.

“Shhh, you're gonna get it, baby, you're gonna get it.”

Your hips buck against the restraint of his mass, and it slips out of you, inaudible, weak and quick, too quick for you to stop it.  

“You looked so hot with that fucking gun, I–”

He stills with your earlobe trapped between his teeth, licks it better before he lets go.  

“What did you say?” 

The unwilling confession, making sense of your earlier fury. You shy away from the truth, a whining “non” stuck inside your throat, you try to hide from it, from him, the heels of your hands covering your eyes when you breathe out, “Nothing.”

His smile curls into your skin through a scrape of his whiskers, and he sinks into you, sudden, rough, deep, all the way down to the centre of you. 

You bite down your moan, pleasure-pain, head trashed back into the pillow, clenched teeth corded neck, pinned down underneath the overwhelming weight of him and everything he means to you.

“I heard you,” he groans, grinding into your heat, “I heard everything.” 

Everything you once dreaded. The contour of your fears, retraced, redefined. Innocuous, beyond the confines of his arms. 

—

Spring

“Can you fly this plane?” you whisper excitedly, adjusting your seatbelt. 

His eyebrows disappear in the overgrown curls hanging low on his forehead. He stills in his seat to stare at you.

“Baby, it’s a Boeing 767.”

“So yes?” 

The stewardess announces the imminent take-off for Roissy-Charles-de-Gaulle, her words nearly unintelligible through the buzzing noise of the overhead speakers.

“No, I can fly military aircraft, like C-12 Huron or MH-60 Black Hawk or–”

“So you could probably fly this one too?” you cut in. 

“No, Gabrielle, I can’t,” he huffs in disbelief.

“Have you ever tried?” 

The crease between his brow deepens, his eyes searching yours, scanning your face for any trace of teasing. 

“I– what? ‘Course not!”

“Aha!” you exclaim, triumphant. “So you probably can. You just don’t know it.”

He watches you bend forward to place a thick book in the seat-back pocket in front of you, and shifts his hips once again, trying to accommodate his breadth into the seat, before his eyes fly back to your face. 

His heart leaps into a painful somersault, like a punch in the sternum that radiates up to his neck and down to his gut. Backlit by the plane’s oval window, your dark profile looks like the Victorian cutout portraits in your treasure cabinet, and it’s like he’s known you his whole life and the ones before, like he’d find you in every reality he’s ever known, and all the ones he hasn’t. 

He lowers down his head, remembering to breathe. Something settles down inside him. A gnawing anxiety that had been steadily flaring since he’d book the tickets. He’d find you. In every reality. 

“Do you really need to be this fucking cute?” he mutters.

“I’m not cute, Frankie, I’m serious! Now tell me, how do you feel about spending the next 7 hours crammed into this seat?”

A flash of pink as the tip of his tongue peeks between his parted lips. A wink.

“It’s ok. I’m used to fitting into tight spaces.”

—

Small. 

Everything looks small. 

The entire city has changed. New, modern infrastructures, subway lines extensions, bicycle lanes everywhere, roadworks on every corner and a new mayor.

All of it, small. 

The streets are too narrow, the ceilings hang too low, the cars look like toys and the buildings like doll houses frozen in time because nothing measures up to Frankie’s height, breadth, or dimple. 

The man shrunk your old world when he expanded your horizon.  

You walk down the streets that saw you becoming who you are through happiness, loss and pain, strutting about like you know something no one else does. 

The Airbnb you picked is on the south side of the place Gambetta. The Marais was appealing. More expensive but more central, fancy but not too much, but you finally decided against it. The 20e arrondissement is your neighbourhood, your home. It’s where your grandparents are buried. 

There’s something incongruous, bordering on comical, about playing house with him in the tiny, typically Parisian apartment overlooking the Père Lachaise. The kitchen’s a corridor, and there’s no way for him to fit comfortably inside the shower cubicle. The bed is a full size, and if you knew not to expect anything bigger, Frankie’s eyes widened in bewilderment at the doll-sized bedding. 

“Gonna break that thing,” he grunted, testing the mattress. 

The first time you step into the métro, you take in the particular stench, and the realisation that you missed even that pulls at your chest with a sharp pang. But the nostalgia is smothered by the sight of Frankie squeezing into one of the narrow seats of the line 3.

The first couple of days are spent sightseeing the touristic landmarks of the capital, following the military schedule you’ve drafted. You don’t even try to hold back as you recount the many anecdotes behind every famous church, park or building, giving him what you self-derisively label, “the leftist historical tour of Paris.” 

If there’s one place where you’ve always had enough space to be you, unapologetically so, it’s with him. 

Here, you don’t need any maps, apps or directions, and Frankie diligently follows, listens, asks follow-up questions that prompt more thorough explanations, drinking up your self-confidence. 

Sure, Paris is nice. But it’s not the buildings he's looking at. 

His big girl. Growing up on her own in this big city.  

Hiding, yet standing tall on that fire escape, your heart rabbiting under the pulse point of your neck, bravely withholding his gaze. Leaving the party with him, your smaller hand squeezing his bigger one as he parted the crowd for you, for the two of you. 

He’s only ever had eyes for you. From the very beginning.

With his preference for modern art in mind, you’ve arranged the third day around the visit of Beaubourg, then the MaM halfway across town, which will bring you near the Eiffel Tower, you announce over breakfast, and that’s when he gently puts his foot down. 

“Baby, take me to Orsay, will you?” he asks softly. “I wanna see that blurry painting you told me about. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don't really give a— I don’t really care about the Eiffel Tower and all that stuff. I’d rather go to the cemetery. Or see your high school.”

You look up from your tartine, a toasted piece of bread stuck in your throat that you try to gulp down, and you stare at him blankly. A fixed, intense gaze that has him flinching, creasing his brow, has he fucked up the whole thing now?

“You wanna see my high school?” you repeat, and when he nods, you add quietly, “Do you really need to be this fucking cute, Morales?”

Your high school, your university, the bars in Pigalle and Ménilmontant where you hung out as a student, your favourite bookstores, antique stores, bridges, museums, artist’s studios, paintings… 

It’s been decades since you’ve walked the narrow, quiet lane where your grandparents rented a three-room apartment. Years of repressed emotions have confused your recollection, and you breathe uneasy and short because you don’t recognise the grey stone building where you supposedly spent your first years. 

Frankie holds your hand. You lean into it. 

Later, walking in silence towards the family grave along the pebbles alleys on the east side of the Père Lachaise, you keep your head down and the tendon in Frankie’s jaw is pulled taut, ready to snap. 

But his gaze, strained on you, is warmer than the late March sun that draws pale, ephemeral patterns under your feet through the lush green foliage of the century-old chestnut and lime trees. 

His arm wraps around the haunched slope of your shoulders. It’s heavy. Grounding. He draws you in to his side, and pecks a kiss on the crown of your head, your hand sliding inside the back pocket of his jeans. 

You look up at his sharp profile, and he’s more beautiful than any of the works of art you’ve shown him this past week, more beautiful than anything you’ve ever seen. 

The bare-patch on his jaw calls to your lips, but instead you reassure him, “I’m good, Frankie,” because his bashful, dimpled smile makes you, because in his arms, you are. 

The sprawling, romantic necropolis has remained the same to you, a place of solace, a refuge, a hideout. 

The wardens are blowing their whistles to signal closing time when you reluctantly leave the cemetery. It’s cold now, the sun has given up and recessed behind pearly grey clouds. 

Back in the small rental, Frankie follows you to the cramped bathroom when you go wash your hands. He watches you, leaning against the sink counter, crossed ankles, crossed arms. Tense muscles and knots.

“Where’s your mother now? Does she still live in Paris?”

Your eyes dart to the door frame on your left, on instinct, but Frankie’s massive frame is preventing any form of deflection or escape. Your body stiffens, you focus on your hands.

“Last I heard, they moved to a new fancy apartment they bought in les Batignolles. That’s in the 17e arrondissement,” you add, like that means anything to him. “But I’m not taking you there, Frankie, I can’t.”

“Not asking you to, baby. I want to know if he is still around.”

Your chest hollows under his words, hands clutching the beige towel. The faded scar tissues on the back of your arms itching like a million microscopic blades picking them open.

Everything you never said, never told anyone. Everything you convinced yourself never really happened, or wasn’t really that bad. Everything you kept inside, thickening the walls of your heart, weighing you down, because the only person you needed, and who you asked for help, had called you a liar. 

Under his creased brow, his eyes are black as midnight sky. They’re looking straight into you. Contemplating that thing you lost, like a constituent piece that fell off and you replaced with something else. Aloofness, distance. Orange curtains. 

He pushes himself up to his intimidating full height and you recoil involuntarily, but he doesn’t let you. He grips your face with both hands, his palms scorching your cold skin, and between them, you’re fully exposed, bared, left with nowhere to hide, nowhere to bury your secrets.  

“I will hurt anyone who tries to hurt you, Gabrielle. Do you understand? Say that you understand.”

His words are quiet. Firm, steady, collected. 

“I understand,” you whisper, and you clasp his wrists so you won't feel the ghost weight of his gun between your hands. “I want you to.”

He nods. 

“You are mine.”

You nod. 

You know you are. 

—

Everything looks smaller. 

Shrunk down by his height, breadth and smiling eyes. 

The city hasn’t changed. But you have. You know something no one else does. 

—

The day before you fly back, you meet for lunch with Laura outside the Hôtel de Ville. 

She hadn’t minced her words –she never does– expressing her disappointment when you’d announced you wouldn’t come back at the end of your hiatus. But everything has long since been forgiven. 

Sitting across the dark-haired woman in her early fifties, you chat excitedly over sushi you forget to eat. Crammed into a ridiculously tiny metal chair on your left, he feels the bespectacled gaze of your former boss scrutinising him.  

Within hours after you landed in Roissy, your accent had thickened. Today, it has reached an all-time high. It’s the longest Frankie has ever heard you speak in your native language. 

Your voice sounds higher, in French. You speak so much faster, with a lot of hand gestures punctuating the throaty sounds cascading from your pretty lips. He focuses on his chopstick skills, trying his very best to ignore the growing bulge in his pants. 

It’s clear the two of you are more friends than colleagues. You had described her as your mentor. And from the dynamics he observes, there is obvious mutual respect. Which partly explains your instant hatred for Tom. 

Laura thinks you look different. You might have put on some weight, you say. She shakes her head, grinning knowingly. That’s not what she meant. 

Under your shirt, nested in the curve of your neck, sits a bruise in the shape of his teeth, blood underneath the surface of your skin blooming like a red peony. 

The waiter clears the dishes and Frankie walks up to the counter to pick up the tab. 

Laura leans closer to you over the narrow table. 

“Je comprends que tu n’aies pas voulu rentrer [I understand why you didn’t want to come home],” she starts, and with a tilt of her chin towards Frankie’s solid figure, she adds, “Bien joué, Miss Tourneur [Well done, Miss Tourneur].”

She gladly agrees to give Frankie a tour of the Bibliothèque, a historical institution situated on the fourth floor of the central city hall. In the elevator, your heartbeat gallops up your throat. The life you chose, the life you once led. 

The spacious reading room’s concave wooden ceiling is like the upside-down hull of a ship. When you step in, you’re overwhelmed by the faint musty smell of old books, mingled with that of the dusty carpets. You missed that too, but the feeling no longer tears at your chest. 

A few former colleagues come to greet you, and you watch Frankie and Laura from the corner of your eye as she explains, in her approximate English, what your work as a librarian entailed, praising your skills and knowledge. 

Frankie watches you too. He knows he’s doing a poor job of concealing his pride. He couldn’t care less. 

Before you leave, you lead him up to the rooftop of the building through narrow metal stairs. Culminating at a 48 metres height, in the very heart of Paris, the vantage point offers a breathtaking 360° view over the urban canopy of tin roofs. 

“Whenever I’d get a chance,” you tell him, “I’d come here for my lunch break.”

“Hiding again?” he grins. 

“Hiding again,” you admit, “but not only. I’d look up at the clouds, and if I was lucky enough to see a plane fly by, I would pretend you were flying it.”

Years of chasing the shadow of him, years of searching for traces of you. 

—

“Thank you for bringing her back!”

Rosie’s attempt at casualness is not fooling either of you. Frankie flashes a mock military salute and hauls the luggage into Rosie’s car trunk, hiding his grin behind the decklid. In all fairness to Rosie, he wasn’t so smug himself, on the day Pope drove you to the airport. 

It’s not a long drive from Newark, but the car progresses slowly through the late afternoon traffic. The New York City skyline stands out in orange hues. Everything is too big again. Too large. Too tall. But it’s fine. Everything’s on scale. 

The keys to the house jingle in your hand before Rosie exists the New Jersey turnpike, and you’re first to pass the front door, Frankie heaving the luggage behind you. 

You’re so exhausted you could sleep for days, but you’ll have to open the store tomorrow at 10am. 

Frankie goes straight to the bedroom and you hear the heavy thud of your suitcase hitting the floor, followed by the softer one of his rucksack. 

When you join him, bringing two glasses of water, you find him lying on the gigantic bed, arms sprawled, staring blankly at the ceiling. 

On scale. 

“Did you enjoy yourself?” you ask him, crawling onto the bed next to him, curling into his side. His arm wraps around you. 

“I sure did. That tour guide really knew her shit. Easy on the eyes, too.”

You chuckle tiredly, his chest rising and falling slowly under the palm of your hand. 

“Could we go to Rome, next year?” you ask. 

“We can go wherever you want, baby.”

“Even— even San Diego?”

He pauses for a beat before he answers. 

“Sure. Anywhere you want.”

You scoot closer to tuck your face into his neck, and you lie together in silence for a little while. A pleasant heaviness is slowly claiming your weary limbs. 

“Why does the trip back always feel longer?” you mumble. 

“What are you talking about?” he shakes his head, a smile in his voice, “You slept the whole flight.”

Your cheek resting against the slope of his shoulder, your hand on his thigh, one day he would tell you, that being airborne with you had been the best part. 

“It’s true,” you shrug, “I guess I just couldn’t wait to come back home.”

***

Bonus: Frankie & Gabrielle 🧡

Source

****

Dedications 🧡

Kelli. You started all this, but where do I start? I don't know if you remember the first letter you ever sent me, and what it said, and I don't know if you remember when I first told you about this orange bedroom idea, last summer. But I do. You’ve held my hand, like you always do. Your guidance and validation and support saw me through. Because you’re impossibly generous, with your time and patience and advice, you’re unbelievably kind, intelligent, talented and insightful. I’ve learnt so much from you already, about writing, about myself. You inspire me to reach higher. It's exhausting, but I love you for it. Oh yeah, and you beta-read this fucking monster too! Everything that is good in me this story, is good thanks to you. You turned my black heart orange. Kelli, I love you 🧡 @frannyzooey

Dreamy bby, my purple beauty, my beloved, my angst master genius, how many times have I come to you crying and whining and complaining, telling you I was giving up? Please don’t answer, it’s too fucking embarrassing. You kept my head above water, with love, kindness and humour. What did I do to deserve you? Beats me. Also I'm sorry but I love you more. Ha! Thank you 🧡 @dreamymyrrh

Ren, you’ve pulled me out of the ditch in a heartbeat more times than I care to count, because you are a genius and a wonderful friend. You are the reason I found a home in this fandom. You are my Reine, and I adore you. Thank you 🧡 @the-ginger-hedge-witch 

Nicole my love, I know I’m repeating myself, but you are the first person ever to read the first chapter of PTMY. I sent it to you for your opinion, but really for your encouragement because I was absolutely terrified, and you delivered, you always do, you beautiful, beautiful friend. Thank you for your investment in this story and its characters. Watching you go from team Benny to team Frankie to team Benny and team Frankie again is seriously one of the greatest achievements of my life! Thank you 🧡 @nicolethered

Cee my darling. You gave me the final push to press post and you haven’t stopped encouraging me and supporting me since. You've lent a patient and kind ear to my doubts and fears, you’ve given me the most thoughtful feedbacks a friend could ask for, you let me stand on your shoulders, you give me strength to stand up for myself. In many ways, I carried on because you gave me the validation and self-confidence I so desperately need(ed). Thank you 🧡 @fuckyeahdindjarin 

Deadmantis. Girl, Frankie really owes you one, because Gabriele stayed mainly thanks to you! I owe you an even bigger one for the love you’ve given them, and the orange bedroom. You know them like no one else. Your asks have fuelled me, they still do. I could never repay you, but please know that I am infinitely grateful to you. Thank you 🧡 @deadmantis

Lua. You rascal. You gave me the levity I so badly needed in a thick river of ANGST. I’m very selfishly hoping you never stop making me guilty by dropping Benny into my ask box. A million thank you 🧡 @pedrit0-pascalit0

And to my two favourite Anons, 🍻 and 🥖, I fucking love you to pieces. Thank you thank you thank you 🧡🧡🧡

****

Taglist (thank you 🧡):  @elegantduckturtle  @mashomasho  @lola766  @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine  @nicolethered  @littleone65  @bands-tv-movies-is-me  @the-rambling-nerd  @saintbedelia  @pedrostories  @trickstersp8  @all-the-way-down-here  @deadmantis  @hbc8  @princessdjarin  @harriedandharassed  @girlofchaos  @gracie7209  @mrsparknuts  @mylostloversbookmarks

[en-hale-archives]

Me with You ~~

pairing ⑅ bestfriend!Jake x fem!reader

genre ⑅ friends to lovers, fluff, slow dancing, suggestive/smut

words/read time ⑅ 3.9k/12-19 mins

warnings ⑅ 18+ content, light cussing

synopsis ⑅ Jake is back in his hometown to spend time with his closest friend. During some fun and frivolous dancing, things start to heat up...

author's note ⑅ I’m really proud of how this story turned out. I'm not a huge fan of second person, so I wrote in first, but if anyone asks, I can copy and post again in second person. It's more fluff than anything, but it does get a bit steamier towards the end, so I’m just going to go ahead and put a warning.

————✧————

When the back door finally slammed shut and the cacophony of barks faded down the street, I could finally let out my sigh of relief that I had been holding in since this morning. I tapped on my phone. How many days had we been watching Mrs. Chen’s pets? And just how was I able to put up with hours of barking, the smell of fresh turd lying across the lawn, and dog walks till dark? Including their rigorous feeding times and bathroom breaks -- I’m surprised I haven’t exploded yet.

I had so much planned the minute they left my house, but instead, the sudden silence felt all too relaxing and I laid my head against the cold countertop. I could finally stop stressing, stop thinking, and stop worrying about reprimanding for chewing on my shoes or peeing in the house or the continued barking that never ended. I was free. I felt like I could’ve stayed laid on the countertop forever, drowning in the evening sun. Who knew watching five dogs would take such a burden out of a person. Jake and I had taken on the job of dog sitting for Mrs. Chen while she visited some family in Tokyo. We both switched off every other day; some of the dogs at my house and the others at his; until we realized it would be easier if he just spent the few days at my house as we co-doggy sat. He got up bright and early to take them on their walks while I prepared their highly detailed and specific meals. Then from there, we spent the rest of the day making sure they didn’t run off somewhere or cause too much destruction in the house. But alas, Mrs. Chen came back early from her getaway and picked up Toby, Caleb, Khao, Sofia, and Pickle on her way home. Although I was exhausted from watching 3-foot dogs all day, the pay was amazing for me, and it would help tremendously for all the online classes I was going to be taking next semester.

The warmth of the sun cast a comforting trance over my heavy eyelids, and soon enough I was fast asleep, standing in the middle of the kitchen with the soft sound of nothing surrounding me.

By the time I had fluttered my eyes open, I had realized I was now seated in my dining chair and a large black jacket was placed over my shoulders. I sat up and let out a yawn, wincing at the bright light coming from the tv and shaking my now numb arm awake. I must have been sleeping for a while because the evening sun had turned to pitch of black. The moonlight beamed through the window and danced along with the sways of the large oak tree out front. I stood up and walked over to the refrigerator in which I grabbed two water bottles and some leftover pasta.

I was sure that Jake hadn’t eaten since lunch, seeing as he only ate if someone sat food in front of his face. I dragged my feet up the stairs until I heard the slamming of a book and the fast typing of a keyboard come from the living room. I turned and looked behind me. Jake had settled his things on the coffee table and floor, large books, folders, and several amounts of crumpled up pieces of paper found their way around Jake, himself slouched up against the edge of the couch. He had changed clothes since the last time I had seen him, he now wore a plain blue shirt with grey sweats, his eyebrows furrowed as he worked hard on whatever he was getting at.

“Oh yes, I was starving!” Propping himself up on the couch, he took the plate of pasta. I placed the waters on the coffee table and settled comfortably on the couch beside him.

“I can’t say that I’ve ever seen anybody sleep standing up before. Look,” Jake took his phone off the charger. “I got a picture.” He pushed the screen in my face, and of course, there was my unconscious body laying on the counter, mouth open and all. I playfully pushed it back his way as his face lit up with a smile I was all too familiar with.

“What are you doing down here so late, it’s almost 12 in the morning,” I asked. Jake’s smile disappeared when he was reminded of the work he had been doing seconds before.

He let out a large huff of air. “Trying to get some words on paper but instead it turned into a paper massacre,” he jokingly replied, “sorry for the mess.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I replied, taking a swig of water. I was going to ask if he wanted to watch a late-night movie, or pull an all-nighter and talk endlessly until the sun rose, but I could tell by each passing second that Jake was worried about this, and he wanted the time he had now over the summer to work on his music. I wished I was motivated to work on my own music, but unlike Jake, I wasn’t in a globally popular boy band. My complicated best friend for over 10 years had been working his butt off since middle school. It was his annual time to sit back and relax while he had the time to, but instead, he chose to use that time to help watch a bunch of dogs with his hometown bestie. God, I loved him.

Jake pulled himself off the couch and right back onto the floor, leaving the rest of the pasta to me. He picked up his pen again and started scribbling down words as quickly as he could, trying hard not to forget the lyrics that had floated into his head. Until he stopped, closing his eyes for just a split second, and let out a powerful sigh. Crumpling up the sheet, he stacks it on top of the others in frustration and started frantically tapping his pencil against the table.

“Maybe it’s best to just try again in the morning,” I advised, taking a small bite of the pasta that was left by my side.

“How come I’m having such a hard time with this?” He gazed up at me frantically for a clue, as if I had the answer to fix a problem as big and as important as his was. I looked at his doleful eyes and the bags that were starting to grow underneath them. I couldn’t help but think, because I made you sit up and watch a bunch of dogs with me.

“Do you want me to see if I could come up with something?”

“If you want. But, hold on, I think my thoughts are coming back up.” He quickly grabbed another piece of paper, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

I tried my best to keep occupied by watching videos on my phone, but I found myself suddenly bored out of my mind. I laid out on my back and picked up one of Jake’s folders. Briefly looking through it, I couldn’t help but feel a bit jealous at the amount of fan art and letters, praising him and the other members. Followed with that were just more and more engene stuff, full of nothing but kind words and heartfelt messages. Part of me wished that I was able to travel with Jake and see the world like he was. How fun would it be to meet people that praised you? And how cool would it be to see that you had fans? I couldn’t help but plaster on a huge smile as I skimmed through some of the notes until I finally came to one with familiar handwriting.

Remember Me were the words written on the top of the paper in bold and bright colors. But the message written underneath is what caught my attention:

To the person that makes me the luckiest guy in the world, this song is for you. It’s okay if you don’t feel the same, but please just remember me -- it was Jake’s handwriting.

I didn’t feel like I was breaking any crime reading his stuff until this moment, but curiosity killed the cat, and right now I didn’t mind being a feline. I checked to make sure Jake was still busy, and he was, almost like he had teleported into his own world. I quietly turned back to the sheet and started reading. It was about a girl, presumably his crush I’m sure. She was someone important to him, someone who made him love so much that it hurt. But this was far from a happy song, in fact, it was terribly heartbreaking. She didn’t understand his love, she wasn’t able to interpret it like he wanted her to. But he confesses that he was scared of what telling her would do, worried that she wouldn’t feel the same. So instead, it was like he was apologizing, and asking that she forgive him for not being brave enough to tell her, and if he did ever get the courage to, for her to remember him even if she wasn’t able to love him like he wanted her to.

The song ends like how the title began, and I find myself flabbergasted at the beautiful mixes of rhymes and metaphors that read like a poem. This was the first of Jake’s songs that made me feel this way, like I had just finished watching a tragedy movie with Ryan Renolds starring. I blink back the tears that I didn’t realize were forming. How come he never told me this? We never kept secrets from each other, like ever. It never mattered the subject or the severity, we had always promised that we would be open and honest with each other. I wish I would’ve known this sooner, maybe I could’ve saved him from feeling this way. And what girl could it possibly be? I knew for sure I was the only girl he was presumably close to; but was there someone else?

I glanced down at Jake, who was still in a focused state of mind with the pencil in his mouth and mumbling lyrics softly under his breath. I tried picturing my bubbly Jake writing these agonizing words and miserably failed.

Jake looked up at me as if he could feel my gaze on the back of his head. “I think I’ve found the chorus, but it’s the rest of the song I’m not able to get, and how come it’s so hard to find another word that rhymes with severe? Beer? Sphere? Revere? Appear? Gosh, rhyming sucks some serious ass!”

“This song is beautiful.”

Jake furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “Huh?”

“This song I found in your folder.” I glanced back at it in my hand. “Remember Me.”

Jake’s gaze leaped from my eyes to the sheet, and I felt his body tense. “Where’d you get that from?”

“I was just going through one of your folders. Did you accidentally get it mixed up in your fan folder? Cause this is -”

“Did you read it?” He interrupted.

“Yeah, and it’s perfect.”

Jake glanced at me for a split second before turning back around, obviously uncomfortable. “I was watching one of those Kdramas you love so much and it inspired me. Could you help me rhyme with severe now?”

I knew Jake like the back of my hand, so I knew continuing on with this conversation would get him upset if he’s clearly avoiding it. But, I wasn’t going to just let him off that quickly. “Jake, come on, you can tell me anything. Who is this about?”

Jake looked back at me with a hint of something in his eyes, something I’ve never seen before, and something I wasn't able to decipher. “Nobody, I was just feeling really inspired, that's it.” His tone had switched from calm to agitated.

I give him my I’m-not-stupid look and he comes back with his own you’re-being-delusional stare. “It’s seriously nobody, truthfully and honestly.”

“Okay, okay I’ll back off.” I could tell he was starting to get defensive, and when he got like that, it took him at least a few hours before returning to normal. I watched Jake's Adam's apple move up and down, a way in which I could tell he knew I was not convinced in the slightest. “Well, sometimes we go through things that can remind us of situations like that, but not necessarily in that same exact context, you know? It has to be amplified for that audience appeal.”

“Okay...but have you ever felt this way before? Not exactly like how it’s written, but maybe somewhere along these lines?”

I thought I was going to get another vague answer, or worse, an aggravated one. But instead Jake looked down at his pencil as he tapped it along his wrist. “...maybe, but I think everyone can connect to the words in some way. I mean, everyone feels some kind of heartbreak in their life, right?” Jake's answer was still pretty vague, but at least I was able to get something out of him.

“Okay, but you know you can tell me anything, like, anything ever because you know that you’ll never actually have to feel this way, right?” I said, maybe too much in a hurry.

“Of course I know that.” He replied, giving one of his awkward grins.

“And if anyone has made you feel this way, then you know you can tell me that too cause there a sucker to lose out on a perfect person like you.” I teased in a sing-song way, poking his shoulder hard. Jake chuckled and poked me back.

A weird silence grew in the room, and Jake went back to trying to find rhyming words. I tried getting back on my phone, but I knew I needed to say something to let go of the tenseness in the air.

“Hey, crystal clear rhymes!”

He leaned his head back and looked up at me. “Nevermind, I give up for tonight.”

I could see the stress that played on his face. “Don’t worry, you’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah, but by the time I do, it’ll be too late.”

“What do you mean?”

Jake pulled his knees up to his chest and spoke. “This was going to go on our album comeback that needs to be finished in the next four months. By the time I think of something, it'll be too late and I’ll have to wait until the next four months. But by then, I'll have forgotten. This always happens and I have no idea how the hell to fix it.” I couldn’t tell if he wanted my help or just a bit of comfort.

“Did you try asking the other guys to see if they had any ideas?”

“Yeah, but they’re working on their own parts, I can’t ask them to do this too.”

“I’m sure they’d be willing to help if you asked,” I assured him.

“I know they would, but I just don’t want to. I always ask them for help, I thought being away from the studio and being back home would help my brainstorming abilities.” He gave a weary chuckle that almost sounded like a groan.

“Well, maybe tomorrow will come with better results.” I did my best to give him some motivation, but I could tell I was failing miserably at that too.

Jake watched as a car zoomed past the window, a low bass sounding off as it zoomed away. “I bet it’s easier to just listen to music than to try and come up with it. I remember when I would just blare NCT all day long and jam out in my room. It seemed so much easier back then to come up with stuff than it does now. I miss it.” He took a slight pause before continuing. “ Did you know that song you read was the easiest thing I have written in my life? I remember writing too. I just had this super weird feeling in my chest one day so I basically locked myself in my room and took maybe two hours and just wrote a bunch of words down and connected them to sound like a song. For once my mind had just gone blank and I couldn’t stop thinking and feeling that song, like I knew what it was supposed to sound like, I knew what the lyrics were supposed to mean. I just knew everything. And I miss that feeling, that feeling of like- '' He broke off his sentence when he looked back up to my eyes. It seemed like he was talking more to himself than to me. He swallowed hard and looked back at the pencil still in hand.

“Well, I'm sorry you don’t feel free anymore. I wish there was something I could do to make you feel like that again-”

“No, please don’t feel like that. It’s just something that had just recently started happening, something I really just can’t fix…” His voice gets softer and softer the more he spoke.

“Have you spoken to your manager about it?” I asked. “He’s super nice from what I understand. And he’ll probably have better answers than your friend who can barely play the piano, let alone produce an entire song.”

Jake laughed before I had the chance to. “ See, now you're underestimating yourself. Remember that song from freshman year? The one about-- what was his name, Josh?” Jake teased. I grabbed a pillow and slammed it into the back of his head. “Oh my gosh, I thought we promised we’d never bring it up again!”

Jake chuckled and laid his arm on the couch completely turning towards me. “How about we sneak out and go get ice cream and try to not wake up your mom in the process?”

I suddenly jumped to my feet when I have the perfect idea on how to cheer up the gloomy Mr. Shim. “Or, we could do something even better!”

“Urgh!” Jake groaned.

I grabbed my phone and hooked it up to the speaker. I was going to turn on his hit song Drunk-Dazed as a joke, but Jake needed this break from his career, so instead, I crunk up Beyonce as loud as it could go without disturbing my mom who slept upstairs. I turn back to Jake and reach out for his hands, already moving my hips to the music.

He shook his head and threw it back onto the couch as if throwing a temper tantrum. “I literally dance for a living.”

“Okay but this will be different, I promise.” I grabbed the piles of papers on the ground and threw them in the trash, I then pushed the coffee table near the wall and piled his folders and books neatly on top.

“Come on, cowboy!” I grabbed his hands and helped him up. He was reluctant to get up, but he threw one last groan before standing on his feet.

“This will get the brain juices flowing again!” I told him. I go back to my phone and switch it to one of my favorite Beyonce songs that she covered, At Last.

I sang dramatically to get Jake to smile, and luckily, it worked. I placed both my hands over his shoulders and swayed us back and forth, still miming the song as overly exaggerated as I could. Jake still couldn’t help but smile, and it didn’t take him long to join me in the rhythm and sway naturally with me. I learned at our middle school dance that Jake had perfect rhythm. He was able to impress the rest of the crowd when he busted out moves from BTS. Everyone was impressed, including me.

Now we were on a steady roll. I accidentally stepped on his feet a few times, but it was fine seeing as I was wearing foam flip-flops and he was barefooted. After a while, the song switched and played another of my favorites that didn’t match our style of dance, but we still moved slowly to the beat. Jake tried twirling me, but since I have two left feet, I almost ended up hitting the wall each time and Jake laughed loud at my clumsiness. The moonlight from the kitchen had now switched to the window in the living room. It gleamed through and glistened on Jake like a spotlight, just like the ones on the stage did for him. In a split second, I was reminded that he wouldn’t be here forever, just like he wasn’t here for the past year. I tried to not let it settle on my face that I was scared to see him go again, so I played up on the fun we were having now. Jake looked like he was at ease; finally, since he’d been here, he looked genuinely happy and I wasn’t going to ruin that.

After another handful of songs full of laughs and giggles, we were soon sweating and taking deeper breaths than normal. Each song was different from the one before, but it didn’t stop us from sticking to our style of dance. Even with the simplicity of the moves and the slowness of the steps, I had to take a minute to relax. I hooked my arms around his neck and rested my entire body on his. I could feel Jake’s own sweat seeping through his shirt, But I didn’t mind the wetness that was now attached to my cheek. I thought he would act awkward and ask for me to pull away, but instead, he gripped tighter on my hips and started slowly moving me side to side. I let out a long overdue sigh, trying my best to match the steady breathing of Jake’s with my own. It was actually therapeutic: hearing his heartbeat in one ear and the softness of the music in the other.

I tried to continue our steady breathing together, but his had picked up a bit, almost out of nowhere. I felt the heat of his breath on the nape of my neck, and it made my entire body tingle in a way it never had before. After this sudden feeling, I realized just how close we really were. His leg hair tickled my legs, I could feel the bone of his foot connecting to mine, I could feel his thin waist against mine as well. I felt like I needed to back up, but instead, I couldn’t and continued to sway softly against him. A few seconds later, Jake’s hands rose a little higher, planting themselves on my waist and tightening their grip as if they were trying to pull me closer than we already were.

The sensation hadn’t stopped though, it clung to my body like my damp shorts did on my thighs. Sooner or later I felt pressure on the lower part of my stomach and thought for sure that Jake was messing around and wasn’t feeling what I was, which indicated that I needed to pull back before this feeling became too much.

This is so embarrassing. I thought. How could I let myself feel like this? How was this in any way okay? I finally pulled back, the sensation becoming too unbearable, and glanced up at his face. His pupils were large in a way I hadn’t seen before. His mouth was slightly open and a drop of sweat slowly traced down his forehead, onto his nose. That pressure I was feeling on my stomach had now doubled in force, and Jake's face had switched from calm and subtle, to alarmed and panicked...

————✧————

(part 2 possibly...?)

Thank you guys so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! Please, leave any constructive criticism you have on helping improve my writing!

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None of the images are mine, They all belong to their rightful owners :)

[clouds-rambles]

hey bestie i was hoping to request xiao, venti, childe and zhongli where the the reader and the character have just had an argument + the reader needs time to calm down from the argument. omg maybe the reader comes back with a gift to apologise

Ask and ye shall receive <3. I’m the kind of person who needs time to relax and process the situation after an argument. I’m always too worked up (read angry) to kiss and make up straight after an argument.

Pairings; (Separate) Xiao, Venti, Childe, Zhongli x reader

Warning(s); breif mention of a wound, alcoholism, swearing

Keep reading under the cut!

Xiao

You’re probably being too harsh on the guy

You had just come back from a tough mission with a few more scrapes than you normally come back, a nasty cut in particular situated on your shoulder was what caused the argument to kick off in the first place

In hindsight the argument started from Xiao’s concern of you getting hurt worse but you were too tired from the commission to really read it as concern

But boy now do you feel bad. You both went your separate ways for the evening and in the morning you still haven’t caught sight of your partner. You eventually go around Wangshu Inn and ask if they’ve seen Xiao.

You get told that he’s out for the day, apparently he caught wind of something manifesting in the mountains. So, you suppose that it’s high time to make an apology gift

And what’s a better apology gift than your partners favourite food? Because your arguments are often few and far between you don’t mind making Xiao almond tofu since it’s not something you’ve associated with apologising

Though you’re aware that the sweet snack means nothing if you’re not sincere with your apology. 

So what’s more sincere than sitting at the highest balcony of Wangshu Inn and wait for Xiao. You don’t mind how long it takes for him to come back just as long as you get to apologise

He comes back just after dusk and you pour your apologise profusely and tell him you understand that he was coming from a place of concern

Xiao is a little distant a short while after the apology but soon you’re reassured that he accepts it when he places his hand on the table for you to take hold of

The two of you sit in silence sat hand in hand while Xiao eats his tofu

You watch him eat with a grin on your face, sometimes just watching the Yaksha sit still and do his thing is enough to keep you in a trance for the evening

-

Venti

Maybe you got into an argument because you’re concerned over Venti’s drinking habits, sure he’s an immortal god but doesn’t he worry about his liver?

Sure the argument started because you’re worried about the archon but boy does he make you angry with his non-sensical thought processes

Venti is the kind of guy who wouldn’t let you leave without settling the argument

Even if the happy medium isn’t actually going to bring any change into the questionable drinking habits

But this argument just feels a little different, you’ve had the same conversation form months but nothing seems to change

You’re not even sure if Venti has actually listened to anything you have said to him about it

So you tell him “Do what you want, but you’re sleeping on the sofa tonight” yeah you just resigned him to sofa treatment. As much as you hate it you’re far too heated to just kiss and make up right now

So the night passes and you wake up with the cold space beside you, you’re confused until you remember the previous nights events

Though your unusual silence in the room doesn’t last long, you presume Venti sensed that you’re awake because you hear a knock at your bedroom door, you’re surprised that Venti is actually here and that he hadn’t sulked off to Windrise where you had originally planned to apologise to him

As you open the door you notice your partner stood before you with a bunch of hand picked cecelia's and dandelions and an apologetic look on his face

You’ve never known Venti to speak so fast he apologises profusely for causing you such worry and promises that he’ll try to drink less, he mentions that he doesn’t wish to give up his Friday and Saturday drinking nights but he’s willing to tone it down during the week if it stops you worrying 

You thank him sincerely and find a vase to put the flowers in

You hug Venti and apologise yourself for being such a worry wart and causing such a big argument

“I’m glad I have someone to worry about me, I don’t know what I’d do without you” You can’t help but swoon at his flowery words and grin at him before the two of you start off the day

-

Childe

It’s a bad habit he has, when you try and talk about something serious with him he constantly cracks jokes at the situation. Which in its self isn’t the worse thing in the world, even you crack jokes to lighten the situation but at some points it goes too far

And today is too far, what started off as a disagreement about where you were going to eat lunch ended up in a full scale (mostly one sided) argument in Childes office about how he can’t take things seriously

You, of course, know this to be false. You’ve seen him in action against his foes and bank business but just in this moment when you are so angry about the situation those rational thoughts go out the window

And what does the bastard do? He cracks another fucking joke

“Is this what I am?” you ask finally reaching the catalyst of your temper “A fucking joke?” 

And boy does the exclamation comes to a surprise to him. No matter how frequent your use of curse words you’ve never directed them at him so it catches Childe by even more surprise

“[name] I’m sorry I didn’-” he tries to apologise

“You didn’t fucking what Tartaglia? Want to make me feel like a joke? Cause you’ve been going down that road at every fucking disagreement we have” you cut him off in a fit of rage “Sleep in your own fucking bed tonight” you add before storming out his office

He tried to follow you out the bank before he was stopped by a fatui agent about some urgent debt collection, so he never got to apologise immediately

And that’s how the next couple of days go, you’ve taken most of the time to cool off and avoid anywhere Childe might be hanging about, your plan works better considering said harbinger was out of Liyue Harbour for a couple of days

Though on the third night Childe appears at your door, he doesn’t bring any gifts, just himself. Childe enjoys gifting things to you so he doesn’t want you or him to associate gift giving with apologies. You’re more than thankful for this

Childe apologises before you even have the chance to invite him in and takes your hand and wholeheartedly promises to try and not make jokes when you have a disagreement

You also apologise and agree that, in hindsight, you blew things out of proportion. You reassure him that he’s a hardworking man and that a few out of place jests make everything more bearable to him.

You invite him inside for some tea, your bed isn’t as cold as it was tonight

-

Zhongli

Disagreements with Zhongli never seem to get any further than that. The archon likes to listen to you vent your frustrations over a cup of herbal tea and usually that calms you down and everything is settled before supper

But every once in a while you’re a little high strung. For instance this time you’re running on a total of 5 hours sleep over the last 4 days. Sleep deprivation could possibly be your middle name at this point 

The only thing you want to do when you get back from your restless trip from Mondstat back home is to just sleep the next few years 

But the sweetie that Zhongli is he quizzes you about your great to horrific trip

Zhongli pulls all the stops he readys some dinner for you and draws a bath when you get back. He even gives you a small lecture about how you’ll feel terrible not washing before going to bed

But with your tired ears, eyes and brain it feels like a personal attack in your entire self “I’ve had it up to here with bloody hillichurls for 4 horrific days, all I want to do is pass the living hell out thank you”

Replace the bloodys with fucks and that’s probably more accurate to what you said

Zhongli is taken a little aback, being an older traditional man it’s unbecoming of anyone to use such sailor language. And thus the male lectures you about it

You take that as about as well as you expect, you don’t respond to him and favour walking out the room, barely getting undressed and collapsing on your shared bed

You wake up the next morning (though when you peek outside it seems like it’s after noon) disorientated. You don’t actually remember coming home the previous day 

Then the memory resurfaces of you yelling at your spouse and regret washes over you

Surely the gift you had prepared for Zhongli would be good enough as repercussions of yesterdays outburst

You see Zhongli in the dining room, to the untrained eye he looks like he’s in a normal mood but to you, you can see his brooding emanating off of him. If you dare point it out Zhongli will deny that he even broods in the first place

He’s the first to greet you without turning around. Rightfully so, he’s still in a mood. So you just profusely apologise for your outburst

You explain that you were running on next to no sleep and while that doesn’t excuse your outburst it certainly explains it. If your spouse so wishes to ask how your trip was you would comply much more now since you’ve had a good sleep behind you. 

You then change the subject to the gift in your hands, some rose tea. Something Zhongli had mentioned when you were courting all that time ago. 

The man sits you on his lap and explains to you about how it was out of place of him to assume you’d be in a talking mood immediately after your travels. You reassure him that under normal circumstances you wouldn’t mind talking about it, you promise that you will do everything in your power to not let the previous night repeat

You then bring out his gift, rose tea, which he had mentioned wanting to taste a little while back, and before long you’re back in the cycle of Zhongli profusely explaining to you some random subject (in this instance rose tea) before you go off to make dinner where you finally share the details of your travels

Hope this is okay! <3 I kind of went a little ham with the Childe and Zhongli one in comparison to the other two hope you don’t mind lmao <3

[otakusheep15]

SFW Alphabet - Solomon

This is for my best friend/mother as she is the biggest Solomon simp I’ve ever seen lol. Also, this is gonna be angsty cause I love writing angsty Solomon

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

He pretends to not like affection, but he’s a softie and we all know it. Really, all he needs is a hug and he’ll just melt on the spot. 

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

One word: chaos. You two as best friends cause untold destruction and cause Lucifer several migraines per day. Being besties with him also means being besties with Asmo, so be prepared for that as well.  

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

He loves cuddles. Maybe it’s just the fact that he hasn’t had much physical contact in who knows how long, but he loves any form of contact. His favorite ways to cuddle is him on his back with you either laying on top of him, or on the side of him with your head on his chest. 

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

I can’t see him as the type to settle down, be he’d consider it depending on the person. And while he’s a terrible cook, he’s not half bad at cleaning and other household chores. 

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

He’d be super blunt about it. Honestly, he’s scared to get with anyone to begin with since, ya know, immortality and all, so it’s been a while since he’s actually had to break it off. His main goal when breaking up with someone is to get them away from him, so he wants to make sure the way he breaks up with them will make them want to stay away. 

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Afraid of commitment. I imagine the last time he tried to commit to someone was before he became immortal, so having to watch them die made him vow to never get that close to anyone again. Then he met you, and all of that has been thrown out the window. He might try and rush things a bit, but he just wants as much time with you as possible. So, while he is afraid to commit, he’ll do it for you. 

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

He’s bad at human interaction, so he might not know if he accidentally hurts you, but he’ll be quick to apologize once he realizes. Honestly, he’s better at being physically gentle since he can control that better than emotions.  

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

Loves hugs. They’re one of his favorite things ever. He just finds such comfort in them, and they’re great for stress relief. His hugs are a bit on the aggressive side, but they’re still very enjoyable. 

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

He’d say it on accident. And then he’d try to play it off to hide how embarrassed he is. It is pretty early on, but he does mean it with all his heart. Please say it back, he hasn’t heard it in a while. 

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

He gets extremely jealous. Like, you spend so much time with the brothers and he can’t stand that. Of course, he would never admit it, but he would try everything he can think of to get you away from them. Once, he almost resorted to food poisoning out of sheer desperation. 

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

His kisses differ depending on his mood, but they’re usually soft and full of passion. His favorite place to kiss you is your neck because it gets a nice reaction out of you. His favorite place to be kissed is the top of his head cause he’s secretly a big softy who wants to be babied.  

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

He’s not the most fond of kids, but he’ll tolerate them. They’re are fun to tease though, especially Luke. 

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

he’s either waking you up at the crack of dawn to work on some new potion, or he’s sleeping in until past noon and refuses to get up. Regardless, you are not leaving his side. If he gets up, he’ll drag you up with him. If he wants to stay in, he’ll hold you there until he’s satisfied. 

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

He’ll usually be up late working on something or other, but he’s never up for too long. He jins you in bed when he’s done, and he’ll cuddle the crap out of you an an apology for keeping you waiting. He’s also fond of talking to you about random stuff that happened throughout the day until one or both of you fall asleep. 

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

This man is one of the most secretive people to ever exist. He wants to open up to you, honestly he does, but he just can’t. he’s so worried that all of his emotional baggage will drive you away, and he couldn’t stand losing another person he cares about. So, he keeps everything hidden. With time, he’ll start opening up if you push enough buttons. 

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

He’s really good at pretending he’s patient. On the outside he’s his same-old self, but on the inside he’s fuming. His patience tends to wear especially thin around the brothers (except Asmo). It’s a mixture of jealousy for how much time they spend with you, and anger that they refuse to make a pact with him. But he keeps it all under wraps. 

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

He does remember a good bit of information, but he sucks at remembering small details. For example, he may know what month your birthday is in, but he cannot remember the actual date. Or, he would remember your favorite movie genre, but not your favorite movie in said genre. He tries his best though. 

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

He loves this one time where you tried to help him cook something. You were tired of dealing with the mess that is his cooking skills, and you wanted him to make something that wouldn’t kill you. Everything started out fine until you accidentally get some flour on him. It wasn’t much, but still. He just turns to you without saying anything before launching some flour right back at you. And then the casual baking session turns into an all-out food war. The kitchen is a mess and you two end up getting scolded by Simeon later, but it was totally worth it.  

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

Oh he’s very protective. I mean, you’re a defenseless human surrounded by powerful demons who want to eat you, of course he’d be protective. He would never mean to over-bearing, but he can come off that way sometimes. He used to protect those he cared about before he became immortal, so the habit comes back with you now. He doesn’t need protecting for obvious reasons, so it’s all the more reason to focus on protecting you. 

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

Surprisingly, he prefers more lowkey dates. Maybe it’s because he rarely gets any alone time with you, but he loves just chilling out together practicing magic. if you did want to go out, he would take you somewhere in the Human World to get away from all the chaos of the Devildom. 

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

Obviously, his cooking could kill a man, but we’re gonna move past that since it’s low hanging fruit. Besides that, he has a tendency to by pretty cunning and he’s always planning some kind of prank. He also has a tendency to get jealous of the brothers a lot, and that can make him salty when you guys can finally hang out. 

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

He used to be pretty concerned with his looks, but he’s gotten over it. He still tries to look decent since he is in the presence of some powerful demons, but it isn’t at the forefront of his mind. Although, since becoming besties with Asmo, his vanity has started picking up again.  

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

Maybe yes, maybe no. He’s had to deal with loss several times over, so he could probably learn to deal with it like he did before, but you could be different. It really just depends on what kind of impact you have on him during your time together. 

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

We all know that it’s basically canon that he and Asmo have hooked up before lol. But I also lowkey think he’s hooked up with both Barb and Satan. I have no real reason as to why I think this, but I do and I’m sticking to it. I don't even ship it that much, I just think he would do something like that. 

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

He actually doesn’t like someone he knows he’d get attached to. He doesn't want to go through that pain again, so he wants to remain distant. Also, he doesn’t like someone who doesn’t understand or accept what he’s been through and what he’ll continue going through. He wants someone who understands and who he can talk to about it. 

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

He gets very clingy in his sleep. If he’s sleeping with someone, they can expect to be trapped in his arms until he wakes up. And if you try to escape, he just hugs you even tighter. 

[vangoghmusings]

hey bestie bae 🕺 may i please have some first date/first kiss hc’s for my lovely sk8 boys 😚 thank youuuu

hi willow!! i’m gonna do reki and langa if thats ok <3 

𝙍𝙀𝙆𝙄 

this poor boy is so nervous 

he’s pacing all over the house 

langa is just glad reki’s mom gave him snacks 

it took him enough courage to ask you out and he was so shocked you actually said yes 

but now that day is here and he actually gets to be with you. alone. 

langa gives him a weak pep talk and a classic handshake before he’s off 

reki picks you up from your place, practically dripping in sweat just by ringing the doorbell 

and when he sees you, he swears he’s about to faint 

maybe its nerves or just how good you look 

he offers you a hand and rushes to open the passenger car door for you 

he has a whole night planned out 

first, he asks what your favorite fast food is, and at the second you give him an answer he’s driving off in its direction. 

he orders whatever you ask for and then drives off to the next stop, a skate park 

its not what you were expecting but you also weren't expecting reki to ask you out to begin with 

he asks you to wait a moment, rushing out of the car to set up the trunk, which your surprise is filled with pillows, blankets, and string lights. 

he gives you a shy grin while putting on some music and helping you into the pillow stuffed trunk 

you munch on your dinner, snuggled closely with each other in the back, talking and making surprisingly smooth conversation 

once your all done eating, reki grabs his skateboard from his back seat and tries his best to impress you with some tricks, not all of them land, but he blushes and laughs them off 

but then he drags you onto his skateboard 

he holds your hands as you stand on the board, making sure your legs to slip from under you 

his grins so big and coos out “you’re doing so great! look at you, you’re a natural!” 

he even helps you skate around the park, slowly of course, and holding your hand the entire time 

after a few clumsy falls and laughs, reki decides to treat you to a 7/11 slushie for doing such a good job 

the two of you sit on the curb of the gas station, giggling and sipping on your large slushies 

the moment you tiredly rest your head on his shoulder and take a sip of your drink, his lips land on your head, almost by instinct 

the poor thing is apologizing profusely the moment you look up at him 

thank goodness you shut up his blabbering with a kiss 

who knew cola slushies could taste so good? 

𝙇𝘼𝙉𝙂𝘼 

unlike reki, langa feels like he couldn't possibly go to his friends for help when it comes to dating advice 

reki has zero dating experience, miya is literally a child, joe can never keep his relationships straight, cherry is in love with a robot and shadow...yeah. 

so who better to go to than his mom 

that woman is way too excited to learn her baby boy is going on a date 

with her help and advice, langa is able to plan a pretty special night 

no skating or anything- he wants to be langa to you, not snow 

ever since he’s gone to the beach, he’s been completely enamored with it- almost as much as with you

he greets you at boat with a bouquet of flowers 

his mom really wanted this to be perfect, can you tell? 

when you see langa, you’re shocked, he actually looks nervous 

he’s usually so stoic it's like seeing an entirely different person 

you sit together on the boat, chatting and sniffing the bouquet of the sweet flowers 

once you arrive to the island, langa rents a tandem bike and the two of you make your merry way to the beach 

its a short ride and you can smell the ocean salt in the air 

this is probably the biggest surprise of all 

when you arrive at the beach, there on the sand under a large beach umbrella and on a blanket is a picnic 

shoutout to joe for catering 

you both run over to the picnic, more than happy to sit under the shade and drink some ice-cold sodas 

shoutout to cherry and carla for making a really advanced picnic basket

you dine on handmade pasta and salad while looking out at the clear blue water

once you wait 30 minutes after eating (langa was really adamant about this cause he didn’t want you to get a cramp or feel sick) you take off your clothes and reveal your swimsuit underneath 

langa.exe has stopped working 

yeah he might've imagined what you would look like in your bathing suit but he never imagined it would be this good 

langa desperately runs into the cold water to cool himself off from just looking at you 

you laugh at his shyness and soon break into a splash fight and playing with each other in the water 

you try to fight the surprisingly strong hug he wraps around you from behind, but his warm skin against your is almost too good to want to give up 

looking back up at him, you notice how pink his cheeks have turned, a raspy whisper asking “can i kiss you?” 

obviously, you say yes, kissing him briefly before splashing him once more 

the day goes on with floating in the water, splashing, and ends with the two of you curled up in front of a bonfire snuggled under a large towel and kissing with the taste of the salty ocean still on your lips 

[dreamsfreckles]

[7:21p.m.] A Couple of Whipped Besties, One Could Say...

~

Sapnap x reader

Fluff

A couple of sus betsies - enjoy!

~

Sapnap smiled proudly at the beautiful view in front of him: you sitting in his gaming chair, beating the shit out of George on a minecraft PVP server.

Naturally, as Sapnap’s best friend, today marked your third night sleeping over at his house, the usual.

You two simply couldn’t get sick of each other.

Sure, he was annoying and relentless sometimes, and maybe you were a bit stubborn and moody; but regardless, both of your personalities clashed and complimented each other perfectly - creating a close friendship. 

Even though your friendship was his most precious treasure, Sapnap couldn’t help but be dissatisfied with it. 

Not because he wasn’t happy with you... but because he wasn’t happy with you. 

incase you need further elaboration:

Sapnap done went and caught feelings for you. (no earnings)

Leaning over your left shoulder as you gamed, Sapnap side-eyed your facial expressions as you passionately played on the computer monitor in front of you, flexing your weirdly amazing skill at PVP.

He admired you; you looked cute while concentrated. Critting George’s player with your diamond axe was Sapnap’s favorite sight to see. Your eyebrows furrowed the slightest bit and your eyes shined as you attempted to predict George’s next move. 

Not to mention you were also hot as fuck. Sapnap didn’t need to admit that though...

Not only were you his cute best friend, but you were also a super skilled player. He seemed to get the best of both worlds when it came to you.

You can be risky, fun, daring and stupid, but at the same time smart, soft, sweet, and safe. It’s rare to have someone as unique and different as you. You were irreplaceable. 

It also just makes things 1000x better when you’re the reason George regrets his entire PVP career.

Sapnap leaned back into his spare chair, laughing in disbelief at you mercilessly owning George in the game. He could hear George’s screams of absolute terror leaking from the headset on your head; his headset. (dollar tree)

Goddamn he’s whipped. (what a shrimp)

The headphones were a little big on you, which added to the cuteness. Sapnap secretly peered at you love-sickly, sighing in content. It was rare for him to be completely in a haze by you simply doing nothing; for some reason you had him completely under your control today.

Your sudden yell broke Sapnap from his trance and brought his attention to the monitor showing the signature “victory” screen. You squealed hopping up from your chair and doing a small victory dance, laughing at George as he wallowed in defeat. You turn to Sapnap, a wide smile on your face. “Were you watching that? George is SHIT!” You laughed. Sapnap shook his head in disbelief. “Have you been practicing? I have to get you to duel Dream... I doubt you could beat him though. Gogy is just trash.” You giggled with Sapnap at his open criticism towards George, while the trash PVP player on the call scoffed and mumbled incoherent curse words. (ignoring the fact Sapnap lowkey called you trash)

“Well,” you start, relaxing back into his gaming chair. “I’m kind of hungry now. Do you want to go get Chick-fil-a or something?” Just before Sapnap could respond, he was rudely interrupted by George screaming on his headset. “YOU’RE GOING TO GET CHICK-FIL-A?!” The headphones rung. “Are you trying to get cancelled Sapnap?” George joked, making literally no one laugh. You glanced at Sapnap in amusement. His face is twisted in playful annoyance as he ends the call with George. “I guess George is right... Don’t want our precious Sappy getting cancelled.” Sapnap scoffs and rolls his eyes at you playing along with George, a smile on his face. You smirk evilly, standing up to walk across his room to grab your purse. “Whelp, looks like you gotta get your own fast food.” You sling your purse over your shoulder and start heading towards his bedroom door.

Sapnap’s eyes widen at your statement. There’s no way he’s letting you go along with George’s stupid-ass joke.

Before you could leave, Sapnap scrambled to wedge himself between you and his door, stopping you from exiting the room. “Um? You’re dog water if you think you’re pulling that bullshit on me?” He sasses, backing you away from his door.

You hold in your laugh and shrug, putting up a serious face. “We should probably have a break from each other anyway... Why don’t you go out and get McDonald’s instead? I’ll be back in like,” you check your phone for affect. “Like 45 minutes.” You state, looking back up to his pretty eyes filled with betrayal.

Sapnap is frozen. He didn’t think that this Chick-fil-a joke would actually be taken some-what seriously. You wanted time away from him? What the fuck? You two have always been clingy to each other! You can barely go to his fucking kitchen by yourself! 

He took a second longer looking into your shining eyes. Then it all clicked.

You little rat. How cruel are you to be playing with his little heart like that?

Sapnap could turn this situation around in a few different ways.

1.) He could call out your cap right now and you two would go out and get your chick-fil-a, or whatever you want to eat.

2.) He could football tackle you to the fucking ground and make you apologize for saying such buffoonery.

3.) He could go along with your cruel joke, and make you think that he 100% agrees that you two “need to take a break.” He can even go as far as calling it a night and telling you that he’s too tired for another sleepover night.

Sapnap was never the merciful type. As much as he is unconditionally in love with you, he don’t play. 

Option 3 was game.

Sapnap looked up and to the side, pretending to think about your suggestion of “taking a break” like it was a valid choice. Stepping away from his place in between you and the door, Sapnap motions for you to go. “You know what, you’re kinda right. You can go ahead, I think I’m going to call someone.” Sapnap whips out his phone from his back jean pocket and turns away from you, pretending to scroll through his contacts.

This makes you stumble for a second. Did he just... agree with you..? Your heart stops beating for a split second and you debate if you should tell him that you were joking or not. You can barely go to the kitchen by yourself, why isn’t he catching on that it was a joke? You stand still there, looking at his turned back. “Okay... I’m just going to go then.” You say, still not making a move to leave. After a moment of him not acknowledging a word you just said, you start again. “Do you like...” you pause. “want me to bring you back something...” Sapnap turns back to you at that, suddenly deciding to pay attention to you. “Uh no thanks, I’ll just eat something here. You should probably call your mom, she probably wants you home. You’ve been here for what-” he checks his phone for the date. “Like 4 days?” He states, looking back up to you.

Your mouth drops. Hurt fills you heart. Did he really just say that?

Yeah... you have been at his house for a while... but you didn’t think that he was getting sick of you. You usually stayed over there for 4 nights on average before you went home.

You’ve stayed there for 6 days before! And you both STILL mourned the loss of each other’s presence when you left!

(Isn’t this simp culture?)

What does this mean? You stand there is silence just looking at him. It’s not like you could argue; you were the one who said you needed a break first.

You felt like crying. Yes... Sapnap is your best friend and this literally isn’t that big of a deal, but... you love Sapnap. You’d spend forever with him if you could. And you thought he would too. You stiffen for a moment. You know he isn’t your boyfriend; as much as you wish he was, you need to stop acting like he is. 

Him saying he wants to be alone shouldn’t be that big of a deal to you! You guys are friends! He’s standing there, looking at you expectantly, waiting for you to go on, do anything.

While you stand there debating your life choices with hurt written all over your face, Sapnap’s mind is racing a million miles an hour. He literally can’t decide if he should burst out laughing from how well his plan worked or hug you and say sorry for being so mean.

He literally can’t decide - so he does both.

Just as you feel your eyes getting the tinniest bit glassy, Sapnap roars with laughter and pulls you into a bear hug, squeezing your waist with one arm and using the other to pet your hair fondly. “I’m so sorry, I had to, it was too good, that literally couldn’t have gone better-” he rambles. You immediately sulk and smack his shoulder, aggressively hugging him back. “YOU ASSHOLE I GOT SO SCARED!” You groan in embarrassment. You literally almost cried.

Sapnap giggles and hugs you tighter, his smile couldn’t possibly get wider. You sigh in relief, snuggling into his arms. “You actually scared me so bad. That was so weird.” Sapnap laughs again, leaning back from you slightly to get a look at your pretty face. You were pouting. Cute. Sapnap smirked and squeezed your cheek with the hand that was previously petting your semi-tangled hair. “You did it to me first you dimwit, what the hell did you think I felt like?!” He exclaimed. “You literally told me to go home you asshole!” You exasperated. Sapnap threw his head back laughing, pulling you back towards him again. He nuzzled into the side of your neck, sighing happily.

As hilarious as it was watching you go through the 5 stages of grief over this situation, it was also heart breaking all at the same time. He hopes he never has to see that again on a serious note, if he’s being honest. If you ever looked like that when you guys were being legit - it would quite literally kill him.

After what felt like 20 minutes of hugging, you pulled back from the hug and looked up at Sapnap, his arms still attached to the ends of your sweatshirt, keeping you in place. 

As he stared down at your pink cheeks and flustered expression, he felt like he could stand with you here for hours. He wishes he could kiss you.

You rolled your eyes at him as he giggled. “Whatever.” You state, walking out of his hold and over to his bed side table. Sapnap watches your movements in confusion. Once at the table, you open the top drawer and snatch his wallet from inside, your back facing him. “I’m getting fucking Chick-fil-a and if you don’t come, I’m literally going to buy the entire menu with this.” You turn facing him and hold up his wallet. Sapnap’s eyes widen in realization at what’s in your possession. He makes a move to run over to you and snatch it back. Unluckily for him, you were already bolting out the door and to his car.

Hello 🥺

I hope u enjoyed sorry it took so long hehee

I’ve had lack of motivation, as we all in this tough pandemic - I hope you guys are all doing well and stay happy and safe 💕

Thankfully we have our fav mcyt gang to help us through tough times :)

Ik sapnap says fuck you, but think of it in an endearing way LOL LOVE U GUYS

[villainsandvictimsalliance]

Omg do you have more cute hcs with the lov and class1a/1b

I dont care how long or short it is, I ABSOLUTELY LOVE READING THEM 💕💕💕💕💖 😊😊

Theyre so comforting <333

YES I HAVE A BUNCH. COME TAKE IT ALL.

Tomura is an expert in video games, right? Well, he's currently working from afar with Hatsume and Melissa to create a VR system to help the kids at UA train.

Everything because the first thing he did when meeting Nezu was telling him the UA system sucked.

No more public exposure, no more simple barriers keeping away the villains from the kids, no more pushing them to dangerous places with no proper supervision.

The new job of the League when it comes to working is the UA is keeping the place as safe as possible and helping the kids recover from the trauma of the war.

Dabi doesn't like working directly with the kids, so his job consist on patrolling around the UA. In case a crisis is reported, he's the first at the place and his job is to keep the crisis on minimum 'til the teachers arrive.

The funniest part is the type of crisis he has solved so far. They include:

Helping people with their crushes because they tried to confess and caused an accident. (Dabi has the fun of his life with it, being honest).

Accidents in the kitchen. (No much he can do except using Shoto as a way of taking down the flames).

Stupid fights (He is banned from helping in those since he cheered for Shoto when he was fistfighting Iida for saying something to Midoriya).

And his favorite: keeping Mineta at bay. Dabi is not the type of gentleman that defends women constantly, because he just doesn't care about helping anyone. But Mineta is a type of gross he would have incinerate in the streets if he was a man and not a kid. So instead, he just walks from a safe distance and keeps scaring the kid when he's about to annoy one of the girls.

Tomura always find Dabi is the halls complaining about the no smoking rule

They make fun of each other a little until they realize they should be working and there are kids staring at them.

Class 1-A talks about Dabi like the older brother who was in jail.

Oh, but Dabi told me...

They are actually well informed about a bunch of stuff and they know how to take care of street criminals better now.

Ah, but they're also the ones who check if he is not drinking too much, if he's having proper rest, if his burns and staples are taken care of, if he's not too anxious or depressed, if hes' taking his meds...

If he's not following one of those, they call Natsuo. Oh man, Natsuo has become the emergency contact of half the League somehow. Maybe because he has a golden heart or maybe because they all are scared of Fuyumi by some weird reason.

Shoto is the other emergency contact when it comes to Dabi, hmmm, but sometimes he just follows Dabi bad example and well.

Dabi is the anti-Santa. He's gonna give you that one gift you wanted but everyone said no because it's dangerous.

"Dabi, I'm trying to make a safer space for the kids" , "Tomura, I'm trying to make them relax".

After getting fired twice by Aizawa, Dabi is finally behaving.

This has nothing to do with the fact that he's finally dating Tomura tho.

WHICH TAKE US TO: SPINNER, THE BROTHER WHO ACTUALLY ACKNOWLEDGES HIS RESPONSIBILITIES.

Spinner works in the same thing as Dabi, but he's the reliable one.

Getting Uraraka down when she starts floating on her sleep, calming people down when they're having anxiety attacks, noting when someone is having a bad day and requesting the teachers to let the person rest...

Spinner is the one actually helping them with their ptsd. He makes everything so easy and pleasant. It's like they're just kids taking classes and having fun.

Besides, class 1-B knows he is amazing at cuddling and people love his hugs. Just by seeing Spinner, they cheer up.

He and Shinso are responsible for the purple hair tendency among the kids of General Studies. Their heroes.

He's also the one who helps the kids with their training sessions when they need a partner but there's no one else to help them.

He became one of the official bus drivers of the school after taking some lessons and requesting a license.

He sings with them while they travel, he always has snacks in case someone is hungry and he has pills in case someone is motion sick. Well, a bunch of pills since Dabi is always motion sick.

He had a crush on Tomura but he realized it was more platonic than anything.

Now now, Tomura and Spinner have matching gamer tattoos that said Player #1 and Player #2. Dumbasses in action.

If Dabi is the problematic uncle and Spinner is the responsible uncle...

That leave us with: Compress the artistic dad and Kurogiri the dad who's always working far away but you can totally rely on.

THE VIDEO CALLS WITH KUROGIRI AND COMPRESS ARE SO CUTE.

101 Flirting with Compress.

All the kids in all courses have a personalized mask. Compress is addicted to creating them.

His beautiful, mischievous kids that once, trying to distract him, stole his prosthesis and kept it going around the school from room to room.

Turns out it was a surprise party, but man if it was fun because Compress pretended the whole time he was a pirate looking for his long buried treasure.

HE GOT A PARROT AND HE NAMED HIM RED BEAK.

Bakugo almost exploded the whole place after hearing such a ridiculous name.

Well, Red Beak loves making fun of Bakugo, repeating everything he says.

RED BEAK AND KIRISHIMA ARE BESTIES. YES YES.

The Bakusquad would kill for Red Beak.

Sero is teaching him Spanish, Mina is teaching him to dance, Denki is teaching him bad jokes and Jirou is teaching him to sing.

Tokoyami is the official protector of Red Beak. Koda is the translator.

On the other hand, Kurogiri always gives them some honey and other things when he visits the school.

He congratulates them on their achievements, he hears them for hours talking about their adventures and he is the old friend you call when it's 3am, you're feeling bad but you don't want to worry no one else.

If you want to solve a problem, call Kurogiri. He's gonna give you the clues but let you solve it yourself.

The award for the dad with more patience goes to: KUROGIRI.

If you really really need to run away from some hours, he can use his quirk to rescue you and he would prepare some tea for you, wrap you in a soft sweater and walk with you through his yard. You can pick flowers or fruit with him until you calm down. Or you can watch old movies with him. Or bake. Being with him is like floating around in the sky, no worries, just clouds and stars and soft noises and lights.

The school always knows when it happens and they are okay with it. Mostly. Just don't do it too much.

Toga is another good option if you need to talk but you don't know with who.

She's actually a great listener and an expert on making things look less stressing than they are. You see, she pays attention at your triggers and moods and if she sees something is bothering the students, she finds a way to distract them immediately, while letting the teachers deal with the problem.

Ah, the queen of gossip.

If you want to know something about someone you need to pay the prize, tho. And she won't even tell you if she considers the secret must be guarded 'til the grave.

She's the one who takes the messages to the parents because she's fast, can hide at plain sight and doesn't put them in danger.

You never know where Toga is. She someone studies like the rest of them, but she's like, selected to secret missions. She has a lot of info but they all trust her somehow.

Maybe is the fact that she would kill and take a stab for you. And that she would never put Deku or Ochaco in danger. Or her family.

She's also Mineta's biggest nightmare.

Try sexualizing the girl and win a terrifying week, courtesy of Toga Himiko.

She won't let you sleep, she won't let you eat, you're gonna wish you were never born. She can make you feel as sexualized, observed and stalked as you make the girls feel. Oh, she's gonna show you exactly how it feels to be a girl.

Also don't sexualize the boys around her either. Stabby queen is not gentle to those who are not gentle with her friends. Period.

Friendly reminder: 0 stabbing accidents since she started studying at UA.

BECAUSE THEY GAVE HER A RUBBER KNIFE.

And finally, the Tomura headcanons.

He's always falling asleep on odd places. The kids have a new name called "let's put a blanket on Tomura".

And then they call Dabi or Spinner to take him somewhere more comfortable.

He's working so hard. He's really working so hard on redeeming himself, even when everyone has already forgiven him. But he has this fear of being a failure or being too much...

The kids are also well trained on how to help him through his anxiety or panic attacks. Even more, some of them have always a pair of gloves in them just in case.

Momo is more than happy to make him more.

It's kinda sad how much he's suffering even now. That's way they all do their best to let him know his doing great.

Kisses in the cheek, compliments on how he's looking, new products to his hair and skin, playing the games he recommends, telling how badass he is when he trains them...

Somehow being around Tomura has help them realize how important is communicating stuff. They all are way healthier now.

Tomura is just... So sincere. He's been instructed to share his thoughts, because he had a problem before with communicating properly. That means he used to forget saying certain information because it was obvious to him, but not to others.

He doesn't mean to hurt people. He's just saying what he thinks. Which also means he offends a bunch of people not by accident. And he doesn't apologize because he is just doing what he's been told.

Midoriya and Shigaraki's discussions are epic. And so are their fights. Yes, they fight like siblings. Which is crazy funny because they are like "friendly reminder you tried to KILL ME" and "WELL YOU DESERVED THAT FOR BEING A DICK".

They've finally found out that you can complain to him or get a little violent and he's not gonna even blink, just hear you out.

It was because Bakugo got a little violent with him and yeah, he just stared back waiting.

You can't imagine Dabi's anger when Tomura told him about Kotaro. He was frustrated because at least Tomura did step on Endeavor and humiliated him for life, but him? He is angry with a man that's dead and gone.

Okay no, the whole League is angry about the things that has happened to the whole League. That's the thing with finally being able to relax and feel. It all comes back in a flood.

They have prohibited being around school when the parents visit. Specially because they are no very civil to shitty parents.

And if a kid confess about having shitty parents, oh boy. The League is gonna BE PISSED.

The UA is still a total chaos, but now in the right ways. They have more normal problems, they don't have to win war and kill evil lords, they complain about not having money to go out and forgetting their homework. And the ex-villians can complain about life being boring a needing more action.

That's a good thing. That means they all are healing, together.

They're gonna be fine.

[alinastracker]

I MADE SOME BREAKFAST IF YOURE HUNGRY for my beloveds pls if u so wish

ANYTHING FOR U MY LOVE

Better Late Than Never

Mal had been half-watching a replay of the England-Scotland game, half falling asleep the previous night when his phone sent him jolting awake.

Beep-beep, is that my bestie in a Tessie? Fresh blow out, skin on tan, ooh, she ready Bitch, you look goodt, with a T at the end I'ma hype her every time, that my motherfuckin' friend

He knew from the ringtone alone who was calling, so where normally he might pause before taking a call — he'd go mental talking to one more damn scammer — Mal answered instantly, fumbling to bring the phone up to his ear.

"'Ello," he answered, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He quickly checked the time on his phone and frowned. 12:30 AM. His roommate slash best friend slash unrequited love of his life never called this late. She was either already home, sitting beside him on the couch watching a bad movie, or settled in her destination for the night. Genya's. Inej's. That asshole she'd been hooking up with.

"Mal?" Alina said, her voice shaky. It sounded like she was crying.

He was up in an instance, already moving to the door, stuffing his feet into slides and grabbing his keys, any thought of sleep long forgotten.

"Send me your location."

By the time she did, he was already in the car, flooring it out of the building's parking garage. Alina was sniffling, trying to hide just how upset she was. But he knew, he always knew.

"Did he hurt you, 'Lina?"

"Mal—"

"I swear, I'll kick his ass. I can call Nikolai for backup, but I'm sure I can take him on my own."

"Can you stop being a stereotypical man for five seconds, please."

He sighed. "Right, 'course. Sorry." Mal glanced at the GPS on his phone. Thank the saints she was close. "I'm five minutes away. Do you want me to stay on with you?"

"No," Alina said, followed by another sniffle that only made him drive faster. "Just hurry. And can we get chips?"

Twenty minutes later, they were back at the flat, Alina with a McDonald's bag and chocolate milkshake in her hands. Her makeup was smeared all over her face, a mess of black smudges. How dare her, he thought, still look so fucking beautiful.

Mal had tried asking her what happened, but she'd only shaken her head.

"I don't want to talk about it," she had said, her voice so delicate that he nearly turned the car around and let toxic masculinity win this round.

Instead he took her to get her food, then drove them home. Let her lock herself in her room, and by the sounds of it, cry some more.

It was morning now and Mal was standing in nothing but his old plaid jim-jams, fixing up breakfast for the two of them. Crepes, because he knew she loved her sweets, and hash browns, just in case she still had a hankering for potatoes. He got out their old wooden serving tray they only ever used when one of them — or more often, both of them — were sick and wanted soup in bed. Mal stacked up the crepes, piled on the hash browns, bringing all the sugary syrup and wicked hot sauce she liked for the respective items, and knocked on her bedroom door.

Alina appeared a few moments later. She was still wearing last night's clothes, her hair up in a clip yet still all over the place, some of the makeup still holding out on her face. She looked tired, and he wondered how much she had actually slept.

"What's this?" she asked, the hint of a smile on her face.

Mal shrugged. "Err, I made some breakfast, if you're hungry?"

"Crepes and hash?"

He nodded.

She smiled a real smile then — the smile he liked to think she saved for him alone, but he knew better. Alina motioned for him to follow her in, and they settled on her bed together.

"This is all for me?" she asked, holding up the single fork he'd brought along. When he nodded, she laughed. "Mal, this is enough food for an army. Go get a fork, you dork." She backed up the statement by poking his side, and Mal blushed.

A moment later, he was back with a fork, and for a while, the two of them ate in silence.

When they had reached the point of only picking at the remaining food, he asked, "Do you want to talk about last night?"

Alina sighed. "I do suppose I owe you an explanation."

"You don't owe me anything," Mal said. "I just want to make sure you're okay."

She looked down, fiddling with the end of her dress. The fabric had started to bunch up, exposing so much of her thigh and — no, nope, this is not the moment, Malyen.

Blowing out a breath, she said, "I went there for a hook up. You probably guessed that. But, I don't know. When it came to actually . . . hooking up, something in me just didn't want it." She was still looking anywhere but his face. "And I told him that, and he stopped. He didn't try — it wasn't like that. But he got really, really angry. Said I had no right coming over and drinking his alcohol and dressing the way I did just to hold out. And then I started crying and he got even angrier."

Mal couldn't help it. He pushed the breakfast tray away and wrapped his arms around her. Alina relaxed against him, tucking her head under his chin. She always had been tiny like that.

"I was just really scared. So I ran out and I called you. That's it, that's all that happened. It was my fault—"

"Don't you dare," he whispered into her hair. "It's not remotely your fault, Alina. I don't care what you drank or how you dressed. You should know that more than anyone, miss self proclaimed raging feminist."

Alina laughed, and it was better than any song he'd ever heard. Just hearing her laugh after last night, after hearing how upset she had been. He hadn't really relaxed, he realized, until that exact moment, with her safe and laughing in his arms.

"I'm sorry, Mal," she said softly, taking him by surprise.

"Sorry for what?"

"For doing this to you, every time. Any mess that I get myself into, I always call you, and you're always there. Every time."

"Of course, 'Lina. You don't have to apologize." Mal swallowed the lump in his throat and hoped she hadn't noticed. "That's what best mates do, huh?"

"Right," she muttered. "Best mates."

"You don't sound very pleased with that," he teased, disguising the sting in his chest.

The room was dark for a Sunday morning, storm clouds ruining any chance for sunlight. But he could still see the look on Alina's face as she pulled back, the same look she got when she was doing something new, whether it be riding his skateboard for the first time or asking out a stranger, nervous but determined.

"You're right," she said, softly, firmly. "I'm not pleased with that."

Time was moving too fast. In a blink, Alina was closer than ever, pressing her lips to his. And like an idiot, he froze.

She pulled back when he failed to respond, disappointed but not defeated. "Sorry," she said. "There's a reason none of my hook ups have been working lately, and I just had to try."

Mal shook his head, trying and failing to form words. So he forced time to slow and kissed her instead. Softly, firmly. An exploration he had imagined so many times, and none of them held a light to the real thing.

Alina curled her arms around his neck, pressing herself closer. She was so soft, from her lips to where his hand rested on the small of her back. When she ran her tongue along his lower lip, Mal opened for her, and they moaned into each other. She tasted sweet from the syrup with the occasional lick of heat from the hot sauce. Though there was plenty of the latter between them already.

Neither of them said anything for a long moment when they finally pulled away, sucking air into their lungs. But their eyes were locked, and after all these years, they never needed words.

Alina was on him again in moments, their kiss no longer soft and sweet, but hard and desperate. Mal bit down on her lower lip, she felt her way across his bare chest, left scratches down his back when he started kissing her neck.

He's not sure which one of them kicks the breakfast tray off the bed. Maybe they both had a role. But at the sound of crashing dishes, they broke apart once more.

"Oops," Alina mumbled.

"Shit," Mal breathed. "We should probably clean that."

"Yeah, 'suppose. Ants or whatever."

A moment of silence stretched between them as neither made a move toward the mess on the floor.

"I mean, the ants won't move too fast," Mal reasoned.

"Not at all. We're on the third floor, anyway."

One look, and Mal reached for her again. Alina giggled as his mouth found her neck once more, her hand taking hold in his hair, directing him. Meanwhile, he was positive he currently had the most throbbing erection of his life. As if sensing this, Alina rolled her hips against his, and when she gasped, he knew she had felt it.

"'Lina—"

"Saints, Mal. You're . . . wow."

He was blushing again. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry? Why the hell are you sorry?"

"Because you were just talking about that twat pressuring you for sex! Not exactly time for the erection from hell!"

Alina laughed. "Mal, I didn't want fuck him. But I've wanted to fuck you for five years."

"Well now you tell me."

They both laughed then, and Alina pulled him into another kiss.

"Better late than never?"

Mal groaned as she rolled her hips again. "Definitely."

That morning, after living in their flat for three years, Mal and Alina got their first noise complaint.

Two Months Later

Mal was half-asleep, half-watching some shitty horror movie on a lazy Sunday afternoon, when the sound of his phone had him jolting awake.

Can I go where you go? Can we always be this close forever and ever? And ah, take me out, and take me home You're my, my, my, my Lover

He didn't have to check before answering. Mal knew exactly who was calling.

[hybrid-in-progress]

jarpad24 - Hi Bestie, could you write me a J2 X Reader where the reader is a young actress and she wears herself down by working too hard, and she becomes completely exhausted. The boys tell her to take it easy but she wont and collapses. J2 take care of her, letting her rest. 😊

I’ve never written anything like this before, hopefully it’s what you imagined and not off-the-rails-garbage! And hopefully I wrote J2 well 

p.s. Just a warning to anyone, I don’t take requests or anything because I'm crap at keeping a schedule and my memory is like quicksand (seriously, you could tell me something and I’d instantly forget everything a minute later, it’s a real problem) so I don’t want to forget to write and disappoint people :( sorry if this sounded rude.

tagging - @jarpad24 

warnings - a little angst?; exhausted reader; mentions of mean people on the internet; prop knife mention; brief fight description; reader gets kicked and falls into a table; Reader passes out; J2 being sweethearts and taking care of reader; food mention; fluff - please let me know if I missed any warnings and I’ll add them :)

you had been working on the tv show Supernatural for three years now

having joined the SPNFamily to play the role of a Wayward Sister

the fans fell in love with you and your character, and you fell in love with the job and the community

but then one day while looking through social media, you stumbled upon a negative review 

despite the huge amount of positive feedback you’d gotten, this one review hit you hard

Jared told you not to focus on it and let it consume you

Jensen said the same

Misha immediately tried distracting you by proposing a prank war on J2

all hell broke loose after the war was initiated

like, for real, it was pure carnage

someone became temporarily blind after being hit in the face with a pie type of carnage

but even with the prank war, work had to be done

and you were working your arse off double time

no scene that you did felt good enough

you were constantly spotting flaws in your acting

“The take was brilliant-”

“-No, I’m not standing straight enough. Let’s do another one,”

“Y/N, it’s fine, honestly.”

“I’m holding the knife in the wrong hand, my character’s left handed not right!”

your brain was working overtime with every scene

were you standing in the right place?

were holding props correctly?

were you saying every word clearly enough?

the boys took notice of your new workaholic attitude and decided to talk to you about it

but you would barely give them five minutes

there was always something that had to be done

memorise the script? 

no harm in looking at it for the twenty-eighth time that day

rehearse stunts? 

the bruise on your shoulder hardly hurt anymore, you could do another one

lunch break?

nah, you’ll just grab a sandwich on your way to make-up

you could only push yourself so far, however

one day while practising the choreography for a fight scene you dodge too late

the boot of the stunt man hits you in the stomach and you’re sent flying backwards

you fall into a table and then to the floor

your not badly hurt, but your whole body is screaming with exhaustion

“Y/N! Y/N are you ok?!”

“Are you hurt!?”

J2 are by your side in an instant helping you to your wobbly legs

your hip is killing you from where you whacked it on the table

the stunt man is blubbering apologies

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” you say, “I’m fine,”

you're not fine

the second you try to take a step forward your body just straight up refuses to function

the definition of ‘ight, I’mma head out’

your exhaustion finally gets the better of you and you collapse in either Jared or Jensen’s arms, you can’t tell which

when you wake up you’re in your trailer lying on the sofa

Jared is sitting at the table opposite looking at his phone

“Jar’?”

he snaps his head up when you speak and comes over, kneeling next to the sofa

he’s still a freaking giant even kneeling next to you

“How’re you feeling, kiddo?”

“Like I weigh as much as the amount of food you eat,”

he laughs just as the trailer door opens

“Speaking of food,”

Jensen enters with packs of food stacked in his hands

the smell makes your stomach growl

“Hey there, sleepy head,” Jensen says, “hungry?”

“Starving,” you admit.

The boys fill you in on what happened as you eat

neither of them comment on how you all but wolf your food down

no one could blame you, you hadn’t let yourself eat properly in ages

filming has been cancelled for the rest of the day

which means you have plenty of time to rest and look after yourself

you couldn’t get out of it even if you wanted, though

Jared and Jensen insist of staying by your side

they make sure you eat and drink, even going as far as offering you their own food when you finish yours

they don’t let you do anything or go anywhere (besides the bathroom, obviously)

seriously, they turn into your butlers for the day by their own free will

even despite your protests, they continue to tend to you, hand and foot

“You’ve been working your ass off for the past week, you need to rest,”

“Don’t worry ‘bout anything, just get some shut eye,”

“God, Moms, leave me alone,”

eventually, you give into their mollycoddling 

you get yourself comfortable on the sofa and bury your head into the pillow you’ve been (forcefully) given

“Thanks, guys,”

you’re fast asleep mere seconds after closing your eyes

[baecvlt]

First Love

Pairing: Sougami (Byakuya Togami x Kazuichi Soda)

Warnings: Smut (all wholesome tho bc they barely met in this one)

A/N: Decided to write this up for the bestie (komaedanovio on TikTok; follow them). Azul would die for them and there are 0 fics abt them sooo. Yeah.

“So you’re part of the Future Foundation, huh?”

Byakuya pushes his glasses back as they were falling off his nose, then turning around to see the person who spoke. “Uh, yes,” he answered the pink haired man behind him, he stuck out his hand that he’d covered with a handkerchief,“Byakuya Togami”. They shook hands.

“Name’s Kazuichi Soda”

“I know. The ‘Ultimate Mechanic’, is it not?”

“Yeah! You look really rich. Valentino Couture?”

“Yeah—,” Byakuya answered, then looked down at his suit,“How did you know?”. “My mom was somewhat a tailor. She’d help fix and sew up suits such as yours, so I obviously had to recognize Italian threads,” he explained,“Made sure I washed my hands before approaching you, can’t stain a fine suit like that”. Byakuya was somewhat impressed. No one has ever appreciated his attire, he looked like a snob to most people.

Then again, Kazuichi isn’t most people.

“She taught me to sew, never let me handle suits,” Kazuichi added,“But I’d always see them in the closet hung up nicely”. He had a warm smile on his face, reminiscing tends to bring a little joy to him. “I think that’s just honorable,” Byakuya said warmly. “You think so?”. Byakuya nodded, the smile on Kazuichi’s face spreading. “Thanks,” he mumbled, but spoke up,“We should keep in touch, y’know?”. Byakuya began to think. He wasn’t really one for friends, Kazuichi was extremely beneath him. On the other hand, he was interesting to talk to and didn’t seem like a pest, right?

“That’s fine”

“Alright! How about we meet up during the island celebration? Tonight?”

Byakuya nodded, he didn’t know why, but he nodded. “Cool! See you later, Togami”. Kazuichi ran off, going to see if he can help with cleanup someway. As he ran, Byakuya had just realized he agreed to hang out with someone who he had just met. There wasn’t anything wrong with that, but it was just weird to him. I guess, he just seemed nice enough. Whatever. Now that the Tragedy is over, it’d be nice to return things to normal. Byakuya was ready to make new partnerships and if his first besides his classmates was to be Kazuichi, so be it.

Later that evening, Byakuya made sure to attend. He got there early, making it easier to spot Kazuichi. He was around Gundham and Sonia, who had begun warming up to him. Their eyes locked, Byakuya waved. Kazuichi waved back as he called for him,“Togami! Wait up—”. He ran from his two classmates and to Byakuya. Everyone had gotten dressed up, Kazuichi in a nice little suit that complimented his hair. He had glasses on this time. “What a surprise!,” he cheered,“I thought you would’ve bailed!”. That was sad to say the least. “How could I do such a thing? I had to come anyway,” Byakuya explained,“Makoto can’t drive...he’s also in the Future Foundation”.

“So I’ve heard. Can I offer you a drink?”

“Why not?”

Byakuya was a pessimist, this we know. He was as pessimistic as they come. Hanging out with Kazuichi was something he told himself wouldn’t be worth his time, but he agreed, so he had to suck it up. To his surprise, hanging out with him wasn’t so bad. In fact, he’ll never admit it, but Byakuya actually enjoyed Kazuichi’s company. They went for a glass of punch, enjoyed the feast, danced with friends till dawn. Around 4am (because damn, this party was just never gonna end), they took it upon themselves to walk along the beach. As they walked, conversations took place. Byakuya went off on a rant about his limousine life, riding in one everyday and how he feared for his life when doing so. His limo made a sound that sounded as if it were going to fall apart any time soon.

“It was a scratching noise against the asphalt and absolutely terrorized me as a child. To this day, I won’t enter a limousine. I just can’t”

“Scratching? Gee, only thing that comes to mind is the exhaust coming down. Wish I could’ve seen it and told you for sure”

“I still have it in a hidden garage. It’s that valuable”

“Oh, nice! Maybe, I can stop by and see what’s wrong. You’ll have to drive it though”

Byakuya raised a brow. “You’re the mechanic, are you not?,” he asked. Kazuichi laughed nervously, nodding. “See, thing is...I get terribly carsick”. Well, that was new. It was confusing to Byakuya, just as the confusion hit, Kazuichi added:

“Isn’t that funny? The rich guy who’s scared of limos and the mechanic with carsickness”

Byakuya snickered,“Yeah, I guess that’s unheard of”.

They laughed, finding a perfect place to sit down. It was late. Dark and late, the sand was cool against their hands. They took off their shoes, setting them aside. The waves crashes on the shore, “So, what next?,” Kazuichi asked. His voice was softer, Byakuya took notice. “What do you mean?,” he asked. Kazuichi pushed back his hair and shrugged. “I mean, now that we’re all free”. Byakuya took time to give a proper answer, he had a plan.

“Well, for starters, after we finish cleanup, do the very best to rebuild homes. Slowly as we become civilized again, I rebuild the Togami Conglomerate. It’s what my family would’ve wanted and for them, I’d do just about anything” “Wow” “And yourself?”

Kazuichi smiled, facing him. “I’ve been working on blueprints here and there to, get this, introduce new transportation for us all!”. Byakuya shrugged. “You haven’t heard the best part, though,” he added,“You’ll never guess what it is!”.

“Flying car?

“That sounds awesome— No! That’s not it at all!”

“What is it?”

Kazuichi bit back his smile and answered,“A monorail! One that goes super fast! I just know it’s possible! Average monorail? 70 miles per hour, but if I get it right, It could go 200 miles per hour...ore more!”. Now, Byakuya was smiling. “Impressive,” he responded,“It’d be very convenient for people to get around”.

“I’m glad you think so”

Kazuichi faced the ocean, sighing deeply. “I’ve just always wanted to build transportation, really fast ones,” he said,“My old man doubted me, though. He didn’t think it was realistic. He said cars I can do, but never anything past that. Something about cars is all the family knows, I dunno”.

“I think you can do it”

“You’re just saying things—”

“No, I know you can. You have something other geniuses lack. You have the heart. Where there’s heart, there is will”

“That means a lot coming from you”

“Why from me?”

Kazuichi explained that he knows about Byakuya’s family and they didn’t sound any easier, either. “We didn’t have good upbringings,” he said,“But you, you had it so hard. Yet, you overcame all of that shit. If you survived that and all of this, I know you can rebuild your conga line”

“Conglomerate?”

“Yeah, that”

They smiled. “Man to man,” Kazuichi added,“Is settling down in that plan?”. Byakuya hadn’t thought of that at all. Would he even want to settle down? Jesus. That was the last thing he expected to think about. “I’m going to be completely honest with you,” Byakuya answered,“I have no idea. That isn’t something that’s come to mind. While I’d like to have someone to continue my legacy, I just don’t know. Tell me about your plan?”. Kazuichi was confused now, he didn’t think Byakuya was gonna return the question. “I would like to, but who’d love me?,” he muttered. He continued.

“I never had the best luck with women, but then sometimes, I sit and wonder,’Do I really feel this way about women?’ I try to be such a people pleaser, I sometimes don’t even know if I genuinely like something or if I say I do because that’s what’s expected of me and I’ve never told anyone else that, wow”

Byakuya sucked at being comforting, we also know this, but he really wanted to be there for Kazuichi. “I think I’m gay,” Kazuichi blurted, covering his mouth. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that”. Byakuya shook his head,“First of all, congratulations”. Kazuichi couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Second of all, don’t apologize for being truthful to yourself,” he said,“I’m not exactly of heterosexual persuasion either”.

“Oh, thank god. I though I was going to be killed and thrown into the ocean”

“Nah, because who on this island is straight? Absolutely no one”

“You might be right...wow. I’m gay. I’m gay. I’m gaaaayyy”

Byakuya laughed,“Let it out, I guess”. “I’ve just never said that out loud! It feels so freeing!”. Kazuichi stood up and ran to the ocean. At the top of his lungs, he professed his attraction to men. He ran back, only for them to hear someone say. “You love who you love, man, more power to ya!”. They laughed at that moment, laughed so hard their stomach cramped. “Who even was that?,” Kazuichi sobbed.

“I think that might’ve been Yasuhiro”

“O-Oh, at least you know him”

They calmed down, enjoying their time on the sand. “This was fun,” Kazuichi mumbled. “I agree”. He scoot closer to Byakuya, who unknowingly wrapped his arm around his waist. He caressed his sides, softly. Kazuichi lay his head on Byakuya’s shoulder, which he didn’t mind. There was just something really comforting about this. “What’s most important to you in a relationship?,” Kazuichi asked. His voice was still soft, but unlike before, it wasn’t stern or blue. “For both of us to have ambition and goals set,” he answered,“What’s important to you?”.

“I just wanna trust someone. It’s hard for me to trust anyone, really. So as long as I can trust them and they’re kind, that’s all I want”

“Well, I’m a brutally honest cunt”

“I love brutally honest cunts”

He laughed as he continued to rub down his sides. As the saying goes, you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take. Plus, tonight was going just great. “Look at me,” Byakuya said. “Hm?”. Kazuichi faced him, only to be grabbed and pulled to Byakuya’s lips. He gasped, a blush coming across his face as Byakuya kissed him ever so tenderly. They pulled away slowly. Kazuichi covered his face, Byakuya reaching for his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “No! Its okay!,” he blurted,“It was more than okay! I-I’ve just never kissed another dude before. Okay, I’ve never actually kissed anyone else”.

“Oh?”

“Well, I have, but not like this”

“I can tell. Your lips, they were so soft and inexperienced. Untouched, I’d say”

As Byakuya said this, he placed his thumb gently on Kazuichi’s lips, sliding it down soft and slowly; he shuddered before he spoke. “I want you to kiss me again,” he muttered against his sliding thumb. “Good”. Kazuichi’s breath hitched as Byakuya grabbed his jaw, gently kissed him. He kissed back now with more readiness, his hand digging into the sand. Byakuya’s hand moved from his jaw to his throat, gripping softly. A sweet moan escaped Kazuichi’s lips, making him bite Byakuya’s bottom lip. He winced, pulling away momentarily. “Sorry,” he whispered. Byakuya reassured him it was okay, but Kazuichi shook his head. “Let me kiss it better,” he cooed, pushing Togami on his back. Soda straddled him, pecking his lower lip.

Now, Byakuya was blushing.

“Ah, don’t hate me, but I kinda drew blood”

“You? Withdraw blood? With those teeth? Also unheard of”

“Hey! Shut up about my teeth”

“I like your teeth”

“I like you”

“Really? Prove yourself truthful”

“Say less”

“WHAT THE FUCK”

Soda quickly got off of Togami, who sat up just as fast. There stood Hiyoko, Mahiru, Ibuki, and Mikan. “Hey girls!,” Kazuichi waved,“Togami was just helping me find my glasses. We found them know, so there’s no need to worry”. “Oh don’t worry, we were just on our way to the cabins,” Mahiru explained. “What goes on in the cabins stays in the cabins! Wooho- ouch!”. Hiyoko acting as if she didn’t just nudge the fuck out of Ibuki. “Y-You know, if you two are going to, uhm, continue what you were d-doing here,” Mikan began to suggest,“Maybe you c-could go get a cabin too. The others are headed over here”. Kazuichi looked at Byakuya, who nodded. “Okay then! Let’s go!”.

So there they were, following the girls to the cabins. “I say we go to mine, just to be safe,” Kazuichi explained,“Besides, I got to clean up. It looks greats now”. Byakuya just nodded, he couldn’t utter a word. For some reason, his heart was pounding out of his chest. The girl’s split from them, giggling as they entered their room. “Home sweet home,” Kazuichi said as he opened the door. They stepped in, Kazuichi locking it. He had turned the lights on, but once he jumped on his bed, Byakuya turned them off. “Oh, you’re straight to the point, aren’t you?,” Kazuichi teased as he held his arms open for Byakuya to crawl in. He did just that, kissing him all over. He focused on his lips for about 30 seconds, before moving on to his neck, and finally he unbuttoned his shirt a little to kiss along his chest. Feeling his shirt unbutton, Kazuichi took it upon himself to do the same to Byakuya, except unbuttoning it all.

“Togami..

“Yeah?”

“Lay down”

“Alright”

Byakuya lay down as Kazuichi got between his legs, hands on his belt buckle. “Can I...?”. Byakuya nodded, giving Kazuichi permission to take it off. Carefully, he slid off his jeans and briefs, exposing his pale cock. At that point, it was quite obvious that Kazuichi had no idea as to what he was doing and supposed to do. He began by grabbing his cock, licking at his tip a little, stroking him. Byakuya snickered as Kazuichi’s eyes met his, but breathed deeply. He put his mouth over it, bobbing his head, accidentally hitting his throat. He gagged, but not loudly. Byakuya played with his hair, not yet grabbing it. “Take your time,” he comforted,“I want you to enjoy this as much as I am...Fuck~ you’re doing so well”.

Kazuichi was really, really struggling. He had to think back to the most realistic porno he’s ever seen. What were these people doing that he hasn’t? Try being sloppy maybe? Cursing himself for his lack of education in gay sex (well, actually, just sex in general), he worked with what he knew. The last thing he wanted was to embarrass himself. Little did he know, he was actually putting Byakuya on edge. Byakuya hardly cursed and when he did, it was for good reason. Like right now, Kazuichi was giving him the sloppiest head in that moment. He was doing so well, Byakuya became fixated his mouth. Something about his mouth drove him insane.

And then there was Kazuichi, still believing he was doing terrible. His thoughts were racing.

I know I’m doing something wrong...

Is he even enjoying it?

God, I’m so out of his league...

Maybe if I just spit...

What would my dad think of this? Wait, my dad’s dead—

Kazuichi allowed himself to drool all over his cock. Byakuya moaned, pushing his head back. “No more, I’m so close...,” he gasped,“I’d prefer to finish elsewhere...”. Kazuichi’s stomach sank. “O-Oh,” he stuttered,“Okay, I guess I’ll just lay down”. Byakuya got in between his legs now, removing his jeans amd boxers, examining him, realizing he’d look better completely nude. Kazuichi shivered, which he also took note of. “Let me pull a bedsheet over us,” he said,“You look cold”. “Thank you,” Kazuichi muttered as Byakuya fumbled for the covers.

“Better?”

“Still a little chilly”

“Okay, Uhm- how about now?”

Byakuya held Kazuichi with his arms wrapped around him, bare chests making contact. “Feels so nice,” he mumbled. Byakuya placed a kiss on his chest before warning him about prep.

“Please be gentle”

“I will be, just relax. Breathe”

Kazuichi was shaking at this point, he was so nervous and didn’t know why. Byakuya held him tightly, stopping himself from entering even a finger in the guy. “You’re shaking,” he noted,“Is everything okay?”. Kazuichi nodded, explaining,“This is my first time, I just want you to be gentle”. Byakuya helped him work on his breathing. He placed a warm hand on his chest, making sure his heart rate slows down. “There,” he whispered,“I’m gonna go slow”. Kazuichi nodded, bracing himself.

Prep wasn’t actually bad?

He took Byakuya’s first two fingers well, but then the third one made him whine (and cry a little). Nonetheless, he just wanted to get it over with. The pain had gone away once Byakuya had curled his fingers a few times. Kazuichi made small noises as he took his fingers, whining when pulled out. With his other hand, he cupped Kazuichi’s jaw, but slowly slit it down to his throat. Kazuichi gasped as he felt Byakuya’s grip tighten. “I’m going to ruin you ever so softly,” he whispered,“Understood?”.

“Yes...”

“Good”

Byakuya took his cock out, placing Kazuichi’s legs on his shoulders. Still tight, he groaned as he pushed in. “Ah! Fuck...”. Along with being filled by Byakuya’s cock, the grip on his throat remained, sending a wave of pleasure through him. Byakuya kept his thrusts slow, just like be promised. “I-Is this okay?,” Byakuya managed.

“Harder”

“I just started. D-Don’t you want to ease into it first”

“No, just— please. Also...”

Kazuichi moved his hand to Byakuya’s choking hand, pressing it down harder against him. “What you’re asking for could hurt you, um...Are you sure?,” Byakuya asked. Kazuichi nodded, fisting Byakuya’s hair and pulling him in for a heated kiss. In response, Byakuya only thrust harder into him. He knew he wouldn’t last long, seeing Kazuichi’s already fucked out face. Each thrust only made his blush deepen and his stomach acids find new ways to make him feel sick. Byakuya came to the realization that his cock already had the guy in shambles and in a trance, almost. He was making him feel good, but he knew that he wasn’t exactly fucking him the way he should be fucked, deserves to be fucked. He wasn’t hitting his sweet spot just right, Byakuya taking it upon himself to experiment with his thrusts.

“Ngh! Hey, why’d you stop doing that? It felt— Ah!”

Found it.

Byakuya tried thrusting with his cock in that angle, but realized it was harder in this position. “Ass up,” he sighed, slightly out of breath. Kazuichi didn’t hesitate whatsoever, immediately laying on his stomach with his ass in the air. Sure, he already felt weak in his knees, but that wouldn’t stop him from letting Byakuya do him the way he was about to.

It didn’t take long for Byakuya to rediscover this new spot, hitting it repeatedly. Kazuichi dug his face into the soft, white pillows; practically screaming as he was unraveling underneath Byakuya. His whines were perpetual and if you listened closely, you could hear exactly what he was saying in a quiet breath.

“Yesyesyes, oh! Please don’t stop now pleasepleaseplease I can’t take it anymore, Ah! I love you, I love you so much, I really love you, o-oh thank you..”

Byakuya smiled at his low, yet raspy words. I love you? “How cute,” he muttered, pulling his messy pink hair back. Kazuichi’s hand shook as he moved it too his leaking cock. “I’m close, Togami, please don’t stop”. Byakuya snickered,“I don’t plan on it”. Gently, he shoved his head back down onto the pillow, also nearing his high. Without warning, Byakuya came after a few thrusts. Feeling his warmth, Kazuichi came right after. He collapsed onto the mattress, head in the pillows and trying his very best to catch his breath. As he took deep breaths, Byakuya smiled as his fingers walked up the blushing boy’s back, tracing small circles and figure eights.

“You’re too kind”

“You deserve it,” Byakuya whispered, placing a hand on Kazuichi’s hip and kissing up and down his back (and to his neck). Kazuichi turned around, Byakuya getting to kiss his stomach a few times before being pulled up by Kazuichi. “Ah!”. He laughed as he held Byakuya tighter, nuzzling him. Byakuya may have been taller, but Kazuichi was definitely stronger.

“Gotcha”

Byakuya would be annoyed, but not when Kazuichi has the goofiest and most smug look on his face. Eventually he let him go, laying by him. Kazuichi’s hair was ruined by their little night Basically, he ended up with his tiny braid undone. Kazuichi twirled his excess hair in between his fingers. “Oh- Allow me,” Byakuya said, finding the rubber band used to fasten the hair, braiding. Kazuichi’s eyes stared at him lovingly, watching Byakuya put his glasses back on just to redo his braid. “Annnnnd...done”. Byakuya rubbed his chest before reaching for the the ground and picking up his briefs, putting them back on. He tossed Kazuichi his boxers.

“Thanks”

“Of course”

They lay next to each other, Kazuichi playing with Byakuya’s hair. “I’m so glad I met you,” Byakuya admitted. “Ditto”. Byakuya grabbed his chin, pulling him in for a slow, passionate kiss. Suddenly, the door creaked open, but two girls rush in, already fondling each other.

“Excited, aren’t you?”

“Why wouldn’t I be when you look so—”

Kazuichi and Byakuya stared at the two women, who awkwardly stared back.

“Togami?”

“Fukawa?...WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH NAEGI’S SISTER?”

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH THE MECHANIC?”

“I won’t say anything if you don’t”

“Sounds good to me! Come on, Komaru”

The girls ran out, thus allowing Kazuichi and Byakuya to finish their little makeout session. Eventually, it tired them out, sleeping in each other’s arms. Before sleep, Byakuya wondered something, but decided it could wait. The next morning, Kazuichi woke up first, planting a small kiss on Byakuya’s lips. As his eyes fluttered open, Kazuichi gasped. “My prince has finally awoken”.

“Silly”

“I know”

Byakuya kissed him properly, getting up to bathe. Upon entering the shower, he heard the door open. “Can I join?!”. Byakuya invited him in, closing the shower door. “Did you want something before we go?,” Byakuya asked, making Kazuichi blush. “Uh, no, um...did you?”. Byakuya shook his head.

“I just wanted to shower with you”

“I see. Help me with my hair, I’ll help you with yours”

Kazuichi nodded, grabbing the shampoo and lathering it into his hair. It didn’t take long to add in the conditioner in too since his hair was short. Now, Byakuya got to Kazuichi’s hair. He took care of Kazuichi, being less awkward about washing him up. It’s not that Kazuichi wasn’t into helping him, he was insecure about touching him. He wanted to do it right, sometimes doubting himself and what he was doing. Byakuya on the other hand, was confident in what he was doing as he massaged Kazuichi’s scalp whilst washing him. “Did you mean it?”.

“Mean what?”

“Last night while I was destroying you from the inside out—”

“Of course”

“—you said you loved me....well, did you mean it? I know people say things they don’t mean in a state of bliss, but-”

“Togami, I meant every word”

Byakuya’s heart skipped a beat as Kazuichi spoke. “If you mean it, tell me right now that you love me,” he ordered. “I love you, Togami. Do you love me?”. Byakuya held onto him, hugging him tightly. “Well, I guess this is my answer,” Kazuichi laughed,“Hey— Are you crying?”. Obviously crying, (because he was emotional for some reason) Byakuya backed away.

“Of course not! Me? Crying? No, never!”

“I love you”

“I love you too”

“Was this too fast?”

“What? You’re telling me you don’t believe in love at first sight?”

“I guess I do”

They finished up their shower and got dressed, heading out. Everyone had already met up at the dock. “Jesus, where the hell were you two?!,” Makoto asked, genuinely concerned. “Yeah, we were about to go search,” Hajime added. “I was helping Kazuichi pack something. I saw him struggle in his room with it,” Byakuya said, calmly. Kazuichi just went along with it. “Yeah, my tools wouldn’t pack well,” he explained,“Togami was just helping me stuff everything into my toolbox”. A low mutter was heard, but you’d have to be close enough to understand it.

“Yeah, right. That toolbox wasn’t the only thing Byakuya was stuffing...—”

“FUKAWA!”

“Alright! That does it for the headcount!,” Makoto announced,“Let’s get going. We have a rebuilt city to settle into!”. As everyone cheered on boarded the boat with their own individual classes, Byakuya rushed closer to Kazuichi. “Will I see you again?,” Kazuichi asked.

“Soon. May I kiss you goodbye, or would that be too much a cliche?”

“Yeah, but I love cliches. All the best movies have ‘em”

“So do I”

They kissed tenderly, Byakuya holding his waist. They pulled away, smiling. “See ya around,” Kazuichi mumbled. “Goodbye, Souda”.

[elvendara]

😉Fake Dating for @what-imfabulous-acceptit

I also realized that I used the 🤑 emoji twice so...guess I'll have to do both! LOL

I hope you like what I wrote! And thank you for the ask!

“Come on Saeyoung! It’s just one day!” Yoosung pleaded with the red head.

“NO! Absolutely not!” Saeyoung’s amber eyes were wide with disbelief at the continued bombardment from Yoosung. “I’m not going to let you ‘borrow’ my wife just so you don’t have to face the ‘why don’t you have a girlfriend yet’ questions from your family.”

“Please! I’m begging you. You don’t know what it’s like!” the blond fell to his knees and clutched at Saeyoung’s shirt.

MC was having a difficult time controlling her laughter and Saeran, who stood right beside her, sucked on a lollipop with a smirk on his face.

“Maybe if you put this much effort into actually finding a girlfriend, you’d have one.” Saeyoung tried to pull the shirt from Yoosung’s grasp. Saeran shook his head at the comedic gold unfolding before his eyes.

“Now you’re just being mean.” Yoosung let go of his best friend and fell back, sitting on his heels, rejected.

“OK OK, I’m sorry.” Saeyoung laughed and squatted in front of Yoosung.

“Does that mean that I can take MC to my family’s reunion as my girlfriend?” Yoosung asked eagerly.

“No.” was the firm answer.

“Oh.” Yoosung hung his head again. He would just have to suffer another year of his far flung relatives shaking their heads and clicking their tongues at his inability to snag a mate. He was 22 years old now and still never had a girlfriend, his teenaged relatives were going to tease him again.

“Why don’t you ask Saeran?” Saeyoung suggested. Saeran choked on the lollipop and he doubled over in a coughing fit. Yoosung’s head swiveled towards the other twin. Saeran? He blinked, really thinking about it. Would it matter if he had a boyfriend instead of a girlfriend? Sure, some in his family would disapprove but so what? It was still better than the alternative.

He stood so fast he inadvertently shoved Saeyoung on his ass. The blond didn’t even give him a backwards glance let alone an apology. MC hurried to her husband and helped him up.

“What about it Searan? It’s just one day. Well, a day and a half maybe. We’d stay in my old room. Mom’s not a prude so she would assume we’re already sleeping together. And it would be better that way, it would save a lot of questions about why we’re not in the same room. I know my family, they tend to get nosy. But you don’t have to say anything. I can tell them you’re shy and very private. They won’t leave you alone just because of that, but you can get away with some one-word answers. It’s my sister you have to worry about. She’ll drill you, so we’d have to get our stories straight, you know, how did we meet? Well, that’s easy I guess, you’re my best friend’s brother obviously. What was our first date? When did you know you liked me, a…”

“Shut up!” Saeran had been taking several steps back until he hit the couch, Yoosung coming at him like a machine gun. Yoosung’s amethyst eyes blinked slowly, his cupid’s mouth turning into a frown, his lower lip trembling. “Damn it! Stop looking at me like that!”

“Like what?” he asked innocently, eyebrows knitting together pathetically above his eyes.

Saeran sighed and looked away. “Fine! I’ll do it, but I’m not answering any questions and I’m not going to be nice to anyone, got it?”

Yoosung threw himself on Saeran and hugged him tight. Saeran stiffened, not returning the hug, but not pushing the blond away either.

“OK OK, get off me!” Saeran finally pushed Yoosung off and rubbed his arms. “I’ll go pack. One day! I’m giving you one day that’s it!” the red head stated as he walked towards his room. “And don’t expect me to change who I am!” he called over his shoulder.

“Never!” Yoosung laughed jumping up and down with joy. His own bag was already packed. He’d waited till the last minute to ask about MC pretending to be his girlfriend, hoping it would help in making Saeyoung say yes. He’d been wrong. Of course, if he had a wife of his own, he wouldn’t like letting her pretend to be anyone else’s girlfriend either. “Oh, Saeyoung, can you drive us to the train station?”

Saeyoung and MC both took them to the station and stayed until the train pulled away.

Yoosung was grateful for their support, but still a little worried about Saeran.

“Thanks for doing this. I know you don’t really want to.” Yoosung said as the train began to move. They faced each other and Saeran had wasted no time pulling a book out of his bag to read.

“Whatever. Why do you even care what they think about you anyway? So what you’re taking your time to choose someone. If you ask me, people are too quick to jump into a relationship.” He went back to reading his book as Yoosung spent the rest of the ride thinking about what he’d said.

Once they stepped off the train Yoosung grabbed Saeran’s arm. “Wait. I shouldn’t have asked you, or anyone, to do this. It’s stupid right? I mean, what you said, about caring what they think? I don’t know how to answer that if I’m honest.” He ran a hand through his hair, the corners of his mouth tightening.

“Look, I get it…well…I mean, I don’t really have family like you. If I did, I wouldn’t want all their unasked-for interference in my life either. If it means you spend a day and a half without having to fend off all those aunts and uncles and cousins asking about your nonexistant love life and trying to give you advice, it’s worth it.” Saeran shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.” He held out his hand and Yoosung grartefully took it.

“Are you sure? I mean, I can just introduce you as a friend.” Yoosung offered.

“Nah, I’m already in the boyfriend mindset! Hmm, I say we hated each other at first. I would tease you for being so naïve and gullible and you’d tear into me for being an asshole and mean. But we spent so much time together, with Saeyoung being your bestie and all, that we kind of became Saeyoung and MC’s double date couple until I asked you out for real. What do you think?” they walked hand in hand out of the train station and hailed a cab.

“Sounds great actually. Well, I say our first date was at a super fancy restaurant, since you asked me, but we ended up ditching it for a burger joint that had the greasiest burgers in town.” He smiled, really getting into it.

“Love it! I know the exact place too. Jujin’s Bites.”

“Oh yes! That place would be perfect!” Saeran opened the door to the back of the cab and Yoosung climbed in, Saeran right behind him. He took Yoosung’s hand again and it made Yoosung’s heart race. What was this feeling? He felt so at ease with Saeran but at the same time his heart had never raced so fast next to him like this. He leaned against him and Saeran squeezed his hand harder. Was he just getting into the role of his boyfriend? That had to be it right?

Saeran kept talking during the fifteen-minute drive and Yoosung just nodded and made general ascenting noises. His mind was working overtime, trying to calm himself down. This wasn’t real, but it suddenly felt very real. Confusion clouded his thinking as he sifted through his feelings. The ride was way too short to figure anything out definitively, so he tried to just shut it down. Shove those feelings into a box, tape it up, and lock it behind a closed door in the back of his mind.

Taking a deep breath, he allowed Saeran to help him out of the car. The red head then paid the driver and picked up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. Yoosung did the same with his. They reached out to each other, holding hands quickly becoming a thing of ease and habit. The door to his mother’s house opened before they were even halfway up the sidewalk. His mother came rushing out and hugged him tightly. He let go of Saeran and returned his mother’s hug. His father and sister stood in the doorway, his sister, Yasmine, arched her eyebrow and gave him a very pointed questioning look as those same lavender eyes transferred towards Saeran at his side.

“Mom, you’re cutting off my circulation.” He managed to squeeze out.

“Oh, sorry, it’s just so nice to see my baby.” Saeran snorted but kept his comment to himself.

“I was just here last month.” Yoosung said.

“And who is this handsome fellow?” she asked, taking a step back and eyeing Saeran up and down.

“Oh, well, uh…” Yoosung suddenly couldn’t lie to his mother.

“I’m Saeran, Yoosung’s boyfriend.” Saeran introduced himself and bowed to the woman respectfully.

“Boyfriend? Why didn’t I know about this?” she asked, steely eyes turning to her son.

“I wanted to tell you in person that’s all.” Yoosung looked away.

“We’ve only been seeing each other a couple of weeks. At least, officially.” Saeran tried to smile but it looked like a smirk and Yoosung was sure his family was getting the wrong idea.

“Yeah, uh, maybe we can talk inside?” the neighbors had suddenly decided to be a bit nosy, and it was making Yoosung uncomfortable.

“Of course, come in come in.” his mom stepped between them, turned around and slid her arms into theirs, leading them into the house.

Yasmine had that look in her eyes and Yoosung tried to catch Saeran’s eye to give him an “I’m sorry” look. It was going to get ugly.

^^

The train ride back was mostly silent as they sat side by side. Sleeping in the same bed had been awkward after spending the day with his family. Yoosung had been right, some people in his family had not approved of two men being a couple, but their protests had been quickly shut down by his own mother and many who supported the relationship. Saeran had been a hit. Even with his dour expressions and curt answers, they had loved him.

There had been one uncomfortable moment when his sister had questioned their relationship and asked for proof by demanding they kiss. Yoosung had turned beat red at the idea but Saeran hadn’t hesitated, taking his chin and tilting it up slightly with thumb and forefinger. He had grazed Yoosung’s trembling lips, and softly pressed against them with his own. A sigh had escaped Yoosung’s lips as he felt Saeran’s wet tongue infiltrate his mouth. His head swam and he felt as if he would pass out, but Saeran held him close and didn’t let him slip. His sister had been satisfied and Yoosung had to admit, he had too. He’d spent the rest of the day thinking about that kiss and wondering if there would be more.

Unfortunately, there hadn’t been, but it had made for an awkward night. Saeran never mentioned it and Yoosung wondered if it had been no big deal to him. He felt sad at that thought. He chanced a glance to his side and saw that Saeran’s eyes were closed. He studied the profile, the sharp angle of his cheek, he still looked like he needed to eat more, but Yoosung knew that frailty was an illusion. He was strong, stronger than anyone he’d ever known. He had to be to still be somewhat sane after everything he’d been through.

He studied the delicate eyelashes, a soft orange that matched his hair. His eyes ran across the smattering of freckles and he ached to reach out and touch them. The feel of Saeran’s lips were still on his mind and he couldn’t help but to ingrain every inch of the soft pink flesh into his mind. He didn’t want the subterfuge to end he realized. He wanted to make it real. Saeran, Saeran was who he had been waiting for all his life. This man, with all his faults and trauma. Love wasn’t rose petals and rainbows. Unicorns and fantasyland. It was reality. The will to be with someone who wasn’t perfect but was perfect for you. The desire to make that person happy and to share their burdens. To walk on solid ground while looking up at the sky and weathering every storm that hit them. Together. He reached out and took a hold of Saeran’s hand and as he watched, those soft lips he had been studying shifted into a smile.

[majesticbrownjawn]

Delicate Part Two

Part One

Violet reluctantly goes to a house party with her bestie. Meets Erik. Is subsequently turned out. 😩

———————————

"The fuck you doing up here, babygirl?!" There was a look of confusion and remorse in his eyes.

The way he asked his question was scary up until the 'babygirl' part.

"I-I...I thought you wanted me to follow you." Her breath was incredibly short and she needed to minute—or maybe 20, to get herself together.

"Sit cho ass down." He pointed to an empty spot on a desk behind him. She climbed onto it, still out of breath, and watched him closely as he bent down below her. When his hand went towards her neck, she flinched.

"Chill." He grabbed Violet's chin and pushed it upwards, examining her. He could see the redness around her neck that his actions caused. He gently rubbed the area.

"I’m sorry bout that...Delicate ass."

"Excuse me? You just choked me."

"You shouldn't have been in my workroom snooping around. I didn’t know it was you.”

Her eyes bulged at him.

"Yea. This my shit. This my house. Told you yo ass wasn't as smart as you thought."

"You make computers? You must be...uh,"

"Smart," he finished. She smiled at him nervously. "Surprised you ain't running away."

He turned and walked to the corner of the room where a full-size fridge sat. It was an old school one that was a powder blue color. Had to be from the 70s. She watched as he grabbed a pack from the freezer and filled it with ice. She didn't realize her neck was on fire until he was heading back to with it.

He stood between her legs and placed it on her neck in one of the spots he grabbed. Violet winced in pain.

"Humph. Delicate."

"Don't call me that. I'm not delicate."

She looked at him suspiciously as he continued examining her.

"Like what you see babygirl?" He asked his question without looking up to see she was looking at him. She was staring though.

"No."

Of course I like what I see, you fine ass, homicidal nigga.

Shit.

More sirens.

"Why'd you do that to me?"

His nostrils flared and the air he let out through his nose ricocheted off her cheek and back in his direction.

"Thought you were tryna rob me."

"But even after I said your name, you still..." she absentmindedly rubbed the side of her neck he didn't have the ice on.

"Sometimes I just blackout. I don't know why," he shrugged. He studied her face and saw the fear in it, but more than that he saw curiosity and pity.

"I'm sorry. For real."

His repeat apology was unexpected but appreciated.

"It's fine. Just don't put your hands on me again—unless I ask you to," she joked.

"Oh word?" The slight raise of his brow was so sexy to her. "So what you saying is I can't touch you like this?" He pressed his fingers into her back, pushing her closer to him.

"No. Not without my permission."

"What about this?" His thick fingers gripped her upper thigh where her dress had risen up.

"You still didn't really ask."

She was leaning into him, hoping he didn't stop the path his hand was on. Violet had never been more attracted to anyone in her life. He was a mystery and every moment with him was absolutely thrilling. She'd already done things for him in the last hour that she'd never done—like lick her fingers on command or follow a stranger up a flight of stairs, into a dark hallway, only to be choked to the point of being turned on.

"Can I?" E bit his plump bottom lip, while his hand hovered just over Violet's hot cavern, her legs already spread wide. She looked down to see just what he was referring to and gulped slowly before replying.

"Yes... please."

His hand quickly reached into her amethyst-colored lace boy shorts. He was eager to see how wet she was for him.

"Damn, girl. I guess you do like what you see."

She was currently looking at his forearm as she held on to it, trying to stay upright on the table. Violet briefly looked up at him with the same curiosity she had earlier, asking him the history behind his scars without saying a word. He answered silently, shaking his head no. The number his fingers were doing on her distracted her enough not to care that he was unwilling to tell her about his scarring. She sank her nails deep into his wrist when he slid two digits inside her. Violet's face was so twisted up that he couldn't tell if she was enjoying his fingers gliding in and out her pussy.

"You aight?"

"Umph, ye-yea. Don't stop."

Her hips whined into his fingers as she laid back on the table to enjoy the moment. He smiled, knowing he had her right where he needed her—open and horny as hell. Her head popped up in surprise when she felt the soft pressure of his lips against her clit.

"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit," was all she could say as he sucked on her bundle of nerves while using his fingers to pleasure her. She was seeing spots and was amazed she hadn't cum all in his mouth yet.

E was amazed he was actually eating this chick out—a woman whose name he didn't even know. It's not that he didn't like eating pussy—he loved doing that shit. Something about seeing a woman unravel just by a flick of his tongue got him off. His dick was painfully hard watching her squirm and wiggle with computer parts scattered on the desk around her. He hated to admit it, but his dick was hard the moment he saw the way she judged him. Breaking a girl like her down would be a challenge and nothing made his third leg jump more than a challenge. Still, of all the many partners he'd had in his life, he could count on one hand the number of women who had the pleasure of receiving head from him. They usually catered to him and then we’re ready to fuck.

Despite his mouth doing his best work on her, she hadn't cum yet and when he looked up, he could tell she was trying to hold it off. He watched her grasp for something--anything on the table to keep her orgasm from coming and it pissed him off.

"The fuck? Are you trying not to cum?"

She didn't answer, only looked at him pleadingly. He could see she wanted to cum badly but didn't want to give him the satisfaction, even though she willingly opened her legs for him.

"Aight, you better cum on fucking tongue by the time I count to five or I'm going to get one of my girls from downstairs to handle this." He grabbed his dick and stroked it through his gray sweats as he continued eating her out. She sat up on her elbows and watched his manhood grow and grow. Her mouth watered watching his strong hand pass back and forth over it, distracting her until it was too late.

"Four..."

She was close and had been for a while. The build-up was starting to become too much, but she knew she didn't want to cum on his mouth.

"Fi—"

"Wait!" the urgency in her voice startled her. She held him by his ears and what she said next had him momentarily shook.

"I wanna cum on your dick, E. Fill my pussy up and make me cum you hard... please." She sounded and looked so innocent, as if anything she just said was even close to that.

He was at a loss for words, stunned at her change in behavior. His dick was at full attention, but he had to teach this girl a lesson and show her who was in control. If she obeyed him and her pussy was as tight and gushy as it felt around his fingers, he'd fuck her fluffy ass into next week.

"C'mere."

Violet got up when told and followed him back out into the hallway, her underwear dragging behind her around her wobbly ankle. Her entire being was focused on him, so much so that the blaring music didn't sound as loud as it had before. E stood in front of the banister that overlooked the sea of partyers below. His eyes motioned for her to stand against the railing, so she stood there and waited for his next order.

"So you want this dick, huh?" She could feel him pressed up against her ass. His dick on her made her pussy throb so good. Violet needed him inside her badly. She had a fleeting feeling of shame come over her. Here she was a grown-ass woman, acting like a horny teenager at a party about to hook up with the jerky quarterback, simply because he'd given her touch-deprived self a little attention. But the feeling was fleeting. The sirens in her head were gone, too easily replaced by the thumping sound of her pussy.

He grabbed the front of her neck and pulled her closer.

"Answer me," he groaned.

"Yes, I want it." Violet's pussy lips were heavy with desire, desperate to suck him up inside her until she had her fill.

E had already started to put the condom on, being just as excited to get his dick wet up with her essence as she was to get stuffed with said dick. She gasped not only because of how fast he entered her after giving her consent but because of the sheer size of him. It had been a minute for her, but she jumped right back in the saddle, curving her hips like she'd done with her dildo, fucking E right back and using him to reach those spots inside her that drove her pupils to the back of her head.

He recognized what she was doing and smiled into her hair, grateful she knew how to fuck. He closed his eyes for a moment and let himself get lost in the rhythm of her pussy wrapped firmly around his dick. He could go all night with her like this. His hand unconsciously snaked around her front and under her dress, squeezing each of her fat mounds. He loved tits as much as he loved ass, and having her ass rippling against his abs with his fingers around her nipples was fucking incredible.

E opened his eyes, not wanting to relinquish too much control to her and was immediately reminded of the party—his party, happening below them. He wanted to remind her too, not so that she'd keep her moans down, but to show her how open he had her.

"Look at your bougie ass, letting me dig you out in front of all these people."

Violet opened her eyes and quickly peered into the crowd. They seemed to be in their own world down there. A couple off in a corner looked like they were about to engage in activity similar to what she and E were doing. She excused her unusual behavior in her head, telling herself they weren't actually 'in front' of the party attendees, but rather, above. The music was so loud that she was sure no one could hear her cries of ecstasy, at least that's what she hoped.

And the only way someone would know what they were doing was if they looked up.

Like one of E's homeboys was doing right now.

Violet must not have seen him, because E was sure seeing him would have snapped her out of the spell he'd carefully put her under. The nigga was watching her so hard that he didn't peep E had caught him lurking or notice the scowl on his face. E usually wouldn't give a damn, but the fact that he didn't like his boy looking at her made him fully aware of the sudden jealousy he felt for her.

E pulled out and turned them so his back was to the crowd below. Not missing a beat, he hoisted her up and gripped her big thighs, controlling how hard and fast his dick entered her. She held on to him around his neck and he whispered "Pretty ass eyes," to her before she kissed him sloppily and rested her head on his shoulder. They stayed in that position for a while, her in awe of the power of his strokes and him amazed at how good her body felt wrapped around him.

"Fuck, baby. This pussy..."

"OMG E," her words were so soft in his ear.

"You got a nigga feeling special. Yo shit always this warm?"

He could feel her tightening around him with each word of encouragement and each thrust he gave. His sole mission became fulfilling her request of making her cum hard on him.

"I feel you sucking my dick deep in that pussy. Shit feel good don't it?"

All she could do was whimper.

"You ready to cum, babygirl?" He felt her grip tighten even more. Her pussy was the one doing all the talking now.

"Go 'head and cum on me. It's okay, baby. Cum on this dick like you said you would."

Violet let out a scream that almost startled him. He'd never heard a woman make a noise like that and it made him want to hear it again, except with his name on her lips. He came hard too, to the point that he had to take a few steps forward and press her back against the wall to keep him from dropping her. He hadn't had a nut like that in a long time and he knew he had to have her again. E was ready for that action, but she pushed him off of her and hurriedly tried to straighten herself up. He followed her eyes and saw his best friend Devante coming up the steps with someone.

"There you are, girl. I was looking all over for you," Violet said. E chuckled at how shaky her voice was. Her attempt to act normal after getting fucked down was laughable.

"Were you?" the woman with Devante replied sarcastically.

"Uhh, E, this is my best friend, Trina." Violet didn't miss the way her girlfriend ogled him. He was fine and certainly deserved a second look, but Violet didn't appreciate how long she studied him.

But wait. This nigga was a literal fuckboy, who had just fucked her on a banister. Why was she worried about another woman looking at him? Her best friend of all people.

"What the fuck?!" E yelled suddenly, pointing into the crowd below.

As Violet, Trina and Devante looked frantically to see what he was yelling about, E squatted down and grabbed Violet's ankle, lifting it just enough to slip her lace underwear from around her foot. She gave him a confused look as he slipped them into his pant pocket and smirked.

They all looked at him for an explanation.

"My bad. I thought I saw my baby moms."

"Nigga you ain't got no kids," Devante replied.

"Anyway," he said, brushing off being called out on his terrible cover-up. "Y'all want some drinks? I know you want some Henny, babygirl." He cockily placed his arm around Violet and used his body weight to propel them forward a few paces. He was surprised when her feet stopped moving.

"I think I'm ready to go, Trina." She spoke without addressing him. The sirens were back, along with her conscience and they were screaming, 'We told you so!' She could think clearly now that she wasn't so horny, but Violet knew the longer she remained in his presence, the more susceptible she'd be to his charm. He was so overbearing and dominant and it scared her that she wanted to be submissive to him. To bend to his will and please him, even if it meant letting him have her any place he desired. He took control not of just her body, but her mind too—challenging her perspective and outlook. And she'd only known him two hours.

Good dick and brains.

A lethal combination.

She knew she had to get away from this E character expeditiously, so she flew down the steps, leaving Trina behind to decide if she would stay or not.

"You leaving without saying bye?" She hoped he wouldn't catch her, but somehow she knew he would. He was holding on to her forearm, back out on the porch where they met just hours before. She huffed, frustrated that this nigga had her running back to her car.

"I guess so," he laughed. "What's your name?"

Violet further stiffened in his grasp.

"So you don't want to tell me your name, huh? It's cool. I like to name my girls anyway."

Violet turned to face him abruptly.

His girls? The fuck was this, an episode of Flavor of Love?

But it made sense, actually. There's no way he could look like he looked and fuck like he fucked and not have a few 'girls.' She suddenly recalled him referring to getting one of his girls to finish the job when she wasn't cumming fast enough for him.

"Think I'll give you a flower name, since you all delicate and shit." She bit her lip and watched him think, acutely ashamed she was curious about what name he'd come up with for her.

E placed his hands in his pockets and rubbed his fingers against the fabric of her lace undergarment. It was soft, and fragile. Delicate--like her. As he thought of a name he was reminded of the color of the negligee intertwined with his fingers. They were a deep purple, like the color of his favorite African perennial.

"Aight, I got it."

She looked up into his eyes, her fingers sweeping across his raised forearm.

"Imma call you Violet."

——

Tags:

@queenflaws

[honestlyzenoouh]

The Friendship I never knew I needed

Okay, new headcanon time because I read a post about Aaron and Neil begrudging friendship, and now this thing won’t leave my brain. It sorta grew legs and kept on going, sorry. Featuring twinyard forced bonding, Neil being an asshole and Katelyn being sneaky.

Okay, so we know that Neil doesn’t really care for Katelyn. But like, sometime in Neil’s 3’rd year and the girls have left him he shows up to one of his maths classes and like, Katelyn is there??

Katelyn is super smart as well as athletic, the whole deal. And one time one of her TA’s were like, okay this class might actually challenge you, but won’t take up all of your time. Might be fun.

And Katelyn is like, alright imma try.

The first two weeks Katelyn doesn’t even notice she shares the class with Neil, it is that big.

When she does though, it’s because the professor is writing a thing on the board (it’s early, I don’t wanna do actual maths rn), slightly incorrect, and she really wants to point it out, but also doesn’t wanna be rude and affect her grade.

Neil doesn’t have such worries and just sorta not quite yell but loudly points it out... might’ve used a cuss word or two as well, whoops

Katelyn was like thank god someone said something, she was sat clinching all muscles not to say anything.

Then she clocks who said it and was like, huh, I might do something about this. He is someday gonna be my family so might as well start wearing him down now, instead of later.

Also, perfect excuse to actually start up a conversation, sharing a class.

So a couple of weeks after that, when Katelyn has had some time to think, and Neil thinks he’s safe, she strikes.

They are appointed some homework, and she has positioned herself so she can see Neils face in the lecture hall (without it being obvious) and Neil’s eyebrow pinch the tiniest bit together. Now is the time.

She gently approaches him a little sheepish, “could we maybe form a little study group for this class? I don’t really know anyone here, and I don’t really understand the concept for this bit”

Neil, a little suspicious but also completely lost on this subject “would you be able to meet in the library on Tuesdays at 4?”

She says yes of course and dances a bit internally.

The first like, 3 study sessions are completely awkward and stilted, but somehow they work really well together academically? Who knew?

It’s in the fourth meet-up that the ice breaks. Katelyn arrives a bit winded, with a half of cup of coffee and just starts to enthusiastically rant about this complete asshole who cut in line at the coffee place, and then the girl who tripped her on the way into the building but wouldn’t apologize and they got in an argument and then so on about every bad thing for the past week

And Neil is just hooked on her rant. He is reminded a bit of Dan and her ranting about sexist assholes in sports and he really misses her, but why should that stop him from making new friends?

So he stops fighting it and actually talks to the girl. Turns out, they have a lot in common. Including complaining about their significant Minyard. They love them, but oh my lord are they petty and annoying.

From there on out, Tuesdays becomes their hang out day. Even when the semesters over and they don’t have that class anymore. Just Katelyn and Neil becoming unlikely best friends (sorry Matt, it wasn’t on purpose), and telling each other everything. She is the first one outside of the foxes to see his scars.

She didn’t flinch. But she quietly seethes for days afterwards. Aaron tipped him off by complaining about Katelyns bad mood to Kevin (not that he cared) and he overheard it. They had a talk and only grew tighter.

Fast forward like, a year and a half, and Aaron really wanna meet this person. And Katelyn really wants her bf and bff to have a bond as well, but considering all of the bitching she hears about Josten this and Josten that, she had taking to keep referring to Neil as that person I meet in this class, or her nickname for Neil (it’s buggy, because he keeps on bugging her with more maths) to keep the peace.

Also, gender-neutral terms to keep the jealousy at bay. He’s not that bad, but better safe than sorry. Neil means a lot to her now.

But finally she snaps; “fine, you can meet buggy. But only if they agree to meet you too”

“Why wouldn’t they agree to meet your boyfriend?”

“You’re annoying, and I complain about you a lot.”

“You what?”

Anywayyyys.

Neil of course agrees, but only if he can bring Andrew as well. “He’ll play nice, I promise! No knives or hairpulling”

Aaron is really excited to finally meet Buggy. They really mean a lot to Katelyn and makes her happy. And who makes her happy, make him happy too

Andrew is very curious about Neil’s supposed new best friend. Turns out, Neil also hasn’t disclosed exactly who it is, but Andrew hasn’t outright asked him about it so.. It’s his own fault, really

The meeting goes a little like this:

Neil and Katelyn is at their weekly hangout, this time at a coffee shop around campus, and both text their S.M(significant Minyard) where to meet up. Andrew arrives first and just stands in the doorway when he catches sight of the twin redheads sitting and laughing about something. Neither has noticed him yet

Debating just walking out again, he hears a soft but earnest “are you fucking kidding me”

Turns out Aaron was just as surprised and lowkey mindfucked. They catch each other’s eyes and have their first mental conversation

“Well shit, now we have get along with each other’s S.R’s (significant redhead). Also did you know? No? Thank god I wasn’t the only one”

Katelyn turns around as her Aaron senses has gone off, and spies the twins just looking at each other totally defeated. Then turning to Neil like,

“Did you not tell Andrew about me? Because he is doing the same face Aaron is currently doing, and I didn’t tell him exactly who he was meeting today other than my best friend”

“Whoops, might’ve forgotten. They look kinda emotionally constipated... For how long do you think Aaron is gonna complain about it’s me?”

“Two weeks at least, how about Andrew with me?”

“He’s just gonna passive aggressively stare at me with snide comments every now and then until I buy him a tub of ice cream in apology. I give it 6 months for Aaron to laugh at I joke I made without making that face afterwards”

“You’re on, it’s gonna take him 9 at least”

It took 5 and a half months, and 2 years for Katelyn to get Andrew to huff his version of a laugh at all.

Just, Neil and Katelyn being besties and forcing the twinyards to accept and maybe even like each others S.R’s whilst also getting a better relationship out of it. Also; Aaron is now cursed into saying buggy instead of Josten or Neil, and he hates it. Until he doesn’t of course.

[realityescapee01]

Agh, I have this story idea with Tarlos. But they aren't the focus. Y/N and OC are. I was thinking Y/N is TKs bestie and the other OC is Carloss bestie. Being that, Y/N and OC became friends too. Hanging out with Tarlos and other friends a lot.

TK wanna play matchmaker for the two. But the two have issues. Y/N likes OC. TK discovers and told him to ask OC out. Y/N has low self esteem and is shy around other people except TK. Y/N is still shy around Carlos too. And Y/N feels she is not beautiful enough. She feels OC is way out of her league. Y/N doesn't want to let OC know about her feelings for him. She feels she's not worthy of OC. OC is gorgeous like Carlos. And super out of her league. Y/N is very simple. Jeans and shirt and hoodie type of girl. Hair up in a ponytail and lip balm is her only makeup.

OC is always replacing gf almost every other month. He always ends up in a breakup. His gf were always bad girls and crazy. He falls inlove fast and hard. So he ends up giving everything to the girls. Time, money and effort. Everything. He almost lost his cop job because of one. Always complaining that there are no more good and worthy girls. And Carlos was fed up. Saying that he should find better girls. OC has a standard. He likes pretty women. Magazine model looking ones. Even if they're toxic, he won't care as long as they're pretty.

TK and Carlos tried to match them up. They asked them to come to this mall. The 2 did, expecting Tarlos to be there but they're not. OC figured out what was happening. Carlos have been telling him there are good girls out there, you just have to look. He figured that Carlos had set them up. So he told Y/N. He said: might as well enjoy this then. Tarlos had gotten them movie tickets and a restaurant reservation for dinner. Y/N and OC went along. They talked and OC learned they have same interests in movies and stuff. But Y/N is not his type. She looks nothing like his exes. Y/N ain't ugly but not pretty enough for him. So after the 'date' OC told her. That she's good and cool and awesome, but she's not his type. And that they should remain friends.

Y/N didn't protest at all. She has low self confidence that she didn't really consider OC to like him. So it wasn't a surprise to her anymore, but it still hurts. She got teary-eyed as OC went home. Y/N called TK she was upset with him because she said before to not do anything. To not set them up. Because she knows OC won't like her. But then TK went and did this. Now the idea of OC rejecting her became real. Painfully real. TK apologized and comforted her as she cried.

TK went home and complained to Carlos. What's wrong with your bff? Y/N is not his type? Figures, coz his types are crazy bitches from hell! Y/N is the goodest, cutest, best girl! She doesn't deserve to go about this earth unloved! Why are the good people end up lonely? Carlos apologized for his bestie and said that they did their best and that they should just leave the two alone.

So the time passed, Y/N and OC still hangs out with Tarlos and everyone. OC found himself talking to Y/N a lot. About the movies they watch. The series that interests both of them. And then funny memes, etc etc. OC started to like Y/N. But couldn't act on it because of what he told her before. OC regretted it a lot. He doesn't wanna be friends anymore. He wants to be more than friends. Way more than friends.

Oc confides with Carlos. And Carlos said just tell her the truth then. That you fell inlove with her and that you regretted what you said. Ask her out. Something happened at work, OC almost died and that kicked him up to confess to Y/N so he headed over to her place. He knocked and Y/N opened the door, all dolled up and dressed up. She was beautiful. OC was speechless at first and then asked Y/N is she going somewhere? And Y/N said a coworker asked her out to dinner. OC was pained. He was too late. He watched as the guy arrived and took Y/N with him to dinner.

OC went back to Tarlos, drunk. He complained and blurted out his regrets. Y/N got together with the guy. One night OC and Carlos got a call, domestic violence. Y/N was being hurt by the guy. OC was really angry and almost beat the guy if Carlos didn't stop him. OC looks at the battered Y/N and his heart ached. He held her and urged her to breakup and move out of the guy's house. Carlos supported.

OC told Y/N everything. And promised her she won't regret, she won't get hurt, she won't cry with him. That he will never subject her to any pain. And that she deserves the best. And he will give her the best. Y/N was beaten down so she never believed OC. Telling him what she thinks. That she doesn't deserve him. He is way out of her league. OC debunked that. And assured her she's not low as she thinks she is.

And that started OC on his way to prove to Y/N that hes for real.