#dual posted on ao3

[nightinggail-writes]

you have to understand (that the one i killed is me)

Becoming Guardian of the Miraculous has caused nothing but anxiety and stress for Marinette Dupain-Cheng. Between her duties as Guardian, her job as Ladybug, and her civilian life, she's struggling to push through the stress. To Marinette, there's only one solution to her plight; she has to give up one of the three sides of her life.

Tags: angst heavy, depression, un-beta'd

word count: 1,270

2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Read on AO3

Spotify Playlist

Thunder rumbling

Castles crumbling

I am trying to hold on

God knows that I tried

Seeing the bright side

I’m not blind anymore

I’m wide awake

- Wide Awake by Katy Perry -

Marinette numbly stared down at the box in her hands. It had been three weeks since the battle against Miracle Queen. Three weeks since Master Fu transferred the guardianship of the Miraculous over to her, erasing his memories in the process; and her life has been nothing but miserable ever since.

As she stared down at the box that was slowly leading her to her demise, all she could think was how she couldn’t hold this much responsibility. Her eyes, which should have been bright with the joyful naivety of youth, were dim and tired, making her look as if she had been alive for far longer than the fifteen years she’s been on this earth. Dark circles and bags lay beneath those sky-blue eyes, the true evidence of her lack of sleep. She had far too many responsibilities, and they were starting to make an impact on her health, physically, mentally, and emotionally.

Marinette recalled the events of earlier today. How Alya, Alix, Juleka, Mylene, and Rose all got akumatised because of her, how in the end she gave them a shitty lie instead of the truth that she can never tell them, how even when Alya stayed behind to talk to her, she still didn’t say anything. Maybe in another universe, she told Alya that she was Ladybug, maybe she even told them all, or she told Chat Noir, as risky as that would be, but in this one, she was still all alone.

“Marinette?” Tikki called out, the kwami’s eyes full of concern for her holder, “You could have told Alya, it wouldn’t–”

“It would put her in danger, Tikki,” Marinette muttered. “I can’t tell anyone, not even Chat Noir. That would just put him in danger too. I’m alone in this, I’ve accepted that and so should you.”

Marinette racked her brain for anything she could do to make this whole situation easier for herself, but every idea she had wouldn’t work. Every idea ended with complete isolation from everyone, abandoning all her friends and eventually her family too, just to continue to fight Hawkmoth for possibly the rest of her life, and never seeing them again. The other options included quitting being Ladybug for good, but that wouldn’t work either. For one, she doesn’t want to give Tikki up, or Chat Noir for that matter, and two she would have to go out and find a replacement and that would take who knows how long, and there's no guarantee that this new Ladybug would even be able to keep up with Chat Noir or handle the Akumas. Every option she thought of was one she didn't enjoy the outcome of.

A plan, she thought. I just need one plan, that’ll ensure I can beat Hawkmoth sooner rather than later, and won’t have to give up my civilian life forever for.

“Marinette, you don’t have to give up your civilian life or give up being Ladybug. You can do both,” Tikki pleaded. “I believe in you, you can handle both.”

And just then, an idea popped into Marinette’s head. It was insane and would probably require a lot of planning and wouldn’t be able to be put into action until her parents would be out of the city for a catering event for a few days. She would have two weeks to prepare for the most insane idea that she’s ever thought of.

“I don’t quite like the look on Marinette’s face right now…” Ziggy whispered to the other Kwami’s, “She has this crazed look in her eyes.”

“I’m not crazy, Ziggy,” Marinette stood up from her chaise, her tired, baggy eyes wild as she gestured to herself, “I’m a genius. I don’t have to give up my civilian life permanently!”

“See, Marinette! I told you that you didn't have to give up your civilian life! You just need to—”

“Fake my own kidnapping! There are no flaws in that!” Marinette enthused. “I’ll just go missing for a few weeks and dedicate that time to hunting down Hawkmoth and my duties as Ladybug won’t be as taxing! It’s genius!”

The Kwami’s looked at each other, and then looked back at Marinette. She had her arms crossed with one hand on her chin, occasionally lifting it to gesture at nothing as she mumbled to herself, pacing back and forth across her room. Her hair was messy from running her fingers through it and her eyes, formerly droopy and tired from stress, were now wide and wild thinking through the details of her plan.

The group of god-like creatures huddled together and nudged Sass forward to say something to their Guardian that may break her away from her plan. “Ah, Marinette, while that idea isss…intriguing, we don’t believe that it’sss the wisessst plan. Where would you go while being Ladybug? What would you do to find Hawkmoth? And if you did happen to find him and recover the Butterfly and Peacock Miraculousss, how would you go about un-kidnapping yourssself?”

Marinette stopped pacing and for a moment the Kwami’s thought that Sass had gotten through to Marinette. Until she opened her mouth, that is.

“Well, I would find an abandoned building to stay in, of course. As for finding Hawkmoth, that’s a plan that would take longer than a few minutes to think of, and figuring out what would happen after I recover the Miraculous is something for future Marinette to figure out.”

“Marinette,” Orikko spoke. “What about your friends? You’re parents? You’ll be leaving them, and they won’t even know what actually happened to you. Doesn’t that make you sad?”

Marinette’s arms went limp, as if hugging herself, her eyes softening and dropping in sadness, eyebrows scrunching, as a frown formed on her face. She looked as if the life had been sucked out of her. “You think I won’t be sad? Of course I’ll be sad. I don’t—I don’t actually want to leave my life behind, but I don’t have a choice. I’ve never had a choice when it comes to the Miraculous. I have to do what’s best for the greater good, and if giving up my life is what it takes, then that’s what I’ll do. No amount of begging is going to convince me to do otherwise. I’m sorry.”

The Kwami’s looked down after hearing Marinette. It hadn’t occurred to them that Marinette had felt this way about the Miraculous, or that she didn’t actually want to leave her friends and family behind and be the Guardian and Ladybug for the time being. The thought of this brought some of the Kwami’s to tears.

“Oh, Marinette,” Mullo cried. “We’re sorry! We didn’t think about how you felt about this. Well, we knew of course because we were there, but we didn’t know that’s exactly how you felt!”

The other Kwami’s shouted their agreement with what Mullo said, and flew over to hug Marinette.

Marinette closed her teary eyes and pet the Kwami’s as they nuzzled close to her, “I love each and every one of you.” she said, “Never think otherwise.”

“We love you too, Marinette!” Daizzi exclaimed.

“Everything will be okay, Marinette.” Wayzz declared, “All will go well.”

“Of course everything's gonna work out. I have all of you to help me.” Marinette replied. But even as the words left her mouth, she was still consumed by the everlasting blanket of loneliness that, in two weeks time, would be all she had.

[rewrittenwrongs]

Finally realised I haven’t actually posted this here… @thebibliosphere @justanotherhomelessromantic @theelitistpirate your post is a masterpiece and awakened the muses. I wrote this in one sitting and didn’t beta read so if you see any typos no you didn’t

Read on Ao3 here

Gotham is a cesspit of chaos. It’s full to the brim with criminals, covered in rapists and murderers, almost controlled by mobs and mafia, practically ran by the drug trade, and home to more masks than any other place in the world. In this case, the term ‘Mask’ includes one founding member of the Justice League, almost a dozen of his children, and more than a dozen villains.

Among these lawless people is one Amaury Guichon: the Chocolate Guy.

(It is notable that ‘chocolate guy’ is not the name he intended to go by, but that’s what people started calling him, and the name simply stuck.)

Contrary to what his name might suggest, he is not a cheerful chef that goes around handing treats to young children. He is a chef, and he can be cheerful, and he does occasionally give chocolate bars to people, but his intentions are far more sinister than spreading cheer and cavities.

Case in point: he is currently in an abandoned confectionary factory, preparing a vat of melted chocolate while his group of kidnapped socialites watch helplessly.

“What is this?” one of the socialites demands, struggling against the ropes tying her to a chair. She’s an older woman, with gray hair and a shimmering dress, and doesn’t actually seem all that scared. Years of living in Gotham as a member of the upper class must make her accustomed to being kidnapped.

“Ah, mon petit chou pourri, isn't it obvious?” Chocolate Guy lifts the comically large spatula he is using to stir the chocolate, letting the sickeningly sweet liquid drip down in ribbons. “It’s death by chocolate!”

“How, exactly, do you plan to kill us with chocolate?” another kidnappee, Bruce Wayne, asks dryly. He seemed utterly unconcerned, unimpressed even, by his imminent death. “Do you plan do drown us in it? That would be rather messy, and take a while. Heat it up and burn us? No, the chocolate would burn, and that wouldn’t kill us—“

“The circumstance of your death is no matter to you!” Chocolate Guy shrieked. “Je vais te tuer! Peu importe comment!”

“Is that why you haven’t mentioned the bombs yet?” Sam Reich asked, appearing out of nowhere with a gleeful grin.

Chocolate Guy reared back. “Where did you come from!?”

“You fight Batman and you’re asking me?” Sam chuckles. “I’ve been here the whole time. And I have a more important question: HOW DID YOU MAKE BOMBS OUT OF CHOCOLATE!?”

Chocolate Guy raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “They’re bombe au chocolats, what else would they be made out of?”

“But how?”

“Honestly, no wonder half of Gotham thinks you’re a Meta,” Bruce Wayne piped up. “With the things you can do with chocolate, you could work at any confectionary you want, any restaurant, you’d win awards—“

“Shut your mouth!” The Chocolate Guy lunges forward and smears a mess of chocolate against Bruce’s mouth. It cools down quickly, hardening against his chin and trapping his lips shut. The look Bruce sends him is impressively annoyed. “I don’t want to win awards, I want to wreak havoc!” Chocolate Guy snarled. “People must appreciate the true destructive potential of chocolate!”

“Hence the bombs,” Sam added, nodding.

A slow clap sounded from the ceiling.

All heads turn to the rafters, where Nightwing crouched, slowly clapping his gloved hands together. “I gotta say, Amaury, this scheme of yours is pretty impressive. Lure us over here with your kidnapping, distract us from your henchmen so they can plant the bombs unnoticed.“

He drops down from the ceiling, landing in a crouch. He removes his escrima sticks and activates the electricity. “Honestly, you might’ve gotten away with it.”

Some upperclassman cries out in surprise as Spoiler, having appeared out of nowhere, neatly cuts his ropes. The group of rich people had been arranged in a circle tied by the same length of rope, so the rest of their restraints slackened as well.

Spoiler held up the cut portion of rope. For some reason, she sniffs it. “Is this made of sugar?”

“Dragons beard candy!” Chocolate Guy cried, brandishing his reinforced chocolate nunchucks. “Some of my finest work!”

The following battle is one that would be told by bards across the world for the rest of time, if bards still existed. Nightwing is impressively skilled with his escrima sticks, not to mention very strong and incredibly flexible, but Amaury Guichon is a force to be reckoned with using those nunchucks, and it isn’t long before he captures one of the escrima and sends it flying. Nightwing uses the tiny opening the motion made and swipes at Amaury, but he dances to the side and slams one end of the nunchucks into his back, forcing Nightwing to use his momentum to roll.

Spoiler leads the formerly kidnapped socialites to safety while Nightwing is occupied, keeping a wary eye on Sam Reich, who is watching the battle with a concerning amount of glee.

It thankfully isn’t long before Nightwing gets the upper hand, forcing Chocolate Guy back until he trips over an abandoned conveyor belt. The vigilante makes swift work of him after that, tying him up with his own candy ropes—and zip ties, to be safe—and leaving him for the police to detain. He also leaves them the vat of chocolate. No way is he dealing with that.

He heads outside after collecting his escrima, but finds only upper class civilians. He taps his comm, “Spoiler?”

“Spoiler’s signal is jammed,” Oracle tells him. “So is Robin’s and Red Robin’s. They been off the map for two minutes, Spoiler for one.”

Nightwing frowned and began a closer examination of the surroundings. “You can’t track them?”

“I think an EMP went off, none of their tech is online.”

“That’d do it,” he muttered. “Who’s disabling the bombs? Have we found all of them?

“Signal’s taking care of one in East End, Red Hood has one in Crime Alley, Orphan has the one by the Wayne Enterprise building, and Batwoman is en route to the Wilson Memorial Bridge. There’s still two, one of them’s by the cell tower in the Bowery.”

Nightwing worked on his sweep of the factory, ignoring Chocolate Guy screaming French in the background. “B won’t be able to reach a suit for a few minutes. Call Bluebird?”

“Already on it,” Oracle replies. “She’ll be suiting up any second now. She’s closer to the cell tower, you look around for the last bomb and keep an ear out for our missing birds.”

Nightwing nodded redundantly and swung off into the night.

He searched East End first, since it was closest, but found no trace of chocolate bombs nor of wayward birds. He swung through Crime Alley with no luck, stopping to help Red Hood disable his bomb. They searched the Narrows and the Bowery together, during which Signal, Bluebird and Orphan finished with their bombs, and were heading towards Bristol when a figure landed beside them.

Red Robin waved. “Hey guys!”

Red Hood startled. “What the fu—“

“Where have you been!?” Nightwing demanded.

“With Sam Reich,” Red Robin said like it was obvious. “He kidnapped me, Robin and Spoiler to play a weird game of Simon Says.”

“What?” Red Hood hissed.

Nightwing landed on a roof and waited until the others landed beside him. “Did he hurt any of you?”

“No. Robin did get some friction burns from struggling against the ropes, but we’re all fine.”

“I hate Reich,” Red Hood muttered. “He’s weird.”

Red Robin shrugged. “Eh, Sam’s okay. Ra’s think he might take over the League of Assassins if he gets bored enough.”

Nightwing stared at his brother. “Okay, ignoring the fact that you’re apparently on a first name basis with one of our rogues—“

“Two, me and Eddie play fifth dimensional chess on Tuesdays—“

“Ignoring that, for now, we will be addressing that later—why does Ra’s think he could take over the League and why do you know he thinks that?”

“Ra’s keeps sending me passive aggressive letters about how the League’s doing. Well, that’s what he’s been doing recently, before that he was putting belladonna in my food for steali—“

“Where the fuck have you been?” Oracle demanded over comms. Red Robin winced.

“With Sam. He told us that the last bomb is by the docks.”

Nightwing opened his mouth, then closed it again. “We are bringing this back up later,” he eventually hissed, before turning and jumping off the roof.

“Why’s Ra’s trying to kill you?” Red Hood asked.

Red Robin watched Nightwing grapple away. “He isn’t, he needs me alive to have my children.”

“What?”

Red Robin copied his brother and jumped off the roof, grapple gun poised.

The three vigilantes reconvened at the docks, where they met Spoiler, Robin and the Riddler. The villain of the group was hunched over a complex chocolate structure, with Spoiler leaning over his shoulder and yelling about bombs and chocolate and defying physics, and Robin was several metres away with his katana at the ready. There was a somehow functional chocolate timer next to the bomb, which said they only had thirty seconds before the bomb went off.

Batwoman had disarmed her bomb during the ride over, so this was the last one they had to disable.

“Eddie? What are you doing here?”

That’s right, for some reason Red Robin was friends with the Riddler. Of course.

“Disabling the bomb,” Riddler replied, haggard.

“Do you even know how to do that?” Nightwing snapped.

“Just throw it in the bay,” Red Hood said.

“Oh yes, because a huge splash of hot steam is so much better.”

“Chocolate doesn’t float, it’ll sink to the bottom.”

“That’ll kill everything near it and—“

“You think things can live in Gotham water?”

“—it might explode the caves, you and I both know there are aquatic cave systems here.”

Red Robin, having previously disappeared during the conversation, reappeared when there was ten seconds left, holding a half empty bottle of vodka. He shoved back Riddler and began dumping the alcohol over the chocolate monstrosity. The others took many large steps back when he pulled out a box of matches.

He set alight the match and dropped it on the alcohol soaked, half deconstructed chocolate abomination, which immediately caught fire.

They all watched as the chocolate melted.

“Smart,” Spoiler observed.

“There’s really no hardwire in there?” Nightwing asked, wary and confused. “It’s just chocolate. How.”

“Does it really matter?” Red Robin asked, taking another step back. “They’ve all been dealt with.”

“What about Reich?” Robin demanded. “He’s who-knows-where and has proven skilled enough to capture vigilantes. We can’t leave him alone.”

“Oh, that?” Riddler said dismissively. “Don’t worry, I know a guy.”

Somewhere else in the world, Brennan Lee Mulligan accepts a phone call.

[sakura-code]

Dual Swords AU

AU where Yuma and Makoto both are together in the contract, and work to uncover Kanai Ward’s Ultimate Secret.

For context, Makoto was kicked out of his seat as CEO of Amaterasu when he was framed for the murder of the former CEO of Amaterasu, and no one takes his side. He goes on the run, trying to figure out how he can save Kanai Ward from both Yomi’s and the Unified Government’s wrath’s, and decides he needs help from his fellow greatest mind: Number One of the World Detective Organization. The two would then make a contract with Shinigami so they can solve the unsolved mysteries in Kanai Ward by force, while believing they are brothers and detectives-in-training.

[th4t-bug]

Hey just a mod note- when I get five followers (one more than what I have now) I'll post chapter one of Bug's origin story!

And probably another chapter every 2-5 followers after that. Depending on how big this gets and my net energy+time.

[loumauve]

printed-out private fanfic collections my beloved

[ramblingdisaster73]

Excerpt from Chapter 5 of Edging the Bet

Carlos knew instantly that turning his back to TK right now was a bad idea, but he didn’t have time to turn back around before he felt the hardness of TK’s cock pressing into to his ass, his mouth on his neck. Carlos wasn’t able to stop himself from tilting his head to the side giving TK better access, momentarily forgetting that he wasn’t supposed to let TK get his hands on him.

Carlos closed his eyes when TK’s right hand drifted down over his stomach, untucking his shirt from his jeans. He whimpered when TK’s fingers snuck beneath his shirt, teasing the skin just above his waistband. While Carlos was distracted at the skin-on-skin touch, the teeth biting his ear lobe, the sneaky bastard moved his left hand to Carlos’ erection, rubbing his aching cock through the jeans. “Fuck. TK.” Carlos said through gritted teeth, trying to fight the urge to just let TK have his way. Part of him wanted to just give in, take the loss on the bet, his fiancé was making it hard to want to win.

TK pulled his hands away with an evil chuckle, placing one last kiss on the back of his neck before moving to the refrigerator for a bottle of water. While Carlos got himself under control, making a quick adjustment in his pants while TK’s back was to him. The smirk on TK’s face when Carlos looked back up told him that he hadn’t been as quick or subtle about it. “You are a dick.” Carlos told the love of his life.

[sunset-peril]

The Sound of Our Silence - Prologue - Memento Mori

~~~~

December 19th, 2027

6:35pm 

Ruins of Courtroom Number Four 

~~~~

No one will stay me now. 

A ginger blur stormed up the stairs to the courthouse, blazing through the halls towards the marked double doors.

You may have had your way until now, but the beast is free.

“Legali!” The doors blew open. 

Monarchs fluttered from older ears as eyes gleamed upwards towards the cold sapphires in the doorway. “Ah, if it isn’t Wright’s newest pity project.” 

The monarchs and their wearer were brunted over the defense bench. 

"Mrs. Legali! Are you alright?" A fresh-faced man, around Mr. Justice’s age, began to jog over with clipboard in hand. 

"Outside!" Newfound Chords of Steel roared while eyes flooded white, and he scattered. 

Meanwhile, Legali had just pulled herself from the ground, clutching to her left shoulder and the bench. "What… the hell was that?" 

"Oh… you know very well why I'm here." She sneered. "And if you like what you have, you'll keep your mouth shut and this courtroom empty of guards." 

A singular scoff echoed through the ruins. "What am I, your hostage?" 

She laughed once. "Oh, I don't have to do a thing, do I? All I do is exist… and everything you love is in danger." Even closer she drew, until the ginger's breath was upon the elder attorney's throat. "Oh, it would be so easy… so so easy… but it would leave such a mark." She cackled then, forsaking the professionalism of a single laugh. 

"I warned Wright about you. But that foolish man trusted sentimentality over reason."

"Of course you would." The small LED display on her necklace glitched. 

Bribery! Briber in the house! Its glitchy little face sputtered without remorse.

Its victim sputtered too. “My pardon?! Who are you to throw out an accusation like that?!”  

Legali’s assailant chuckled softly, mellow after the psychotic outburst. She turned her back to the elder, but not her head; no, never her head, as she meandered to the prosecution’s bench and slid an arm over its polished wood. “I will keep quiet, you won't even know I'm here.” She smirked. “You won't suspect a thing, you won't see me in the mirror.” A hand gestured out to the attorney. “But I’ve crept into your heart and you can't make me disappear… 'Til I make you.” 

“I’m sorry, are you singing?”

No chuckle was heard. “I made myself at home in the cobwebs and the lies, I'm learning all your tricks and I can hurt you from inside.” A grimace on her face? “I made myself a promise. You would never. See. Me. Cry. 'Til I make you.” The ginger’s desk slam rattled the ruins. “You'll never know what hit you. Won't see me closing in. Oh, I'm gonna make you suffer, this hell you put me in, and I'm underneath your skin.” A cackle rose once more and she leaned over the bench with her back turned. “The devil within…”

Now the victim seemed angry. “Who even are you?”

Her eyes were empty and no shred of emotion was found on her face. “I will be here when you think you're all alone; seeping through the cracks, I'm the poison in your bones. My love is your disease, I won't let it set you free, 'Til I break you.”

Realization tore through Zegali’s face. “No… It can’t be…”

Victory glowed on the other and a scarred neck was displayed in a show of victory. “Finally! You really think I would just forget everything?! Everything you did to me. Look what you made of me!”

“None of that was me! I know you’re just a scared little child looking for a scapegoat, but I am not the cause of your life.” 

“Oh, really, now? You’re sure that you’ll get out of this unscathed, without ever having to even fight? You’re certain no blood runs down your hands? Really?” 

“Murdering me will not undo these past seven years! I understand you’re a traumatized little girl looking for control, but please, attorney to attorney, revenge gets you nowhere-” 

“Nowhere but prison, I know. I did nothing wrong, but still ended up in the worst of them, because of you. And I don’t have to raise a finger. Never again.” 

“You… are not that little girl…”

“I may never have been. But that matters. All I have in this world is my memories, and I’ll follow them until this body fails. How many will fall before me… only time will tell.”

Legali turned to flee, and the other allowed her. Instead, she turned to the gleaming emblem of justice, dangling haphazardly to the only object remaining intact: the judge’s bench. But she couldn’t face the symbol of justice. Her head bowed for the first time that evening, and her voice soft and weak. “And now we're here at a standstill, I wonder if you feel the kind of pain that rips your insides out… That's something I know all about. Shocking, ain't it? Is it because I can't be her? Made your mistakes and make me hurt.” Her voice cracked and broke as she desperately fought the thoughts and tears. 

“I can't fix you.” 

~~~~

Use of song lyrics encouraged by one @athena-appreciation-page

Songs present -

"The Devil Within" - Digital Daggers

"I Can't Fix You" - The Living Tombstone (ft. Crusher-P)

[omni-scient-pan-da]

Sometimes you just have to say "fuck it we ball" and decide to work on your already 8k word fanfic instead of documenting TWELVE DIFFERENT FUCKING KINDS OF PLANTS FOR A LAB THAT WE WERE GIVEN NO TIME OFF FOR THANKSGIVING TO DO because writing fanfiction is fun and thinking about documenting plants makes your blood boil

[insertvalidusername]

how do i know if a story (fanfic) should be written in first person or third person? genuine question

[zscyber]

Chapters 7 & 8 of ‘Seasons of Change’ are up!

7 - Searching for Redemption, Part 1

Chapter summary:

Learning the truth about Nexomon and the end of the Tyrant Wars had given Edward a lot to think about. How does one go about earning forgiveness when it's not asked of them? How do you atone for helping to create a monstrous killing machine?

Maybe a strange woman in a green dress can help him figure out the answer.

AO3 link:

8 - Among Her Subjects, Part 1

Chapter summary:

Keeping the peace is hard work, and you can't please everyone. But knowing that doesn't make things hurt less.

AO3 link:

[luxurychristmaspudding]

On Call | Masterlist

frankie morales x f!reader

summary: there are many things frankie morales used to laugh at in romcoms. falling in love with the girl next door, the babysitter, your best friend. and then he met you.

pairing: neighbour!frankie x f!babysitter!reader

ratings/warnings: 18+, MDNI. dual pov. best buds to lovers, idiots in love, reader is good with kids. a little canon divergent. reader and frankie are both bi and have same sex exes. mentions of experiencing biphobia and heartbreak. talk of dead/absent parents. frankie fixin' stuff, competency kink, makin' a man some lunch (in a neighbourly way). mutual pining, f&m masturbation, drinking and smoking. tooth rotting fluff and then eventual devious post-bedtime activity (smut).

reader is a teacher and has hair, but she is otherwise a blank slate :)

an: howdy, y'all. in an effort to write something like a normal length fic, i've split this one shot in three lol. excited for you to meet these guys <3

pt i - arizona

pt ii - on call

pt iii - mi amigo

pt iv - you and i

epilogue - birthday

extras

weightless

super graphic ultra modern girl

the immortals

frankie and bug’s whisky night playlist

frankie grey sweats drabble

read on ao3

[jolapeno]

the meeting

francisco "frankie" morales x ofc!reader* | collection masterlist

summary: stumbling into a diner in the dead of the night, frankie morales doesn't expect to find anyone there. then he meets you. what begins as a one-night-stand-turned-weekend becomes a no-strings-attached arrangement.

pairing: pre-tf/delta squad francisco morales x ofc!reader (*OFC has name and backstory, but is physically a blank slate) rating: smut. 18+ warnings: smut. nickname is given to the reader by frankie: blue. no y/n. no physical descriptions. one-night stand. p in v. blueberry pie... is actually pie. pre-TF. dual POV. wordcount: 4.6k an: originally posted on AO3. i won't be doing a taglist for this series, so i'd recommend bookmarking on there for email notifications.

You only realise the rain is heavier when the bell chimes.

Lifting your head, dragging it away from blurring pages, you quickly spot the thick droplets pounding, hammering their tiny water-based fists against the glass beside you. The battling temperatures continue to do all it can to fog and smear it, making visibility impossible from the inside to the out.

It forces car lights to blur into scarlet reds and soft whites from your place; makes the bright diner sign out in the parking lot—spelt out in neon tubing—to be hidden, slowly swallowed and consumed by the growing storm.

When you'd first arrived, it had only been a small shower. Sometime between your first coffee and now it had shifted into a downpour—the outside rumbling angrily, accompanied by flashes that ripple across full and fuming clouds.

Stretching, raising arms above your head, you glance out from your booth and land on the figure who'd set the bell off.

They're unzipping, haphazardly throwing down the hood, parting their jacket before you see the side profile of their face. You’re transfixed, unable to blink as they rustle the short hair atop their head—the outside they’ve brought in dripping onto the worn welcome mat of the diner.

It’s Doris who hurries to greet—a favourite of yours.

She’s the kind of person who doesn’t judge when you order more coffee when it’s gone midnight or you’ve barely moved to stretch your legs; she doesn’t ask if you’re sure you should eat another slice of pie or question if studying in a busy diner is as effective as the library.

Doris keeps her nose out. And does so in a way that makes you think, that if you needed advice, she’d give it to you. Just like she quickly begins doing (unsolicitedly) to the mysterious, almost midnight visitor.

Y’from outta town? Doris asks, rich in cheer, all sing-song-like and innocent to the point it would trick even a dubious soul that she doesn’t gossip.

You wait for a response, focusing on taking small sips of your coffee. A break from the books, from note taking and soaking information. Not eavesdropping, not at all.

No. Just got in late. Saw the sign, and thought I’m a man who deserves a warm drink.

Smiling, almost smirking, you take a larger mouthful. Lie, your brain says; a charmer, you think immediately after. Taking in the slope of his nose and the way he looks lost, unsure—as though there had been no thought after escaping the night and the storm and stepping inside.

Of all the places in the empty diner for him to sit, he chooses the booth next to yours. Jacket sliding off, folding it, placing it at the end of the booth bench he’s sitting in as he faces you.

He doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t glare when he meets your eyes. Just passes you over, acknowledges but not by too much. It’s you who breaks the stare.

Then Elvis begins playing—as he routinely does. Singing about mail and returning to sender as you tap your pencil against the textbook. Dropping your gaze, and doing your best to ignore him.

You’re not sure your best is going to be good enough.

Six minutes and thirty-nine seconds pass, and in that time you take further glances when you think it’s safe to do so.

For one, taking in how he scratches at the back of his head as he attempts to understand the menu. Next, how broad his chest is, and how it forces the thin fabric of his tee to stretch when he pulls out the menu, lays it down and dips his head lower between his shoulders.

By the following chance you afford yourself a glance, his thumb is pressed to his lips as he studies the plastic, two-sided menu, flipping it over with a crack, before doing so again a few moments later. Undecided, troubled—nostrils flaring as he sighs and you try not to glare through your brows.

You blame the fact it’s been a while for why thoughts are sparking.

Practically unable to stop staring at how thick his fingers are, to stop your body from reacting to the width of his thumb. Your thighs press together under the table, mind running away with itself before it’s snapped back to the present when he flips the menu again.

It’s easier to busy yourself by tapping the toe of your sneaker against the metal pole of the table. Discreet, rubber side up, dotting your paper with the pencil as you urge him to order.

Internally pleading him to.

Counting to thirty and then to sixty, before you drop the pencil and rest your cheek on your palm, staring—more bold and unafraid of confrontation than you might have been minutes ago.

“You having a hard time there or something?”

His head snaps up, eyes a little wide. The stare dripping with surprise before he snorts. Before his index and thumb are lifting the menu, tapping the others against the back.

“What do you recommend?”

“You’d take advice from a stranger?”

Shrugging, he dips his chin, but his eyes remain on you. Dark, yet warm—glancing at you as though he wishes to let them up and down your frame. Before he drags them to the empty plates, the ones stacked, ready to be collected.

“No one else for me to ask.”

You smirk, dropping your hand from your face and straightening your spine. “Touché.”

Then, you make him wait. Take as much of him in as you can. Pencil in hand as you trace the eraser end over, and over a graph in your book. Because he’s handsome, good-looking, in a way that’s understated but you know would make you double-take somewhere else.

It’s the eyes, you try to reason.

A unique mix of doe-eyed and sharp.

Exhaling, you tap your pencil louder before saying, “The coffee is good, and so are any of the pies. The pancakes are good, but not when Ernie is on. And Ernie is currently on—they always taste salty? I try not to think why.”

It’s his turn for his lips to slide into his cheek. “Which pie?”

“Huh?”

He points, right to the plates. “Which pie have you been eating?”

For a second, you take him in. Head tilting, back straight, lips rolling together as you try to place him—nostrils flaring as you take a steadying breath. “Blueberry.”

“Alright then.”

To your surprise, he orders you one too.

It sitting, temptingly in a space between notes, postits and your book. Your stomach grumbles in protest, desperate to taste another slice, knowing the importance of fuel and nutrition to ensure that you don’t fall asleep at the table again.

You wait until he sinks his teeth into it. Tuning in for any groan, any evidence of surprise at how good it tastes. You flick your gaze to him, watching, waiting, eventually stabbing your own fork into it before the filling bursts in your mouth, exploding sweetness that’s balanced by a gentle tang—the crust, as always, both crumbly and smooth, all buttery, a treat. Homely. That’s what it reminds you of, home.

A thing, from the look on his face, he feels too.

“Told you.”

It’s a sight to watch him run his tongue across the front of his teeth, fork sliding across the crumbs on his place. “Not bad for a stranger.”

You release a short laugh, one that you try to bury against the cup you bring to your lips.

“I’m Francisco—Frankie.”

He drops his eyes, embarrassment—most likely. Shyness is another option.

Even with no expectation for a trade, you lick your lips and offer him something else. A nickname as he smiles, eyes narrowing. “—not going to just hand you my name, you could be a murderer.”

“I could be.”

“Your nickname doesn’t suit you.”

“Thank you?”

He laughs, low, but light. It’s then he asks if you’re working, to which you share studying. That you find it easier here, less distractions—

“More pie?”

“There’s that too. What about you? Just fancied a break from the storm?”

Sheepish, that’s the word you’d use. The back of his fingers runs along the stubble on his jaw. “I’ve just landed back. Needed… wanted a minute.”

You nod, letting his words simmer as a bolt of lightning catches you in the corner of your eye.

“Guess we’re one step further away from being strangers.”

He hums, and you dip your head, turning the page of your textbook as it becomes the only noise while one song transitions into another.

Frankie tries not to smile when you jump at a clap of thunder.

He hides it behind his coffee and tries to stare out as another bolt sketches itself across the sky. Then, you ask him if he’ll watch your things so you can use the restroom.

Nodding, throat all of a sudden dry when you stand and he manages to steal a look at your bare legs.

Up until then, he’d only seen the oversized grey sweatshirt from the waist up, and then he finds your shorts sitting somewhere along the middle of your thighs—all skin until socks above sneakers. The latter scuffed, overly worn and likely loved. Things he assesses quickly, training coming into use even when home.

What he doesn't spot is a coat or an umbrella.

A thing which ticks in the back of his head as he wonders how long you’ve been here to have racked up the number of plates and the different glass and cupwear. It ticks over, maths whirring when he hears the bathroom door squeal and the sound of you approaching.

Your thank you comes across softly as you lean back into the seat of your booth chair, rolling your neck—and massaging your temple before reaching for something in your bag.

It’s a test, he thinks when you begin to apply gloss. Sliding it over your lips, not glancing up at, as he tries not to even let his eyes wander. To follow.

He fails.

Watching, seeing it glistening, the exposed lighting above the two of you sparkling on them like glitter.

And, he tries to drink his coffee; tries to think of what the next song could be. Whether it will be Elvis again or something else.

The song begins before he has come up with an answer. Having been too focused, too busy silently working out what flavour your gloss is.

Whether it would be tacky against his mouth—

“If you keep staring, Frankie, I’ll think that you want to take a picture.”

A light laugh escapes him, shaking his head, scratching at the back of his hair as he sighs. “Only if you pose for it.”

Your laugh is loud, sweet—gentle on the ears as you pout and roll your eyes. “You’re distracting me.”

Frankie swallows that you’ve been distracting him since he sat down.

By the time it reaches the third hour he’s been here, Frankie finds himself opposite you.

Having relocated, taken some pity on you to help “test” you on something. It had ended quickly when his hands held your notebook and spotted your illustrations along the edges. That’s when he spots a half-bad sketch of himself. A little heart on his jawline, one of his fingers tracing it on his skin, running over the patch that doesn’t fill in like the rest of his beard, before seeing an arrow with the name Frankie at the end and some dots.

“Morales. My surname.”

Grabbing your notebook back, eraser removing the dots, he watches as you write out his name. Immortalise it against the lines pages of your studying. Committing him there, a memory you can keep or erase, the choice entirely yours.

“Now, give it here.”

For a second, you look like you wish to argue, before you surrender, smirking. Pencil placed down as you lick your lips.

Amongst his name, are notes. Swirly handwriting that becomes more chaotic the longer he thinks you’ve sat here. Some circles, some with bubble clouds drawn around them, doodles on doodles—and then there’s your textbook. Post-its and scraps of receipts sticking out from different parts.

“You studying for an exam?”

Nodding, stretching your back in your seat, a little groan emitting.

“How long have you been here?”

Smiling, more telling than wicked—the opposite, he suspects, of what you intend. Your hand reaches for the pot Doris has left, tilting your cup, his eyes spotting its emptiness before your fingers wrap around the handle the black handle on the glass pot.

“Put the coffee pot down, Blue.”

Laughing, the edges of it cutting into your cheeks, “Blue?”

“Better nickname—because at this point, you’re nothing but blueberries and coffee.”

“Oh. Is that right?”

Wrapping his fingers around the handle, smothering over yours, he stares—ignores it, the pulse from your fingers, the warmth. The way his throat dries and he wants nothing more than to slide a palm up your leg to see if it’s as smooth as he thinks it will be.

“What would you say if I said I think I’d rather be full of something else…”

Your words hang, linger.

Lips sliding up into his cheek, feeling your hands loosen from under his. The silence thick. A second away from it all shifting, ruining, mood dampening and changing. So he leans, elbow resting, then forearm—finding some form of confidence buried under the responsibility he usually has to carry.

“You think you can handle that, Blue?”

“What?”

Swallowing, dropping his voice as he glances over his shoulder before staring at you. “Being full of me.”

There's a definitive pause. A glide of your eyes up and down him. Dragging, practically scraping. “Oh, I think I’d like to give it a go, Morales.”

Placing your notebook down, sliding it across the table—tracing his tongue across his teeth. He nods before muttering get your coat.

That’s when you hand him your name, first only, Liv—but friends call you Livvie. He tries it silently before following you out of the booth into the parking lot.

He follows your car—close, not allowing another vehicle to squeeze in between, but not tailgating.

There are barely any blocks, but he doesn’t chance it. Parking behind you, exiting as you do from yours, throwing his bag over his shoulder, as you wait for him outside an apartment building at the end of a small walkway.

Frankie considers the option to turn back.

To consider his choices, to opt out of something that could become complex, awkward. But, he doesn’t. Not when he holds the door open after you’ve let them both in, or when he rides the elevator to the fourth floor, to the fourth door, four-oh-four you whisper as you stick your key in and the lock sounds in the night.

He doesn’t give it another second when the door shuts behind his back, hand grasping, swallowing your gasp when his mouth slides over yours. Bag thumping to the ground, palms wrapping around the sweatshirt as he forces it to cling to your waist when he presses you to him. Your warm, sweet—all plump lips that have the remainder of your gloss.

Tacky, he thinks. Smirking the thought to your lips as he cradles your jaw, as he licks into your mouth and earns himself his first moan.

“Can still change your mind?”

You shake your head, peeling your sweatshirt off—revealing practicality. A little grey sports bra, nothing impressive, nothing you feel embarrassed for. Your nipples are hard, peeking through the fabric as the light from your kitchen paints you in gooey yellow.

“You can change yours though?”

He smirks, almost snarling out, “Not a fucking chance.”

Throwing your sweatshirt, you slide both thumbs under the band that meets your skin and take that over your head. He almost lunges, crashing his mouth to yours, hand cupping one breast as his thumb rolls over it—circling over it. Walking you back aimlessly, unsure of any route, eyes assessing, watching, until he moves you against a wall.

One hand against it for leverage, his other slips down the band of your shorts—passed cotton, it digging into his wrist as two fingers glide through your slick. Feeling your want, your need, able to spread it, smother it over your clit as you whimper, as your arms knot behind his neck and pull his mouth to mould to yours.

“All for me?”

“Shh,” you whisper, grinning, one of his thick fingers sliding from your swollen clit to dip into your pussy. Your hips grinding into him, against his palm, groaning—almost moaning against your mouth at the feel of you. More so when he catches you whisper, “Please.”

“Answer me then, is this all for me?”

Nodding, lips ghosting over his before he slips another finger in. Sliding them in and out, curling. Feeling you tighten around him, clenching.

“Yes, fuck yes.”

“Not so hard, was it?”

His fingers curl, finding that spongy spot that has you whining a completely different noise—has your fingers digging into him, leaving little marks that’ll take hours to fade. He hopes they bruise.

The more he thrusts his fingers, the more you flutter—the more you rut into his hand. The more the noises you emit become strangled, mewls that are wrapped in a moan.

“That’s it, use me, Blue. Take what you want.”

“Fuck, m’gonna… fuck, I’m so—”

Frankie smothers your babbling with his mouth, licks his tongue into your mouth, vanishes them, erases them. Half-about to confess how hot it is that you’re so riled up, all because of him. That you’ve barely invited him in before you’re humping his hand, desperate, aching all for him.

Your fingers tighten around his forearms, hips shuddering, moaning right into his mouth as he feels your slick coat his fingers, his palm. Working you through it until you’re nudging his hand free, pulling it up to your mouth and meeting his eyes.

Then, you’re a fucking sight, a vision. Tongue sliding between his fingers and up and over them, tasting every part of yourself from his hand before his palms clutch your cheeks. Before his mouth is on yours and you’re guiding him to the bedroom, to your made bed of pale shades and decorative cushions.

“Condoms?”

Your hand reaches, shifts awkwardly for the handle, as he swipes at your hand—leaning over, reaching. He spots them, foil in the centre of papers and—

“Fuck, Blue,” he hisses. Looking down, finding his cock in your hand, mouth hovering closer, teasingly, breath fluttering over the leaking tip as you ask you clean and he nods.

Almost set to choke out words when wet warmth envelopes his cock. Cheeks hollowing, doing all you can to take as much of him from this position as he drops his head back, as his fingers grasp at your sheets, as the condom crinkles in his fingers before it scratches, protesting and reminding of its importance.

He’s throbbing in your mouth. Too in awe of the actual fucking sight of you—a person he met four hours ago—who is now a dream come to life.

“Stop, baby,” he groans, hand on cheek, easing him out of your mouth, “Wanna feel you come around me.”

Your eyes narrow in fury as he shifts back, rests back on his knees, eyes unable to tear away from how you lick the small taste of him from your lips, thumb swiping at the spit that had slid around your parted mouth as he rips the foil open.

“Are you sure you want this?”

Lifting up, taking the condom from the wrapper, sliding it down his cock. “Oh, I want you. Wanted you the moment you walked in.” He laughs, watching your hand wrap around his length. “I mean it—I don’t… don’t do this. But, I had to.”

Taking your hand from around him, leaning you back before lifting your leg, he lines himself up—sliding the head of his cock through your folds. Smearing himself in your wetness, coating him, watching you try to style out your little changes in breath.

“Had to?”

Nodding, “Had to, Morales.”

“Frankie,” he says, urges. Slowly pushing himself in, head tipping as he watches how you stretch around him, how perfect you are, how good.

“Fuck, Frankie,” you moan as he bottoms out.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders and your chest arches into him. Your hooked leg tightening, forehead pressing into his neck as he rubs a circle on your back, comforting, aiming for relaxation as your head lifts, as eyes—glassy, lust-blown and filled with want.

“Good girl. S’good for me.”

Then you flutter, loosen a little, grind your hips—

“You like that, Blue?”

“Move, Frankie.”

“Yeah?”

“Please. Please, Frankie—fuck me, fuck me—”

Your words fade, swallowed by a whine as he begins to move. As his hips begin to snap to yours in a rhythm so unrelenting, so desperate. Kissing you between heavy breaths as he lifts you slightly, changes the angle, and swallows a different moan that almost makes him grin as his fingers spread out along your back.

Because fuck you feel good.

A thing he’s sure he groans, says, spills.

Your mouth close to his ear, hands tugging at him, pulling—feeling you everywhere, taking him, all that he’s giving you. As his arm hooks under your leg, spreading you a little more, placing a palm down to the bedsheets as he squeezes the cotton as you tighten around him.

He knows you’re close, can feel it, can see it, a look that he’d seen only in diluted light*,* but now gets a real view of.

And it’s enough to push him over the edge.

“Say my name, baby. Please—”

“Frankie—fuck, m’god, Frankie, right…”

It shifts into a cry, your body tensing as your pussy flutters, tightens—contracting and constricting. Then there’s your nails, the ones clawing at him, scratching. Digging into him in a way he wants you to over, and over, again as he moans.

Because you feel good. Perfect.

His breath fans across your neck and he finds himself so hard, so desperate as he slides in and out, hand grasping at your hip, easing, helping—

“Come for me, Frankie. Need it, need you t—”

“Fuck, m’give it to you.”

It’s dizzying, the way he snaps—gripping your back as liquid pleasure rushes through him, making all sounds mute. Except the ones of his skin slapping against yours—of your whines and breaths as he jolts, as he twitches. Coming hard as a groan rips from his throat. His hips stutter, losing their pace, hearing your whine change as overstimulation layers thickly before he slowly lets himself collapse against you.

A thing, he suspects, you’re eager for. Arms encasing around him, holding him—heartbeat hammering against his in a rhythm that doesn’t match, but could, he supposes.

Then you kiss him.

Drag his mouth to yours, bodies both slick with sweat, glistening, shimmering as your tongue licks a thank you at the back of his teeth and his fingers grasp one of your breasts, sliding a sweat-soaked thumb over your peak as you groan.

He’s not sure of the hour, but he knows it’s morning when he wakes.

The shower’s running. Steam billowing into the bedroom from the ajar door with warm light leaves a line that guides him to you.

A part of him thinks he should leave. Should take the easy option, knowing things—how you feel, how he feels. Hand on your hip between the first and then the second—the time on your clock barely acknowledged as you ask him what he does, where he’s come from.

It rolled from him, the truth. A thing that should frighten him, that he should have held back—

You serve?

Yeah.

Against your sheets, the ones that smell of you and then him and then the two of you, running a hand over his face. Recalling the way you touched his cheek, brushed your palm, staring, before you whispered:

Lemme guess, a pilot?

Eyes widening, hand on your chin as he made you look at him, silently asking, how do’y know, how d’you see me? You kissed him instead of answering.

It's why it would be easy to go—to leave in the mid-morning, disappear, vanish.

But his feet are taking him to the bathroom door, pushing it open with two fingers—the same two that tipped your chin up, made you look him in the eye as you came on his cock—steam greeting him before it clears. Before he sees your back to him, half-covered by droplets and glass until he’s padding across tiles, remembering your words the last time when you’d been shimmering with sweat—

“I can’t do serious, Morales. So if you have a taste of me, don’t fall in love with me.”

He’d snorted, sliding his mouth down your stomach, thighs twitching against his palm as it remembered the other ways he’d already made it shake. “It’ll be you falling when I’ve done with you.”

Your fingers slide the glass open now, that conversation there, hanging like fairy lights that you both ignore as water cascades down your skin—and he steps in, welcomed, lips finding yours as the glass shakes when it slams back into place.

It’s a few more hours until he’s dressing, until he’s drinking a cup of coffee and finding himself having trouble making an excuse to leave.

Because these things aren’t easy, comfortable. Yet this is.

Opening the door, the scent of coffee from the pot you made still filling your place, you let him pass—hovering, lingering.

“Hey?”

Glancing at you, how you’re biting the nail on your thumb, one foot on the other. “Maybe, call me—when you’re next in town? If you want.”

“Thought you didn’t do strings.”

“We can be friends… can’t we? Friends who…”

“Fuck?”

He watches you nod, laughing, before he mumbles friends into the air as he lags. Swallowing. Fingers lightly tapping against his jeans before he rests his arm against the door. “Blue?”

“Hm.”

“What if I said I’m not expected anywhere for two more days.”

Your teeth bite your lower lip, scratching at the back of your head, before that same hand grabs a fistful of his shirt, moving closer, chin tilted up. “I’d say, I think I could handle a bit more of you, Morales. If you want?”

an: a huge thank you to @luxurychristmaspudding for reading this and helping me spot the hilarious typos (you're a real one). to @pedgito for holding my hand so tight since i said "i think i want to do a kink list" and then spinning a wheel which unveils the kinks in the next few pieces. i'd be lost.

[ak-vintage]

Sweet As

Pairing: Francisco Morales/f! babysitter reader

Summary: Frankie comes home after a long day at work and learns how you have been keeping cool in the midst of a heat wave.

Prompt: Frankie Morales x Grapes

Tags & Warnings: 18+ MDNI, 6 years post-Triple Frontier, single dad Frankie, flight instructor Frankie, babysitter reader, dual POV, age gap (not specified, but reader is a grad student), minimal descriptors of reader character, no use of y/n, domestic, sweet, mutual pining, food as foreplay, frottage, pussy pronouns, vaginal fingering, oral sex (f! receiving), trying to keep quiet, trying not to get caught, undefined but hopeful ending

Word Count: 7.5K

Written for the @happypedrohours Charcuterie Board Challenge.

Dividers by @saradika-graphics <3

Read on AO3

You had always been a summer girl, but even you had your limits.

It was week three of the most severe heatwave the south had seen in a decade, and even with the Morales’s air conditioner running at full capacity, you still couldn’t help but park yourself directly under the ceiling fan with a sweating glass of iced tea. Mila, thankfully, hadn’t fought you during bedtime tonight, the six-year-old nearly dead on her feet after a full day of summer activities – a bike ride around the block before the heat of the day had set in, a dance party after lunch, hours in her swimsuit weaving in and out of the sprinkler in the back yard. You had done your best to keep up with her sunscreen, but she still sported a little flush on her round, tan cheeks as she crawled into bed, making little snuffling snores before you had even finished telling her goodnight.

There was a part of you that envied it, the way she could just collapse into sleep, not a care in the world, while you were stuck at the kitchen table late into the night, your laptop and textbooks strewn across its surface. The perils of holding down a full-time babysitting gig while also taking summer classes, you supposed.

It was worth it, though. Mila was a sweet girl, a total social butterfly, full of giggles and sweetness, easily the most fun kid you had ever cared for. And Frankie, her father…

Mr. Morales, you reminded yourself with a quick shake of your head.

Mr. Morales was a dream to work for. Respectful, pleasant, communicative, fair. A great parent to his daughter – a single dad, the only one in your regular client rotation. He paid you well for your time, and he was generous with his recreation budget, always making sure to leave cash in the top kitchen drawer for ice cream treats, trips to the pool, matinee movies. You really couldn’t have asked for a better job for the summer.

It didn’t hurt that he was absurdly handsome, in a rugged, lived-in sort of way. Not that it mattered, of course; he was your boss, more than a decade your senior, and you were, above all else, a professional. Hitting on the kids’ dads? The biggest babysitting faux pas. You liked to think you had more class than that.

However, class or not, you were still just a woman, and Francisco Morales? He was all man.

A blue-collar, ex-military guy in his mid-forties, he was tall and impossibly broad in the shoulders with long, muscular arms, a soft tummy that peaked out over the waistband of his jeans, and a head full of dark brown curls that were constantly just a little squished by a dark, well-worn ballcap bearing the Standard Oil logo. He started out a bit reserved in the beginning, not at all unfriendly but certainly someone who took some time to open up to new people, but in the months since you had started working for him, the two of you had developed a comfortable rapport.

So, if you dragged yourself out of bed an hour early just so you could get to his house in time enough to share a cup of coffee with him before he left for work, well…that was just relationship building with a client, wasn’t it? If you found yourself lingering in the driveway every time he walked you out to your car at the end of the day, extending the conversation more and more, delaying your departure as long as you could manage, that was just…friendship, right? Comradery.

And if, on nights like tonight, you received a series of clunky, unpunctuated texts asking you to stay late on short notice and you agreed without question, that was just going above and beyond. That was you being a good employee.

It definitely wasn’t you genuinely wanting to help out the struggling single father, not because you were being paid to do so, but because he deserved it. And you definitely didn’t take a deep, personal satisfaction in knowing that he trusted you, knowing that he relied on you.

It was all above board. All friendly. All completely and totally normal.

These were the things you told yourself, anyway. It helped you to keep your traitorous heart in check.

It was nearing 10:00 PM by the time Frankie finally pulled into his driveway, his eyelids heavy, his limbs leaden and slicked with sweat. One of the ‘copters at the flight school where he worked had required some major repairs after a clumsy takeoff by one of the students earlier that afternoon had resulted in damage to the rotor blades, and he had volunteered to stay behind after hours and help with the effort so the thing wouldn’t have to spend the entire next day grounded. He was an instructor these days, but his assistance had still been welcomed. In the years he had spent attempting to earn back his pilot’s license after his…indiscretions, he had spent a fair amount of time working as an aviation mechanic to make ends meet.

Even then, at the lowest point of his life, he hadn’t been able to keep himself away from a hangar.

It had been back-breaking work, and Frankie hated having to ask you to stay late when he knew you had your own life, your own friends, your own dreams outside of babysitting his kid, but the repairs were complete now, which meant that none of the instructors would need to cancel any of their lessons for the following day. And when the flight school’s students were, more often than not, rich old men and their trust fund sons who didn’t take well to being told “no,” the extra effort would not go unnoticed.

Now, however, as he shifted his pickup truck into park next to your beat-up old Ford Focus, all he could think about was getting into the air conditioning, taking off his boots, and sitting down at the kitchen table under the ceiling fan with you.

It was the only advantage, really, of these late nights. Infrequent though they were, Frankie couldn’t deny that there was something special about coming home to find his daughter tucked up in bed, happy and tired and well-fed, and you at the table with your schoolwork strewn out in front of you. There was something peaceful and almost painfully domestic about it, something that had his chest swelling with a feeling that he couldn’t quite identify but that he knew for certain was not something one was meant to feel for one’s babysitter.

It was the same feeling he got when you started accepting his offers of coffee in the mornings before he left for work, or when you noticed that he had started purchasing the sugary-sweet creamer you preferred when he had only ever drunk his coffee black. It was the same feeling he got when he came home on one of the first nights of this fucking wretched heatwave to find you chasing his daughter around the back yard with an armful of water balloons, the both of you soaked to the skin and giggling as you pelted each other relentlessly.

It was the same feeling he got when he walked you out to your car and he watched you grip the driver’s door handle so tight your knuckles turned pale, watched you glance down at his lips one too many times to be proper. Soft mouth parted, long lashes casting shadows across your sun-kissed cheeks, perfect breasts rising and falling with your quickened breath –

Frankie brought the heels of his hands up to his eyes, pressing hard, scrubbing across his face to banish the thought. He had no business thinking of you like that, noticing you like that, and he needed to get it together before he walked through the front door and found you precisely where he had imagined you. This might have been his home, but it was your place of work, and he refused to be one of those skeevy dads who made the babysitter uncomfortable.

Gathering himself, Frankie hopped down out of the truck and jogged up the front porch steps. Slipping his keyring from his front pocket, he opened the door as quietly as he could manage and kicked his well-worn boots off onto the mat inside the entryway.

Before he could announce his arrival, however, your voice called out to him, hushed and warm.

“Welcome home, Mr. Morales,” you said sweetly, glancing up at him from your favorite chair at his table. He could see you there through the kitchen doorway, hair piled haphazardly on top of your head, eyes tired but soft, happy. You had gotten even more sun today, your cheeks, nose, and forehead tinged with pink, and you wore an oversized T-shirt and a pair of almost sinfully short shorts, the kind with the elastic waist that looked soft to the touch. Frankie tried and failed not to trace the length of your legs with his eyes, not to imagine the plush softness of your thighs, the suppleness of your calves.

Dragging his gaze back up to your face, praying that you hadn’t caught the trajectory of his traitor eyes, he was somewhat surprised to find you studying him, as well. Rather intently, as a matter of fact. He squinted down at himself, puzzled, and noticed for the first time what you must be staring at: he was a mess.

He was smudged with grease from head to toe, dark streaks of the oily substance arcing across his jeans, his uniform polo, his bare forearms, the backs of his hands. His skin, where it was visible, shone with sweat in the dim entryway light, and his shirt clung to his upper body like a second skin from the heat (moisture-wicking fabric, his ass). The weather would have been enough to have him in a state, but the late night combined with the manual labor had clearly taken its toll.

He watched the long column of your throat bob as you swallowed thickly.

“Rough day?” you asked after a beat of tense silence, keeping your voice low so as not to wake Mila.

Frankie felt his lips lift at the corner, offering you a fatigued half-smile. “A bit, yeah. But better now.”

You pressed your mouth into a thin line as though smothering a grin. “Glad to hear it.” Gesturing at the chair opposite you, you added, “Why don’t you come have a seat, and I’ll heat up some leftovers for you? You have to be starving.”

Fuck, now that you mentioned it, he was starving. He and the small crew of mechanics had taken a brief snack break while they worked, partaking of whatever hodgepodge of junk they had been able to liberate from the vending machine in the office, but that bag of chips and stale granola bar had left his system hours ago now. Still, even as his stomach growled with hunger, he couldn’t help but protest, “You don’t need to do that, cariño. It’s not your job to cook for me on top of everything else you do around here.”

You waved his words away with a flippant flick of your wrist, already on your feet and heading for the refrigerator. “I’ve told you, it’s not a problem. I cook anyway for me and Mila. Why wouldn’t I make a little extra for you while I’m at it?” You glanced over your shoulder at him. “Now sit down. I’ve got this.”

As the container of leftover pasta rotated in the pale yellow light of the microwave, you took a moment to gather yourself, to reign in the surge of want that had pulsed through you at the sight of your employer hovering in the entryway.

Miles of golden tan skin shining with sweat, pooling in the little hollow at the base of his neck. His uniform polo unbuttoned as far down as it would go, showing a sliver of gray ribbed undershirt. Grease smudged across one high cheekbone, streaked across his hands. You needed those hands on you, needed him to transfer those dark marks onto your skin, your clothes, to leave a trail across your body so you could remember everywhere he had touched you, so you could see it when you looked in the mirror.

“How was Mila today? She behave herself all right?”

You startled at the sound of his voice, quickly schooling your face into what you hoped was a pleasantly neutral expression before turning back around to face him. “Oh, yeah, she was great. We had a good day today.”

Frankie – Mr. Morales – smiled fondly at that. “Good, that’s good. No more, uh, meltdowns in the afternoon?”

“No, things have been pretty smooth since we started digging through that article I found. ‘30 Activities to Keep Kids Cool in the Summer’ or whatever. It’s been a huge help.” You chuckled wryly. “Once I figured out a way to let her be outside in the afternoons without running the risk of heatstroke, she’s been great.”

“Right, right.” He settled himself in the chair across from yours, running the side of his fingers across his patchy stubble in thought. “That’s what gave you the idea for the water balloons that one day, right?”

The microwave beeped twice, the golden light inside flickering off, and you grabbed the steaming leftover container as you spoke. “Yeah, exactly. And the sprinkler, and turning paint into ice cubes and using it like chalk.” Snagging a fork from the silverware drawer, you handed both to the exhausted man and slid back into your seat.

He tossed you a grateful smile and dug into the meal with gusto, loosing a quiet groan at the first bite. “Shit, that’s good,” he sighed, dark eyes fluttering closed in a way that had your heartrate spiking. “Thank you for this, cariño. You’re a lifesaver.”

Warmth blossomed in your chest, and you fought the urge to reach out and squeeze his shoulder comfortingly. “Of course, it’s my pleasure.”

Shoving a few more bites into his mouth, he asked, “Didn’t you freeze her Barbies one day, too?”

“Yeah, I did!” It had been one of Mila’s favorites so far of the heatwave-proof activities you had planned for her, and the memory of it had you chuckling. “I took a couple of her dolls and a bunch of their accessories, put them in a few of those sand buckets you guys have in the garage, filled those with water, and then froze them overnight. It took her hours to dig them all out, but hey. It kept her busy, and she didn’t overheat in the process, so I’ll take it.”

Mr. Morales grinned at that, plucking a napkin from the holder in the center of the table, scrubbing it across his sauce-stained moustache. “Incredible. You know, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all the extra effort you’ve been going to with her lately. I know it’s a lot, just looking after her eight hours a day, every day. But with this heat, I know she’s going stir-crazy.” He glanced down at his meal, something almost bashful creeping into his expression. “Pretty sure she gets that from me. Never been real good at sitting still, being stuck indoors.”

“It’s really nothing, Mr. Morales,” you insisted, brushing away the praise with a swipe of your hand.

“No. S’not nothing.” His low voice had gone serious now, and when he glanced back up at you, his eyes were wide, dark, and earnest. “The way you take care of her? The way you always seem to just…know what she needs? That’s everything.” You swore you saw his cheeks darken, swore you saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. “And I told you. S’okay if you call me Frankie. That Mr. Morales stuff makes me feel old.”

You drew your lower lip between your teeth, gaze flicking down to your hands as the intensity of the eye contact became too much to handle. “If you’re sure,” you agreed after a moment. “I don’t want to…presume.”

“Not presuming,” he disagreed, shaking his head. “We’re…friends, right, cariño? Friends can call each other by their first names.”

Something in your stomach ached at his words, but he sounded so genuine, so hopeful that you couldn’t bring yourself to deny him. “Suppose that’s true… Frankie.”

Fucking Christ.

Maybe that hadn’t been the right call, Frankie thought. Maybe he shouldn’t have suggested you call him that, not when your voice sounded so sweet wrapped around his name, not when the hour was so late, the house so silent, like you were the only two people awake in the world. That kind of intimacy, it was going to give him…ideas.

Eager to distract himself from the moment, he plowed onward. “Well, what was the activity today?” he asked, stabbing another selection of pasta and vegetables with his fork.

You appeared to consider the question for a moment before replying, “Actually, it’s more of ‘show’ thing than a ‘tell’ thing, so if you don’t mind holding that thought for a minute, I’ll show you after you’re finished eating.”

Frankie arched an eyebrow at you, intrigued. “Okay, sure. I can wait. Why don’t you tell me what you’re working on then instead? Something for school, I assume?” He gestured at the impressive spread of textbooks, printed articles, and your open laptop taking up most of the surface of the kitchen table.

Immediately, you launched into a detailed explanation of your current project, a research proposal for your graduate program that would serve as the capstone of this session of summer classes. He would freely admit that he only understood bits and pieces of it, his formal education having ended with his high school graduation, but he always enjoyed asking you about your schoolwork. The way you lit up when you talked about the subjects you were passionate about, your animated gestures, your wide, sparkling eyes, all of it was deeply endearing to him. He loved how passionate you were, the way you chased after your goals with fire and focus. It was one of his favorite things about you, and he felt as though that list might be growing longer by the day.

Your monologue about your research proposal gave him the perfect opportunity to finish his meal, so that by the time you had come to the end of your explanation, Frankie was dropping his fork into the now-empty container and leaning back in his chair, pleasantly full and satisfied.

“Oh,” you gasped, seeming to come back to yourself as you took in his relaxed posture, the little smile on his face. “Wow, I really just went on and on there, huh? Sorry about that, I guess I get a little overexcited about my research.”

“Don’t apologize. I like how fired up about it you get, it’s cute.”

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, a little too honest, a little too real, and Frankie braced himself for the shift in your demeanor that was sure to follow. The awkwardness, the clear discomfort at the too-personal words from your employer. But it never came. Instead, your cheeks darkened under his gaze, a flush spreading down your neck and disappearing into the neckline of your oversized T-shirt.

“You…you think I’m cute?” you stammered, voice a bit breathless in a way that had him shifting in his seat, and he felt a fresh flush of sweat bead up on his forehead, just under the brim of his ballcap, at the sound.

He needed to blow you off, he knew. He needed to make an excuse for the comment, turn it into something mindless, something shallow and impersonal, if he wanted to point this conversation back in the right direction.

“‘Course, cariño,” he said instead. “Who wouldn’t? Might be an old man these days, but I’m not dead yet.”

What was wrong with him?

You blinked back at him for a moment, eyes wide and glossy, lips parted in surprise at the confession, but then you were smiling, something almost…flirtatious in the curve of your lip as you said, “You’re not an old man, Frankie. You’re…experienced.”

Oh, fuck him.

This was a dangerous path the two of you were walking, and in that moment, Frankie wasn’t sure what frightened him more: the eventual destination or the fact that you seemed more than willing to travel it with him.

If he was ever going to make it back to safety, he needed to switch gears. Now.

“How about that activity?” he said quickly. “You gonna show me what you and Mila got up to all day?”

Drawing back from where you had started to lean toward him across the table, you shook your head a bit, as though the question had brought you back to yourself. He watched as the softness and the want in your eyes dissipated, and though he mourned it, he knew it was for the best. The two of you had come too close to crossing that line tonight. You both needed to regain your footing a bit.

“Sure. Actually, it should make for a good dessert.” Getting to your feet once more, you crossed to the refrigerator and opened the freezer door, pulling three medium-sized plastic containers from its depths. The clear plastic fogged up the moment it hit the outside air, obscuring their contents, but Frankie didn’t have to wait for long to see what was inside. A moment later, you spread the three containers out on the kitchen table in front of him and began removing their lids.

Inside the containers was a selection of perfectly chopped, completely frozen fruit. The two of you had clearly used some creatively-shaped cutters to prepare the fruit, as some of the chunks were shaped like little hearts, others looked like tiny stars, and still others looked as though a cutter in the shape of a bunny head had been used. One container held little hunks of bright red watermelon in a full assortment of unique shapes, another boasted chunks of pineapple, also uniquely prepared, and in the last container, a medley of green and red grapes had been halved down the center for easy eating.

“What tastes better on a hot day than fresh fruit?” you asked cheerily. “We cut it up together out on the patio first thing this morning so it would have time to freeze. Mila wanted me to tell you that she did the watermelon because it’s pink and that’s her favorite.”

Frankie glanced up at you, meeting your eyes over the frosty containers. “That sounds about right,” he chuckled.

“I ended up having to hose down the concrete by the time we were done, but it made a great snack when it got miserable out. She was going back and forth between the sprinkler and her bowl on the patio all afternoon.”

He grinned at the image you painted, thinking of his little girl in her pink bathing suit, wild brown ringlets wet and clinging to her scalp, grass sticking to her feet as she danced through the spray of the sprinkler, darting back to grab a hunk of watermelon or a frozen grape, the juice dripping from her little fingers.

“Help yourself,” you encouraged, sitting back down across from him. “I’ll have some with you.”

He quirked an eyebrow at you. “Shouldn’t I…grab us some forks?”

You shrugged, that fucking grin making its way back onto your face. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

And with that, you fluttered your fingertips over the container of frozen grapes, plucked one from the pile, and slipped it into your mouth with a satisfied sigh. You might have started chatting then, might have begun asking him if he had any fun plans for the upcoming weekend and offered a summary of yours in return, but Frankie hardly heard a word of it. He was too preoccupied with your…snacking.

The plushness of your lips, the little peek of your slick, pink tongue each time you opened them, the way you seemed to allow the fruit to linger in your mouth as it defrosted. Heart-shaped watermelon had pale pink juice spilling out of the corner of your mouth, making it halfway down your chin before you delicately swiped it away with the tip of your middle finger. A pineapple star had you smiling softly as you enjoyed the burst of tartness over your tastebuds.

And those grapes.

Those goddamn fucking grapes, with their slick, frosty skin and their subtle, gentle sweetness – those you softly, almost absently traced over the seam of your lips before slipping them inside. Like you were savoring the sensation unconsciously, like the cool wetness of them quenched something in you that you weren’t even aware required attention. They made your mouth glisten in the low light, the shine of it so tempting he was certain that he hadn’t looked away from it in several minutes now.

In the back of his mind, he knew he needed to get ahold of himself. There was no way you hadn’t noticed; he had to be making you uncomfortable by now. But he just…couldn’t. God, you looked good enough to eat, with your messy hair and your sun-pinked cheeks and your bright eyes and your soft, bare legs.

A droplet of sweat traveled down the side of his face, streaking down his temple, his jaw, his neck.

Your mouth looked cool, and it looked sweet.

“…Frankie?”

Frankie startled at the sound of his name on your tongue, and his gaze snapped back up to your eyes instantly, a wicked flush blazing up the back of his neck and over his skull in mortification. Shit, you had noticed him staring, this was such a major fuck-up –

“Hm? What’s that, cariño?” His voice came out weak and raspy, like his throat had gone dry, and he cleared it loudly.

“I was saying, you don’t want any of the fruit?” You looked him over with wide, innocent eyes, and for the first time, Frankie realized that he hadn’t taken a single bite.

“Uh. A-Actually, I think I might be too full at the moment,” he stammered, bringing a hand up to pat himself across the belly in excuse.

The little confused quirk of your head told him immediately that you didn’t believe him. Scooting your chair across the hardwood floor, you came to sit directly next to him and gently scolded, “Frankie, you’ve been out working in this heat all night. You need to rehydrate. Here, you have room for a few pieces. Open up, okay?”

One of those slick, dewy grape halves appeared between your thumb and forefinger then, and the next thing he knew, you were holding it out to him. Not to take with his own hand, but to eat. It was a mere hairsbreadth away from his mouth.

Unable to formulate a suitable protest, his brain suddenly feeling rather detached from his body, all Frankie could do was drop his jaw and allow you to slip the fruit inside.

The pads of your fingers touched the soft, sensitive skin of his lower lip, and that was when he was certain that not only had his brain seemingly walked away on its own, it had turned fully off. That was the only explanation he could come up with for why the moment he registered the delicate touch, he immediately seized your wrist in one of his fists, dragging your fingers fully into his mouth.

A loud, feminine gasp met his ears as he swiped his tongue between your fingertips, stealing the frozen fruit from your grasp, pressing it firmly against the roof of his mouth to squash it, and quickly swallowing it down. His tongue returned to your skin, lapping at the frost and the condensation and the delicate, sweet juices coating your fingertips, and he watched as your eyes glazed over at the sensation. Your wrist went limp in his grasp, your fingers pliant, never once attempting to withdraw, and the ball of heat that had been brewing in his gut all night suddenly reached a fever pitch as he realized that you liked this.

Cock twitching in his jeans, he drew your fingers from his mouth. Both his eyes and yours followed the fine trail of saliva that stretched from his lip to the tip of your index finger, and he heard your swallow heavily at the sight.

“Frankie,” you whispered weakly.

And then his restraint abandoned him just as his mind had, and before he could think better of it, his hands were cupping your face and dragging you bodily to meet him in a hard, messy kiss.

Francisco Morales kissed like he did everything else – with intention, with competence, and with a raw, simmering fire that lingered just below the surface just waiting to be unveiled. To be stoked. To be nurtured.

The presence of that fire had your squirming in your seat, had your neck bending back on your shoulders in submission to the intensity of his assault. His thumbs, long and thick, pressed into your jaw from either side, wrenching you open, and his tongue slipped inside, immediately seeking your own with a desperation that drew a soft, muffled moan from your throat. Your own hands flew to the sweat-damp collar of his polo, and you dug your fingers into the fabric, holding him, keeping him just as fiercely as he kept you. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, pulsed between your thighs, growing sensitive and tender there when wetness bloomed.

With a low, rasping groan, Frankie broke the kiss and began tracing his prominent nose across your cheek, along the edge of your jaw, down your bare neck.

“You taste so fucking sweet, querida. Cold and…delicious and…perfect.”

Punctuating his words with hot, open-mouthed kisses across your skin, his voice rough and raw and sounding like the confession had been dragged from his chest against his will, it was enough to have sweat breaking out on the back of your neck, behind your knees, at the base of your spine.

“Frankie,” you breathed, threading your grip into his hair, curling his dark brown locks around your fingers, scraping along his scalp. “Please – ”

His hands dropped from your jaw then, sweeping around the width of your hips and hauling you into his lap. Instinctually, your thighs spread to bracket his waist, the weight of you coming to rest on his spread-legged lap, and you couldn’t help but moan at the thick, hard press of him against the softness of your cunt.

“This okay, baby?” he murmured against your skin, nuzzling against the neckline of your shirt, broad palms dragging down over your ass to hold you down, press you to him.

You whimpered and felt your body going soft, warm, and pliant beneath his touch. “Mm hm!” Hips hitching, grinding against him of their own accord, you pulled his face back up to meet yours, smothering your own gasps and whines in his mouth.

It didn’t last long, however. After a few quick licks against your tongue, Frankie pulled away, pressing his forehead against yours and knocking his Standard Oil cap to the floor.

“Uh uh, need to hear the words, cariño. Won’t do anything you don’t want me doing.” Wrapping his fingers around your messy bun, he angled your face down so that your heavy-lidded eyes met his. “I’ll ask you again. You want me touching you? You want me to make you feel good?”

Your eyes drifted shut, your mind gone warm and hazy. God, the things this man did to you. Did he know how long you had wanted this? How hard you had fought against it? He couldn’t know. If he did, he would never ask such a question.

“Yes, please, Frankie,” you gasped, nodding against his hold, brushing the tip of your nose against his.

“Yes, please, what, bebita?” You could hear a smirk in his voice now, and the sound had you flushing down to the tips of your toes, a fresh rush of wetness soaking your panties as you squirmed against him.

Tucking your face against his sweaty neck, you whispered, “Please…please make me feel good.”

Frankie was on his feet in an instant, boosting you into his arms in a move that had your stomach dropping down through your abdomen both in shock and in arousal. He backed you into the table, your hips bumping into the wooden edge, and the snap of pain had a brief flash of clarity flying through your lust-filled brain fog.

“Frankie, my books – ”

The older man swore under his breath – “fuck, right” – before changing course, bringing you instead over to the arm of the peninsula that extended out into the room from the edge of the kitchen. Kicking one of the two barstools out of the way, he dropped you unceremoniously onto the countertop before dragging you down for another kiss.

He ate at your mouth like a man starved, sucking on your lips, dragging his teeth across your skin, licking against the roof of your mouth. It was wet, sloppy, and so hot, his desperation contagious, encouraging you to match him caress for caress. No one had ever kissed you like this, like the kissing was the main event rather than a means to an end. Frankie kissed like that was the entire point, and it had you melting against the counter. You were dripping through your shorts now, you were sure of it.

“Can taste all that fruit on your tongue. Sweetest thing I ever tasted,” he growled, keeping his voice low. “But I can think of at least one other thing that might be even sweeter.”

Jesus fucking Christ. Your boss was going to eat you out on his kitchen counter.

“Lean back, bebita.” The words were spoken against your cheeks, brushed into your skin by the suddenly tender touch of his lips, the rasp of his whiskers, the press of his chin. “Let me take care of you.”

You did as he asked, releasing your hold on his broad shoulders and sinking back onto your elbows. The granite was cool to the touch, sending goosebumps along your arms and down your spine, but the sensation was a welcome one after the oppressive heat of the day, the heat of his body on yours.

His palms snaked beneath the hem of your T-shirt, bunching it up onto your belly to reveal the waistband of your shorts. Hooking his thumbs into the elastic without preamble, he murmured, “Lift your hips a bit for me, baby.” Again, you obeyed without question, and with a few short tugs, Frankie pulled both your shorts and your slick-stained panties down your legs to drop to the hardwood floor.

You felt a fierce blush flare in your cheeks, spreading down your neck and chest with a speed that had you gasping for air. The ceiling fan over the kitchen table – you could feel its breeze from here, the cool rush of air instantly pulling a shiver from you as it hit your wet, swollen pussy. You kept yourself bare in the summer, finding it easier and less stressful whenever you wanted to wear a swimsuit, and laid out like this on display, thighs spread around Frankie’s broad body, the cold fan hitting your most vulnerable skin, you couldn’t help but feel a bit…overexposed. The reality of your situation hit you like a freight train, and you found yourself fighting the urge to snap your legs closed against the eyes of your boss.

It was as though Frankie could read your mind. Not a moment after the thought occurred to you, you felt his big hands clamp onto your thighs and pull them apart even wider.

“Don’t you dare try to hide from me. She’s so fucking beautiful,” he tutted, and you risked a glance at his face only to find him staring intently down at your cunt. “You been walking around my house with a naked pussy like this all summer, baby? Dirty girl.” His dark brown eyes had gone almost black with lust, his irises only a faint ring around his wide pupils, and in a gesture that seemed entirely unconscious, he darted the tip of his tongue out to wet his bottom lip. He looked utterly fascinated. Entranced. Hungry. The sight had your walls clenching around nothing, and you watched him watch that happen with an eagerness that had you moaning aloud.

When he spoke again, he was a man in thrall. “‘M gonna eat this pretty pussy now, querida. Gotta be quiet for me, okay? Don’t wanna wake Mila.”

You nodded, bringing one of your hands up to cover your mouth preemptively. This man was going to have you screaming, you just knew it. Flicking his gaze up to yours for just a moment, he grinned wickedly at the sight.

“That’s a good girl, baby,” he whispered, and then his face was in your cunt, and you felt your every coherent thought fly out the window.

If Frankie had thought that your mouth tasted sweet, your tongue like candy, then your pussy was fruit on the vine, straight from the vineyard, drenched in sunshine. It was hot, deep, and rich, earthy and tangy and drugging, like a late summer afternoon, like a hazy day in August. This had always been one of his favorite things to do with women, one of his favorite ways to please them, and never – not once – had it ever been like this. From the moment his tongue touched your delicate, dripping folds, he knew – there would be no going back from this. Not for him. He couldn’t experience something like this and not crave it every day for the rest of his life.

He started with soft, light strokes with tip of his tongue, tracing just the very edges of your lips from down near your entrance all the way to the top of your mound. Then again, slowly pressing deeper but never with any more than the faintest pressure. Even so, you responded instantly, a panting, high-pitched whine sounding behind the press of your palm over your mouth. Your hips bucked against his mouth, trying to increase the pressure, to draw him further into you, but he had one of his arms bracketing the span of your hips before you could make much progress.

Driving you firmly into the countertop, he held your knees open with the breadth of his shoulders and boldly dragged the flat of his tongue through your folds. “Keep quiet, now, bebita. I’m gonna take care of you.”

With that, Frankie felt himself begin to disappear, to melt into you from his position between your legs. Your soft thighs bracketing his shoulders, your heels digging into his back, your pussy, so soft, so hot, so sweet as you dissolved beneath his tongue. You were drooling for him, your clenching, grasping hole fluttering against his tongue every time he passed over it, your clit swollen and throbbing under the suction of his lips. You had collapsed back against the countertop now, one hand still pressed firmly over your mouth, the other burying itself in his hair, anchoring him to your body with a strength he found both surprising and wildly attractive. And with every lick, every suck, every vibration of a moan that spilled from his mouth into your flesh, he could feel you drawing higher, tighter, deeper.

He knew what you needed. He knew what would get you there.

Tucking his free hand beneath his chin, Frankie slipped one, then two thick fingers into the tight, velvety clutch of your cunt.

You shot up off the counter, your torso curling around his head, your hand in his hair fisting the strands roughly in your overwhelm. Sharp bolts of pain erupted across his scalp, but it was a welcome sensation, somehow grounding in its intensity. He smirked against your folds, sealing his lips around your puffy clit and rolling the little nub around with his tongue. At the same time, he pressed gently, insistently against the front wall of your cunt, applying steady friction and pressure with both fingertips.

A faint whimper slipped from you at that, muffled by your palm but not silent, and Frankie felt himself preen. God, he loved this. It wouldn’t be long now.

“You gonna come for me? Gonna let me feel her gush around my fingers? On my tongue? Hm?”

The hand on your mouth fell away, joining the one in his hair as you began to tremble beneath him. “Frankie,” you whined. “‘M gonna – you’re gonna make me – ”

“I know, baby, I know.” He kept his fingers right where they were, shallow thrusts, firm pressure right where you needed it most. “Just let it happen. I’ve got you.” Ducking his head back down to your clit, he resumed the combination of gentle suction and firm, long strokes that had driven you wild.

And just like clockwork, your thighs began to shake against his shoulders. Your abdomen clenched beneath his forearm. Your slick, soft walls clamped down around his fingers. A weak, breathless sound – “ah” – burst from your throat, and then you were coming. A rush of your wetness dripped down his fingers, coating his hand, pooling in the cup of his palm as you pulsed and fluttered around him, and Frankie could feel your poor, abused little clit twitching against his tongue. He worked you through it, slowing down a bit but not stopping, prolonging the torment just a bit longer. Only when your two hands buried in his hair started to shove against him, pushing him away, did he relent, and even then, it took him an extra few seconds to be willing to slip his fingers from your body.

Looking up into your face, Frankie felt a wash of joy and contentment pass over him. You were positively glowing – your skin flushed and ever-so-slightly sweaty, your hair wild and mussed, your T-shirt bunched up above your belly button, so much of your perfect softness on display. And you were grinning like a fool, your eyes showing your fatigue but your smile brighter than he had ever seen. You looked at him with a gentleness, an affection that had his heart clenching in his chest, and he was certain that his expression was much the same.

It had been years since he had felt this way about anyone, and even then, he wasn’t certain it could compare.

When you sat up and slipped from the counter, it was a slow and lazy affair, assisted by his firm grip and his steady arms to help keep you upright. The moment your feet hit the floor, you reached for his belt with a question in your eyes, to which Frankie responded, “Not tonight, querida. Tonight was about you.” You seemed somewhat disappointed by that response, but you didn’t push it. Instead, you simply pulled his head down for a kiss, which he gladly obliged. You sighed into his mouth at the taste of yourself on his tongue, and it took every ounce of strength he had in him not to take back what he had just said, to drag your hands back down to his belt buckle and allow you to proceed as you wished.

But no.

It was late. You needed to get home and get to sleep, and he needed to wash off the heat of the day before passing out in his own bed. There would be a little girl busting down his door at 7:00 AM tomorrow whether he was ready for her or not, and you would be back in this very kitchen by 8:00 eager to share a cup of coffee with too-sweet creamer before he left for work.

So, like the gentleman that he wasn’t certain that he was, Frankie helped you slip back into your little shorts, pack your overflowing bookbag, and carry your things out to your car.

You turned to him one last time before you slipped into the driver’s seat, a soft if uncertain smile playing at the corners of your lips. “Mr. Morales – Frankie, I…” You drew your lower lip between your teeth. “Thank you. For tonight.”

His heart melted at your words, the quiet, hesitating way you said them. It was a vulnerability he wasn’t accustomed to from you, you who always seemed to have it all together, you who matched his advances beat for beat, never wavering. “Don’t need to thank me, baby. I wanted to. You take such good care of me, of Mila. You deserved it.” Releasing a deep, trembling breath, he added, “And…I’d like to do it again sometime. If you’ll let me.”

“That depends,” you replied.

“Yeah? On what?”

Your soft, sweet smile morphed into something sharper then, something with more intent. “On if you’ll let me return the favor. It’s like you said…I want to.”

Frankie couldn’t have reigned in the grin that split his face then if he tried. Dropping a kiss to your forehead, he said, “‘Course, cariño. I’m not done with your sweetness just yet.”

[floralcyanide]

⊱ 𝑆𝑡𝑎𝑦 𝐺𝑜𝑙𝑑 ― 𝐶𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑜𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑢𝑠 𝑆𝑛𝑜𝑤 ⊰

[ ᴀ ʜᴜɴɢᴇʀ ɢᴀᴍᴇs ᴀʟᴛᴇʀɴᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴜɴɪᴠᴇʀsᴇ ғᴀɴғɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ]

1960s ᴜs ᴘʀᴇsɪᴅᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ᴄᴀɴᴅɪᴅᴀᴛᴇ!ᴄᴏʀɪᴏʟᴀɴᴜs sɴᴏᴡ x ғᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

𝑃𝑟𝑜𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑢𝑒.

౨ৎ 18+ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀs ᴏɴʟʏ !

⊹ summary: You are studying the one and only US President John F. Kennedy for your dual-title doctorate at Harvard University in 1963. Upon growing closer to the president, you happen to meet one of his Harvard friends, Coriolanus Snow, who is campaigning for the 1964 Election. You're both brought closer as time passes, and your life changes forever. As the 1964 Election continues and political tensions escalate, you come together. With the help of you, the Kennedys, and his charming wit and cleverness, Coriolanus Snow ends up with all he's ever wanted. However, the ever-growing Women's Revolution puts everything and everyone at risk. What Coriolanus doesn't know is that politics is all a game-

But there are worse games to play.

⊹ pairing: young!coriolanus snow / fem!reader ⊹ warnings: none. ⊹ word count: 269 (not including quote.) ⊹ author’s note: eeeee here's the prologue! I'm so excited to share this idea with you all. it was just a random fic idea I had and I didn't think it would snowball in my imagination the way it did, yet here we are lol. please be sure to check out the soundtrack and if you want to be tagged with every chapter, please fill out the form. I have both the soundtrack and taglist form below for you to click. much love!! ♡

౨ৎ divider credit: @cafekitsune

౨ৎ sᴇʀɪᴇs ᴛᴀɢʟɪsᴛ | sᴇʀɪᴇs sᴏᴜɴᴅᴛʀᴀᴄᴋ | sᴇʀɪᴇs ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

౨ৎ this fic has been cross posted to ao3.

ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ʀᴇᴘʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴇ, ᴏʀ ᴄʟᴀɪᴍ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀs ᴏɴ ᴛᴜᴍʙʟʀ, ᴀᴏ3, ᴡᴀᴛᴛᴘᴀᴅ, ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴡᴇʙsɪᴛᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴘᴇʀᴍɪssɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ɪɴ ᴀɪ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀᴛᴏʀs ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀʀᴛɪғɪᴄɪᴀʟ ɪɴᴛᴇʟʟɪɢᴇɴᴄᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴀʏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ᴛᴏ sᴇʟʟ ғᴏʀ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

❝And I remember when I met him, it was so clear that he was the only one for me. We both knew it, right away. And as the years went on, things got more difficult – we were faced with more challenges. I begged him to stay. Try to remember what we had at the beginning. He was charismatic, magnetic, electric, and everybody knew it. When he walked in, every woman's head turned, everyone stood up to talk to him. He was like this hybrid, this mix of a man who couldn't contain himself. I always got the sense that he became torn between being a good person and missing out on all of the opportunities that life could offer a man as magnificent as him. And in that way, I understood him, and I loved him. I loved him, I loved him, I loved him. And I still love him. I love him.❞ — Lana Del Rey, Spoken Monologue, National Anthem

“Go on, sweetheart,” Coriolanus mumbles, his lips tickling the shell of your ear, “Wave to the people. They love it, they love you.”

You stare at Coriolanus for a moment in absolute awe as he basks in the glow of attention from the crowd. At this moment, he’s electric and powerful. You couldn’t be more proud of him for it. The two of you are in a brightly colored motorcade, slowly cruising through downtown Boston in celebration. Your husband effortlessly smiles in glory, his eyes twinkling in unbridled emotion- a rare sight to see from him. Coriolanus has his moments, but not like this. His blue eyes are usually cold, distant, and emotionless unless looking directly at you. Despite the lack of obvious light, you can still see it. It’s one thing Coriolanus admires about you; that you can see past his demeanor. The last time you remember him looking so full of pride, though, was the day you married one another.

It’s hard to wrap your head around the fact that he succeeded at this- and you succeeded at this, too. Perhaps even harder to grasp that millions of people around the world now know your name and care about what you have to say. As Coriolanus said himself, the people love you. Sure, having the people on your side just as they are his matters to you. But at the end of the day, the only thing that matters for certain is if he truly loves you like he loves power. Sometimes you aren’t so sure. Sometimes, he looks at you, and you can’t see a thing.

౨ৎ taglist:

@nilletellsstories @noyatv @moonlightstuffs @slytherinholland @dominqueeekk @allcheesemelts @coconut-dreamz @rosewine-5 @hsfallingsky @imasimptoowth @tatumrileyslover @murdocksdaughter @fauxraven @throughgoeshxmilton @thesullengrrrl @fanfictionismyromanempire @americanprometheuss @prettycove

[l4long-winded]

Would you ever write about Carmy and cum play? I just feel like he would be sooooo into it

no, no, no, this has been haunting me for so, so long! like, he would be more than into it. you have no idea the monster you let out in me while i was writing this!!! i hope you like it, love~

o.s. it's more like a fascination

summary: getting a glimpse into one of carmen's obsessive infatuations passionate fascinations (carmen berzatto x afab!reader)

reflection: this one... this one had me blushing. it kind of gave me brain rot. would be completing a task, and boom, thinking about carmy and his stupid oral fixation. this has to be one of my raunchiest fics yet. thank you, anon, for inspiring such an intense writing experience for me. i fear i will never be the same again. as always, feedback is appreciated! please enjoy!

warnings: no condoms (wrap it, tap it, you get it), cumplay (it's everywhere), marking, pussydrunk!carmen (he's obsessed, basically), fingering, cunnilingus, implied blowjob, somewhat dom!carmen, begging, dirty talk, cursing, p in v sex, longwinded descriptions, body worship, carmen's pov, spit, filth, cum eating (carmy is doing the most), multiple orgasms, lots of licking, no use of pronouns, (please let me know if there are other warnings i need to add)

word count: 1,989

( this work has been cross-posted to ao3 )

Carmen hates condoms. It’s not in the typical, cliche type of hatred that most men have. If you’re uncomfortable, he won’t insist. However, you’re more likely to encourage it. He prefers to be as closely bonded to you as possible, no rubber in his way, able to feel the squelch of every glide and the crushing pressure of your walls wrapped around his pulsing cock. The fever you stew him in. A condom doesn’t do that for him. Not in the same way. You’re far more sensitive without it, clenching your eyes shut, heaving pleasured breaths up against his shoulder you previously gnawed into for composure. That, or the depletion of his, he could never tell with how you flip between being all passive and docile to motivating his rough manhandling, ultimately placing you in charge and in control while he follows instinctual need.

He cherishes the moments where he pulls out and his cum spurts from his tip over your lower stomach, the milky and pearly substance just under your navel, seeping towards your pelvis. It’s lewd. A waterfall waiting to happen. His eyes blink hard as if they’re taking a mental snapshot. You’re delectable like this, chest rising and falling as your open legs tremble. Sometimes, there’s so much of his load to bear that it slides down your inner thighs, liquid opal skimming the cute button he’s teased with his digits and tongue earlier (as if it couldn’t get any fucking prettier), and into whomever’s bedsheets you’re both using for the time being. You look debauched, dazed, and proud to be marked as his.

Your tits make for just-a-great-a canvas, he’s found. If he props himself above your abdomen, one knee at the side of you, his foot drawing up at the other until his leg is at a right angle, his tip always lines itself at the inception of the valley between your breasts. He cautiously focuses his aim to paint your cleavage while resisting the urge to stripe your neck and chin, earnestly observing slack-jawed as some dribbles over your nipples. Would you judge him if he sucked his cum off while tonguing around your areola as a dual effort of cleaning his mess and pebbling your nipple to frenetic attention? The uncontrollable sounds of pleasure petting his eardrums don’t signify negative judgment, but Carmen wouldn’t be Carmen without believing in his self-doubt. And you, you fucking angel, you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t chase and stomp that out until its light dimmed. Sometimes that comes through words of reassurance and patience and other times it’s as simple as your howl of his name or your digits tugging his unkempt hair further into its tumultuous state.

It’s not uncommon for Carmen to see his cum pooling in your mouth, either. He likes the way it rests on your tongue when you stick it out to show him, the challenge he issues being in maintaining a drop doesn’t fall in your performance. But, although his habits are organized and pristine and he has concerning tendencies relating to an undiagnosed compulsive disorder, he particularly enjoys watching when it’s too much for you, when it’s sliding down your usually swollen (the result of sucking him off) lips and rounding down your chin. That’s more rare since you seldom let anything escape, the tip of your tongue catching him and drinking him back in.

“Get it all? Let me help you,” he says gruffly, applying the pad of his thumb to your face to scoop the rebelling stream into your mouth where it came from. The plus is the feeling of your approving humming vibrating on his flesh and your spongy taste buds licking along the indents of his thumb after.

His real favorite spot to finish is inside of you. Now, now, it’s risky for obvious reasons, but you’ve discussed birth control and there are rounds where you’re fucking begging him to and he’s not going to deny you, being the generous lover that he is who selfishly wants to pipe your cunt until it’s leaking. No, he’s unresisting to the way your legs wind around him and pull him in deeper, sloppily humping up into you and rutting and grinding until he’s gasping and flooding and drowning you both in stickiness. He rocks until the end, stilling above you as he’s throbbing and trying to regain a grip on himself. What have you done to him?

That’s how Carmen has you at the moment. Your legs unwrap from his waist and flop into the bed, and eventually, he retracts inch by inch, his ridges catching. He likes to extend his time inside of you, likes to live in the present instead of his head when you’re folded up like this. It’s a shame you’ve made him so sensitive. He wants to fuck his cum right back into you, but he requires a recovery period male anatomy failed him in. Your eyes flutter open in sensation as he finally slips out, closing after as you take the time to calm yourself and your body down from the high he’s propelled you into. He notices the way your face scrunches in discomfort, legs presumably sore from being corralled around his hips for too long. Carmen’s hands massage your thighs, promoting the feeling back within them by kneading the supple flesh there and lifting them into peaking mountains, heels on the mattress. It gives him the best view of his bidding, of the extra cream beading out of you, down to the crevice of your cheeks.

“Carmen,” your fucked out voice breaks him of the hypnosis he fell into. This can’t be all that pleasant for you, the seed of him drooling out of you while he holds up your thighs you’re not holding up on your own for a good reason. He’s aware of what you’re thinking. He’s aware of how you’re wondering how the hell he has more to give when you’ve got close to nothing left.

“I know, I know, I know,” his lips graze over your kneecap, toned stomach flexing while he shifts himself onto it. The next time you look into Carmen’s eyes, your thighs are framing either side of his head. His arms curl around them, and they end up over his shoulders, fingers drumming along your skin unprompted. It’s because he likes it when you lose yourself and wind up hugging his ears with your thighs. The downside is listening to the tune of those moans swathed up, but the upside is the heightened sense of touch it accords him. The noises you release vibrate all over your body, reverberating like the walls of a temple undergoing an earthquake while a beautiful harp dazzles it in devastating harmonic trills of its column strings. Or… in other words.

Your clit ripples with it on his tongue. What good is hearing you moan when he can feel it in his mouth through your pussy? What the fuck were those toothbrushes that played the music called? Whatever, it’s similar to that and it’s a pleasurable perk of living the human experience with you, if he had to name one off the top of his head. A nice dinner with you with some trashy television is another, but he’ll compile a list later. He’s busy staring at your sodden hole, intending to create more of a capacious mess than he already has. He means both of that gift between your legs and of you entirely.

Carmen laps beneath your twitching hole, capturing the glissading cum before it can fall further into the crevice where your ass begins. He tongues that sensitive area to make sure he gets it all, gliding the flat of the organ upwards and gulping its catch into his mouth. You’re trembling, and there you go, moaning out into the air. Carmen repeats the action until you’re no longer leaking, until the only cum left on you is still inside. He sinks his middle finger knuckle deep into you, checking to make sure of that fact, as if his cock didn’t guarantee it when he drove in deep to saturate and caulk you up, and yes, you’re tender and fucking heated and dewy around his finger as you grasp him tight and moan in a mix of surprise and overwhelming pleasure. He pumps and coils his middle finger, fucking that cum back up into you where it belongs, doing his best to locate that spongey spot you love so much to lubricate it with him, further claiming you from the inside out, all while he simultaneously peppers kisses around your outer lips.

“More, Carmy, more, please,” you say, and fuck, it’s like you know you’re going to get anything and everything from him in the entire world if he’s able. He ends the loneliness of his middle finger by adding in a second, his index joining into the fray. His middle finger is longer, but clumsier, doesn’t create as good a rhythm as his index does. It’s a true sentiment, further proven by how you arch suddenly and your thighs attach to his ears like magnets. Yeah, he found the spot, almost the very second his index finger navigated into your warmth. It’s a homing beacon.

He leans his head up. He didn’t swallow the cum he licked off you yet. He’s let the heat of his mouth warm it up, saliva pool in his cheeks with it, and abruptly, his lips part, spitting the combination over your clit in a glob that causes your hips to raise off the mattress, pelvic bone dangerously close to breaking his nose. The one hand on your thigh brings you back to earth for him, his fingers continuing the rubbing motion that’s got you whimpering sounds he selfishly wants louder. It’s not as pearly as it once was dribbling out of your slit, but it’s still a gratifying sight for him, and the lamp at bedside catches the remnants of the viscous substance splitting apart from his saliva. It’s like oil and water. Cum and spit. All lovingly blanketing your clit and seeping down where his fingers are taking care of you. And fuck, he can’t resist it, he knows what the fuck it’s gonna make him look like, but if you don’t judge him for splashing your tits and stomach with his seed, or kissing you deeply on the mouth to share it when you’ve just given him the crassest head, then he’s not going to hesitate any longer.

Carmen drops his mouth, licking it all back up. He prioritizes stimulating your clit with his tongue, but he’s not going to lie, he’s drinking it all back in. His cum, his spit, your wet arousal slick over his fingers and knuckles. He’s got you where he needs you, withdrawing yet another orgasm from your body that rocks you. He allows the gentle humping of your hips as you ride out that high, never slowing his fingers, bathing your clit with his lips and tongue for as long as you need it, and for as long as it tastes good. So… you have to brush a hand over the side of his face because to him, it never stops tasting good.

“Fuck, sorry. Too much?” He breathes. He kisses your inner thighs while you nod, dazed out and breathing heavily. Your chest falls and rises, breasts jostling in the action. Carmen continues to kiss your skin, slipping his fingers out slowly. You shiver, and your legs fall once more now that they’re not in his stronghold.

This is the other side. You’re spent. You can barely move. All you can do right now at this moment is watch Carmen sit back on his knees above you, observe as he drags his tongue over his digits, licking them unsullied. Because, sure, he’s got a huge thing for cumplay, but he’s also addicted to how yours tastes.

[venomous-qwille]

Ghost in the Machine

This is the master post for Ghost in the Machine links, character refs and FAQs.

I will try my best to keep this post as up to date as possible.

What is Ghost in The Machine?

GITM is a DCA AU and a fic set in the retrofuture (2055ish) long after Fazco has shut down. An eccentric collector has been acquiring versions of the Daycare Attendant animatronic from closed locations around the world. The story involves a reader character who has been brought into repair the original post-Ruin DCA from the games, and hijinks ensue. There are also ghosts.

Where can I read the fic?

GITM is currently being posted on Ao3, and is updated every three weeks on Saturdays. The fic is being beta'd by the tremendously talented @bubbiethesaur. You can read GITM here!

There is also a podfic, which you can find here:

Updates to the podfic will be sporadic, so please be patient &lt;3

Where can I see the art?

On this blog I use the #gitm au and #ghost in the machine au tags for GITM related content. If you are looking for art of a specific character, they also have their own tags: #misuta moon #nova #soleil #clip.exe #sunspot mk1 #fool eclipse #ruin eclipse #sombra #sunflower #mr sandman

FAQ~

Why haven't you answered my GITM ask?

One of three reasons: 1) your ask was too spoilery* 2) I'm waiting to answer it with art 3) ADHD

*spoilery includes but is not limited to: any questions about dual-AI or XYZ character's sun/moon variant; questions about character backstories and lore; questions about characters that have not featured in the fic yet (e.g Nova, Sanii, Harvest, Sunflower, Sandman etc); asks speculating about potential future scenarios (don't get me wrong, I love these asks, but I can't answer them!)

Where are all the Moons?

Read and find out. Seriously. There are at least 5 Moons who are core to the plot but I'm not going to talk about them, no matter how nicely you ask!

Does XYZ character have a Sun/Moon counterpart?

Some of them do, some of them don't. The dual-AI stuff is majorly plot related. If I'm not talking about someone's Sun/Moon counterpart, rest assured you will find out eventually. I won't be spoiling any of it on tumblr though :)

Can I create fanart of GITM?

Yes yes yes please do and please tag me when you post it so I can see it/reblog! If you are unsure if something is ok, please ask.

Can I create fanfic of GITM?

Super flattered about this. I have a longform answer to this question which you can read here. But tl;dr yes you can, please tag/credit me, do not spoil/try to write the lore, and please do not write GITM au (e.g mafia, mer, medieval). I have my own plans for this stuff and I would prefer to release the designs/stories in my own time. If you are unsure if something is ok, please ask.

Can I create NSFW GITM content?

Until recently I had blanket perms that allowed NSFW GITM content. I'm updating this to let you guys know I'm no longer comfortable with people making this content. Back when the community was small, I felt differently, but as time has passed a lot has changed and I've found myself becoming increasingly anxious about it. If this boundary changes again in the future, I will update this FAQ.

Do you have character refs I can use?

There is a collection of art 'refs' for each character on the Misutamojis discord. Latest link here.

There are no proper call-out sheets/refs currently, but I have a huge body of art for the characters on this blog which should give you more than enough info for most of them. I will get around to creating proper refs eventually, in which case I will link them here.

Where can I find the playlist?

I update the spotify playlist fairly regularly, if you have any music recs you can send them over in an ask! You can listen to the playlist here!

I've heard there are secret GITM drabbles, where can I find them?

I used to post frequent drabbles from future chapters in the DCA Palooza discord, I have recently deleted the majority of them as people were going back and binging them which hadn't been the intended reading experience. Anywho, this question probably refers more to the spicy drabbles (which people have very kindly made a lot of delicious art for). These are still around! You just need to access the spicy channel and do some digging.

Is there a GITM discord?

Nope! There is a server for GITM emotes and a busy thread in the DCA Palooza, but currently I don't have any plans to make a GITM-centric discord community. If that does happen in the future it's likely I will simply convert the emotes server (Misutamojis).

It finally happened, I converted Misutamojis. You can join the GITM discord here.

Can I smooch the robots?

Yes.

All of them?

All of them.