#surfing the crimson wave

[hellishjoel]

First of all? Period drama? Amazing. Excellent. Beautiful work.

Kylee I fucking need this man in and around my mouth. Sloppy toppy in his truck???? Do you know what you're doing to me?!?!? 🥵🥵🥵🥵

Also I have a thot that I'm gonna dm you

Thank you, thank you, Frankie compliments are of the highest caliber, I appreciate you greatly xx

reading this made me realize something; I've written: reader getting eaten out by Joel Miller on the tailgate reader riding Joel Miller in the truck (IN THE RAIN) and now, reader giving Frankie Morales head in the truck

I must be stopped, I have a thing for rough, chiseled men and their trucks

[princessmo]

asked one of my coworkers to make a pizza for me (i'm a driver so i can get free shit but i've never touched the assembly line before) and she said she would but then she didn't and now i have to be SAD

[littlelioncub43]

Cramps bad. Sleep good.

[starkidmunson]

glitter & crimson

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

Time passes in ways Eddie doesn’t fully understand, in the aftermath of Steve’s injury.

A few days are spent lounging around the hotel room with Steve drifting in and out of sleep, for the most part. Then they graduate to small day trips. Squeeze in some touristy shit; museums and landmarks not too far from the hotel, in case Steve gets a migraine or starts feeling nauseous. 

Day 6 features a follow-up at the hospital, where Steve is told the bandage is no longer necessary to cover the worst of the injury, surgery won’t be necessary, and he’s clear to fly home or wherever else he wants to go. Which means Eddie is also free to leave LA, but he’s already stuck it out this long, so he decides to continue to follow Steve’s lead and spend another day.

He gets a call from Steve before he leaves his hotel room on Day 7, informing him that Max is leading a trip to the beach before they leave California again. Steve insists it’s the least he can do since Lucas flew out to spend the last few days with her, so she could stick around until Steve was clear to travel again.

And that’s how Eddie finds himself wearing lavender board shorts from the surf shop that looked the least like a tourist trap, dousing himself with an entire bottle of the highest SPF he can find before stepping out of the store. His black ripped jeans and the Judas Priest shirt he’d worn, not anticipating a trip to the beach, are folded into the bottom of a large tote Robin is carrying with ease, as she picks out towels for everyone to lounge on. She catches sight of him and raises an eyebrow, but he holds his hand up to stop any commentary.

“Black is just going to make me burn even more than I’m already going to burn, and the blue pair I liked were the wrong size, so lavender it is.” He defends, but she just shrugs at him, keeps smiling and walks over to pay for the towels and her bathing suit.

Behind Eddie, Lucas clears his throat. He spins to find Steve, blushing and glaring at Lucas, who’s grinning. 

“What? Don’t tell me I need to defend the trunks to you guys, too. I thought you’d be on my side.” He whines.

“Oh, I don’t think Steve has any issue with your shorts. Or lack of a top.” Lucas teases, then laughs as Steve swings a soft punch into his shoulder.

“I just…” Steve trails off, turning his attention back to Eddie and Eddie can see the heat rise from Steve’s cheeks up to the tips of his ears, coloring him a soft shade of pink. “I didn’t realize how many tattoos you actually have, I guess.” He eventually settles on, before immediately occupying himself with finding sunscreen.

Eddie lets it slide, and they all pay for what they need, before crossing the street and trekking toward the water. Max is the first to toss her shorts and sandals into a pile, running toward the ocean and diving into the first wave she encounters. Lucas is just a step behind her, and he’s quick to catch her waist and throw the two of them back into the water just as she’s resurfacing.

Robin shoves a rented umbrella into the sand and Eddie helps expand it, as Steve lays out his towel so his face is covered by the umbrella’s shade, but his torso down is exposed to the sun. Eddie, on the other hand, huddles up so most of his body is concealed by the umbrella.

“Oh shit, dude, I didn’t even think to ask. Are you worried about getting seen out here or something?” Steve asks, and Eddie frowns. It takes a moment before he realizes it probably seems like he’s hiding from any potential paparazzi.

“I get bothered so little by media that I hadn’t even thought about that if I’m being honest.” Eddie shakes his head but smiles at how thoughtful Steve is. “I’m just a little too pasty to trust the sun on a cloudy day, so direct exposure like this always makes me nervous. But I like laying in the sand and I’m happy you wanted me to tag along. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” he assures Steve, who smiles at him until Robin mocks a gagging noise and makes them both blush and look away from one another.

The salt air and crescendo of waves and bellowing laughter kick up a surprising amount of inspiration for Eddie, and he fishes his phone out of Robin’s bag, typing away while she and Steve sunbathe. 

He’s so caught up in the piece he’s working out that he doesn’t realize anyone has spoken to him until Steve’s pressing a hand to his knee, looking a little concerned. 

“What? Sorry, I got an idea and I had to get it out before I forgot about it.” He mumbles, typing out his final thoughts before giving Steve his full attention.

“We’re going to return the umbrella and grab food before heading back to the hotel to pack up, if you’re hungry?” Steve asks, smiling at Eddie. He looks back at his phone to realize their hour with the rented umbrella is nearly up, so he nods and helps clean up the space they’d taken over, before they find a beachfront restaurant that doesn’t mind that none of the guys are wearing shirts, or that Max’s hair is still dripping wet, leaving a trail behind her as they move to their seats.

Once they’ve eaten, they go back to the hotel. Eddie asks if he can shower to get the sand out of his hair before he changes back into the clothes he’d had on pre-trip to the beach. When he re-enters the room, almost everything is packed up and Robin is on the balcony, talking on the phone.

“Nancy called,” Steve explains from the sofa, as Eddie flops beside him, towel-drying his hair gently. He hadn’t bothered to put his shirt on yet, not wanting his hair to make it all wet while it air dries. “Did they hurt?”

“Hm?” Eddie’s confused instantly, looking at Steve before realizing he’s eyeing the tattoos across his chest. “Some of ‘em more than others, yeah. But it’s a good kind of hurt.”  Eddie explains, and Steve frowns, but that’s okay because Eddie knows not everyone gets what he means whenever he explains the tattooing experience like that. “It’s… kinda like if you have itchy sunburn and you accidentally scratch it? It feels good to have scratched it, but it also hurts.” When Steve still looks confused, it’s Eddie’s turn to frown. He looks over Steve’s exposed arms and takes in the soft golden color they’ve turned and his eyes narrow. “Do not tell me you’re one of those genetic anomalies that doesn’t sunburn and always has a perfect tan, Stevie.”

Now Steve is grinning, throwing a shrug in Eddie’s direction. “Blame it on the 8 years of swim club during the summer off-season.” Steve laughs as an explanation, and Eddie instantly wants to know more about everything Steve has ever done in his life, but doesn’t know where to draw the line at how much is too much to ask to know, so he ultimately doesn’t ask for any further information. Which is fine, because Steve is leaning closer and taking hold of his left forearm, twisting it and tracing a finger along a snake that wraps around his skin. “Do they have meanings?”

“Some of them, yeah. Some of them I just got because I liked how they look.” Eddie admits, watching Steve’s fingers trace along the delicate lines of the snake. “That one’s got its mouth open like it’s hissing and about to bite.” Eddie considers what comes next, and decides to just lay it all out on the table. Steve had been open and honest with him, Eddie could return the favor. “Snakes are supposed to be a symbol of inner strength and perseverance, and they look sick. I got it after my first stint in rehab.”

Steve doesn’t falter, doesn’t even blink, and if Eddie didn’t know better, he would think Steve had already known about his trips to rehab before he’d said anything. Instead, he moves on to trace a blackout band around Eddie’s bicep. “Do any of them have stories you want to share? You don’t have to if it’s too personal.”

He’s stunned to silence for a moment, something that doesn’t often happen to Eddie. But he’s so used to everyone pressing to hear more about rehab and addiction and recovery that his brain physically needs a moment to catch up to Steve. “Oh. Uh. I mean, the one you’re touching doesn’t have a meaning or story, I just liked how it looks.” Eddie thinks for a moment, then, before he holds out the inside of his right forearm. “This one is a puppet master. Master of Puppets is my favorite Metallica song, and when I learned to play it is when I realized that music could actually be a career path for me.” They run through a few other tattoos; the Wyvern, the spider, the “you bow to no one” in elvish down his spine. While still working up the courage to tell Steve more, he switches his approach. “Do you have any tattoos? Or have you ever wanted any?”

“I’ve never thought about it in a serious way, because I’m not sure I’d like having something on me permanently like that.” Steve shrugs, flipping his arm over to point at his right wrist. “The few times I’ve thought about it, it’s been like. A robin, here. The Roman numerals for 94 somewhere. That kind of stuff.”

Eddie smiles softly, nods. “It’s adorable that you’d want one for Robin.” He teases and lets the moment breathe for a moment before he circles back to the tattoo of the snake. “I’m not ashamed of my story, or my history, but we hadn’t really talked about, you know. That aspect of things, yet. But, I mean. I made terrible choices when I was younger, and I got in over my head with drugs harder than I realized. And it’s happened more than once. And I’m not naive enough to think I’m magically cured because drugs haven’t raised an issue for me over the last few years. But I’ve been mostly sober for almost 4 years.”

“Mostly?” Steve asks, concern clear in how softly he speaks, and Eddie can’t help but grin and shrug a little.

“Still some weed sometimes. Still drink beer sometimes. Both in moderation, not anything out of control. It, uh, probably sounds weird but those weren’t substances I had issues with, so I don’t… I don’t really think about drinking or smoking as cheating, but I know some programs would call it that way.” He shrugs, and Steve nods, processing the information.

“Well, thanks for sharing that with me. I know it’s probably not easy to talk about, but. I learned a few new things about you today.” He offers with a little smile, and Eddie nods back. They slip back into silence, until Robin slips back into the room, looking between the two of them expectantly.

“Did you ask him?” She asks, and when Eddie turns his attention to Steve, he flushes.

“No, I uh…” He trails off, picking at a fingernail before looking up at Eddie, then back down at his hands. “We’re flying back to Chicago tomorrow, and we were wondering if you had your plans set for heading back to Nashville?”

“Oh, yeah. When you guys initially said you’d be leaving tomorrow, I booked a flight home for tomorrow afternoon.” He says and watches Steve’s lack of reaction. Wonders if he should have asked about joining them in Chicago until Steve gives an awkward smile. 

“Right, that makes sense.” He nods. “Well, we can all head to the airport together, at least?”

“Yeah, sure.” Eddie agrees, turning to look at Robin in the hopes of finding an explanation, but she turns away to take her turn in the shower, leaving Steve and Eddie together on the sofa.

~~~

Gareth picks Eddie up from the airport once he’s touched down in Nashville, and they head back to his house. Eddie throws himself into the comfort of his sofa, huddling up to a pillow with the intention of taking a nap, but his phone buzzes in his pocket. When he fishes it out, he smiles.

Stevie: Dustin has taken over the apartment, but we’re home. Hope you got home safe, too.

“Why are you smiling?” Gareth asks as Eddie is typing out his response.

“I’m not smiling,” Eddie responds instantly, schooling his expression and shoving his phone back in his pocket.

“Oh, so Steve texted you,” Gareth says, matter-of-factly, before scrolling on his own phone. “Want to order food? I’m hungry and you don’t have anything edible.”

“Why do you assume Steve texted me?” Eddie asks, frowning and sitting up straighter.

Gareth raises his eyebrow and glances over his phone at Eddie before he sighs. “Because you were making that face you’ve been making for the last month every time you text him, and you just got home from a week with him, so obviously he’s texting you again. Your turn to answer; food?”

Eddie stares at Gareth for a moment, watches as he turns his phone around to face Eddie, showing off the Uber Eats screen, before he scoffs and takes the phone to place his order. Before he hands it back to Gareth, though, he holds it just out of his reach. “What face am I making?”

“C’mon, Eddie, don’t play dumb.” Gareth laughs, but Eddie frowns deeper. Gareth frowns back, then. “You really haven’t put it together?”

“Put what together?” Eddie asks, finally handing Gareth his phone back. Gareth takes it, but doesn’t look away from Eddie until he answers.

“Dude, you’re in love with him.” He says, like it’s obvious, before going about placing his own order.

Eddie thinks for a moment. He knows he has feelings for Steve; finds him attractive and interesting and definitely wants to see if something is there. But to know that his friends can see through him puts him on edge, makes him defensive. “I’m not in love with him, we’re just friends.”

“Eddie,” Gareth laughs before he sees the serious look on Eddie’s face and he sighs. “Look, man. I’m not trying to start a fight or make you spiral or anything. I’m just saying. You leaned into a TikTok trend for him, voluntarily learned about the sport he plays, helped nurse him back to health after he got hurt and spent an extra week in LA to be with him longer. And now you’re texting him, again, like you did after we left Chicago. There’s something there, whether you want to admit it or not. Maybe it’s not love yet, but that’s where it’s heading.”

Silence settles over them, just the sound of Gareth’s short nails tapping against the screen of his phone, for a long moment. Eddie processes what he’s said, thinks it over, before flipping back to the text messages from Steve. He reads the words over and over before he decides on an answer.

Eddie: Glad you’re home safe. Miss you already.

He doesn’t have to wait long for a response, as Steve answers no more than two minutes later.

Steve: I miss you already, too, Eds.

Eddie considers responding but decides to tuck the phone back into his pocket instead. He drums his fingers against his knee, settling into a melody before he nudges Gareth’s leg with his foot. 

“Wanna help me set up the studio downstairs while we wait for the food?”

Gareth meets his look, raising an eyebrow. “Inspiration strikes over Steve Harrington?”

“I’ve got, like, four different ideas I started fleshing out in LA without instruments,” Eddie answers instead and ignores the smug look on Gareth’s face as they stand and make their way to the basement Eddie converted into a recording studio to get it ready while their food is delivered.

[suppermariobroth]

The Red Big Paint Star segment of Paper Mario: Color Splash contains a quest to find the three Chosen Toads to open the gate to the Crimson Tower. The blue Chosen Toad is revealed to have special powers in a cutscene where he surfs on a giant wave after being shipwrecked.

While the cutscene of him surfing is 8 seconds long, it plays a unique song called “Paper Pipeline”, which loops only after 34 seconds. As such, the majority of the song cannot be heard during regular gameplay and needs to be listened to in the Prisma Museum after unlocking it in the sound gallery to be heard in full.

Main Blog | Twitter | Patreon | Small Findings | Source: PM:CS (NA, Wii U)

[monsterfuckerconfessions]

Fuck biology researches and studies. This creature can do both.

I, a 23 virgin, going to surf on the large waves right after a storm. Catching a wave about 10 meter high and beginning to have the time of my life, just before I could’ve dragged inside the water after a tentacle had wrapped itself on my ankle.

Crashing with the water surface didn’t do well to my head, trying to hold my breath and somehow swim out of the water as something cradles up my leg - searching for warmth and finding it inside my clit, further womb.

It slithers inside, wiggling and pounding wildly as if it wanted to slide inside and neat itself inside my body. And it did so. Slithering whole inside my womb, making my body feel five times heavier, as I try not to choke myself with the water in my lungs that fell inside due to my uncontrolled moans.

After a few seconds I made my way on the water surface, feeling the thing with tentacles inside me moving roughly and laying its eggs on the walls of inside my womb. Moving to the beach I moan my heart out, now 10 times heavier than ever before. The creature still inside me, wiggling its tentacles into my clit as the tips of them stick out, stuffing me to the brim with itself and it’s eggs.

All so sudden, all so pleasurable, the need to be bred is so high. Oh, please, let it fuck me to death.

Slipping my fingers past the swimming suit, I feels the tentacles not fitting inside my womb and sticking out of my clit, tickling my slit. I try to grip them and take the creature out, but it clutches its tentacles on my fingers and drags those fingers deep inside me, making me masturbate myself as I become a moaning mess. In and out, as it pushes my fingers.

A few minutes in and the pleasure ends once the creature lets go of my hand and gives me a sign that now it’ll live inside my body till the eggs hatch. Picking myself up from the sand, standing wobbly on the ground, I try to move, successfully walking back to my things I’ve left on the beach, to pick them out with my pussy drained, filled and stuffed with the sticking out tentacles.

After a week, the creature begins to move wildly, announcing that it’s hungry. My mind was set now on the autopilot, as I spread my legs - already having the thought on my mind that this creature will either leave me once I give birth to its babies, or maybe it’ll stay and as two animals in sheets will proceed symbiosis with my body and me.

It Needing to devour something - I let it begin to pump it swelled and thick tentacles to make me all weak and leaky, as my own liquid begins to pool on my bed and cover the exiting creature from my womb. Warmth was now spread all over my thighs and clit, enjoying the whole situation.

The creature is finally out, latching to my clit and wrapping it’s countless tentacles on my legs to hold onto me while it drinks my juices which it uses as food. Filling its own body, making itself satisfied. It was a good idea to lay in bed with only an oversized shirt on, lifting the shirt - I see a crimson red semi-octopus that came to feast on me, from insides.

Months later, something breaks in me, something so good and deep that it begins trying to escape me in the middle of my work on the beach. This is it, the creature trying to hold its eggs closed from hatching, biting on me to let the blood flow inside my womb to feed itself and the babies, as I almost scream in pain from that. Rushing to the deep waters and sinking into them to give birth to the creature’s desired offspring.

It only took minutes for me to accomodate to the small blobs of slime to pop out of me as if I was some kind of an gun made for living things. The creature pushing out its babies from my womb one by one, pain bearable due to them being smaller than my pinkie finger.

The feeling was heavenly, so many children coming to world all thanks to me, mmm… beautiful feeling. But… something is wrong… why does the creature doesn’t want to leave me? Why isn’t it slipping out of me? Why, why?…

Only one answer is right — it’s latched to me until the end of my days. Willingly releasing its seed into my swollen body once more, impregnating me with it’s babies again. Mhh~ So perfect, it’ll never satisfy me.

.

[magicalmousey]

💀 - "you could've died!" have fun :3

💀 - "You could've died!"

Ask Game

Surfboards

Warnings: Mild Descriptions of Drowning

Word Count: 543

She felt her feet slip out from underneath her body. She felt the cold temperature of the water, temporarily shocking her as she struggled to find a breath of air. But the waves persisted, knocking her deeper and deeper into the sea. She kicked the water, using her arms to propel herself towards the surface. But she was too stunned, unable to tell the difference between up and down. She held her breath for as long as she could, straining her lungs and her limbs. 

But due to her lack of focus, everything soon went black.

Suddenly, her hands gripped onto something warm and metallic. It was a familiar sensation, nothing she had to fear. Her head broke the surface of the ocean. She coughed and gasped frantically. She glanced ahead of her, water splashing in her face, her vision dim and blurry. More water resided in her lungs, begging to be released. She held tightly onto his crimson fin, feeling his power as he soared through the sea at great speeds.

The woman closed her eyes and succumbed to her exhaustion. The Merbot cradled her in his claws, meeting the shore and positioning her body on the wet sand. She heard her name repeatedly, a sharp digit poking her face. 

“Jayce!”

“Jayce!”

“JAYCE!”

And then, there was a forceful push on her chest.

The scientist spluttered, lifting herself at the waist and freeing her lungs from the cold water. She coughed until her sides ached. Still, she managed to gather a proper breath of air. It was relieving as she touched her wetsuit, feeling her body settle again. Her read hair clung to her cheeks. Slowly, her vision returned, a big, silver and red blob gradually becoming a face. Jayce locked eyes with her study looming over her, staring directly at her.

“You foolish mammal!” He glared at her, scoffing. “What were you thinking? Surfing without my guidance? You could’ve died!”

A brief flash of fear shook her mind. Her arms went rigid, and her heartbeat skyrocketed. Jayce remembered her sister, her twin who almost drowned years ago in the ocean. It was a memory that stuck with her for life, forever reminding her to be afraid of the water. 

“Hmph. You’re welcome.”

Embarrassed, Jayce glanced away from him, muttering at the gray clouds.

“The weather was fine. I thought I could…I thought I could do it.”

Starscream huffed at her, his tail smacking the water behind him.

“You ambitious, little thing.”

Despite her situation, Jayce found humor. 

“I could say the same thing about you, Starscream. And…thank you.”

The Merbot’s scarlet optics narrowed on her. It was almost as though he was angry at her. But soon enough, his facial expression softened. Using his armored arms, he held Jayce closer beneath his body, cradling her. She leaned into his touch, enjoying the warmth from his frame. The small waves rippled across her legs, soothing her and easing her into a state of tranquility. 

Starscream’s voice rumbled.

“We must go about this another way.”

Jayce paused, thinking to herself until a smile crossed her lips.

 “Hey, instead of using my surfboard, why don’t I use you?”

Starscream moved his arms to look at her, giving her a puzzled look.

“Eh, what?”

[fallowhearth-art]

This one may as well be called 'The Wave That Got Me'. Daniel Smith watercolours in Quinacridone Gold, Permanent Alizarin Crimson and Ultramarine Blue. Fabriano Artistico A5 hot pressed 140lb cotton paper.

I was at Coogee a few weeks ago having a quick dip, and I kept inching out into the surf even though I knew the intermittent big ones were taller than me and very powerful. So yeah, this wave pushed me down, stole my sunglasses, and spat me back to shore.

[firesofdainix]

Andddd PHOENIX, chapter two is live everybody!

She smiles even wider at the cheering, feeling as if the entire pictorial lasts more than a few minutes, but she doesn’t really care, because nothing could sour her mood. She feels as if she is surfing through the waves, her balance as graceful as ever, as she swims through the sea.

Then she sees something red at the back.

Her smile wavers, even when the cameras flash. Her eyes grow wide as she knows that red. It was so familiar, vibrant like rubies yet a reminder of the crimson fluid that had dripped from her hands as she screams.

That red was Kai’s.

Her eyes trace over the audience again, her expression filled with horror and denial this time.

She couldn’t have seen Kai. She couldn’t have.

[lunastarhawk]

Frozen Seas and Bonded Hearts

Part 20 of Tides of Memories - Julian post-route series (on AO3).

Summary

Julian races to pull Altheia back from breaking point, and as they head into the realms of the Arcana they both discover hidden truths about themselves, and each other.

Excerpt

Julian heard Asra’s call as if he were waking from sleep, disoriented by the journey through the portal which somehow took hours and no time at all.  His eyes were closed and he was aware of the horse underneath him, clinging to it with his thighs and a grip on its mane.  A freezing wind buffeted his face and roused him with a gasp, and he blinked his eyes into focus, picking up the reins and sitting up straight as Zephyr realised he hadn’t just wandered into a green pasture and was instead on a beach beside the creaking wooden dock, the wind carrying salty sea spray and hard rain into their faces.

He realised, belatedly, that it was the same dock where he’d tried to push her away.

He cooed reassurances to the skittish horse, patting his neck, as his own eyes squinted into the darkness, out to sea.  Asra was ahead of him, running towards the raging surf and calling out to sea, a sea that was icy blue in what moonlight struggled through the dark storm clouds.

Not icy blue, Julian realised - ice.  A path of ice cutting across the tumultuous black ocean, holding a boat still in its frozen grasp, and as his eyes travelled along it, towards the island, he saw her, and his jaw fell slack.

She had her back to them, but she’d half turned at Asra’s call.  Her long crimson coat flew around her legs in the buffeting wind, her hair whipped about her face like dark tendrils.  Her arms were by her sides, the right holding her sword, the rapier that Julian had bought her.  In the socket just underneath the hilt, the crystal he’d given her glowed dark green with shifting waves of sea-green the same colour as her eyes.

And those eyes… they moved from Asra, even as he waded thigh-deep into the sea and called her name again and again… to focus on Julian.  Even from this distance, through the dark and the rain and the sea spray, they caught him.  Bright, fierce.  Pained.

“Did Altheia do this?” Nadia gasped, emerging from the portal beside Julian on her black horse.

“I…”

He couldn’t talk, couldn’t tear his gaze from Theia.  Did you, love?  

He hadn’t put his gloves back on, and his fingers stung from the ice-cold wind and rain as he pushed his horse up to Asra.

“Asra, stop!” he cried, reaching down to grab the back of Asra’s coat just in time to stop a particularly large wave from buffeting his chest and knocking him down.  

The horse whinnied and reared back, but Julian held on, and Asra coughed as he staggered back up out of the waves.

“I have to… we have to…”

“I know, I know…”

“Ilya!  Asra!”  It was Portia, and she hurtled down the beach, her face stricken.  Aisha was right behind her.  “We tried to stop her!”

“Did she tell you anything?”  Asra asked her as he fought to catch his breath. 

Portia nodded frantically, lips blue and chattering.  Nadia dropped gracefully from her horse, took off her riding coat and wrapped it around Portia’s shoulders, pulling her in close.

“She wanted me to help her make a portal to the Star’s realm,” she said in a rush, struggling through her shivers.  “She said, because I have a connection to the Star, then I could… but I didn’t know…”

Nadia shushed her, pulling her head in to her chest.  Aisha ran up beside them.

“She took the boat with magic,” she panted.  “It went under.”

“Under?” Asra exclaimed, horrified.  

Aisha nodded.  “Yes, and she took it back up.  And then she did this!" She waved an arm towards the ice.  "Asra, she’s more powerful than you know.  More than she knows.”

“We have to save her!” Portia cried.

“If she gets to the Lazaret…”

But Julian barely heard them.  He sat, patting Zephyr’s neck and absent-mindedly whispering soothing reassurances.  His eyes were fixed on Altheia, stood on ice in the middle of the ocean, in the middle of a storm, a tempest.  

She didn’t need saving.  She was magnificent.  She was fierce.  And she’d do what she needed to do, one way or another.

But he wouldn’t let her do it alone.

Read it all here... Frozen Seas and Bonded Hearts - Tides of Memories part 20 - on AO3

[hellishjoel]

playing hooky

9.2k / pairing: linecook!frankie x waitress f!reader

Series Masterlist l Previous Chapter l Next Chapter

summary: Frankie calls in sick for his shift. You simply must investigate. 

warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), mentions of reader previously being on her period, smoking w33d, getting h!gh, swearing, pet names (angel, princess, etc.), handjob if you squint, oral (f! receiving), unprotected p in v, h!gh sex, aftercare, tangled feelings/messy emotions, sitcom vibes

A/N: tune in next time for a special halloween episode of Table for Two! 

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“We’re not at the diner right now, y’know? We can,” he pauses to find the right words, seeming to get lost in the beautiful hue of your eyes. “We can take things slow. Wanna take my time with you.” 

You purse your lips as you scribble another drawing on your order pad. You’re sitting at one of the empty barstools at the counter, one leg lazily swinging back and forth while the other is brought up under you. 

“You’re gonna get hip dysplasia.” Carla, your sarcastic manager, hums as she passes you. She playfully smacks you with her own order pad before she settles down beside you, a loud and tired sigh leaving her ruby-red lips. She rolls her swollen ankles, a side effect of being on her feet all day. A side effect of being alive. 

Your eyes lightly screw together, eyebrows knitting in curiosity. “I thought only animals get hip dysplasia.” You trail off and watch her sit with slight confusion. She parts her lips and takes a breath before her face contorts in thought. 

Finally, Carla reemerged with a new confidence. “No, baby, because my cousin- my second cousin,” she illustrates all of this with her hands. “They were born with it! I swear, look it up.”

You stifle a giggle before you both hover over your phone in search of the truth via Google. That’s when you clock the time. 

Your head swivels to the wall clock and confirms it’s half an hour past five in the evening. “No Frankie tonight?” You ask, eyes still attentive to your phone as you attempt to try and hide any obvious interest or concern. Where the hell was he?

Carla eyed you up and down. Since when did you start caring if Frankie showed up for his shifts or not? She decides not to press it, clearing her throat as she moves off her barstool once she hears the doorbell chime, a new customer sauntering in. 

“Just said he was under the weather. And we don’t need another sick line cook, that’s for damn sure. Everyone would be coughin’ and sneezin’ over their undercooked bacon and runny, nasty eggs.” She said with a little umph at the end for distaste. 

You sigh and nibble on your thumbnail. 

Frankie was a bit of an ass, but he made the shifts go by faster. Yes, even before you started fooling around, he was entertaining. 

Let’s see, there was the night he tried to see how many coffee cups he could stack and if he could make a tower to the ceiling - he tried this multiple times, and each attempt left glazed ceramic shards everywhere, to which Carla made him sweep up.

There was another time the diner needed supplies, and Rudy, the owner’s son, sent you and Frankie on an errand run. He pushed you in the cart through nearly the entire store, in search of toilet paper and paper towels, dish soap, and other amenities. Frankie bought you a Redbull at the end of it. 

Now, more recently, Frankie fucking pavloved you! Like a damn dog! Every time you worked a shift, you got ferociously horny. You had gotten so used to clocking in, working for a bit, then getting your needs met. And now that you had finished serving time being on your period, you were needy for what you missed while you were surfing the crimson wave. 

Your foot, more anxiously now, taps against the metal stand of the barstool you were sitting on, huffing in annoyance hearing that Frankie was ill. The pit in your stomach was already coiling, searching for a release that just wouldn’t be satisfied tonight. Or would it?

You’re not in the back kitchen as much as everyone else, but as the end of your shift wound down and it was nearly ten o’clock, you decided to piece together a panini and a side of fries for Frankie. You thought about how he learned you weren’t feeling good just last week, and he knew how far a simple meal went to make you feel better. Maybe you could do the same for him. And that was it. You swear there were no ulterior motives. Just a nice coworker bringing a bite to eat. 

You yank your phone from your uniform. Your fingerprints smear your phone screen with grease from the fries. 

text me your address if you’re still up

frankie (work) Huh?

You have to will yourself not to roll your eyes. 

read the first message again and ask me if you’re still confused

frankie (work) Okay sassy pants 194 Rivercrest Apartments #501

His stupid reply leaves a broken, twitchy smile on the right side of your mouth. Stupid asshole. 

Once the restaurant closes, your clunky car takes you across town to Frankie’s apartment. Your gleamy, tired vision catches the streaks from passing cars and street lamps. You pull into a visitor parking spot and let out a disgruntled sigh as you sit in silence, waiting in your idling car.

A weird part of you is nervous. Overthinking. Was this taking it too far, helping him out while he’s sick? 

You push aside any nerves and force yourself out of the car, a death grip on the doggy bag of food you had packed him. The evening Texas air tickles your bare legs, trying to adjust your uniform under your jacket after it got smushed around in the car. You buzz his number before you hear the entrance’s lock click, allowing you in. 

Glancing around for an elevator is hopeless. The entrance leads you straight to a set of stairs,  and you clench your jaw in annoyance. God dammit. You were not a woman who prayed to the cardio gods. 

Your lungs feel strained, and your feet ache, desperate to sit down after your shift and the mild hike up to Frankie’s apartment. You rap your knuckles against his door in disdain, lips parted with a few light pants for breath as you wait. The door had a few random dents and marks, obvious trails of someone moving items in and out of the apartment over time. The numbers on his door were crooked, the paint chipped. Did he have to live in such a sketchy place? It looked like the birthplace of tetanus. 

There were a few heavy footsteps on the other side before the door jangled open. And a very healthy, Frankie opened the door. Your face fell, and your eyebrows furrowed. A heavy whiff of weed smacked you in the face, and you swore it nearly gave you a contact high, even from the hallway. 

Frankie was all too happy to see you here. You drove all the way to his apartment just to see him. His face was dripping in a smirky grin. He barely fit through the door frame, his large broad shoulders and tall stature filled the entire rectangular entrance. He crossed his arms and leaned one shoulder against his door. He was perfectly fucking fine. 

“Hey, princess. Surprised to see you-”

Your lips purse and your eyes screw tight as you smack him with his bag of food. “What the hell-” smack, “is wrong with you! Fuckin-” smack, “asshole!” 

He’s slow to defend himself at first, letting you exhaust your hits as you fist the brown paper bag in annoyance. Finally on the last hit, he swipes the bag from your hand and sighs. He’s trying to dial down his stupid smirk, but it ends up turning into this stomach-twisting, sweet smile. 

You pinch the bridge of your nose and chew on the inside of your cheek. “Carla told me you were sick.” 

“I am sick.” Frankie playfully defended, standing straight and shrugging his shoulders with a half-innocent smile. “Sick.. and tired of working.” He laughs at his own joke, and you bite back a smile. Such a fucking dork. 

You’re at a weird standoff outside of his apartment. It’s like he’s holding your invitation to enter over your head, and out of your reach. He wants you to ask. You want him to ask. You’re both so goddamn stubborn. You cross your arms and stand straight, eyeing him down. 

Frankie rolls his eyes, his smile breaking into a larger one as he grabs your wrist and pulls you inside. “So fuckin’ difficult.” You hide your smile as your face lightly glides against his chest, unintentionally inhaling his scent. By the looks of his hair, he was fresh from a shower. 

Frankie closes the door behind you, and his front brushes against your back as you stand in the tiny entrance hallway to his apartment. Music was playing deeper inside. 

His hands gently settle themselves on your arms, slowly coasting his warmth up and down your goosebump-covered skin. You inhale slowly, your back lightly resting back against his front. He was so easy to sink into. But then you remember how he bailed on work today, and you jut your elbow into his gut. He lets out a puff of air at the force you hit him with. 

“You’re such an ass ditching work. Ditching Carla.” You say as you step away from him and invite yourself further in, exiting the dark hallway and working your way further into the apartment. “We had to make do-it-all Paul step into the kitchen. Do you know how terrifying that is? Such a dick, Frankie.” 

“And you’re so sweet for bringin’ me food.” You hear him rifle through the paper bag, digging out his packaged food, and seeing him smile at the contents. “Thanks. You shouldn’t have.” He brushes past you and towards the kitchen while you stand in the living room. 

You didn’t concern yourself much with Frankie up until recent events, it was odd to see his evil lair. Okay, he wasn’t evil, but you know what I mean. You take in as many important details as you can while you slowly peel off your jacket and toss it on his couch. 

It’s quaint, really. He has no other furniture in the living room besides a couch, which you feel is by design. It sits perfectly opposite his mounted flatscreen. The walls are plain beige but are decorated with band and movie posters. You admire one that was purposely framed, unlike the others, with signatures. You didn’t recognize the band, but by their look, they seemed like an 80s rocker group. 

Below his flatscreen was an impressive vinyl collection, a record spins, and you recognize it as the melody you initially heard upon entering. It was serene, jazzy almost. 

“This is what you listen to when you’re alone?” You tease, kneeling down and flicking through a few album covers to see his taste. It was expansive, to say the least. There were only a fair few that you recognized. TOTO, ABBA, Billy Joel, Bruce Springsteen, Metallica, a little Van Halen, and a whole lot of The Beatles. 

Frankie sucks the salt from the fries off his fingers, seeing he’s already munched on half his panini. “It’s something I listen to when I’m stoned.” He half-jokes, a slight smile on his face. So that’s what he’s been up to. 

“You called in so you could lay around your apartment and get high all day?” Your tone is playfully judging, but he gives you a proud nod, not a care in the world behind those slightly glazed eyes. 

“I didn’t really lay around all day.” His tone is softer since you’re both so close. He’s standing just to the right of where you’re kneeling down, your head could lay against his thigh if you wanted. “I was trying out some new recipes and shit.” He mutters as he points a thumb behind him and to the kitchen. You glance up and notice his pretty curls in the light. You don’t often see him without his hat or his bandana. Come to think of it, you don’t really see him outside of his yellow-stained apron. 

Your eyes slowly took Frankie in, seeing him casually for the first time outside of work was startling. He was big. Tall and broad, with squishy thighs and a soft tummy, strong arms, and defined biceps. He was comfortably relaxing in a pair of black basketball shorts that landed just above his knees, eyeing a few tattoos by the hem. On his upper half was a tattered, well-loved Lakers shirt with a small tear at the shoulder, which has since been sewn closed. He had a little bracelet on, one of those leather brown ones that twisted around his wrist, accompanied by a spherical, multicolor beaded one. 

Your eyes linger for a hair too long, and now he’s already smirking at you. “Like what you see, princess?” God, that stupid fucking nickname needed a break. Heat shoots up your spine nonetheless, and you have trouble staring daggers at him like you usually would. 

You huff a breath through your nose and stand up on your feet, raising your eyebrow at him. “What do you mean you trying new recipes? You can actually cook?” It sounds rude and sarcastic, but you thought Frankie just goofed around at work and cooked for the cash, not as a hobby. You slowly make your way past him, eyeing his kitchen in the process. 

There are recipe books, honest to god recipe books. Big ones, small ones. Different categories of food outlined on the covers and spines. And his kitchen was a chaotic mess, with multiple cutting boards of varying sizes across his already limited counter space. There were bright-colored vegetables cut up and diced, the scraps having been tossed in a spare plastic bag sitting on the sidelines. There was an open bottle of soy sauce and another for sesame oil, a little tin of cornstarch, and diced chicken sizzling in oil on a frying pan. 

You take a few steps in further, your sneakers landing on linoleum as you really smell what’s simmering in a large skillet. Mushrooms, bell peppers, green onions, broccoli, and peas are cooking in a thick sauce, coating them amidst freshly minced garlic onion.  Your lips part as you inhale, and you can’t believe it. You don’t even know what it is, but it smells heavenly.

You finally have to ask, because hunger is carving a hole in your stomach. “What are you making?”

Frankie parks his hands on his hips and looks at you with knitted eyebrows. “What? You’ve never had stir fry before?” 

You purse your lips and reach for the spatula, looking to Frankie for reassurance, to which he nods his head. Go for it. 

You smile as the vegetables sizzle once you push them around on the pan, relishing in the attention as you allow the other less glazed vegetables to catch some heat from the burner. Frankie hums, like he’s debating something, like he’s learned something from his little experimentation. He reaches past you, his front brushing against your shoulders as he reaches around you and adds a little brownish-amber liquid to the pan. It sizzles, splashes, and dances across the different vegetables, which makes you grin. 

You were never big into cooking, especially since you started working at Tommy’s Diner. You’ve seen enough grease to last a lifetime. You were fine settling in on the couch with a bowl of cereal and a glass of cheap wine. You saved making extravagant dishes for when you had a date over, and even then, that was risky. 

But there was something about Frankie actually knowing how to cook cuisine that you liked. “I didn’t know you knew how to make dishes besides burgers and fries.” 

He sneers and rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling the entire time and lets you continue slowly shifting the vegetables around, watching as the glaze sizzles. “I didn’t know you cared enough about me to visit me at my apartment. We’re both a bit surprised tonight.” This was your worst nightmare. 

“I only came here under the impression that you were sick-”

“So you came to my aid?”

“Psh,” You huff, “You wish. But no.” You insist more forcefully, setting the spatula down and turning to face Frankie, who is all too close to you. You lose a lot of your angry traction as his hand finds your hip, feeling his fingers flip to the stovetop’s burner switch to a lower setting. 

His hands navigate you away from the oven, your back flushed against his counter now. His eyes trail you, grazing over your body as his hips now plant you in one spot. You swallowed a lump in your throat, your still resisting hands planting against his chest. You can feel his cock twitch against your thigh. 

You can’t explain why your fingers twitch and start to clutch his shirt, pulling him a little closer. Stupid Frankie with his goading smirk, bringing his forehead down against yours. It was so hot in his kitchen, in the middle of summer. You feel a bead of sweat sprout behind your ear and lightly glide down your neck as you flutter your eyes closed. It wasn’t often you felt your power to resist him rendered useless, but tonight you felt like he had a quite literal home-field advantage. 

“You want me to stop?” He asks, voice low and lust-drenched. His leg parts purposely between yours, jutting them open and spreading what was his. 

Your throat is closed off, the lack of air draining from your busy head. “I..” Your words fall off, distracted by something scampering through the living room.

“Do you have a cat?” Your eyes light up as you slink past Frankie. He found your stray of attention a bit adorable, despite being given a slight case of blue balls. 

You carefully padded out of the kitchen and into the living room, using the excuse to slip off your sneakers at the entrance. The small orange cat had curled up onto Frankie’s couch by your tossed jacket from earlier, forming a perfect circle amongst all of its tangerine fluff. Its eyes were closed serenely, absent of a new presence. It was fucking adorable, in short. 

Frankie was still flummoxed in the kitchen, adding the cooked chicken into the stir fry before turning the burner off and putting his masterpiece aside. “That’s Leo.” He announces, Frankie’s voice carrying annoyance that he lost a sure thing in the kitchen. Now you were cooing over his cat. 

He settles two bowls on the counter and adds the stir fry to each, a few splashes of the sauce splattering around the rim of the bowl. With two forks randomly stabbed into the piles of food, he walks one of them out to you. “Could have eaten this whole thing by myself.”

You smile, taking the offering and humming as you flop on the couch, the orange tabby finally peeking its eyes open. “I don’t doubt that, so thanks for sharing.” You recognize how he had eaten the panini and fries, and he was still excited over the stir fry. Poor guy probably had the munchies like crazy. 

With the kitty taking up one of Frankie’s couch cushions, he’s forced on the end with you in the middle. He sets his food aside on a spare side table and reaches for a small pipe, your breath pausing at the sight. “You want a hit?” He asks.

His face glows orange as he flicks on the lighter, spreading the flame over the green, now black, substance in the tiny bowl. He inhales, and you watch in mystification as he takes in the smoke filtering through. Your heart thumps harder in your chest, the right side of your mouth twitching up in a sly smirk. 

Let’s smoke weed with Frankie Morales tonight. 

He lets out a labored breath, the smoke flying loosely in the air and creating hazy grey circles that flood the ceiling before disappearing altogether. The stench fills the small apartment rather quickly. 

“I get really weird dreams after I smoke.” You whisper, biting down on your lower lip as you glance down at the pipe he’s holding, a small glow still coming from the weed. 

“It’s still lit if you want some.” His voice is low from smoking, and you have to clench your thighs closer together. Damn this stupid uniform, you wished you would have brought a change of clothes so you’d at least be comfy eating stir fry, petting his cat, and getting stoned with him. 

He raises the piece in an offering, and you look to him for one last look of reassurance. It’s polite to be offered free weed, especially since he’s the one who paid for it. He gives you a nod and looks at you with furrowed eyebrows. Are you crazy? If you want it, take it. 

So you do. And you smoke it. And you pat yourself on the back to do so without coughing. It’s a small hit, but you don’t need much, your brain already feels like it’s as light as a cloud, dancing in slow motion. You giggle by accident. 

Frankie lets out a sputter of laughter, watching you get high with him is a bit comical. “Princess knows how to smoke. Kudos.” 

You let out a puff of laughter through your nose and grab your warm bowl of stir fry, stabbing into a green pepper. “Shut up, Frankie.” 

He ends up putting on a show you both agree on, something comical that makes you both laugh your high asses off. You eat the stir fry and almost forget Frankie is the one who made it. It was delicious, you ate everything down the the finely chopped green onions. 

You both shared another hit, and you felt like you were loosening up. Any need to hold onto control slipped through your fingers. Any issues you had been dealing with drifted away. And you realized how stupidly happy you were to be beside Frankie. Trying to do anything of actual initiative went out the window after your second hit. You both found yourselves on the floor of Frankie's room, sat side by side, heads resting on the edge of his bed as you both stared up at the ceiling and spoke gibberish. 

“Aliens?” He asks, your thighs brushing. 

“Of course.” You hum, slowly blinking in a gentle haze. “Ghosts?”

He sighs and takes a long time to answer, which apparently offends you because you snap your head up and look at him in disbelief. 

“You can’t be serious. If you believe in aliens, you have to believe in ghosts.” You argue as you stare at his fan. 

He lets out a throaty groan, closes his eyes, and runs his hands down his face. His curls are pretty. They haven’t been run through a million times yet or smothered by a bandana or hat. 

“I think… I do believe in ghosts. I just don’t want them to bother me.” He says, a weak smile on his face. 

“What? Like you’re afraid to be haunted?” Your head lays back on the bed but rolls over, watching his profile while he continues to look up absentmindedly at the ceiling. 

He’s silent for far too long. Finally, he rolls his head over to face you, your noses lightly brushing. He’s so close that looking at him feels a bit cross-eyed. 

“Wait- what? Sorry.” He finally says with a broken, short laugh. 

“Can you focus?” You ask teasingly, pushing your hand up against his cheek and making him stop staring at you. 

You take the soft silence as an opportunity to rest your hand lightly on his thigh. He does the same, except he feels the warmth of your skin and the material of your uniform. Goosebumps form shortly after, and you smile shyly up at the ceiling. 

“Have you…” You start to say but trailed off, bashfulness overcoming you. 

“Have I what?” He asks. You both blink slowly as a car’s lights flash through his window only for a few seconds, lighting up the dim room before it is filled with darkness again. The moon and an orange lava lamp was the only source of glow. 

You distractedly look away from him, admiring a tapestry on his wall and his soft comforter. “Have you had sex with someone high?” 

He shrugs and slowly smiles before gently nodding his head against the edge of his bed. “Yeah. Have you?” His head rolls over to look at you again. You feel his warm gaze, but you just keep your eyes locked on his ceiling fan. 

Warmth and a subtle shyness flush across your chest, your thighs nearly trembling in excitement. “No.” You whisper. 

He doesn’t say anything, but he watches you for a few moments. 

“Want to, though.” You finish, feeling a knot slowly grow in your stomach. 

Frankie’s eyes flick to your long lashes, then down to warmth creeping up your neck. “Yeah?” He asks.

You gently nod, too, eyes still too shy to meet his own. “Yeah-” 

He doesn’t let you get out one more syllable. His large hand comes up and meets your cheek, guiding your head to meet his gaze.

Frankie kisses you deeply but at a slow pace. And you’re feeling a desperate hunger to have him. You eagerly cup his cheeks in return and swing a leg over his lap, intensifying the kiss as your hands glide down the landscape of his clothed chest, bunching up his shirt in the process. You feel like a horny jackrabbit, but it’s really all his fault. You can feel his half-hard cock as you grind the center of your pelvis over his own, whimpering into his mouth desperately.

“Take care of me,” you whisper, and it ends up sounding a little more like a desperate, whiney plea. 

Frankie’s lips part against your own, feeling the neediness of your touches. His hazy vision peers open, breaking your kiss for a moment. 

“Hold on, baby,” He sits up a little bit against the bed, his eyes scanning yours with a certain deepness. 

You pause, your chest heaving lightly as you regain your breath. “Frankie, come on, don’t make me beg.” You say as you lean in once more, but he catches your face and pauses your movements. You feel like a deer in headlights, static tingling in your ears as you feel a sudden rush for embarrassment. Why wasn’t he just as excited? Or eager? Or desperate? Were you the problem?

Suddenly, your eyes were dashing around for an escape. Then he speaks your name. Soft, gentle, careful. Hear him out. You swallow your pride and stay seated over his lap. 

“We’re not at the diner right now, y’know? We can,” he pauses to find the right words, seeming to get lost in the beautiful hue of your eyes. “We can take things slow. Wanna take my time with you.” 

You can’t help but let an awkward chuckle escape between you, eyes having a hard time meeting his. You playfully scoff and smack his shoulder lightly to regain a sense of control. “Shut up, Frankie.”

His head cocks, and he looks at you with that stupid fucking smirk. “You don’t know how to take it slow, do you?” 

His words antagonize you, and your eyes light with fire. A defensive fire, because he was right. 

Slow meant feelings, slow meant experiencing, slow meant bonding. You weren’t slow. Sex was supposed to be fast, hot, desperate, counting down the seconds until a sweet escape, racing to an orgasm, chasing it like a fever dream. You weren’t good at slow. 

You hate that Frankie has learned this about you. Giving up the upper hand wasn’t in your caliber. And you find yourself frowning as you look down at him once his smirk washes away. He’s looking at you like he cares. Even with you both stoned, brain’s hazy and light, he sees through all that and looks at you like he gives a damn. 

He lightly shrugs his shoulders and softens the hold he has on your face, his thumb gently stroking along your cheekbone. “Can show you.” 

Hesitancy screams across your blank face, but he reads you better than anyone else. He speaks your name, more genuinely explaining his offer. “Let me teach you.” 

You let out a gentle sigh, slowly giving in to temptation. Because having him at all was better than not. So you take it slow. Frankie teaches you zen. Teaches you how to melt. 

One of his hands falls from your cheek and lands on your waist, gently stroking your hip in a soothing slow circle. It feels like heaven. 

His brown orbs dip close, and you let him take the lead. He kisses you tenderly, soft. His tongue lines your lower lip once he’s ready to lightly increase the intensity, begging your mouth for permission to part. If it was any other night, your tongue would be down his throat, and you’d be a grinding, sloppy mess in his lap. Let him teach you.

You take a deep breath in as your tongues tangle. 

It almost makes you giggle again, because it feels stupid, but you sort of like it. 

His stubble brushes your face, and you fight to release a moan. Frankie’s hand on your hip shuffles to your lower back, and you feel him add pressure. Your chest meets his, and you let yourself melt into him. His strong torso easily keeps you both up. Your heavy breaths hit the room, and you force yourself to pull away for air, despite how much you enjoy making out with him. He grins at the sight of satisfying you. 

Frankie pushes a stray hair that’s fallen out from your loose ponytail behind your ear, smiling as his hands move to the back of your uniform. This will be the first time he actually undresses you properly, not just shoving the material up past your ass so he has access to your pussy. 

“You know how to work the zipper?” You playfully ask as you settle your head on his shoulder, taking the slower moments to breathe and relax. 

He stuffs down a chuckle and nods, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I think so. Am I doing it right?” He asks as he guides the zipper down your back, feeling your flesh exposed to the rest of his room. 

You purse your lips and slowly sit up in his lap, watching him take in a deep inhale as your centers brush lightly. You hide your coy smile as his eyes light with excitement, but he’s made a point to be slow with you. You guide the sleeves of your uniform down to your hips, exposing your breasts to him. Giggles leave your mouth as you wiggle out the last bit of your dress, Frankie is more than happy to help you. 

“I’m feeling a little alone here.” Your voice is soft, tugging at his shirt before you push it up just past his pecs. Your high ass got a little distracted, staring at the hair sprinkled in dark trails across his torso, feeling him struggle in his shirt as he laughed. 

“Focus, princess,” his arms tangle with his shirt before he tosses it off, especially since you started slacking. You shyly smile and flutter your eyes down to his warm body as your hands explore the landscape for the first time. You had yet to undress each other like this, you sort of liked it, especially with this whole slow and steady thing going for you both. 

Frankie leans back against the bed, admiring the sight before him. You feel a little awkward, goosebumps rushing up your arms as you shyly smile and playfully push his face away. “Stop staring, perv. You’ve never seen a pair of tits before?”

He’s quick. “Not a pair that nice.” 

You smile and crack out a laugh, knowing sex has never felt this casual before. No pressure. Good vibes. And it’s not just because of the weed. It’s because it’s Frankie. And he looks at you like you put the sun in the sky and you could do no wrong. But then he starts staring at your tits, and you realize he’s just another guy. 

His hands caress your waist, thumbs dipping into the curves and appreciating the way they run up you like beautiful rivers. You decide to do the same. Your hands slip lower, letting his happy trail guide you to his black mesh basketball shorts. His rough and calloused hands cup your tits, taking them in his palms and giving you a tentative squeeze. He’s figuring you out, what you like, what makes you squirm and whine. As soon as he pinches your nipples between his thumbs and pointer fingers, a broken gasp is elicited from your mouth. 

“Shit,” you curse breathily. Everything was a bit heightened right now, including your sensitivity. It felt like a million little strums were being played, making your spine shiver and your head grow foggy. And you were determined to make him feel the same way. 

You bite down on your lower lip, fishing your hand into his shorts and fisting a hand around his already hardening cock. A smirk tangles on your lips as he lets out an earthy grunt, low to the ground and heaven to your ears. 

You start a bit fast, eager to please, wanting to see him tremble for your touch.

His lips meet yours in a distracting manner, rocking your steady pace. “Slow.” He murmurs against your lips, and you gently nod, a shy smile spreading from embarrassment.

“Slow.” You whisper, your lips brushing his. Your ego trips on the power you have over him, fisting him, his heavy length weighing in your hand. You couldn’t even fully wrap your fingers around him, he was all just… girth. Your body ached for him, needy for the feeling only he could satisfy by being inside of you. His tip trickles with precum, and a low moan drips off his tongue like honey. It fuels you. 

“Spit on my cock, princess.” He grunts out, his face leaning in to capture one of your nipples in your mouth. You squeak lightly in excitement before doing just as he asks of you. 

You angle your head over your centers, letting a long line of saliva puddle down onto him. It meets the strokes of your hand, and Frankie’s jaw twitches as he squeezes your breasts involuntarily harder.  You let out a long whine as your nipples form peaks between his fingers, feeling your heart thrum against your chest. 

Frankie likes how you look on top. Back arched, chest pushed up, messy hair falling loose, eyes lit with an eagerness and curiosity for him to teach you the method of going slow. Admiration mixed with respect. He feels like he’s dreaming. 

All he can imagine is you like this, bodies in sync, riding his cock. Tight walls milking his cock for everything he has. His skin becomes riddled with goosebumps, thinking about your nails digging into his chest, your tits rocking up and down, how he would tumble out moans of your name and squeeze your hips with adoration. Yeah, he’d like to see that one day. 

He’s not sure how much longer he can last with merely your hand on him. 

“C’mere, baby.” 

A gasp of surprise jumps from your throat before you can stop it, Frankie managing to stand up off the ground, wrapping your legs around his waist for security. His strength, how easily he lifts you and shuffles you around like a ragdoll spurs white hot heat in your stomach. You were going to fuck him good if you ever got past the going slow part. 

His smirky mouth meets yours in a hot kiss, one heavier than before. Like he’s needy for you. Your eyes melt closed as your fingers wind into the pretty curls that were formed at the nape of his neck. Your back meets his mattress and blankets, your fingers dance along the pattern, your high mind hypnotized seeing Frankie on top of you. 

His body rests between your parted legs. You whimper into his mouth, feeling his hardened cock resting against your core. 

“Take my fucking panties off,” you beg more than you mean to. 

Frankie tries not to sneer. His teeth capture your lower lip, and you mewl out a moan before he lets you go. 

“To hell with going slow.” 

You hastily nod, feeling his fingers grip your panties at either side of your hips before he shuffles them down. You whine with how the sticky center stays latched to your core, he gently peels it loose with a hellish smirk. 

Frankie’s heart thrums against his chest and echoes into his ears. Hearing you desperate for his touch was heaven, he felt undeserving to have such an angel vying for his attention. “So wet f’me, barely touched you, princess.” 

He discards your panties to the side, off on the floor with the rest of the clothing you both have shed. You’re completely naked together, makes you a little nervous. 

Frankie promised to speed up, but you’re finding harmony in the way his soft lips trail down your body, leaving wet prints between the valley of your breasts to the soft skin of your stomach. Your breaths come out heavier, thighs shaking as he drops back down to kneel at the edge of the bed. His hands grip your thighs and yank you impatiently closer to his eager mouth. You whimper as your body is shuffled closer, your fists that were clutching the sheets being torn away. 

You giggle as your thighs shake around his head, feeling those perfect kisses move between the warmth of your legs. 

“Fuck,” you finally let out, excitement seeping through your bones. Frankie’s stubble drags across the sensitive flesh of your inner thighs, and again, you feel that heightened sensitivity that makes your stomach roll. 

Frankie decides that dragging out the teasing is enough. He wanted to taste you, every mile, every inch, every centimeter. 

Your core glistens in his eyeline, begging to be touched, kissed, fucked. He can’t help but dive in. His dopey brown eyes meet yours as his face disappears lower and lower before he’s past the valley of your tits, and all you can see when you crane your neck are those mocha brown eyes. 

His tongue tastes you, and divides your folds, as he laps up your juices. 

The feeling is exhilarating, like the rise and fall of a roller coaster. 

A gasp riddles its way up through your throat, concaves your chest, and your pupils blow wide in excitement. Frankie enjoys your taste but aims to pleasure. His mouth latches onto your sensitive clit and suckles, his tongue intervening every few swipes to flick across your clit. Rise. 

His large hands grip the outside of your thighs, pinning your lower half to his mattress, and lapping over you in a heated race to the finish line. Your face contorts in pleasure, fingers drifting down your stomach before you wind them in Frankie’s hair. He growls against your pussy, you’ve never felt your blood pump faster. Fall. 

“Fucking- Christ,” you push out, gripping his hair strands tighter and making him grunt hot heat against your core. “Feels so fucking good- oh my god,”

He pulls away for a breath and sucks a love bite into the sensitive flesh of your thigh until it swells pink and purple. One of his hands on your outer thighs wraps around the shell of your body, playing with your clit. He slowly shakes his head as he looks at you. You wonder if he shares your hazy vision. The pleasure makes you feel like you’re seeing double. 

“Christ isn’t making you feel good,” his words make you whimper, “I am.”

You quickly nod, but you realize your body can’t move quickly under the influence. You’re just hazily bobbing your head, your hand in his hair dropping to his strong bicep. 

“Frankie, I need you,” you plead as you gently sit up on your elbows and cup his cheek, wiping your glistening slick off his pretty bottom lip. “Need you inside of me.” You whisper, a desperate look splashed across your face. 

You hated how much power he had over you. He almost just made you cum from playing with your clit. You need him biblically, fully, flesh and blood, blood to bone. It was carnal, primal. 

He doesn’t need much further convincing. Frankie preferred to pull an orgasm from going down on you, but he listened to your needs and what you wanted. 

His lips meet yours in a hungry kiss, working you further up the bed and letting you collapse into his pillows. Your eyes catch the sight of a dream catcher while his tongue tangles with yours. You flush at the taste of your own arousal. That’s when you realize his hand is still between your thighs and working soothing circles into your clit. 

You whimper as he adds a tad bit more pressure, and you feel the white-hot heat of adrenaline making your stomach pool even more excitement into your tummy. 

“Frankie,” you whisper softly, and his forehead rests over yours while he guides his shaft to your center. 

He lines his tip up and down between your folds, your jaw dropping as he sickeningly uses your slick to lube himself. He lets his entire shaft rest against your sex, and he does slow thrusts back and forth, lining his entire cock with you. Holy fuck. A shiver was sent up your spine, goosebumps parading across your body. 

Your chest swelled for him. 

“What do you say?” He asks in a taunt, knowing how weak you are. 

You huff and move your hands up his arms and hang them loosely around his shoulders. He complies in moving in closer. 

“Please.” You finally admit between gritted teeth, which makes him grin. 

“Alright, princess,” his forehead now rests against your temple, cocking his chin down to get a better angle of your centers. He guides his tip to your entrance, slow and patient, before he notches himself inside of you. 

Your eyelashes flutter, and you watch as his eyes clench closed. He likes to act all tough like he wouldn’t fold for you, but you know he would time and time again without having to say more than a simple please. 

Both of you share unsteady breaths. It feels like a dam is giving way inside your chest. 

Frankie thinks how he has never been inside a tighter pussy, squeezing the last bits of air from his lungs. 

Your walls pulsate around the intrusion, but your dripping core and his wet tongue from earlier allowed him to slowly push in, inch by inch. 

You swallow a lump in your throat. You don’t realize your eyes are closed, and you're gripping him around the neck to keep him close until he sponges a soft kiss to your cheek. 

“Alright?” He forces out. It’s like you’re choking him, and it makes you twitch up a smile. 

“Mhm,” you muster up, feeling his chest rumble lightly with laughter. 

“Baby,” he whispers, and your chest surges at the pet name. “Can’t breathe.” Oh, shit. You damn near had him in a headlock.

You loosen your grip around his neck, shyly smiling as your desperate hands look for something to ground you. 

Frankie stays flushed inside you but shifts to be more centered over your body, gently resting his forehead just above yours. 

“C’mere,” he whispers before he takes your hands. You decide not to question why he interlocks your fingers. But it feels safe, and you’re still high, so you’ll blame any poor decision-making on that. 

“Fuck me,” you finally grit out, desperate for him to just fucking, “Move.” 

Your whine is met by him reeling back his hips, only for him to plow right back into you at an unforgiving rate. A gasp ripples through your throat, and you feel like screaming. Your entire goddamn body was on fire with the way his girth parted your walls, splitting you open. You let out a string of whimpery moans, and your eyes glared desperate daggers into him. 

“S’what you wanted, right?” He grunts out, jaw tight, pretty curls falling limply in front of his eyes and crowding his forehead. “You wanna be fucked hard, is that it?” He can barely speak authoritatively, you’re squeezing him like your last lifeline. 

But he’s right. Tears cloud your vision, and you weakly nod as desperate puffs of air leave your pretty parted lips. “Yes,” you squeak out, relaxing your hips so Frankie falls into you more. 

“Feels so fucking good, can’t-” An eager cry leaves your lips as he pulls himself out, just to thrust right back in and rocking you further up his bed. Your chin tips to the ceiling as you curse every god, man, woman, whoever the hell created Frankie Morales. 

“Can’t what, princess?” His tone is lower, sinister even as your walls twitch around him but only gush out more arousal for his cock to slide in and out of you. 

You find it hard to string together syllables. So he squeezes your hands that you’re holding for dear life. He stills inside of you until you answer. 

“Shit,” you whimper. 

“Can’t what, angel?” He probes again, cocky asshole waiting for his answer. 

You whimper and peek open your eyes. The right side of his face is highlighted silver from the moon, your hazy vision thinks he looks like an angel. His hand wanders between your centers and finds your throbbing clit, making you cry out the answer. Your face crumbles as you own up to what you need to say. 

“Fuck! Fuck, Frankie! Can’t go without your dick,” you pant out as he subtly rocks into you at a good pace upon your confession. “Can’t even go- can’t even go a week without it,” you admit in defeat. 

That stupid, cocky smirk of his graces his parted lips. It’s crooked and perfect, and he’s fucking you like your life depends on it. Because it does, you think. 

His thighs clap against your ass, pounding you into the bed, drilling you into place, suffocating the air from your lungs.

Your vision goes hazy, seeing white, then rainbow, then stars. They cloud your vision, and you’re not sure if you’re still high off the weed anymore. Or just high off Frankie. 

You whimper strings of his name tangled with profanity, he’s still filling you to the brim. It once seethed hot with pain, but now your stomach is contorting in pleasure. It’s like he knows exactly how to crack your vault, penetrating your walls, unlocking something deep inside of you that no one else manages to know the code. 

His messy fingers continue to circle your clit, and you know your end is coming. 

Frankie’s grunting with every thrust, moaning a symphony of your name every chance he gets. He likes holding your hand, resting his sweaty forehead against your own, listening to you beg for his cock, for your finish. It’s the only thing he wants to give you. He’d be at your every beck and call if you let him. He wouldn’t mind if the only thing he ever got was a fraction of your praise. 

Frankie’s thighs clap against your ass, the sound echoes around his bedroom. If his neighbors didn’t know his name, they did now. 

“Fuck! Frankie!” You cry out, feeling every inch of his cock massage your insides. His tip kisses your cervix, and your jaw drops. Nothing more comes out of your mouth, so your blown-out eyes do all the talking. 

I’m so fucking close.

“I know, baby, feels good, doesn’t it?” He grunts as his balls slap against you. “Feels good having my fat fucking cock inside you, huh?” 

You shake under him, your thighs clench around his hips, and you pray to the gods for making Frankie. You take back what you thought before, you need him. 

You don’t care that he’s a little older, that he’s an asshole, that he eggs you on. 

Because in the shelter of his bedroom, locked in your embrace, he swallows your name and persuades you into pleasure, time and time again. 

Your clit tingles, and your walls furiously clench around him. Finally, your mouth finds words to try and elaborate on what you’ve been holding inside. 

“Fucking- shit! Fuck me harder, right there- fuck me, Frankie! God- I’m coming!” You cry out as his pants fill your space, fanning across your face. He fucks you harder and faster as you near your orgasm, wanting to help you reach it. And he gets you there.

Your back arches, and he groans lowly as he stills inside of you. It’s almost beautiful the way you cum in unison. 

Your hands hold his tighter, and he reciprocates by squeezing gently. I’m right here, I’m here, baby. 

You’re not sure how long you lay there, still. Your hips get a little achy. He feels you twitch and knows it's time to let you go. 

A gentle whimper leaves you as he pulls out. You feel a bit empty, a little cold.

His sweet laughter makes you peek open your eyes. He’s trying to move out from around you, but you haven’t let go of his hands. 

You shyly let go, and both of you squeeze your hands to flex the knotted muscles and stiff knuckles. You close your legs and lightly curl up. He doesn’t come to rest, he gently pats your outer thigh once or twice before he disappears to his bathroom. 

You think he couldn’t have been gone for more than thirty seconds, but he comes back in a fresh pair of boxers and his basketball shorts, his tanned torso still exposed for your viewing. 

“Frankie,” he pauses like a deer in headlights as he stands up from grabbing your panties. “I’m gonna… spill.” You finally pitch out, a bit embarrassed. 

“Oh,” he says, feeling like an idiot. He circles back to the bathroom and grabs a towel and a wet washcloth. 

“Sorry, my brain is all-” he starts to say, but you quickly shake your head. 

“I know me too. S’okay.” You whisper with a smile as you weakly sit up on your elbows. The record playing in the living room had stopped. He shimmies the towel under your hips before he aids you with a clean washcloth. 

Feels too domestic, so you take over, much to his annoyance. You wrap yourself in the towel once you’re done, and sit up to retrieve your uniform. You dread putting it on. 

“Can I take the towel for the way home? My underwear is still too..” you trail off. Soaking wet was the words you would have used. 

Frankie’s face screws up in confusion, his eyebrows knitting together. 

“You’re going home?” 

Now your expressions match. “Yeah?” It sounds more like a guess than a statement. “What else would I do?”

Frankie shifts back and forth on his feet before he sits down beside you on the bed. “Dunno. Stay here.” 

You take in a hesitant breath, and he feels it. “You shouldn’t drive home, you know. You’re stoned. And tired. Don’t need you falling asleep at the wheel or some shit.” 

You frown. Staying here does sound nice. Thinking about going down those five flights of stairs with your jelly legs sounds like a walk to hell. 

But there’s a certain rule about sleeping over. One you don’t want to cross. You and Frankie are just fooling around. Nothing more. 

“I don’t know, Frankie.” You say with a small frown, tightening the towel around you even more. His sullen look deepens at your words. He doesn’t want to overly convince you. If you want to go, he doesn’t want to stand in your way. 

You chew on your bottom lip and weigh your options. You don’t want to go down the stairs. You’re tired as fuck, and you don’t want to get pulled over or something else. And you really don’t want to put your uniform back on. And you want to stop trying to put issues in your own way when you really just want to stick around. But the decision is made for you. 

“Stay.” 

Your eyes meet his. He’s more certain now, going after what he wants. 

“Stay the night, it won’t kill you. I’ll get you something more comfortable to wear, and you can just…” he trails off and shrugs. 

“Stay?” You ask, raising an eyebrow. He nods. 

You sigh loudly but inevitably smile as you point to his closet. “I need a shirt. Please.” 

A big smile glides across his face, and you can’t believe you’re the one who put it there. 

“Alright, princess, whatever you say.” He squeezes your thigh and stands up, his back to you as he fishes through his closet and smells a few shirts to see how clean they are. 

You roll your eyes and sigh as you fall back into his pillows. 

You change into something clean, you hope it’s clean, and end up curling into a protective ball under his covers. 

His cat, Leo, circles up by your feet, and you coo, gently stroking the pretty fur along his back. Frankie retrieves two glasses filled with water and hands you one. You instantly take a few gulps before your hand gently strokes down the shirt he’s put you in. It swims a bit on you, but you like it. The hem hangs at your thighs. 

“Can you get in here?” You ask impatiently. “M’getting chilly.” You whisper with a coy smile. 

Frankie blows out a few candles in his living room and finishes putting away any leftover stir fry. 

Your high has worn off, and now you’re just a sleepy little thing. A long shift plus getting railed would be your new nighttime sleep aid. 

Now that the apartment is drenched in darkness, he pulls back the covers and moves in beside you. Cuddling was not an option. He spoons you, yanking you halfway across the bed and out of your little ball. His warm flesh meets your back, and you hum at the feeling. He was a furnace. His head settles above yours, you feel the stubble gently poke at your hair. Your eyes are already closed as his arm wraps around your waist, an affirming hand settling on your tummy. He must need skin-to-skin contact because his hand slips under the shirt he’s put on you and settles on the warm skin by your belly button.  

You let out a short little laugh. “You do this with all the girls you sleep with?” 

“No.” He quickly says, and your eyes peek open. 

“No?” You ask curiously. 

“No. Just all my coworkers I sleep with.” You roll your eyes and reach around to slap the back of your hand against his hip, forcing out a chuckle from him. 

“M’kidding.” He somehow pulls you closer. Your head rests comfortably on his bicep, the cold tip of your nose warmed by his flesh. 

Questions pour out of your stupid brain. Were you the only one he was sleeping with? If you weren’t, who else was there? Was this normal to him, cuddling after a friends-with-benefits situation? Did Frankie want something more? 

You sigh and close your eyes, attempting to shut off your brain as your finger lazily draws shape on his forearm. 

He murmurs a goodnight against the shell of your ear. You blame how happy and comfortable you are right now on his cat. And it somewhat makes you feel better. You never pictured falling asleep beside your coworker, let alone Frankie Morales. 

Sleep eventually overcomes you. You dream of Frankie sitting in a bowl of stir fry like a hot tub. 

---

here's my masterlist!

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[fandomshatepeopleofcolor]

Massive side eye to the people who are both fans of dragon age inquisition and the new Baldur’s gate 3 series. Because the fans who loved cullen rutherford with the explanation that he’s a “princely/knight” type are all ignoring Wyll and instead favoring once again white characters (Gale and Astarion).

It was never about the “knightly” trope. It was always about liking their pretty white boys. Ugh.

I haven't played either but I've heard good things about baldurs gate 3 so this is unfortunate to know about the fandoms preferences. Can I get some help with adding pix of these characters please?? I'm still struggling with a uti and I'm surfing the crimson wave.

mod ali

[princessoflalaland]

Surfer Ino

content: surfer ino x reader, black reader coded but not explicitly stated, fluffy

a/n: I have risen from the dead! I've been awol for idk how long, and honestly I feel like I've been missing out and neglecting my beloved friends here. so to try and atone, im back with some headcanonns! not proofread so pls ignore typos

Surfer Ino with the million dollar smile. the way he shows off those pearly whites is something for the textbooks, has been documented plenty of times for local, sometimes national sports, magazines. that charming grin has landed him plenty of modeling gigs as well got him free ice cream on Sundays. so why in the world would you think you were immune to it, to him?

Surfer Ino with the perfect body. those defined, washboard abs. toned quads that work alongside his core to stabilize him as he shreds the waves like it's nothing. biceps that aren't overwhelming, but actually just right in size. every muscle in his body is hugged by skin that is tanned to delicious perfection. he's the epitome of fitness, now sprinkle a head of untamed chocolate locks with that dorky, genuine personality. it's no wonder swimwear and underwear companies alike want him showing off their brands while women discard their underwear for him.

Surfer Ino who can't get over how irresistible you look every time you set those pretty toes in the cream-colored sand. the sun hits your skin immaculately every time, he's hypnotized by the way your eyes seem to compete with the sun in splendor and beauty. your hair is somehow always complying with you, edges laid and behaving despite the brutal heat. sometimes, he swears you're a goddess posing as a human. no way someone is so perfect so effortlessly.

Surfer Ino who is so enthralled by your beauty, he loses focus, which throws off his balance and leads him to wiping out. normally, he's bummed out by such mistakes, but he's happy the waves have swallowed. perhaps you wouldn't recognize him from the distance he was at and surely you couldn't see the crimson spreading over his face and neck like a nasty sunburn.

Surfer Ino who makes it kind of obvious he has a thing for you. occasionally approaching you whenever you pop up to make casual conversation. flashing that flawless, megawatt smile your way when he's waxing his board. you don't ignore the flurry of nerves that erupts in your stomach when he does, not like you could anyway.

Surfer Ino who stays at the beach however long you stay because even sharing the same shoreline as you is a privilege he'll never take for granted.

Surfer Ino who finally has the opportunity to get closer to you when he overhears you talking about wanting to learn how to surf. he doesn't know that your watching him is what sparked your curiosity and desire to surf.

Surfer Ino who calmly and cooly offers to teach you when your leaving the beach one day. he explains he overheard your conversation and would be honored to teach you the basics. he'd even lend you one of his boards for practice.

Surfer Ino who will never forget the way your eyes lit up when you eagerly took him up on his offer. the way your glossy lips curled up in that show-stopping smile of yours...it took every ounce of self control he didn't know he had to not kiss you in that moment

Surfer Ino who sat on the moonlight beach that night, daydreaming about what it'll be like to feel your skin under his rough palms. he found himself giddy at the thought of alone time with you. he laughed aloud; he was acting like a lovestruck teen

but who could blame him? it's been some time since he'd felt so happy. sure, surfing made him feel alive, feel the surge of adrenaline. but you? with each second he spent with you, it felt like he was committing every thing he knew about you to memory. you were a whole new experience. one he wanted to cherish for as long as possible.

[bungou-stray-dogs-archive]

Osamu Dazai card - Surfing

Leader skill - White sands along an azure sea Increases Crimson atk 30% Increases hp 35% Active skill - Look at that~! A good wave is coming~! Increases Crimson atk 100% for 2 turns Sub-skill - The way the water sparkles is beautiful Activates when a Port Mafia character is in the team Increases atk by 50 for 1 turn (75 at lv.5) Memo Dazai Osamu visiting the beach on his summer vacation. Sitting in the sand, he watches Oda Sakunosuke and Sakaguchi Ango as they surf. He seems to be enjoying a peaceful break at the beach as he listens to the waves. Quotes "I'm glad I came with, but, man, is it hot... I'll get all sticky from the seawater if I go in, so I'll just keep an eye on you two from here." "Wow, Oda’s looking good. Not that I’d expected any less of him... Ango... uhuhu, keeps falling. When he comes out of the water, maybe I'll give him some tips. I've never gone surfing, but I've made some logical conclusions about how it's done." Affiliation: Port Mafia Crimson affinity Atk: 1204 (Max) | 142 (Base) Hp: 4199 (Max) | 659 (Base) Offensive type

He's available from the Seeking Coolness in the Whitecaps event (EN & JP)

[evolutionsvoid]

The beach is a pretty popular destination for those who visit the coast, at least from what I have seen. Sun, sand and surf as they as they say! Get a clear sky with the sun shining, and the ocean right there for all the swimming and shenanigans you want. At least if you are a human or other such fleshy creature. For us dryads? Not so much. Saltwater doesn't agree with us, but a bright sun and warm sand is pretty inviting! So if you ever see dryads show up on a popular beach, you can be sure they will be setting up shop way aways from the waves and will stick to sunbathing. Also, if you are a human seeing a dryad come to sunbath, do accept the fact they are going to be naked and do not make a big deal about. I mean, half of all dryads walk around without clothes pretty much every day! It's just how we do things! Anyways, needless to say, the beaches along the coast see quite a lot of visitors and tourists. If it is a warm sunny day, it is guaranteed! However, visitors may notice that there are some places where the tourists and even the locals don't go. Some beaches remain empty of any sunbathers or swimmers, despite their beautiful location. In many cases, these places are left alone for the wildlife, which I love! Plenty of species use the shoreline in their day-to-day lives, so we need to leave room for them! In some cases, though, these places aren't left alone voluntarily. The cases where locals flat up refuse to set foot on these shorelines because they value their own skin. Outsiders may see these empty beaches and figure they found a secret paradise, all for themselves! The only other creature upon these shores is just some bird, but there is no need to pay them any mind. Right? I mean, what's a bird going to do? Usually the following up thought to that question is "where did my teeth go?" Because it turns out those birds can do a whole lot...

The species I am referring to is the Pugiblis, a large flightless bird that strolls the coastlines of tropical climates. The sandy beaches, rocky shores, tide pools and nearby groves of palm trees are where they like to hang. The species can easily be identified by their brilliant crest of feathers, as well as the weird strutting they do across the shore. There is no mistaking one when you see it, as their silhouette is quite distinct, as they seem to carry themselves with a different energy then other birds. White plumage with bursts of brilliant crimson upon the head, shoulders, arms and tail. Upon their head is a bulbous basal knob, sitting atop a curved beak. Further down the body is where the real interesting stuff lies, as their wings have turned into something quite incredible! As I said, they are flightless coastal birds, which may give the impression that they gave away flight for swimming. Nope! The Pugiblis does not swim, in fact it isn't that big of a fan of getting wet! Much like dryads, they don't seem to like the seawater, and I respect that! Their feet are not webbed and their feathers are not designed to deal with an aquatic lifestyle. So instead of flippers, their wings have turned into something much more awkward looking. Most of their arms look pretty normal, with plumage and a drape of colorful feathers. But once you get to the part you would call a "hand" it becomes pretty bulbous and bare. It looks almost swollen, and the skin has hardened into thick scales. Hooked claws emerge from the mass, but they pale in comparison to the meaty knot that has replaced their wings. When the Pugiblis walks, they keep their wings folded up like all others birds, but those hands still stand out amongst it all. Such a strange structure! I wonder what it is for? Well, you can easily get your answer if you walk up and ask one! And the answer is: POW!   When a predator or intruder gets too close for comfort, the Pugiblis raises its crest of feathers and lets out some guttural sounding grunts. Not a very pretty song, but it does convey a message. Ignore their warning, and those wings come out and do their thing. When the bulbous hand is folded up like that, it is actually being held back by an impressive setup of bone and muscle. Essentially all the muscles once used for flight are now converted into storing energy within these mitts. When an attacker starts threatening them, the whole system is released and the hand swings forth with incredible force! Hardened scales and thickened bone has turned these wing hands into meaty clubs, and the muscles behind it all send it snapping forward to clobber foes. If you think the Pugiblis is some fragile songbird, you will get some sense knocked somewhere when this bird decks you. Their strength is nothing to sneeze at, as these same club wings are used to crack open the shells of fruits and mussels. If this thing can split a coconut in two, think of what will happen to your face when a punch connects! Plenty a predator have felt that impact, and have stumbled off with shattered jaws and less teeth then they started with. As mentioned before, Pugiblis are omnivores, going after both fruit and flesh. Thick shelled nuts and fruits don't stand a chance against their blows, and same goes for clams and crustaceans. Their curved beak is used to slip into these cracked foodstuffs and extract the meat within. They are also used to probe the sand for any buried treats, as they will happily eat stuff they don't need to punch. The claws at the end of their hands are used to help position their hardened meals just so before letting out a powerful chop. They also are used for preening and cleaning themselves when they need to look good. This is an important thing for them, as Pugiblis woo the ladies and intimidate the guys by looking magnificent. The brighter the feathers, the healthier they are. Also, a pristine crest shows that they don't lose many fights, as those who get the sap beaten out of them don't tend to keep their style that good. So when you see a Pugiblis strutting down the beach with crest at full mast, just know you are dealing with the master of this shore, who is ready to throw down against any who challenge that title. The reason why shorelines with Pugiblis colonies are left alone is because this species is highly territorial. They have their stretches of beach that they patrol, and any who walk onto their turf are immediately seen as challengers. So even if you just want to sunbathe, don't expect them to stay away when you lay your towel on the wrong spot. They will totally go after you unprovoked, because in their eyes you already made the first offense of intrusion. Attacks by Pugiblis are brief but brutal. The slowly strutting, croaking bird will approach at almost a cautious pace, but when its on its on. They suddenly dash forward with crazed energy and start swinging. Punches fly, legs flail and kick, and the beak gets to stabbing. In some cases, usually against larger targets, the Pugiblis isn't above spitting up a previous meal and launching it into the opponent's face. Those who scramble away from this attack do so with bruises, cuts, probably broken bones and some loose teeth. It is not a good place to be and not a pretty way to spend a vacation. And don't even think of fighting back, as that just makes them even angrier. Beating them won't even solve your problem, because if you somehow scare off or kill the attacking Pugiblis, another one will most likely come rushing in swinging. It turns out, if you succeed in defeating one Pugiblis, the others see you as the one who now owns this turf. Thus it means if they beat you, they get the land! Your brief victory will just mean more aggressive birds lining up for a shot at the champ!

Pugiblis aren't even friendly to their own kind, what with the territorial nature. Even more so when the breeding season kicks in. The big crested males with the prime beach spots get the ladies, and tempers flare when other guys get jealous. Challengers arrive and the brawls go down, with each fighter looking to beat the other into retreating. Thankfully, most fights last mere moments and some don't even occur at all. The feathers and strutting signify health and strength, and angry calls back and forth equate to a shouting match or trash talk. You'll see them square up and circle around one another, letting out grunts and croaks at their opponent. Some of the big birds put on enough of a show that the others run off before a single punch is thrown. When it is time to lay eggs, the females retreat more inland, using their claws to dig holes in the ground for a nest. They will sit upon these eggs and protect, from both predators and angry males. It turns out some male Pugiblis will smash eggs they know aren't theirs, to lessen competition for their young and to perhaps free up the female for another chance at breeding. Not sure why the mother would go with the guy who destroyed her nest, but different species play by different rules. Thankfully, the females are just as good at punching as the males, and can defend their eggs if a nasty vandal approaches. It should be noted that not all Pugiblis have red feathers, as others have arisen with different colored plumage. It tends to vary by regions, with different places having slight or drastic changes in color. I have even seen some with blue feathers, and it is marvelous! However, Pugiblis with red feathers don't agree with my sentiment. Any bird with different colors to their crests are clearly outsiders, and thus should be driven away. Whenever the red and blue ones interact, it is always violent and filled with spitting, grunting and punching. These birds just do not get along, or just really love to fight. Due to their aggressive nature, these birds are left well alone by the locals. The shorelines they live on are kept free from beach goers, or at least smart ones, as no one wants to mess with these angry avians. However, that doesn't mean they're not hunted! Pugiblis are indeed hunted for their meat and plumes, but such efforts must be done from a long range. Those who shoot these birds must be sure they're dead before going in to collect their kill, as an injured Pugiblis will be twice as dangerous. With their fighting prowess and proud nature, it should be no surprise this species' image is used a lot in crests, on signs and as mascots for fight clubs. Their colors and garbs show up a lot in said arenas, as fighters find kindred spirits within these birds. In more darker corners, however, Pugiblis fights are pretty popular. Birds are captured and thrown into rings with others of their kind, while the audience bets on who wins. While their brawls in nature end with a bruised loser, these battles are to the death. These type of fighting rings are illegal, but obviously that doesn't stop everyone. At least I can take a bit of satisfaction whenever I hear that one of these imprisoned birds got loose and beat their cruel master to death. And before anyone asks: no, I haven't ever been hit by one. Not exactly a thing I want to experience. I have taken plenty of beatings during my time as a researcher, so I think I got that area well covered by now. I mean, what do you think happens every time I walk into Eucella's office with another stack of papers? Honestly, I would probably prefer fighting the bird! They seem more merciful! Har!     Chlora Myron Dryad Natural Historian

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“Pugiblis”

Look, you know if birds had fists they would punch people. Seagulls wouldn't wait five seconds to sucker punch you and run off with your fries.

[starboundanon]

Oh sorry! I didn’t mean to be so vague. I meant the untitled rod sequel not the dark rod au. Thank you!!! 🥰

All good! Hope this is somewhat close to what you were looking for. ♥

TW: mentions of corporal punishment, babying, lack of boundaries, inappropriate/unhealthy relationship.

The tension bled from his body as soon as he stepped into the room, the frustrations of the galaxy left behind him, like he had entered a separate world.

Vader sighed, a wave of inexplicable calmness washing over him, smile already tugging at his lips as soon as the door slid shut. The Palace was his domain, but this — here, in their quarters — was home.

"Luke?"

He heard a rustle of fabric, and in the next moment, his son appeared in the doorway that led to his room, a happy grin brightening his handsome face.

"Hi," he greeted, stepping close enough for Vader to reach out and take him by the arms, pulling him into an embrace. "You felt kind of mad, earlier. Is everything okay?"

"Fine now," Vader said, wrapped around Luke like a wookie, arms ridiculously long compared to his diminutive son. "Certain members of my council seem to have an affinity for trying my patience. But I am here with you now, and that is all that matters."

Luke's smile turned a little wry. "Glad I could help."

"More than you know."

The boy snuggled a little firmer into his chest, then yelped with laughter when Vader bent and hoisted him into his arms, hands secure on the back of his thighs to keep his legs wrapped around his waist, mindful of his bruises. Arms wove around his neck and clung to him, his son's head tucked beneath his chin like a child.

More like a child, that is.

He carried him effortlessly through their quarters, depositing him on the dining table where they shared their meals. Luke allowed his father to inspect him without a fuss, head tipped back as Vader ran his hands over his face and through his hair, leaning away from him as directed so his gaze could roam over every inch of him.

"I didn't do anything," Luke assured, sighing as Vader opened his robe to feel over his chest, checking for fresh bruises. His youngling was such a rambunctious, reckless boy — even during quiet time, he was capable of finding new ways to hurt himself. "I've just been reading all day."

"Better to be safe than sorry," Vader said, placing a kiss to his son's temple, his cheek, and then the button of his nose. "How's that bottom feeling?"

Crimson colored his son's face, from his forehead all the way to his ribs. "It's — fine."

Vader raised an eyebrow at him, a wordless stare, and Luke sighed, relenting.

"It's sore."

"Very well," he said with a nod, kissing his son's cheek again. "Let's take a look."

He stepped away from the table, allowing him to hop down on his own. A furious blush continued to burn across the boy's skin as he turned towards the table, dropping his robe from his shoulders, before draping his chest over its surface, naked but for his smallclothes.

Dragging his durasteel hand down the valley of his son's spine, Vader slipped his fingers beneath the waistband of Luke's shorts and tugged them down, over the swell of his ass, past the splattering of bruises coloring his thighs.

He cupped the boy's right cheek with his flesh hand, gauging its tenderness. "That's a pretty shade of red you're wearing, son."

Luke groaned into the tabletop, clearly more humiliated by the joke than comforted. His ass was still a bright red from his morning spanking, a lovely shade of kyber that matched the blush darkening his frontside. He left the boy bent over the table while he fetched a bottle of bacta gel, pleased when Luke held still without direction. The boy was learning so fast. Beyond his maintenance spankings, he hadn't required his father's correction in weeks, perhaps even months.

"Spread your legs a little wider, little one," he said, thumb stroking the handsome dimple in the boy's lower back. "I want to make sure we don't miss any spots."

Bracing himself against the table's surface, Luke slowly shuffled his feet apart, obedience and humiliation battling to the death through his turbulent Force presence.

But obedience won out, as it did so often these days, earning him a pleased pat on the reddest part of his cheek, making the youngling twitch in apprehension.

"My good boy."