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#I’M WHEEZING THIS MUST HAVE BEEN YEARS AGO
leclsrc · 10 months
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can i please request a forbidden relationship with charles? like maybe a verstappen!reader or a wolff!reader? angst to fluff please 😩
name calling – cl16
Charles develops a new nickname, but it's not for you. (wolff!reader)
auds here... i love u anon and i hope its okay that i did not write angst into this!!! i needed a feel good thing to get the trope going. listened to this a lot while writing, one of my favorite cutesy love songs ever!
“There’s peach and apple,” you say over the phone, inspecting the juice box flavors in the well-stocked fridge of the Mercedes motorhome. Apparently, over at Ferrari, the supply is running dry, a report generously provided to you by your boyfriend.
“Is there lemon?” You two have the same favorite. You rifle through the stock and find a lone lemon flavor collecting frost at the back of the pile.
“None.” You say, clearing your throat. “Come on, man. Peach and apple.”
He makes a noise of suspicion, but gives in. “Peach then.”
“Okay.” You tuck your phone in-between your ear and shoulder and collect multiple to find the coldest one, an accompaniment to the heat this weekend; your call is cut short when your dad walks in, eyebrows set in a straight line of contemplation.
They raise when he spots you harboring a bunch of peach juice boxes. “Gotta go, bye,” you add in a rushed whisper, and he says a quick see you thanks before hanging up.
“Dad,” you say casually. You raise one of the six boxes in your hand. “Juice?”
“Is there lemon left?”
“No luck. Peach and apple,” you say sweetly.
“I’ll have apple. Listen, I’m going to a principal’s meeting using your scooter.”
You toss him a box. “Okay. Stay safe,” you respond, letting him pull you into a one-armed hug. “There’s too many people in the centre so I’ve been scootering behind motorhomes to get to places faster. Might help.”
“Okay, spatzi,” he says, punching a straw into the box and departing. This signals a greenlight for you to call Charles again—despite your best mutual efforts, you’ve both been almost caught calling or being near each other by your dad. And, in the words of your lovely boyfriend, he’s not yet ready to die. But the hiding is worth it; after all, it’s hiding from the public, which you both wanted from the get go, and your dad. Your mum and several friends know, which makes the lying ease up a little bit.
He picks up in the middle of the first ring. “Hey. Got my juice?” 
“Yeah. Back door.” A routine crafted over years of knowing each other—first as friends, then as lovers—serves you well, a rushed meeting at the back door of a garage or motorhome to discuss date night plans or to hand over a gift or plate of food. In this case, it’s a juice box, half-tossed in your rush to not be spotted by one of your dad’s friends.
And, as always, he blows you a kiss as you close the door.
Four sips into his peach juice, Charles sneaks past the Mercedes motorhome and moves back to Ferrari, but not without spotting a mess of long limbs on the ground beside a forgotten scooter. Upon closer inspection, his suspicion of it being a deranged superfan is rejected—it’s Toto Wolff.
“I must have tripped on a wire,” Toto grunts, eyes scanning the ground. He meets Charles’ eyes. 
“Let me help you,” Charles says, immediately offering a hand and pulling. The guy is jacked, so he exerts a bit more effort than he’s willing to admit; the job gets done nonetheless, so potato-potahto, really. 
“Thank you,” wheezes Toto, sitting up, all six feet five of him, “son.”
Charles is slack mouthed. Oh my God. Son???? “You are welcome, so welcome,” he responds kindly, despite the awkward tension. “Um, Papa.”
Toto pauses his ascent and stares pointedly before shaking his head. “I… must go.”
“Well, drive safe. Watch the roads. And all.” Charles says, laughing sheepishly. “Toto. Watch the roads, and all, Toto.” He emphasizes, like that takes back the fact that he called the big boss Papa just ten seconds ago. He chews at the straw of the peach juice, gnawing nervously.
“I will. Thanks again.” He falls quiet, staring. Then a knobby finger points to the juice box, waving back and forth in-between the juice box in the garbage bin a few metres away. “They’re… your juice box… is that from the Mercedes… motorhome?”
“No,” lies Charles with unrivaled stiffness.
“It is a German brand we special order for my daughter.”
“No—see, I am very into German juice.” He ignores the way it sounds like a euphemism. “What’s that? My phone is now ringing. Okay. D’accord. Au revoir.” He walks away as he makes up additional excuses, not missing Toto’s laser stare that seems to permeate through walls and asphalt, finding reprieve only when he’s back in his room.
He chucks the juice box into the nearest bin and prays to all the gods.
Charles ends up getting P1. He’s surrounded by whoops and cheers and receives a very solemn “good effort” nod from Toto across the paddock, which he feels cements his apology and effectively keeps your relationship hidden. He’s handled it well. For once, he’s the mature crisis handler in the relationship, and you don’t need to know about any of this, you really don’t.
You congratulate him at the back door like always, when he’s on the way to the parking lot.
A kiss to his cheek. Then: “I have something to ask.”
“What’s that, darling?”
“Did you, um. Call my dad Papa?”
He presses a palm to his mouth in a very Charles-esque overdramatic way. “Oh my God, he told you?!”
“Oh my God, it’s true?!” You detect the volume in your voice and usher yourself out, quietly shutting the door before facing him again. You raise your eyebrows.
Your boyfriend, your adorably aloof boyfriend, just sputters. “Well—he called me son!”
“Yeah, because he’s old! Old people do that.” You gesticulate wildly “I can’t believe you called him Papa.”
“I can’t believe he told you.”
“I can’t believe you both thought I did not know,” comes a voice from the door that is, unfortunately, not Lewis’ or George’s or yours or Charles’.
The door swings open and there your dad stands, eyebrows raised quizzically, windbreaker-clad arms crossed over his chest. “Charles, I know you don’t ‘like German juice.’ Spatzi, I know you don’t ‘enjoy exploring Monaco hotels by yourself.’” Stoically, he raises air quotes.
“… Sorry?” You offer, smile sweet.
“It’s okay.” He allows a small, warm smile directed to you. “I’ve known a while now.”
“Sorry, Toto,” Charles says profusely, visibly anxious.
The smile chills. Your dad just nods, waving him off. “Cool down on the Papa, though, Leclerc.” 
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kiwisbell · 7 months
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Security Details: Chapter 2 [frankie morales]
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Frankie’s long-time friend enlists his help. He's more than eager to accept the job. The problem is that he's in love with her.
chapter 1 | chapter 2
pairing: francisco "catfish" morales x f!reader
rating: 18+ (mdni)
tags and warnings for entire fic: abusive relationship (not between frankie and reader), murder, violence, BAMF frankie, protective frankie, possessive frankie, soft frankie, mutual pining, yearning, reader is not named but has a call sign (fox), frankie is dumb but he's got the spirit, angst, smut, fluff, partners to friends to lovers, happy ending, frankie spends most of this fic in his feelings, telltale signs of a fic written by a hopeless romantic, unprotected piv, breeding kink, creampie, oral sex, consensual somnophilia, english and spanish dirty talk, frankie going feral to keep his girl safe, possessive sex, blood and injury, undefined age gap
tags and warnings for this chapter: unrequited love becomes requited, unprotected piv (don't follow my lead), oral sex, frankie eating pussy like a king, blood and violence, frankie is unhinged, protective frankie, possessive sex, consensual somno, creampie, breeding kink, frankie morales fucks
word count: ~ 9k
chapter 2: oh, but i'm singing like a bird about it now
It takes him two hours to tell the entire story of what happened in Peru. It happens over dinner: the most disgusting canned ravioli he’s ever eaten and the most tolerable canned green beans. They sit opposite one another at the tiny two-person dining table, basking in slats of orange sunlight that filter through the closed blinds. He can’t risk anyone seeing her here now that she suspects someone is following her. 
“That’s…” She blows out a breath, poking some beans with her fork. “Jesus, Frankie. I’m sorry. That sounds like a really shitty few weeks.”
Sorry? All the shit he’s just confessed to doing for some pathetic fucking bags of money, and she’s sympathising? He must look bewildered enough to make her giggle, if a bit hysterically. “It’s just…” She drops her chin into her palm. “Two hundred and fifty million.”
He stares at her for a moment. The golden light on her face and the way her eyes glimmer. “Yeah.”
“And you got on the boat with five.”
He’s beginning to understand. “Yeah.”
“And…” She bites down on her lip. “You signed away your earnings.”
He doesn’t think either of them are able to pinpoint what causes the laughter, but soon they’re both in tears, choking and wheezing over something that is probably not funny at all. Tears are streaking down their faces and the tiny home is filled with the sound of cutlery clanging as they shake uncontrollably. Their minds are not their own, and when the laughter ebbs, they are left smiling at one another. It feels like it did before, for a wink. 
“What would you have done with it?” she asks.
He sips his beer—the fridge is still stocked from his last stay here. “Two years ago, it would have been an Aston Martin or a lifetime’s supply of cowboy boots.”
“And now?” She’s drinking, too, but she dug around the stores for a bottle of red wine and poured some into a mostly-clean mason jar. 
“Now…” Frankie sighs. “Lifetime’s supply of diapers and baby food.”
“I don’t know, Frankie. I like your cowboy boots.”
“Nah, see, now I know you're lying.”
“What the fuck are those?”
“What?” Frankie looked down at his boots. “You don't like ‘em?”
She covered her mouth with her hand, but it didn't shroud the shaking of her shoulders. “No. No, Frank, I don’t.” She touched her hand to her heart. “I looove them.”
“Don't be mean, Foxy,” piped up Santiago from the back. “Those bastards were paid for with blood money.”
She gasped. “Don't tell me…”
Santiago hoisted Frankie’s arm into the air and whooped. “Divorce does wonders, folks!”
Frankie flushed hot while Fox bit down on her lip. He felt dirty—wrong—for being glad about the split, for wanting the woman in front of him for far longer than he ever wanted Lisa. He felt like a cheater. “Cálmate,” he grumbled to Pope. 
She just laughed, rubbing a knot out of his shoulder. “If we're going to set a good example for your daughter, we have to teach her honesty. I think your boots are hideous. And yet”—she swigged her beer and kissed him on the cheek—“you somehow pull them off. You must teach me your ways.”
Frankie watches a car speed by through the blinds and makes sure it disappears from sight. “You ever notice him acting strangely?”
“He would miss dinner or come to bed late,” she says, “but I assumed he was working late, like he told me. Or cheating.”
Frankie frowns. “You wouldn't have cared?”
She scoffs. “Please, Frank. Of course I would care. It’s not like he would let me leave. I knew he was a recreational user, but I started to notice calls on the phone logs and missing links in email chains to and from a man named St. John—Matt said he was a higher-up at his company, but I think it's an alias. Started to feel like he was hiding something more than just another woman.” She rubs her brow. “Had a lot of thinking to do while I was… away. And things add up.”
“He got put away,” says Frankie. He only speaks to remind himself of the truth. He won't hurt her again. 
“Only because of this.” She points to her face. “I know it sounds paranoid—”
“I believe you,” says Frankie. “Like you said, you've never steered me wrong.”
She smiles. “We should sleep. You drove all day, and I had to listen to your music all day.”
“Hey.” Frankie points at her. “Driver picks music, Foxy. Don't insult Metallica.”
“Go to sleep,” she says again, disappearing back into the hallway where she'll stretch out in that twin bed. He putters around in the kitchen, scrubbing their plates a little too hard, arranging the cushions and blankets on the couch with a little too much force. Lying with his eyes fixed on the yellowed popcorn ceiling, the old ache in his back throbbing up his spine, Frankie loathes this house. He detests the colour of the walls and the way the floors would creak under your weight even if you weighed eighty pounds. He hates the uncomfortable furniture. 
He hates that she has to be here. 
He hates himself for letting his head get stuck so far up his own ass he never mustered up the courage to tell her how he loved her: that her smile makes him ache, that he craves her presence the way he used to crave nicotine, that she's it for him. He hates that she's been wasting her time with assholes who only hurt her while he's been wasting his time yearning but not acting. If he's too much of a coward to tell her, he'll show her. 
He’ll show her exactly how worth it she is. He’ll make sure she knows that he'd die for her the way she nearly did the day she took that bullet. 
~
They're used to waiting in a profession like theirs. She's accustomed to hours and days upon rooftops and inside inconspicuous vans. She's used to the way it makes her joints creak with disuse and her eyes sore from rarely blinking. They've been in this safe house for a week, and they're out of food. 
“No.”
“Frank—”
“No, Fox.” He’s frowning in frustration. It's a different frown than his concentration frown, which is altogether different from his needy frown—the one he gets when he's neglected. Her favourite grumpy dog. “It's too risky.”
Her bruises have mostly healed, along with the cut on her lip. But he'll never forget them. He’ll never forget seeing her walk into the kitchen in Santiago’s home, the terror that flooded him. 
“Everything’s risky if I’m being stalked,” she reasons. “I can't hide forever, Frankie. Especially not if we don't have any leads.”
His nostrils flare, and she knows she's in for more arguing. “I can go. You should stay here.”
“I know you can, Frank.” She gestures toward the windows. “Has anyone followed us here?”
“Not that I’ve seen,” he begins, “but—”
“I’m getting cabin fever.” She folds her arms over her chest. “I know you are, too. That's why we're arguing.”
He huffs. “We’re not… arguing.”
She smiles. “Good. Isn’t it better that we don't split up, anyway?”
He gets pissed off when his friends are right, sometimes. Whenever he's arguing with Santiago about something easily Googleable (she'll do just that—look it up and wait patiently with the phone screen turned away until they're finished their shouting match), he'll grind his jaw and sulk for a bit when he's in the wrong. Then, he'll slap Santiago good-naturedly on the cheek and they’ll move on. Being wrong about such trivial things leads to being wrong in the real world. Making the wrong call. Getting someone hurt. 
He's always been a bit of a worrier. 
But he doesn't get mad when she's right. Because she makes it sound so sweet, so gentle, and all he can do is laugh. Of course she's right. He was stupid to argue with her in the first place. It's much safer if they travel together. He can keep her safe. He can. 
He fucking will. 
“Get one of my sweatshirts,” he says. “Don't take off the hood.”
She rolls her eyes but does as he asks. Indulging him. He will earn the right to be indulged again. The sweatshirt is his, an old and too-large grubby thing, blue (his favourite colour), and it swallows her. He waits until she crosses the room to collect his wallet and plants himself by the window, rubbing a hand down his face and splashing some cold water over it for good measure. Jesus. Get yourself together. Fucking asshole.
They slip into the truck and he pulls out of the driveway after making triple-sure no one lingers nearby. She draws a knee up to her chest so she can rest her chin on it, always detesting the feeling of her feet on the ground. It’s as if she can taste the tremors in the ground on her tongue and needs reprieve from them. 
“Those jeans aren’t yours,” he says after a too-long silence. He hopes she isn’t put off by him memorising the articles in her closet. 
“Matt’s,” she says idly. “Got blood on mine. I felt like I wanted to fuck him over in some small way. Taking his pants probably wasn’t the best method.”
He says nothing, but he sets his jaw and turns into town. It’s small enough that it borders on a hamlet, really; there’s a single Food World and a gas station, which are connected to one another. He can see every single home from here, stuck in the middle of nowhere on this lonely country road. It’s almost pleasant.
“What’s your favourite piece from my closet, Frankie?”
Shit.
She says it teasingly, a smile tugging on one corner of her mouth. It’s the kind of smile she gets when she’s trying not to, biting down on her bottom lip. He can’t quite grasp the depth of his own want, the way his chest lurches and his fingers twitch toward her. His body knows him before he does. He wants to lunge across the truck bench and put his mouth on hers, slide his hands up her—his—sweatshirt, and feel her: her strong, soft, capable body, her scars and bruises he’s memorised in their years together. He wants to hear her gasps and whimpers, different from any cries of pain he’s heard from her lips before. He wants to make her feel good. And she would feel so fucking good. 
“You really wanna know?” he says.
She’s already looking at him when he parks at the Food World. “Yeah, I do.”
“That blue sundress,” he tells her, “the one you wear for the Fourth of July every year.”
Her brows lift a little in the middle, stretching the scar on her nose, and she’s so adorable sometimes it makes him hurt, makes him forget that she’s killed people with those fingers twiddling in her lap, makes him keep talking even though she already fucking knows what her dress looks like. She’s the one who wears it.
“It’s got these… I don’t know, these fuckin’ bows. Yeah, they’re bows. On the shoulders. You have to re-tie them when they get loose. Your face scrunches up when you concentrate, the way it does when you’re on a roof, watching a target through your scope.” Frankie watches her eyes scan his face, every inch, every freckle, like she’s trying to memorise it before a test. “It kinda—sorta flutters when there’s a breeze, y’know? It’s… nice.” He clears his throat and turns his head away, looking through the windshield. “You look nice in blue.”
Recalling the way her hips curve in that flowy fucking dress, the way she glows and shines and makes everyone shield their eyes from the glare, Frankie knows why his favourite colour is blue.
And Christ, the way she looks at him after his humiliating admission… The weight of her gaze, the slow blinking, the way her lashes brush her cheeks, the sheer power she imposes upon him when she watches him like that. He feels like he’s the biggest and smallest thing in the universe. He feels like suffering too long under that look will turn him to ashes. 
“Frank,” she says, a name shoved out, dreamlike in quality. “If you’d told me you liked it so much, I’d wear it every day.”
He lets himself laugh. “Even in winter?”
“I have snow boots and a parka for a reason.” She lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Haute couture, no?”
He needs to get out of this truck. He needs to get out before he does something he’ll regret. “C’mon,” he says, “let’s make this quick.”
The Food World is mostly deserted. There are two cashiers, one drumming his fingers on the counter and the other resting her chin in her palm. People mill about the aisles, mostly in similar dress to theirs, sweatpants and sweatshirts and ratty jeans. Muzak crackles through the overhead P.A. systems. Nothing immediately prickles at his instincts. Frankie lets her walk ahead, lingering behind her. He doesn’t like people at his back, never has: an old soldier’s itch. Even waiting in lines makes him sweat a little above the brow. She’s never been that nervous, but she understands. She reaches backward every so often and squeezes his hand to make sure he’s still with her. 
From here, he can’t exactly help but look at her ass in those too-big jeans, the flare of her hips, her legs. His hood is secure atop her head, morphing her into a stranger to the world, no longer the beautiful beacon with the cuts and bruises on her face. Frankie, in his own jeans and his grey T-shirt and his olive green button-up, cap snug on his head, looks just as unassuming—save for the permanent frown on his face. 
“We need these,” she says when they reach the empty baking aisle, though he isn’t sure why they’re in the baking aisle. Until he sees her hold up two boxes of cake mix. Chocolate and birthday confetti. 
“We do not need those.”
“Cat,” she says, her voice dropping low, nearly a fucking purr. Does she know what she’s doing? What she does to him? “You are too grumpy to function. It’s your birthday in a couple days. What if we’re still in that stupid house because of me? You’ll have no cake to celebrate.”
“I don’t want to celebrate getting older,” he says, gently plucking the boxes from her hands. It makes her eyes widen, a deliberate, dirty goddamn move, until she schools her face to look like she’s about to cry. He flicks her on the nose. “And that… is a rotten play, Fox.”
Her pouting mouth makes him want to pounce, to shove her up against the shelves of boxed mix and wipe that look off her face with his mouth. His fingers. His cock. God, he needs to get a grip. 
“You aren’t old, Frankie,” she says softly. She reaches for him and gently pries his fingers, one-by-one, from the box of chocolate mix. He lets her. “Your life deserves to be celebrated. We’ll do chocolate, okay? It’s understated.”
But he feels old. He remembers the first day she was introduced to the team: her fresh-faced and bounding with energy. He, mid-thirties at the time, was hesitant to accept a new member of the team. He and the guys had already gelled, known one another for years in Basic before they were slapped together, and Frankie didn’t know what to make of the sniper, the stunner. But she  slipped in, made them laugh and silenced any doubts with that perfect fucking aim, and made him feel like an asshole for ever thinking she wasn't the perfect choice. She's always the perfect choice. 
Your life deserves to be celebrated. 
“Okay,” he relents. “Chocolate. Now get out of this aisle before you convince me to buy whipped cream.”
She beams up at him and it's worth giving up his pride. “And don't give me any of that shit about this being your fault,” he says, guiding her toward the produce. “It's his. You know it.”
“It was my decision to rope you in, Frank. You're the only one I trust with my life like this.”
It's such a vulnerable, soft thing that escapes her mouth. Absently, his hand finds her waist, squeezes. She looks up at him, her face obscured by half a shadow thanks to the hood, and he's worried he's gone too far. But her lips part, her breath leaves her in a sigh, and she whispers, full of conviction: “I mean it.”
Frankie tries to rein in his breathing, shifts the cyclic stick back toward the space between two walls, his lungs. Overrides the spin-out by looking in her eyes. “I know you do,” he says. “I know, baby.” 
She brings his knuckles to her mouth and kisses each one. He loses control again. Fuck, he's not even scanning his surroundings. He's lost himself in her, in that gentle smile she gives him. There's solidarity in that smile. Forgiveness, almost. “For the record,” she says, “it wasn't a hundred guys.”
Just like that, he wants to slap himself all over again. 
You've been fucking around with a hundred other guys because you wanted me? Tell me how that makes sense, honey, because it doesn't make a goddamn inch of sense to me.
He hates himself. He hates himself so much, and he'll never be good enough to—
She's laughing. 
Why the fuck is she laughing?
“You have a tendency to get mad,” she says, still snickering a little. “And when you get mad, you run your mouth. I was hurt and drained and fucking humiliated from being the bitch dumb enough to date him for two years. And what you said hurt. But I shouldn't have walked away.” She shrugs. “Wasted so much time already.”
He shakes his head, vaguely unable to comprehend what she's saying. “How…” He clears his throat. “How can you say that? I was a fucking asshole. I called you—”
“You didn't call me anything.” She picks up a lemon and inspects it. “How do you feel about lemon meringue?”
“I've never had it.” He grasps her wrist. “What are you saying, Fox?”
“I’m saying that we've both been idiots. How have you never tried lemon meringue?”
“Mom never made it.” He slips his hand under her hood and cradles the back of her head. Look at me, he wants to say. Don't stop looking at me. “I’m sorry, Fox. I’m sorry for everything I said. I pressured you. I was so angry for what that dickhead had done to you, and I was so desperate for you, I didn't give you the space you needed. I am… so. Fucking. Sorry.” 
He shakes his head and shifts his thumb to trace the edge of her jaw, eyeing the nasty bruise. “You took a bullet for me. You and your infinite fucking wisdom. Jesus, you’re perfect. Knowing how much the world has burned you… It kills me, baby. I never wanted to hurt you, too, and I did. Don't forgive me. Please.”
Don't forgive me until I’ve earned it. I’ll never earn it. You're too good for this world, Foxy. You're too good for me. 
She lifts her hand to his, her fingers curling gently around his wrist. She hasn't stopped looking at him, her breaths coming a bit shorter, a bit bruised. “Frankie,” she whispers. “There's someone watching us by the doors. Don’t look.” 
His stomach plummets. He threads his fingers through hers and keeps her tucked to his side as they bypass the produce and head straight for the canned food aisle. “Grab what you need,” he says. “Make it heavy.”
A good makeshift weapon: a bag full of cans. He doesn't have his gun on him. It’s in the glove box. Fuck. She begins to swipe canned corn, beans, and ravioli into their reusable bag and he never lets go of her hand. “Relax,” she says, hoisting the bag up onto her shoulder and rubbing his arm in soothing lines. Up and down. Up and down. “It's okay, Frank. You're with me.”
He wants to believe her, but he's panicking. “Got everything?” he asks, trying to keep his posture casual even as his mind shifts gears. Keep your eyes open. Be ready. Keep her safe. 
For the love of all good things, keep her safe. 
“I’m ready,” she says easily, not a hint of her anxiety translating to her face. “Could’ve used that lemon, though.”
“If you want to bake for me so badly, honey, just tell me,” he says, not looking at her, keeping his head on a swivel for the someone she was talking about. “Describe him to me.”
“Tall, white, wearing all black,” she says quietly. They make their way toward the checkout. He wants to grab her hand and run to the truck, but they can't exactly smuggle out a bag filled with clanking metal cans. 
She reaches the counter first and smiles at the man behind it, immediately rushing to place all their items on the belt. “The man in all black,” she whispers to the man, never once dropping her smiling façade, “he’s got a gun. Please call the cops. I think he's following us.”
They both crowd together to shroud the cashier from view as he carries on bagging their groceries at the same time he reaches under the counter and presses the panic button. “How will you be paying?” he asks, all-too easily. 
Frankie looks behind him. The man, not facing them, rings out a single banana at the opposite register. The woman behind it looks polite but faintly rattled. He gathers the girl at his side a little closer, tucking an arm around her waist and slipping his hand into the pocket of the sweatshirt she wears. 
“Thank you,” says the cashier when she hands him a folded handful of bills. Frankie guesses he's thanking them for more than the money. “Have a great day. Stay safe out there.”
They both nod their thanks and walk as briskly as they can out of the store without drawing suspicion. Frankie doesn't hear any footsteps behind him, but he still fumbles with the keys in his rush to get her in the vehicle. 
She's got one foot still planted on the side step when she hazards a glance toward the doors of the Food World, and screams, “Frankie, down!”
He ducks at the same time he drops his shoulder to tackle her to the ground. He can't quite manoeuvre them quickly enough to prevent her from slamming hard into the ground; he watches her slam her shoulder against the asphalt at the same time the gunshot goes off. Frankie lands hard on his back, but they're both scrambling to get behind the truck. There isn't time to lick their wounds. The cans have spilled from the bag under the truck. One, filled with baked beans, nudges Frankie’s foot and rolls to a stop.
He keeps his hand pressed against her back as they move, grounding himself in her. She's still alive. He's going to keep it that way. “Fuck,” she says, daring to peek around the truck. “It’s him. Plus another guy at our eleven o’clock.”
“Get in the bed of the truck,” he says, handing her the can. “Smash the back window and crawl inside. Get the gun from the glove box. I’ll be right behind you.”
She nods, clinical in her analysis of the situation. Her face is grim, but she knows it’s their only option. Frankie unlatches the tailgate and pushes at her thighs to help her up while keeping her body as low as possible. She cracks the window with the edge of the can, but it takes three total hits to break the glass. It seems only one of the men is armed, the one who had followed them into the Food World. The other is making his way around the vehicle to flank them. Frankie ducks low to avoid one shot in particular, and he can hear it whizz past his ear. She’s inside the truck, crawling toward the glove box and wrenching it open. She flicks off the safety, leans out the broken window, and aims for the man closest to Frankie: the one holding the gun, who’s currently trying to kill him. 
It makes his ears ring. The shot fires hardly a foot away from his left ear, but he knows who’s fired it, so he doesn’t flinch. Next to him, he hears a body topple and flips onto his back. She hops out of the truck and checks to make sure the man is dead before she circles the truck to accost the other. 
Only he isn’t there. 
“Frank?” she says, not meeting his eyes, still scanning her surroundings. “Where—”
It happens too quickly. Too quickly, even, for Frankie to bark a warning. He can only watch in terror as the man springs out from behind the gas pump and tackles her to the ground. She loses her grip on the gun in the tussle, her head smacking hard against the pavement. Visibly dazed, eyes unfocused, she reaches blindly for the man’s throat, but he pins down her arms at her sides, his thighs bracketing her writhing legs as she tries, unavailingly, to kick him in the balls. 
Frankie doesn’t think when he acts. Terror and rage flood him. They are thick and cloying in his throat. They cloud the reason. The methodical soldier flees. 
He’s bigger than the man atop her. He’s also angrier. His body barrels into him, knocks him aside, sending them both rolling across the ground. Frankie doesn’t reach for the gun. He doesn’t even try to. He just balls his hand into a fist and breaks the man’s noise. 
Blood sprays, splattering the man’s face and Frankie’s knuckles as he yelps, a gurgled, helpless cry. But Frankie doesn’t stop. He can’t. He won’t. He punches, again and again and again. The face is a target, a pinkish round thing with eyes and a crooked nose and a mouth. The nose splits at the bridge, blood seeping. The whites of the eyes stain red. Blood vessels snap. Lips swell. At some point, the target stops crying, stops moving. He’s piloting, he’s in control, he’s so fucking out of control he can barely see. 
Cyclic stick. Window panes. Rotor blades. Scope. Rooftop. Stars. Laughter. Her. 
“Frankie.” 
The target is red now. Blood and skin and bone. His own split knuckles, beginning to hurt. His senses sharpen at the sound of his voice, but he doesn’t stop. Only slows down. He can’t stop. What if he gets back up? 
What if he hurts her again?
Faintly, he registers her stumbling toward him, hands and knees, desperate. Clawing at him. “Frankie,” she says. “Frankie, he’s down. Please. You’re done. It’s done.”
Finally, he pitches backward, as if someone has thrown him off the body beneath him. It’s the only way he can imagine stopping. He wants to go back for more, but her hands are there: one on his chest, pressing against his heart and calming the erratic beating, and the other cupping his face in her palm, like he’s something to be cherished. 
“You did it,” she pants. His hands fly backward, slapping against the asphalt to keep himself from tumbling onto his back. She’s still holding him. 
There’s a thin dribble of blood on her temple. It’s minimal. It’s nothing. But his hand flies to the nape of her neck. “You’re bleeding,” he croaks.
She laughs again, a bit raspy, a bit hysterical. “So are you.”
“He…” Frankie swallows, thick, smoke and fire and fear. “I didn’t see him.”
“Neither did I.” She kisses him on the forehead. It’s gentle, so gentle, and when it’s over, she rests her forehead on his. “Hear that?”
He does. Sirens. The police have arrived. “Means we need to get up,” she says. “Are you all right, Frank? Can you get up?”
She shifts back to help him stand, but he blurts out, “Wait. Wait.”
Panic flitting across her face, she returns to him. “What’s wrong?”
He shakes his head vaguely, not really feeling it, his vision sharpening to her. Her eyes are her mouth and her mouth is her nose and her nose is her ears. She’s whole and she’s here, in front of him, and he needs her to know. 
“I love you,” he says. 
The smile creeps up slow, but when it arrives, it knocks the breath from him. “Sounded just as good out loud as it did in my head.” Her fingers find the collar of his button-up, and she grips it hard. Her eyes bury him deep in the earth. “I love you, Francisco. But you knew that.”
“Wish I knew it sooner,” he huffs, leaning in so he can finally, finally, kiss her the way he’s wanted to for so long. 
But a shadow looms over them, and a policeman awkwardly clears his throat. “Sir, ma’am, are you able to stand up?”
~
One policeman was all the department could spare, apparently. She and Frankie rose to greet him, explaining the situation as best they could. The man, unconscious but not quite dead on the ground, did not help Frankie’s case, but the cashier corroborated their story, having seen the entire affair through the windows of the Food World. 
They were questioned for too fucking long at the station. They were supplied with a bag of ice for his knuckles, and another for the gash in her temple, as if to make up for keeping them there for ten hours. The bloodied man confessed, once he woke up from his Frankie-induced nap: a lackey for a trafficking ring who was enlisted to kill her for getting too close. Frankie, too. 
He drives them back to the safe house instead of St. Augustine. Frankie has too much to do, too much to say. He can’t stand any more car rides in total silence. 
“So,” she sighs when she follows him inside, “that was a total fucking—mmmph!”
With a grumbling sound from deep in his chest and a faint shake of his head—why fucking wait?—Frankie crowds her, the door closing at her back, and slants his mouth to fit hers. 
Her hand flies up to cup his cheek, keeping him close, the other at his back. His strong back, his broad shoulders, the scruff of his patchy beard. Fuck, she can feel all of it. Frankie keeps it gentle, holding back, his hand finding a home at the back of her neck. He just kisses her. 
She smells like oranges and blood and… fuck, like him, still wearing his sweatshirt. And kissing him. His head is spinning, his chest tightening, her perfect fist wrapped around his heart, squeezing until it pops. He wants it to. He wants to die here. He's finally here, and he's kissing the girl of his dreams. Love taps at the barricade of his skull, knocking at his ribs, asking to come in. He opens all of him. 
“I love you,” he says, grinning against her mouth. “Fucking love you.”
She laughs breathlessly when their teeth clack together, but neither of them can hold back their smile. “You saved my life,” she says, lifting the cap off his head so she can tangle her fingers in his hair, too-long since its last cut. “The scales are balancing, Francisco.”
He laughs, too, somewhat delirious from the taste and the smell of her, nudging his nose against hers. “Can you feel it?” he asks, placing his palm over her years-old bullet wound. 
“I feel it everywhere,” she says, angling his head so he can't help but look her in the eye. Good. He wants to see all of her, all the time. “Tell me again.”
He puts his forehead to hers and kisses the tip of her nose. “I love you. Te amo. Can’t fucking help it.”
She scans his face, eyes pleading. Outside, a bird chirps. He's surprised to discover that life exists outside the two of them. 
“I want you to show me,” she says. 
And he will. God, he will. She is the air he breathes. He kisses her like it, dipping his head low to catch her mouth again, harder and firmer, opening up her mouth for him. He slides his tongue against hers and swallows every needy sigh she loosens from her chest. His hand slides from her hip to her back, splaying his fingers underneath his sweatshirt and pressing her to him. 
“Frankie,” she whispers. The force of such a gentle plea tears at him, rends all his limbs apart, and catches on what's left of his restraint. A fish hook. It tugs until he bleeds, an open wound for her. 
He pulls away just long enough to grasp at the sweatshirt. “Take it off, Frankie,” she says, breathless and panting. He does. He'll do anything she asks. 
It lands in a heap by the door. Underneath, she's wearing the shirt she wore this morning, a simple white tee, and he grunts in frustration. “Too many clothes,” is vaguely what comes out of his mouth as he tugs it up over her head and revels in the way her pupils dilate. He may as well go the whole nine yards, he figures, unclasping her bra and bearing her to him. Her back arches and her tits press up against his chest, keen and wanting. 
He stares for a moment, his cock an aching and persistent presence in his jeans. He doesn't know what to do first. He's obsessed. He wants to possess her, be possessed by her, sink into her until it's unclear where either of their bodies begin. “You're fucking perfect,” he says. 
“You can take a picture if you want,” she teases, pushing up against him and lifting her arms around his neck. He really fucking loves the sound of that: a small printed picture he gets to look at whenever he can't have the real thing. “But kiss me first.”
He finally gets his mouth on her again, sated and not altogether. His calloused hand finds her rib cage, fingers brushing the swell of her breast. He's too rough for her; she's delicate, smooth, perfect. He’s got a pilot’s hands. 
“Jesus. You’re so soft,” he grunts into her mouth, kissing her until her lips are bruised. He shifts to the corner of her lips, her Cupid’s bow, the gentle curves of it that fascinate him. He finds her jawline and traces it with his lips, enjoying the way her breathing begins to go shallow as he moves to her ear, biting the lobe before sucking and licking at the spot below it. 
“Frankieeee,” she mewls, grinding against him. He makes a gruff noise into her throat as he breathes her in deep, breathing in the scent of her the way a drowning man sucks in air at the ascent. 
“I know, baby,” he mumbles, slipping his hand down to her jeans and toying with the button at the same time he kisses her shoulder. 
“Want to undress you,” she says, pushing her hips up against his hand. “Please.”
Frankie’s never heard begging sound so good. He nods against her skin and pulls away, only to hoist her up and wrap her thighs around his hips. He swells a little with pride at the needy whimper that leaves her at the show of strength. “Bedroom,” he says into her ear, nipping at her lobe again. 
She nods frantically. He lowers her onto the bed and she lifts herself up to grab at his shirt. He laughs at the eagerness, but it sobers to hot and heavy arousal at the sight of her concentration, her devout eagerness to get his clothes off. He helps her shrug him out of his button-up and lifts his arms for her as she takes off his shirt. Her lips part, her pupils dark and wide, and he's stunned. Stunned by her blatant desire, her inability to hide it. “Never thought…” She trails off, chest heaving. 
“What is it, baby?”
“Never thought I’d get this,” she says earnestly, thumb stroking his jaw. “You.”
He kicks off his shoes and socks, holding her firm around the waist. She stands on her toes and kisses him, deep and true. “You've got me,” he tells her, breathing it into her mouth. “I’m yours, baby. I’ve always been.”
“Frankie.” Her lips are on his jaw, licking at the patch of skin that breaks his beard, then his throat, tasting and licking him the way she wants to. “I love you so much.”
He curses. She's revelling in him, and he loves it. He can't let go of her, can't stop himself from parting his lips and squeezing his eyes shut at the way she lavishes his throat with her mouth. She begins to make her way down his chest, sitting down on the bed so she can travel all the way down to his navel. His breathing is jagged, torn at the edges. He needs her so badly. She needs him so badly. 
“Baby…”
She hums, busy pressing kisses to his ribs, fumbling with his belt, the button, the zipper, at his jeans. 
Frankie bends down and notches his hands at the back of her thighs, half-tossing her farther up the bed. He pulls off jeans and boxers and briefly allows himself to grin at the sight of her sucking in a breath when his cock slaps against his stomach, hard and leaking. He isn't an idiot. He knows he's big. And it feels fucking good to know she wants him. 
He crawls up her body and tilts her chin up so he can kiss her. “I want to taste you,” he says. She gasps when he cups the heat of her through her jeans. 
“Please,” she says, writhing against him. Frankie yanks those godforsaken jeans down with little mercy, and she chokes out a laugh. “You really hate those things.”
“They're his.” Frankie tosses them across the room. “I want you to walk out of here forgetting he ever touched you… His fucking hands on you.”
She grounds him with a thumb brushing over his chin. “I’m yours,” she says. “Yours, Francisco.”
He grabs her ankle and locks it around his hip, forcing her legs to spread wide. The wet spot on her pink panties is unmistakable. “Mine,” he says under his breath, pressing his palm against her clit through her underwear. She whines his name. “Fuck, honey. You’re mine, huh?”
She nods, lifting herself into her elbows to watch him peel her panties down her legs. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, I am. Please…”
Frankie’s cock twitches at the sight of her glistening core. He shifts onto his stomach and, without warning, spreads her folds with two fingers and flattens his tongue against her slit. “Ohhh!” she cries, thighs trembling at the first touch. “Fuck… Frank…”
He flicks his tongue against her clit and presses his hips into the mattress to relieve some of the ache in his cock. Her moan is long and low, her hands grabbing, needy, nestling in his hair and holding on. He groans at the taste of her, the sweetness, nectar and sharp tang, so wet for him. For him. 
Frankie can't get enough. She tastes so good, and she moans so loudly for him, out here in the middle of nowhere, that he can't find it in himself to pull away from her cunt. Instead, he wraps a hand around her thigh as the other presses down against her belly to keep her still. He licks her clit until she's quivering and shifts to her entrance, circling it with his tongue before plunging inside and lapping up the slick that pours from her. She cries out with pleasure when his thumb circles her clit. 
“Your fingers,” she pleads, brows drawn up in the middle. “Want your fingers.”
Her face, flushed and needy, might make him come on the mattress. “You want my fingers, baby?” he says softly, still swiping her clit while his lips occupy themselves with kissing her inner thighs, the so-soft skin there. 
“Wanna know how it feels… to be one of your helicopters,” she says with a breathless laugh. 
He hums, bringing her clit into his mouth and sucking hard. She screams his name. “You're not a machine,” he says. 
“You fly them like you wanna fuck them,” she gasps, writhing as he suctions his lips to her clit again. 
He smacks the side of her thigh. “Only wanna fuck you. If you'll stay still.”
“Oh, please.” 
He can't tell if it's a genuine plea or her smart mouth, but he wants to see her come so badly he doesn't respond. He dives back in, sucking and lapping at her clit as two fingers trace her hole and sink in to the knuckle, prodding at her front wall. “Fucking wet,” he mumbles against her, but it's lost in the vibrations that make her cry out from the stimulation. 
“F—fuck, Frank, I…” Her eyes are unfocused, but he keeps his on her nonetheless. “I’m gonna… fuck—!”
He presses his fingers up against that spongy spot and laps at her clit while she comes, drenching his fingers in her hot slick. “Fuck,” she croaks, her body melting into the mattress. “That was…”
“Not over.” He sits up and leans over her, locking her leg around his hip and kissing her deeply. She’s boneless and pliant in his arms as he manhandles her hips up onto his thighs, sliding his cock through her wetness. She shivers. “I need you, baby,” he rasps. “Need you so fuckin’ bad.”
“Want you inside me, Frankie,” she says. “Fuck me, please. Make me yours.”
It's all he needs. Frankie pushes the head of his cock past her entrance and squeezes his eyes shut at the hot tightness of her. “Jesus.”
“You're big, Frank,” she says with a strained laugh. “Fuck, you're so—big!” 
He pushes more of himself inside and groans at the unrelenting grip of her walls around him. It's airtight, it's wet, it's fucking heaven. He's died. He must have. 
“I can take it,” she moans, her foot pressing at the small of his back, trying to pull more of him inside her. “I can, Frankie.”
She's so determined, so adorable in the way her brow scrunches, and he's so in love. He pushes inside until their hips are flush together and feels embarrassed by how good it is, so soon. It's been too long since he's buried himself inside a woman’s body, and hers is sending him fucking soaring. “Fucking… Hold still, honey. Can’t—fuck, you're so tight. Don't move. Just give me a second.”
She grins, head falling back into the pillow. “Can't… do that… to a helicopter.”
Frankie pulls out halfway and thrusts inside her sharply, hissing at the spark of pleasure that ricochets off his spine. “Smartass,” he grits out, relishing in the way she blindly reaches for the bedsheets and curls them in her hands. 
“Frankie, honey, fuck me,” she says, rocking her hips against his. 
He does. Of course he does. 
Frankie begins to move inside her, establishing a rhythm that gets her moaning under him. He fucks her the way she wants; he fucks her to make her his, forever. He gets so deep inside her he feels his head prod her womb, and it doubles him over. 
He drapes his body over her and humps her like an animal, kissing her until their mouths can barely fit together with the harsh thrusts that shift her body up the bed. His lips latch onto her jaw, nipping at it, then her shoulder, holding her body with the reverence it deserves, fucking into her until she's crying on his cock. 
Frankie lifts her legs up onto his shoulders and bends her in fucking half. “Fuck!” she screams. “Frankie!”
“Hold on, baby.” She brings her hands around her thighs, and the angle deepens deliciously. He fucks her hard, biting the flesh of her calf, grunting about how good she is, how good she takes him, wrapped around his cock. 
She drinks it in, swallowing thickly. “Wanted you… so long…”
He's punching the breath out of her, and he gently unwinds her hands from her thighs so they fall back down around his hips. He hooks a foot in the crook of her knee and rolls them over until she's on top. He places his hand on her belly. “Feel me?” he says, bucking his hips up into her. 
She chokes on whatever she was about to say and lets her head fall back. When her eyes meet his, they're lidded, lashes spidery on her cheeks and her gaze heavy with lust. “I feel you,” she says. “Fuck, you're so big. So deep.”
He plants his feet on the mattress and holds onto her hips, grinding her against him. She shudders, grasping his shoulders, when her clit rubs up against his navel. “No fuckin’ idea,” he grunts, “how long I’ve been picturing this.”
“You ever dream of me?” she asks, her hair falling over her shoulders. The one and only deity he’s ever believed in. “I dreamed about you,” she confesses, squeezing her breasts in her hands. Frankie can’t believe what he’s seeing or hearing, even though he’s balls-deep inside her. “Touched myself thinking about you. Thought about you taking me… Fuck, I think I’m dreaming.”
He takes two handfuls of her ass and bounces her hard on his cock. She yelps, nails digging into his shoulder. “That feel like a dream, baby?” he says. “You have any idea how crazy you make me? Every time you fucking touched me, smiled at me… Jesus, eres tan… so beautiful.”
“Frankie,” she moans. “It was so hot watching you beat the shit out of him for me.” She glides long and slow up and back down his length, guided by his hands bruising her hips. “Fuck, you’re so strong.”
Frankie is lightheaded from the admission. He threads his fingers through her hair and pulls her down to him by the back of her head, baring his teeth against her cheek and he fucks up into her. It’s deep and she’s helpless in this position, taking his cock and clinging to him with cries of his name. “You like me protecting you?” he rasps into her ear. “Like me getting all bloody for you?”
“Fuck—yes!” she gasps. 
“Show me how much you like it,” he says. “Ride me.”
And oh, she rides him. It's like she's possessed, a feral little fox, lifting her hips until he's barely inside her and twisting on the way back down. His vision goes white with the feeling of it. “Fucking… Muy bien… No puedo… Baby, you're so good.”
She rocks on him, grinds, bounces, until he's seeing stars burst behind his eyes. It's good. It's really good. She just keeps going, riding him hard, the shitty mattress squeaking under their bodies. He squeezes her tits in his rough hands, pinching her nipples. Her moans turn to whimpers. 
He sits up and pulls out of her abruptly. She protests vaguely, but she’s so cockdrunk she can barely form words as he flips her onto her stomach and secures a pillow under hips. He has the perfect view of her ass from her, her head turned as far toward him as she can manage, cheek pressed into the mattress. He places a hand on the small of her back. Frankie slides into her from behind, and her moan is so loud, so desperate, that he begins to fuck her without mercy, without abandon. 
“Ohhhhh… Frank—fuck, I can’t… fuck!” 
“Yeah, you can,” he coos, grinding deep, pressing up against her front wall. Her ass arches up against him. “Are you my girl?”
She nods frantically, her cheek scratching the mattress as the force of his thrusts rock her entire body. “I’m your girl. I’m your girl.”
“Nobody fucks with my girl.” He pounds her so hard the room echoes with the sounds of his hips slapping against her ass, the squelching of her wet cunt around him. “My—perfect—girl.”
“Fuck. ‘M gonna come, Frankie,” she moans, face-down, fisting the bedsheets. 
He can feel it. She’s squeezing the life out of him, trapping him inside her, begging for his cum. “Where?” He barely manages to push out the question. 
“Inside,” she pleads. “Fuck, inside me, please. I want your cum.”
He can’t refuse her. He doesn’t want to. “I’ll give it to you, baby. Come for me.”
She stiffens and shudders, moaning his name and pulsating around his cock. He works her through it, thrusting shallow and urging himself toward his own peak, until she collapses onto the mattress and mewls like a fucking cat. “I love you, Frankie,” are the words he hears.
He does, pushing himself all the way inside her until he can’t even see his fucking cock anymore. He drowns her cunt in his hot cum, spilling deep and groaning her name, all while her pussy flutters around him and urges more, more, more out of him. When he finishes, he collapses on top of her, a canopy over her back, his lips finding her shoulder. He can’t muster the energy to pull out of her, let alone move, but she doesn’t seem to mind. 
“My big strong man,” she giggles. 
He huffs against her skin, moving to the crook of her neck, where he buries his face. “Fucking Fox.”
“Yeah, baby, you just did.” She’s still giggling, and it’s infectious. He grins into her throat, laughing until he’s wheezing. 
“Jesus Christ,” he manages, certain he’s smearing tears of laughter all over her. “We should probably eat dinner.”
“Are you hungry?” she asks. “Can you move? Because I’m not. And I can’t.”
He’s still chuckling. “I’m on top of you, baby. ‘Course you can’t move.”
“Good. Keep it that way.” She reaches around his head and scratches her fingers at the nape of his neck. He purrs against her. “We’ll eat when we wake up. Go to sleep, Frankie. I’ll be here when you open your eyes.”
He shifts off her slightly, pulling out of her as he moves onto his side to look into her eyes. He tucks her hair behind her ear. It’s matted with sweat and his manhandling. “I love you,” he tells her, just because he can. Because she loves him, too. 
She grins, sleepy and worn. “Wake me up,” she whispers, her fingers lovingly tracing the grey in his beard, “whenever you’d like. However you’d like.”
He can’t help but squeeze her ass where his hand rests on it. “You serious?”
“I’m always serious, Francisco.” Her eyes flutter shut, and he doesn’t say another word. 
He lets her sleep and watches until he follows.
~
He blinks awake to her hair tickling his nostrils, her soft back flush against his chest. He's seen her asleep before, memorised the way she looks when her lips are slightly parted and her even breathing gently rustles the hair in her face. He's so familiar with it. But he's never seen it so close, never felt the way her warm naked body curls gently into his, never been able to smell the lingering scent of citrus and sweat that clings to her. He's never been able to lean in and kiss her shoulder the way he does now. 
She's yours. 
Frankie is aware of his hard cock, slotted against the cleft of her asscheeks, needy for a wet, hot place to bury itself inside. He's aware of the way her body looks so tempting, so sweet. As his brain comes slowly to life, he becomes aware of the words she said last night. 
Wake me up however you'd like. 
He bites back a groan when she shifts in her sleep, her ass rocking back against his erection. Frankie reaches between their bodies and swipes two fingers through her folds. She's wet. No, she’s fucking soaked. 
I dreamed about you. 
Maybe she still does. 
Still slick with his cum and her own arousal, she’ll take him so easily. It's blinding. Frankie's mind goes hazy with need, his body acting independently of his mind. He lifts her thigh and hooks it back around his hip, slotting his cock at her entrance. In her sleep, she hums, and the gentle sound rattles around in his head as he slides his cock inside her until he bottoms out. 
He has to let out the rumbling sound that tears at his throat, so he buries his face in her throat and begins to fuck her from behind, pushing out little breaths of exertion into her skin. 
“Mmmmmfrankie,” she mumbles, her eyes still closed, body still limp and malleable. 
It’s deafening. She grips him so tightly, her walls sucking at him, begging for him. Frankie kisses the spot below her ear, sloppy and desperate, coaxing her awake with each languid drag of his cock. 
“Frank,” she gasps, her eyes cracking open, her head turning, her lips seeking his, desperate and fuzzy with desire.
“Needed you, baby,” he groans, fucking her harder now that she's awake. She whispers his name, her voice crackling with sleep, still not coherent but grabbing greedily at his cock with her cunt. “So fucking good. Wet for me even in your sleep, huh? Muy hermosa, can't take you anywhere.”
She whimpers, head resting on his shoulder, lifting her arm just to bring him closer to him, fingers threading in his messy hair. He gravitates to her, lips on her ear, her jaw, her shoulder, every-fucking-where. “Gonna… gonna keep me locked up here?” she says, throat clicking with drool. “Fuck me whenever you want?”
Frankie grinds, making her cry out, gasping with the effort of taking him so deep, pressing up against the spot he knows will make her crumble. Stardust on his fingers. “Maybe I will,” he muses. “Nobody can fuckin’ touch you that way.”
“Frankie!” she screams, but it's muted, croaking with disuse. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.”
She's a mess around him, debauched and so beautiful, pinching each knob of his spine with the pleasure it gives him to see her break because of him. It’s disarming. 
He hooks her leg higher, securing his arm around her thigh, pulling it back, fucking her harder. Deeper. He's so deep he knows it’ll take. It’ll fucking take, and—
It won't. She's got an implant. But fuck, Frankie imagines, rutting into her like a fucking monster, pressing up against her womb and giving her a piece of him that connects them forever. He reaches around her body and rubs her clit because he's about to come, and she comes first. She has to. 
She does. Crying out his name, grabbing at him with her needy hands, she soaks his cock. Fucking soaks it, her slick sticky on his thighs and making it oh, so easy to take her harder, deeper still. The sounds are filthy and obscene and wet, and he tangles his fingers in her hair to pull her head backward. She's squirming and squeezing around him, begging for him to come inside her. 
He does. Spurt after spurt of hot cum finds its home at the deepest part of her, and there's so much it dribbles out around his cock and mingles with her own wetness. Frankie groans into her ear as he comes, rocking shallowly, not stopping until he's given her all of it. The slick noise as he pulls out makes his cock twitch even more, but they're both tired, spent, and in need of a shower. 
“Oh my God,” she mutters into the pillow, panting. “I can't walk.”
Frankie chuckles, sliding off the bed and tugging on her ankle. She protests with a little whine. “You're cute, baby, but don't be lazy. Gotta clean you up.”
“Don't wanna,” she says, wiggling her ass at him, giving him a glimpse of the cum slipping out of her hole, the mess he made of her body. 
He covers her body with his and bites the flesh of her asscheek. “Frankie!” she squeals. 
“Get up,” he says, giving the bite mark a gentle smack.
She finally turns over and, pouting, follows him into the bathroom. “You think it's over?” she asks him, locking the door behind them even though nobody else is in the house. Force of habit. 
Frankie turns on the shower and places his fingers underneath the stream to test the temperature. “If it isn't,” he says, “we’ll figure it out.”
She smiles up at him. “You need a haircut, Francisco.”
“Lost my favourite hairdresser for a bit,” he says, pulling her naked body up against him. “Made some mistakes.”
“Maybe she'll take on her favourite client again,” muses his girl, brushing his hair away from his forehead with her fingers. “We waited so long, Frankie.”
Her voice holds melancholy, the drip of knowing misery that they've wasted years yearning. But Frankie kisses her forehead and cradles the back of her head. “You and your infinite wisdom, baby. Don’t you have something for me?”
She laughs, and it's like the bells at midnight. “I’m fresh out,” she whispers, resting her cheek against his chest. “But maybe my wisdom is that I love you. It’s the best choice I’ve ever made.”
THE END.
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edosianorchids901 · 2 months
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In War With Time
@flashfictionfridayofficial prompt - "take my hand"
Constantinople, 1204
Hands over his ears, Aziraphale pressed back into the corner. He slid down the stone wall and to the rug. Shivering, he squeezed his eyes shut.
Screams echoed outside, and he hunched his shoulders, covering his ears more tightly. That muffled the noises, the agonized cries and clash of swords. The sounds of a city being sacked.
He ought to be used to this by now. Over his thousands of years on Earth, he’d certainly seen plenty of war. And long ago, when he wielded a flaming sword, he’d been in battle himself.
But no. He never got used to it.
He huddled tighter, frozen in place. Couldn’t afford to move, to risk drawing attention. Maybe if he stayed still, no one would notice him. They might simply pass him by.
The door banged open, loud enough that he heard it even with his hands clamped over his ears. He snuck a quick peek without moving, and whimpered. One of the crusaders stood over him, in blood spattered armor, wielding a dripping sword. The man smiled, raised the sword—
And then crumpled. A different figure stood in the door, a figure dressed in tightly fitted black clothing. Unmistakable.
And yet, how could Crowley possibly be here now? Must be a hallucination, wishful thinking.
The hallucination’s lips moved, but Aziraphale couldn’t make out the words. He just stared, everything spinning, confusion roiling inside him. Had he been hit in the head, and simply didn’t remember? Or was this due to shock?
But even if it was merely a hallucination, he wanted to hear what Crowley had to say. Slowly, he uncovered his ears.
“We need to go, now. It’s not safe here.” Crowley—or the hallucination—looked around quickly, then stuck out a hand. His other hand clutched a broom, which must be what he’d hit the crusader with. If this was happening. “Come on, angel.”
Aziraphale just stared. Perhaps none of this was happening. He’d wondered if he was having a bad dream when the crusaders first laid siege to what was undeniably a Christian city, and this was simply more proof. It didn’t make any sense for these people to be attacking Constantinople, any more than it did for Crowley to be in the middle of a war zone, trying to save him. All imaginary.
“Aziraphale!” Snarling, Crowley stepped closer. “Look, I know you’re in shock or something, but there’s no time for you to be in shock. Take my hand.”
Aziraphale stared at the extended hand. He couldn’t move.
“Look at me, angel,” Crowley said, voice suddenly much softer. It was so shocking a change that Aziraphale automatically met his gaze across the top of dark glasses. Intense golden eyes gazed into his. “That’s it, at me. It’s Crowley, I’m right here. I need you to trust me, and do as I say. Take my hand.”
Trust him? A demon?
Dazed, Aziraphale took his hand. Crowley pulled him to his feet, then towards the door. Aziraphale resisted a little, not wanting to go anywhere near the screams, and Crowley sighed. “I get it, okay? I don’t wanna go out there either. But I’m gonna stop time, and that’ll make it a little better.”
Aziraphale managed a nod. Crowley snapped his fingers, and the world ground to a halt around them.
Having time stopped did make it a little better. As they rushed through the city, Aziraphale kept his eyes fixed firmly on Crowley. He only caught glimpses of the siege. People frozen while fleeing, assailants chasing them with weapons raised. Bodies in the streets. Flames, oddly still.
By the time they made it out of the city and into a small boat, Crowley was struggling for breath. As soon as they were afloat, he waved a hand. The screams resumed, far off in the distance.
Wheezing, Crowley slumped over against the side of the boat. Aziraphale took his hand again—he’d let go only so they could get the boat underway—and squeezed. “Crowley? Crowley?”
“M’ okay. Just… exhausted.” Weakly, Crowley squeezed back. “Takes a lot out of me, keeping time stopped for that long. You all right, angel?”
“Um. Better, now.” Still a bit dazed, Aziraphale glanced back towards Constantinople. Rather a lot of it was on fire, smoke billowing into the air. But as they drifted downstream, he couldn’t hear the screams anymore. “Awfully sorry about, well… thinking you were a hallucination. The entire thing was just awfully confusing.”
Crowley cracked an eye open. “You thought I was a hallucination?”
“I’m afraid so.” And oh, he still did not feel very well. Shaky, he moved to sit close beside Crowley, pressing to his side. “I-I thought perhaps I was imagining the whole thing, really. The crusaders wanted money, it seems, but that they would actually attack the city that first sought their help…”
“Nnnh, yeah. Humans for you. Sometimes, they’re terrific. Other times…” Groaning, Crowley straightened up a little. He brought his free hand up,  stroking damp curls off Aziraphale’s brow. “You looked bloody terrified. Did they hurt you?”
“No. I managed to hide.” Guilty wrenched through Aziraphale’s tummy at that. “I suppose I was a bit of a coward.”
“Nah, you weren’t. For my money, it’s better not to get stabbed.”
Aziraphale found it difficult to disagree with that. But he was still confused about one thing. “What were you doing here, anyway? I know you weren’t on assignment to observe the war. You’re supposed to be in England.”
Crowley flushed slightly. He looked away, over the water, and sighed. “Came to get you.”
He said it quietly, so quietly that for a moment Aziraphale thought he’d imagined that, too. But he hadn’t, and he managed a faint smile as he curled up against Crowley’s side to rest.
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yautjalover · 9 months
Text
Okay, here’s a new short for y’all! I wanted this to short and to the point, but give just enough. I hope it’s not horribly awful as I worry. 🫠
Rating: NSFW 18+ for Gore & Death
Contents: Angst, Tragic Accident, Hunt Gone Wrong, Major Character Death, Death of a Mate
F human x M Yautja
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Goo ☣️
This hunt had gone just like all the others. It was the same routine of scoping out the hunting grounds, seeding them, and letting it flourish before the hunt. But, it didn’t go to plan.
Something went seriously wrong.
The human had been excited to see another world with her Yautja mate.
He was tall and stoic, a male of few words, but he was very expressive. There was a kindness he possessed that others didn’t have. They shared a bond that had been forged with time and proximity. Their hearts were entwined on a deeper level because of this.
It was on this hunt that as she was helping him set out a container of black goo that some of it splashed onto him. At first, nothing happened, as he used a cloth to wipe it off. Moments later however, as they board the scout ship he stumbled and fell to his knees. She and everyone else in the party could only watch with confusion as he growled and grunted in pain. Every attempt by her trying to help him, she was pushed away. One of his hunt brothers held her back when the transformation began.
The black goo began to mutate him. He howled in pain as he grew bigger in size, his muscles bulging obscenely. His armor was forced off his changing body as he quickly outgrew it entirely.
Others spoke rapidly around her as he stumbled around gripping his head. That, too, was changing. His eyes turned a solid black and his head bulged along his cranium where his clan marking was. Even his mandibles mutated; he grew two more on each side giving his mouth a spider-like look.
“You have to help him! Please! He’s in pain!” She cried, desperately clawing to get to her mate.
She sobbed as she watched him hulk out before her eyes. A pain burned in her chest watching him suffer. It was soon over, though. He fell quiet, sitting in a crouch panting on the ground.
“He is an abomination now,” commented someone. “We must end his misery so he dies with honor.”
That was when the human but her captor, digging her teeth into his flesh until he bled. He released her with a hiss.
The human mate stumbled forward and knelt before her alien mate, gingerly touching his now-massive shoulder. His black beady eyes shot up with a ragged growl. Strangely, he did nothing but wrap his massive paw around her slender neck. She squeaked and several hunters rushed forward to her aid.
There was a flurry of limbs and a flash of metal weapons. Quicker than she was able to keep up, the hunters were fighting off her mutated mate. He lumbered around attacking the others. Four hunters had been brutally slain before she decided to step in.
She thought of the times they had shared together, whether it was having amazing sex or him training her, as well as when they first met so many years ago. It was obvious there wouldn’t be any more of those moments. The goo has mutated him into a killing machine. He was mindless with nothing but kill on his mind. Drawing on her resolve, she jumped onto his back as he bent over someone beating them to death with his meaty fists.
Her blade sung true and she buried into his lungs, forcing it to the hilt.
The mutated Yautja snarled, falling to his knees and turning his head to find her with his beady eyes. She landed hard on her rump and stared up at him, tears in her eyes. A cry of pain left her as he wrapped an almost crushing grip around her leg and dragged her closer. He raised a mighty fist to end her life but something shimmered in the inky depths of his eyes.
“Please,” she pleaded tearfully, “don’t do this, my love. I’m ending your pain.”
There was a moment of silence as he sat there, struggling to breath, his wheezing growing stronger. He shook violently before falling to the ground. One of his massive hands reached out for her and she took it, scooting closer to stroke his jaw and give him comfort. He let out a final rumble, his hand caressing her leg as it loosened.
Other hunters had to drag her away again as they commenced the burial rights. She was afforded his mask as a keepsake. It was safely tucked in her arms while she watched his body burn. Some made real attempts at comforting her, the Yautja hunters telling comedic tales about her mate and reminisce with her.
It was a total mystery how she’d raise their child alone now.
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dimorphodon-x · 9 months
Text
Oh Shit it's My Ex
Something I've been wanting to write for a while now lol.
Archy is sad and pathetic and Solclave is too soft despite giving the silent treatment.
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There was no reason for Solclave to believe this raid on a Decepticon ship would be any different from previous ones. After receiving word that the Decepticon ship was harboring prisoners, the Immortal Sun simply swooped in to rescue them. A quick in-and-out that left the cons bewildered.
That was how it should’ve gone.
Yet the large triple changer now found himself frozen at the doorway of a dark little cell. His face told nothing of the rush of emotion and thoughts going through his head as he stared at the white mech on the floor before him.
The wide blue eyes staring back at him were unmistakable, and while his frame was familiar, it wasn’t right. He looked more simple, less delicate. Yet the many dents and scrapes said that he was still fragile and weak.
The white mech opened his mouth, vocalizer clicking. Anger and disgust surged in Solclave’s gut.
He dare try to speak to him? After what he did so many years ago? The things he did after? The kind of person he was-is were the sort Solclave had mercilessly plunged his ax into many a time. The irredeemable, the selfish, the greedy, the vain. Those who never sought to better themselves as people.
Archangel was all of those and more.
And what was worse, Solclave realized as he watched the pathetic mech…
He still cared. He still felt something for him, an attachment he thought had died millions of years ago, when his brother was chosen over him. It disturbed him.
“Y-you’re… here…” Archangel choked on his words and pulled himself forward, “Sol… Solclave…?”
The gold triple changer’s eyes narrowed a small margin and he shifted his hold of his ax, letting light flash off of its bloodied blade. Archangel paused as he looked at the large weapon, eyes widening further. The faint glimmer of hope flickered behind fear.
“Mercy! Please, Solclave!” He choked and wheezed pitifully, “please, spare me! Save me!”
“Save you?”
Solclave almost rolled his eyes. It would be much easier to just leave the mech to his fate. He should leave.
“Save me, I beg of you!” Archangel dragged himself closer to the larger mech, eyes sparking and wings trembling. There was an injury to his back, Sol realized, “please! I’m so afraid! I’m in pain! Have mercy, please!”
It was disappointing how there was no satisfaction to seeing the once selfish and beautiful mech in this state. A long sigh escaped Sol’s vents. He was a guardian. He had a job to do. Their shared history must be ignored.
Archangel cried out as Solclave reached down and plucked him from the cold floor. White arms scrambled desperately over gold armor until they wrapped tightly around his neck. His trembling only worsened once he was in his arms.
“Don’t leave me,” Archangel whimpered as Solclave turned away from the cell to rejoin his crew. They were already heading back to the Immortal Sun with the other prisoners and even a few stolen supplies.
“Please don’t let go,” Archangel continued, face buried into the side of Solclave’s neck, “please don’t let go, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Don’t leave me behind. I’m scared.”
Solclave hated himself as he held the pathetic mech closer.
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rainpebble3 · 8 months
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WIP Wednesday
Thank you so much to @thequeenofthewinter for the tag. And what a lovely snip you shared <3
I'll tag @mareenavee @paraparadigm @kookaburra1701 @orfeoarte @archangelsunited @gilgamish @thana-topsy @tallmatcha @snippetsrus @rhiannon1199 @inquisitiondragonborn @the-storytellers-seer @elfinismsarts @friend-of-giants @saltymaplesyrup @changelingsandothernonsense @thelightofmorning @dirty-bosmer
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I wish I had more to share but words haven't been wording so please enjoy my paltry offering of Nera chatting to Savos :)
edit: ooops almost forgot some screenies :D
Chapter 11 - Still 😅
He held up a hand, “Brelyna’s mother is not named Savyana. The Maryon family has always been close to mine and I have known Brelyna since she was a child. So, could you perhaps tell me the truth before I summon some atronachs to escort you from my college?”
His college?! Nera swallowed, struggling to get past the knot forming in her throat. Her next words came out in a harried wheeze. “My name is really Nera, I met Brelyna in Windhelm… she…” Nera stopped and clenched her fists. She shook herself before continuing. She couldn’t lose her chance to escape the frozen pit of Oblivion she had been born in.
Master Aren watched quietly. “Windhelm?”
Nera nodded. “Yes. I was born there and well, Brelyna was passing through on her way here and she saved me from…” Rolff’s words from her nightmare echoed violently in her ears and Nera shuddered before continuing, “Brelyna saved me from an attack. She used magic against him and told me to come with her for my own safety.”
“You’re from the Gray Quarter?”
Unable to stop herself, Nera flinched. “Yes, sir.”
“Your assailant, I presume he was a Nord?”
She paused at the question, it caught her off guard for a moment. It wasn’t what she was expecting. Eventually she nodded and Master Aren sighed. Neither one of them spoke for a while, but Nera was kicking herself for being caught out like this. Gods what if she got Brelyna kicked out too?
“I hope this doesn’t affect Brelyna’s future here,” she suddenly whispered. “Please, Master Aren, she just wanted to help me out of a bad situation…”
“I’m glad she did,” he interrupted before sighing again, running a hand through his bone white hair and lowering his hood. “Given what you have said, I fear I already know the answer, but I must still ask. Are things still as bad as they were years ago? The last time I visited it was… it was terrible.”
Nera hugged herself tightly. “It’s worse. My parents discouraged me from doing anything that would have brought any attention to my existence as a Dunmer.”
This seemed to upset him, and his lined face furrowed. “Damn it. I had hoped things would improve with time.”
“You and my father both.”
Master Aren eyed her. “Are your parents…?”
“They’re alive, and as well as they can be.”
“And they approved of you leaving with a stranger?”
She shook her head. “Not at all, my father said if I left, I was no longer…” she stopped as tears suddenly choked her. She sniffed and blinked them away. “I was no longer part of their family.”
“You seem upset by this?” he asked, and she nodded. “So why do it?”
Nera couldn’t explain why the words fell so freely, they just did. Something about Master Aren made her feel safer, perhaps it was some strange illusion magic or something else. “Because if I stayed, I would be dead. Or I would be trapped, powerless for the rest of my life. Something which could be easily ended by those Nords, and no one would care.”
Master Aren tugged on his beard as he digested her words. He finally nodded. “I understand. And I will continue as if you were Miss Maryon’s sister.”
The tension left her body and she nearly crumpled to her knees. “Thank you, Master Aren.”
He frowned at her. “I’m sorry for the circumstances which brought you here, but as long as you abide by our rules, you will always be welcome here.”
She nodded, clenching her fists tightly. “Yes, thank you.”
He rose with a groan and began walking back towards the main building of the college. “So, did she move?” he asked.
Nera glanced at the statue of Azura. The sun had risen higher, and the clouds were different, instead of seeming like a misty shawl, they had grown thinner into a short scarf. She nodded quietly. “I think so.”
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everythinginyou · 6 months
Text
Everything In You: Chapter 2
Simon was the first to wake. Up until his most recent adventure, he had woken up and gone to sleep at the same time every day, so he was used to waking up before his alarm went off. As his vision gradually came to him, he noticed the light from his window felt off, and more pertinently, the woman of his dreams was sprawled across his entire body diagonally, snoring peacefully. The weight of her sleeping form pressing him deeper into his mattress was familiar and welcome despite making his breathing somewhat labored, and it took him a few moments to recall that it was actually her crushing him. How many mornings had he woken up praying she would be there when he opened his eyes? Simon smiled sleepily, closing his eyes once more and listening to her snores. He silently thanked every power he could think of for this prayer that after centuries had been answered.
After some time, Betty’s snoring quieted. The redhead yawned and clumsily smacked her own face to rub the sleep from her eyes, which caused Simon beneath her to wince. Suddenly alarmed, she flailed for her glasses and quickly donned them to assess where she had woken up. Betty turned and looked into the pale eyes of her beloved Simon, whom she was now evidently using as a mattress pad.
“G’morning Betty.” Simon wheezed.
“Sorry!” Betty blushed, scrambling to remove herself from the pencil-thin man she had rolled onto in her sleep.
“It’s alright, it kind of breaks the tension right away, doesn’t it?” Simon and Betty chuckled together as he sat up to retrieve his own glasses from the table beside him. Adjusting them on his face, he noticed the digital alarm clock that had sat beside them all night now read 12:26.
“Did we sleep all day?” he furrowed his brow, not completely convinced his eyes had adjusted correctly yet.
“That makes sense,” Betty remarked, “I haven’t slept in twelve years apparently.”
Simon laughed with his hand to his face, “Oh my God, I haven’t slept in like this in years!”
“You must have really needed someone to crush your rib cage all night I guess.” Betty joined in his laughter.
“I guess so!” Simon agreed, not even all that jokingly.
There was a sense of relief shared between them. The pressure from the previous night was beginning to lift off of them both, and comfort was settling in its place. Betty and Simon sat on the bed giving soft smiles to each other as this realization put them both at ease.
“I guess the exhibit is just going to stay closed today. I could use a break, anyway.” Simon shrugged.
“Exhibit? What exhibit?” Betty asked.
“Oh, it’s uh, it’s my house.” Simon gestured to the corrugated metal wall over Betty’s shoulder. “That wall opens up like a garage door. People come to look at the things in my house, all the antiques, myself included, and I talk about them. I’m a living artifact here.”
Betty was shocked, this was a man she remembered valuing his privacy. He could talk the ears off of anyone who cared to listen when he had an ancient artifact to discuss; she recalled his exuberance sharing knowledge with her on their countless museum dates, but she couldn’t imagine him willingly putting himself in the lighted case to be observed and remarked on. “Wow,” she finally managed “and you like doing this?”
“I mean,” Simon looked away, “I like being part of history. I like to imagine some schoolkid as fascinated with me as I used to be with… like, cuneiform tablets and ancient manuscripts, and how they used to tell me all this information about what life was like in ancient times. I like to imagine how exciting it would have been to me as a child if I could have met someone from a thousand years ago still living, and what insights they could have given me on their daily lives. I would have killed for someone like myself at that age… but…” he trailed off, looking at Betty who was waiting for him to continue, “but, it hasn’t really been what I had hoped it would be. It’s not exactly my dream career. It feels so much more like a sideshow than an educational showcase most days.”
“Then why don’t you find something more fulfilling to spend your time doing?” Betty inquired.
“The world has changed so much I don’t even know what else I would do. I’m too old to be out here looking for entry-level jobs, y’know?” Simon deflated, resigned to his fate. Betty didn’t accept that so easily, and shook her head. “Society can’t be so fundamentally different now that you can’t find somewhere you belong in it.”
“What would I be?” Simon asked.
“What do you want to be?” Betty pressed.
Simon paused, considering the question she had posed. That answer had changed more times than he could remember. “I don’t know…” he answered under his breath.
“You don’t have to know right now,” Betty conceded. “but I remember the man you always wanted to be.”
Betty took her fiancé by the chin and turned his face up to look at her. Simon blushed at her sudden surge of assertiveness and met her gaze.
“You are Dr. Simon Petrikov. You are the kindest, sweetest, bravest, cleverest, most eloquent, funniest, best-dressed, handsomest scholar in this dimension.”
Simon laughed bashfully, growing pinker with every descriptor, “Well, I’m not much of a scholar these days, nice as that would be.”
“What’s stopping you?” Betty questioned.
“Well, there aren’t really any universities in Human City, not even in Ooo as far as I’m aware. Long-gone are the days of higher education I’m afraid.” Simon sighed.
“That can’t be right. You haven’t encountered a single educational institution since the war?” Betty questioned.
“There’s the Wizard School in Wizard City, but as much as I know, that’s more or less it. The world’s still too dangerous for academic pursuits outside of magic, I suppose.” Simon responded.
“Well, that ought to be rectified.” Betty posited with a smirk. “Don’t you think so?”
Despite his confusion by her expression, Simon didn’t disagree. “Yeah, it does feel like there should have been something established by now. It’s not like we’re living in the wastelands anymore.”
Realizing he was not taking the bait, Betty made herself clearer: “We could start our own school!”
“What?!” Simon reeled back from her excitement.
Lunging up on her knees, Betty continued, “I could be a professor of ancient history! Only, now I guess I am ancient history… But, I could speak from personal experience! You could become an archaeology professor like you always wanted to be! And you’d be so good at it; who knows more about history than someone who has lived through so much of it?!”
“Darling, it doesn’t work that way…” Simon gently resisted her enthusiastic rambling, not wanting to get his hopes too high.
“Why not? If things are so different now, who says they can’t work that way? Even the biggest universities back then had to start somewhere, right? It’s only a matter of time before someone realizes there needs to be an institution of higher education here. Why can’t you be part of it?” Betty retorted.
“It would be nice…” Simon admitted, “to be remembered for something other than being Ice King.”
“Well, I may never get out from under being GOLB,” Betty chuckled, “but it would be really nice to create something that does a lot of good, and outlasts us.”
Liking her train of thought, Simon indulged the fantasy, “We could plan lessons together. I’d guest lecture in your classes and you in mine.”
Excited that he was playing along, Betty continued, “We’d go on school-sponsored archaeological digs with our students to dig up our own stuff from back in the day.”
“I wonder if they can find my old favorite coffee mug. The one with the birds? I miss that one.” Simon pouted.
“We’d have offices right next to each other!” Betty squealed, “I’d come to your office when I’m doing research to steal kisses and books.”
“Oh, we could write another book, one about the Mushroom War, and what led up to it. Or maybe a comprehensive history of Ooo.” Simon scratched his chin as he plotted.
“And we could severely overcharge our students for it and make it a required text.” Betty joked.
The two of them laughed deep and hard at their little fantasy world they’d created, rubbing the mist of laughter and wistfulness from their eyes.
“I would love to be professors with you, Betty. I can’t imagine a more wonderful life than that.” Simon sighed.
“I bet I can.” Betty teased, taking his hand, “Imagine if my students called me Mrs. Petrikov.”
Simon smiled “Dr. Petrikov you mean.”
“Never got that far.” she reminded him sadly.
“That’s why the first degree the university will award will be the honorary doctorate to Mrs. Betty Petrikov for her outstanding and historic breakthroughs in the study of magical artifacts!” he proclaimed.
“‘The doctors' Petrikov they’ll call us.” Betty beamed.
“Oh Betty,” Simon pressed his forehead to hers in a surge of strong affection, and they both closed their eyes, “I cannot wait to be your husband. I can’t believe we finally get the chance.”
“When should we get married?” she giddily urged him, wiggling in her seat.
“As soon as possible, I don’t want to waste another minute not married to you, my love.” he wrapped his arms around her.
All of the clumsiness of their reunion had melted away, and their romance was once again in full swing. The couple pressed the softness of their bodies together; Betty positioned herself in the lap of the man before her, their hot breath intermingling as their mouths just barely touched.
Before their lips had a chance to lock, Betty once again asked, “What else do you want to be?”
“I-” Simon paused, the hotness in his cheeks draining as another thought crossed his mind, something they had once agreed on a lifetime ago, but he could not be sure was still a prospect: something he knew he and she both at one time wanted, but he wasn’t sure was the answer she was angling for. Was it even worth getting his hopes up over again? And would mentioning it now call that into question? On the other hand, would saying it have the same desirous effect on her as it once did?
“I want-” his arms were around her waist, hers around his shoulders, his heart in his eardrums, drowning out his doubt. His head was blank and his mouth dry, but he found the courage from some deep reserve to say what he truly wanted, “I want to be the father of your children.”
This was the trigger phrase. She fell into him, whining low; her lips crashing fervid and heavy into his. Her whole weight melted into his body and her hips pressed deeper into Simon’s pelvis. He was pleased to discover that they were both in complete accord in this manner once again, and that his old tricks still had the same charm on her as he returned the kiss with increased passion. As they moaned into each others’ mouths, the two grew more desperate and needy with every passing second. Hands began to wander and fingers found buttons, clumsily toying with clothing that only felt like a constrictive barrier at this moment. Betty broke her kiss to focus on the task of removing Simon’s shirt, and then her own. His hands remained on her hips as he watched her expose herself to him. His lips pursed to say “wow,” but stopped just short of embarrassing himself, instead only looking up at her with wide, sparkling eyes. Her smile down at him was warm and nurturing, and she reached down to guide his hands slowly up the sides of her waist, across her rib cage, and up to her own chest, resting them there and inviting him to keep going. His hands at her breasts, he began to gently squeeze and fondle the smooth, pliant flesh. Betty leaned her head back and hummed encouragingly. His thumb brushed across her hardening nipple and she gasped as a shockwave of chills overcame her. Simon responded to this reaction by leaning in to put his mouth around the nipple and lightly stimulating it with his tongue.
“Simon…” Betty sighed, her face reddening at the sensations that were beginning to flutter within her. In response to them, she gently grinded her hips into him and noticed the growing mound hardening against her pussy. Simon’s moans raised in pitch and he more desperately began sucking Betty’s nipples. Betty vocalized her pleasure at this, steadily getting wetter and wetter as she found a rhythm rubbing herself into his stiff cock. Simon’s voice croaked involuntarily. His concentration on her breasts broke, and he pulled her body in closer, his fingers gripping her back, pressing his torso tightly against hers.
“Oh, Betty…” Simon couldn’t bear the tease much longer; he threw himself on top of her. Betty yelped in surprise at this, but it was not at all an unwelcome escalation. Once again, his lips met hers in a moaning embrace. Positioned between her legs, he leaned back on his knees, and hooked his fingers in the elastic hem of the pajama bottoms she still wore. She smiled and allowed him to remove the garment until she was finally fully naked before him. She was all pasty-white freckled skin and red hair as above, so below. Betty lay on her back, wrists up by her flushing red ears, legs parted, and the wet, pink opening between them begged for touch. She panted, looking doe-eyed at Simon who seemed to be taking her in. Betty thought she should feel self-conscious; a man whose touch she had not known in lifetimes gazed hungrily down on her, and yet she felt no shame or meekness to him, only burning, aching want. Need.
“Please,” Betty begged.
Simon obliged. Breaking his stupor, Simon removed his own pants as quickly as he could manage. His rigid cock sprung upward as the waistband passed over it, and Betty bit her lip in excitement as she caught sight of it. He hurriedly aligned the tip of his penis with her entrance and pressed it against her very lightly, feeling how intensely wet she had become. He leaned forward, positioning himself above her with his hands on the bed on either side of her chest.
“Are you ready?” Simon whispered, seeking reassurance from his beloved before continuing.
Betty could only nod vigorously, desperate for him to fill her up.
With her confirmation, Simon looked Betty in the eyes and pushed his cock inside her all the way to the hilt.
Betty gasped and Simon threw his head back in ecstasy. He remained perfectly still and let the initial wave of pleasure wash over him, so as to not let himself get too excited too quickly. Betty, too, relished the feeling of being filled completely by him, breathless in blissful feelings bubbling up within her. A quick adjustment of angle, and Simon began to slowly and deliberately move his hips back and forth with long, gentle, full-length strokes. Betty shut her eyes, fully allowing herself to feel every inch of him.
Simon kept his eyes open. The sight of this beautiful creature splayed out before him, bare-naked, red-faced, and making pathetic needy little noises with every thrust of his cock had him rapturous. No memory in his mind, nor a century’s worth of wet dreams could compare to what was actually happening now. He focused every molecule of attention toward fucking her— toward making her feel good. He gave one firmer thrust which cased her to moan loudly and arch her back.
The change in her grip sent an electric charge through Simon’s body and he exclaimed, “Betty!” He changed pace, switching to quicker, harder strokes as he leaned forward, putting his weight now on his forearms and burying his face in the crook of her neck, grunting and whining with each thrust.
“Simon!” Betty responded to his intensity. She hooked her arms under his and wrapped them, along with her legs, around his back, clutching onto his slender frame as tightly as her limbs could manage. She pulled him in closer to her and he laid more of his weight down on her in turn. It was as if they could not get close enough to one another. Simon’s back was slick with sweat, and his forehead as well. Betty bit his shoulder, whimpering as he pounded away inside her.
The sounds of moans and wet skin, and the heat of two bodies in union filled the dusty bedroom. Both Simon and Betty were trying as hard as they could to make their first encounter last, neither of them wanted this moment to end. But a lifetime of yearning for each other’s sex had to reach its summit.
Simon felt Betty’s walls tightening around him; she began to claw his back and dig her teeth into his shoulder, letting out a string of short high whines before shouting “Don’t stop! Simon, I’m going to cum!”
Simon himself was rounding over his apex, and he propped himself up to look at his lover’s face, cupping his hands behind her head. “I’m close too…” he panted. “Simon! I’m coming!” Betty cried, her legs trembling and sweating around Simon’s thrashing hips. She felt white hot fire inside her pussy radiating up to her core, and out to every extremity. Her walls clenched tight around the base of his shaft.
“Betty!” Simon’s sweat-dripping face tensed. Her orgasm sent him hurdling over the edge he had been balanced upon, and it was as if he had been a knot that was finally untied. The immense release overtook him, and he groaned long and low, climaxing in synchronicity with her. Her head fell back to the mattress and her mouth fell agape as she rode the quivering waves of her climax. He bucked his hips, his cock spurting jets of hot cum that filled Betty’s pussy full enough to leak out of her while his twitching rod was still buried as deep in her as possible. The bedroom was warmer than it was previously, and humid from the condensation of their labored breaths. Simon had forgotten the sweet, earthy scent of copulation— of sweat and pheromones, and it awoke memories of their old bedroom and the awkward, groping encounters that occurred therein. This was better; they’d gotten better, he concluded. As he returned to awareness from his post-orgasmic bliss, he remembered that he was laying, entirely drained, with his whole weight pressing Betty into the mattress, catching his breath. The coincidence of having woken up with Betty laying heavy across his body, and having swapped roles with her was not lost on him. She continued to clutch tightly to the man who was now softening inside her, feeling the pleasant aftershocks of their lovemaking. “Oh,” Simon suddenly became aware of a transgression, and he pulled his slick member free from her cunt, a healthy gush of semen following it, for which he was embarrassed to have deposited without explicit permission “I’m so sorry, Betty I should have asked if I could…”
Betty shushed him before he could finish, “Don’t, that’s exactly what I wanted.” She reached down between her own legs and investigated what he had done to her, taking the slick fluid and slowly swirling it around her clitoris teasingly. Still sensitive and overstimulated, she shuddered at the sensation and involuntarily jerked her hand away, chuckling. Simon was surprised by her reaction, but relieved, and he sighed with contentment as he sat up on his knees and gazed at her.
Suddenly feeling awkward about staring again, Simon looked around the room, “Uhh, can I get you a towel or something? Do you need something to clean up with?”
Betty laughed at his frantic searching, “No, I’m fine, I think I’m just going to take a shower.”
“Of course!” Simon replied “I can show you where the bathroom is.”
While Betty rinsed off in the shower, Simon changed into his usual attire of a button-up shirt and bow tie. Even on occasions where he didn’t have to be seen by the general public, he liked to dress himself to the nines. He liked the way it made him feel— confident, dapper, scholarly, all the things he strove to be. And he still felt the need to impress Betty after all this time. Betty emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a yellow towel, with another wrapped around her head. Steam poured out from behind the bathroom door. She was delighted to have had a hot shower after so long without. Simon was sitting on his couch, his hands in his lap, obviously waiting for her to come out.
“Um, can I borrow some clothes? I only really have what I came with.” Betty meekly asked.
“Uh, yeah! Of course. I can ask Marceline where she and Bonnibel get their clothes from. In the meantime, let me go see if I can find something for you.” Simon stood and hurried back into his bedroom. Betty remained in the living room. She looked around, noticing more than she did before in the daylight. A statuette of a Grecian goddess stood out to her because of its anachronistic cat-eye glasses fashioned out of a red paperclip. A display of telephones from various time periods. Inexplicably, a large framed print of a jar of mayonnaise? Multiple implements for brewing coffee. A small but diverse record collection; some classical, some jazz, some classic rock. He was still an antiquarian after all.
Simon returned with a folded shirt and pants in his arms, “I don’t know if these will still fit the way we used to be able to. I may have put on a little weight around my midsection since then…” “Did you mean what you said earlier?” Betty immediately responded.
“Said what?” Simon inquired.
“Do you still want to have kids with me?” she asked.
Without missing a beat, Simon said “Well, yeah. I know we used to talk about it all those years ago, and one of my biggest regrets was not being able to start a family with you. Now, I don’t know if that’s possible anymore, but-”
“Why wouldn’t it be? I don’t know how old I am, Simon. I missed out on a thousand years, and then I guess twelve more? I don’t even know what being GOLB did to me, physically. I don’t… feel as old as I think I should be. Maybe it’s not possible, but, if it is, I want to try. I think we deserve a chance if we have any. And if there is any chance, then we should probably make that decision soon, because I don’t know how much longer we’ll have to make that work...” Betty couldn’t look Simon in the eyes as she confessed all of her thoughts. She wrung her hands, glancing from floorboard to floorboard as she spoke.
This was a lot for Simon to process. It took him some time to understand what she was saying. He stood in the bedroom door frame, spare clothes in hand, staring wide-eyed at the towelled woman before him. Without really thinking, he said, “Okay.” Unlike Betty, he did feel older. There were signs of aging in him that his beloved did not display. In fact, she barely looked a day older than the day he met her. It was absurd for him to think about becoming a father when his hair was greying and his face displayed new wrinkles to discover every time he regarded himself in a mirror, but he did not stop to consider this when presented with the opportunity to rectify an injustice he deeply wished to correct for so long. Simon Petrikov had become a father figure to many in his lifetime, and yet he still longed for the joys of fatherhood. “We’ll try. We’ll keep trying. I want to give you a baby.” he declared firmly.
Betty grinned, delighted by his response. From the moment she imagined them starting a life together, she knew she wanted to have a child with him. If it were possible, she couldn’t pass up on such an opportunity. “Okay! But if we’re going to do this, we are going to do this right.”
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ashecampos · 2 years
Text
-shot through the heart
and your to blame-
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enemies / lovers
Kate Bishop x Female tracksuit mafia member
TW - death, angst
——————————————————
For the longest time criminal mastermind Y/N L/N and avenger Kate Bishop had this little cat and mouse chase throughout the city of Brooklyn, NewYork.
Ten years to be exact.
Y/N was Kates first mission.
“take out the girl, in and out” Clint repeats the mission plan to the young archer
However as we know now, that mission didn’t go to plan. The two archers shot a rigged bomb which they thought was the young criminal. An explosion blasted throughout the fourth floor of the small abandoned building.
this mission left Clint partially death and Kate just got away with a few scrapes though. Y/N however, left that building that night with a new scar and a broken collar bone.
But that was 7 years ago.
Nowadays Y/N is associated with the tracksuit mafia. Kate is still an avenger. The world is breaking apart at its strings, meaning the tracksuits had an opportunity to strike.
———
Y/N’s POV
One thing I hate more than the cold is early mornings, today we have both. Although I dare say Christmas in NewYork is one of the best things to witness every year, it’s also a pain in the ass.
I walk into the warehouse, combat boots echoing throughout the silent room. I must be early. I shrug and whistle some old Christmas song while equipping myself with guns and knifes. I put extra ammo in other peoples guns, knowing today could go tits up.
“Ah there she is. Hey Y/N, come, come we have a surprise for you. Well for boss but your bound to love this” my main man Tomas comes up to me patting my back with a smirk.
Silently me and Tomas walk into one of the farthest rooms from the exit, confused and tired I walk in behind Tomas.
I step further into the dimly lit room to see a chair in the middle with Hawkeye sat upon it. Chuckling I walk in front of him.
“Awe guys I know it’s Christmas but you didn’t have to get me such a thoughtful gift” i quip as I walk around, silently wondering where the protégé is these days.
i turn back to the group of probably 20 men “what do we need from Mr Barton? you know he has a lovely family he surely has Christmas plans with. Cmon guys let’s not keep the poor man too long” I question the group.
“we need miss Bishop..well the big boss does” another man says almost intimidated.
I smirk “oh what has my favourite avenger gotten herself into this time?” I chuckle while turning back to Clint “where’s the girl?” I say, taking my gun out of its holster, placing the cold metal against the older man’s forehead with a smirk.
“your delusional” he says lowly.
“Keep him here till I find the girls whereabouts. I’ll be in my office” i state to the men while I walk away, throwing the gun to Ivan.
———
in my office I shut the door and throw my body onto the faux leather chair at my desk.
“Kate Bishop why the fuck are you under my desk…if you wanted to pleasure me I’m more into knifes and chains” i smirk as I look down at the woman under my desk.
Standing up from her place under my wooden desk she holds me but the throat and straddles me making sure I cannot move “kinky” I state with a wheeze.
“You want out of this business? Say it and I can guarantee your safety with the avengers” she her other hand to grip my chin, making me look at her.
“Ah yes because mister general Ross would been so happy to invite a Romanian assassin onto the team oh wait isn’t one Slavic spy enough or are you guys going down a more ethnic route?” I use my hand to slowly inch Kates hand off of my neck, allowing me to speak without passing out.
she climbs off my lap “tonight there will be a meet up with your team and mine. It’ll end in blood shed. Please Y/N we cannot afford the casualties and neither can you guys. Call it off” she states before opening the window. Cool air seeping through. “See you there drăguţă” ((sweetheart)) I laugh as she jumps out of the window, I then make my way back to where the other men are
“Okay, okay children let him go, we have insight on the avengers” i say with a laugh. Walking over to Barton I grab my pocket knife, cutting his restraints “tell your team to bring their dancing shoes tonight will you?” is the last thing I say before shoving him to the floor, half of my men go and escort him out of the warehouse.
————
laying down in my bed in the warehouse I shut my eyes. Memories flow through my head. The red room. Meeting the avengers. Being kicked out of the avengers. Meeting the tracksuits. Meeting kingpin. With a groan I throw myself out of the bed, realising I did i fact get a good amount of sleep, an hour until this so called fight. I’m already dressed all I need is to brief the team, grab Maya and Kazi before heading out.
————
it’s 11pm, me, Maya, Kazi and a lot of the tracksuits are huddled into the back of a van. Being transported to the garage.
once we make it there the doors open and we all split up around the garage, I send the snipers up onto the roof of either the vans or the building behind the sign, I send the best fighters behind cars and the others stay with me, Maya and Kazi to await for the avengers appearance.
Not even a minute after I’m comes the worlds mightiest hero’s.
“Hey guys, good holiday. Damn I kinda saw you guys as a sunny holiday Christmas people. Not enough money for your Hawaii trip?” I speak first out of habit. People say my job is to be a weapon. I say my job is a full time career in taking the piss out of the avengers. Anywho a fight breaks out and it’s me against the ant man “I don’t want to hurt you kid” he tries to plead “awe Katie look, you have competition here, he cares about me” I frown playfully, punching him square in the nose, I sweep his feet from under him and when he tries to get up again I slam his head to the floor, knocking him out.
Next I go for Spider-Man, i quickly analyse his power, he’s using web slingers “Oo fancy can I try?” I quickly pull the gear off of his wrist, throwing them to Tomas “here bro thwip thwip” he chuckles while attaching them to his person. The little big boy goes to swing his fist at me. i punch the dude in the ribs, he falls to the ground eyes shutting while I shake my hand in pain “ouch that really hurt” i state with a whimper.
Lastly I walk over to Clint, knowing my boys are going to take care of the rest of the team.
“You killed my mother” I say coldly as I punch the man in the face “say her name” I cry out as his back hits the bonnet of a red car, he lets his body slide down the car until he is sat in front of it. “Maya is going to kill Clint” The Falcon shouts out to the standing avengers obviously not knowing I am indeed not Maya.
I stand up and turn around to correct him but before I can say anything I hear the release of an arrow, seconds later the said arrow pierces through my skin, I look down at the arrows placement.
Right through my chest, awkwardly situated on the left side of my body on from what I can gather is my heart.
Pain shoots through my body, forcing me to fall to my knees.
“Shit” is all Clint says behind me.
My former team the avengers and my loyal team, the tracksuit mafia all stop fighting.
Since the arrow left it’s place in Kate’s bow she didn’t stop looking at me.
Both teams ran over.
Kate got to me first. “No fuck, Y/N don’t you dare leave me like this”
“Hey, Bishop, I really like you. You know that?” I say through staggered breathes as I lift my hand up, grabbing the arrow and pulling it out of my body. “you’ve got good aim”
Darkness engulfs my vision and my body falls onto the cold concrete floor.
———————
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realmermaid333 · 1 year
Text
I’m Not Sick! (RonNev)
as per @big-ronnev-fan ‘s request, here is a RonNev sickfic! I was expecting this to take me a long time but somehow it just spilled out lol! The RonNev gods must have guided me lol
It was a snowy, cold December. Neville came home from Hogwarts for the holidays as usual (he was the Herbology professor). As much as Neville loved his work and his students, he loved coming home to see his husband, Ron, even more. 
Ron stopped being an Auror a few years ago and decided to work with George at the family business, Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. As the co-owner, he was able to take a lot of time off during the holidays to spend with Neville. 
Once Neville got off the Hogwarts express, he apparated to the front door of him and Ron’s home. A small, wooden house surrounded by trees, near a muggle neighborhood. He sighed happily at the sight of his cozy home he hadn’t seen in three months. The curtains were drawn shut with light peaking through the edges, there was a small stream of smoke coming from the chimney, and a Christmas reef hung on the door.
When he entered the abode, he was greeted by a waft of warm air and the smell of hot chocolate and pine. He was so excited to see his love, he was hopping on his feet as he shut the door. Their pet owl, Gizmo, hooted a hello at Neville. He gave the sweet bird a gentle head scratch before looking for his husband. 
“Ron! I’m home,” he sang happily, removing his coat and hanging it on the hook. 
He heard a loud sneeze down the hall, “Oh.. Hi honey! Um, I’m coming!” Ron responded. 
Neville followed Ron’s voice down the hall to their shared bedroom. He stepped into the doorway and saw Ron running hastily into the bathroom with a large handful of used tissues. 
“Uh! Hi!” he blurted out. Neville heard the trash can open then slam close, then Ron ran back into the room smiling largely and sniffling. 
He went to hug Neville, but hesitated, and instead leaned on the doorframe awkwardly. The two of them stood silently for a moment, Neville studied Ron, squinting at him. 
“Ron?” 
“Yes?”
“Are you sick, dear?”
“No!” he sneezes, “Um…Absolutely not!” 
“You’re sniffling,”
“It’s cold,”
“Not in here it isn’t, the fireplace is on!” Neville smiles.
Ron crosses his arms, “I’m not sick!”
“You’re sneezing,”
“I have allergies, Neville!”
“To what? The Christmas tree?”
“Maybe!”
Neville reaches out and touches Ron’s forehead, “Aw, Ron, you have a fever,”
“It is hot in here, you said it yourself!”
“You just said it was cold,” Neville tried his best not to laugh at him, but his lips were quivering. 
“Why haven’t you hugged me yet then?” Neville questioned. 
Ron’s ears were now bright red, they always turned red when he was embarrassed or flustered— Neville thought it was the cutest thing in the world. 
“Fine! I am sick!” he finally caved. 
“I know…” Neville giggled, “Why didn’t you tell me?” 
“I was in denial!” he exclaimed, “I didn’t want to ruin the holidays by being sick. I’ve been trying my best the past few days to get better! I tried making a Mandrake Root potion and drinking it but-” he sneezes again, “it didn’t work…” 
“Oh, Ron, you’re silly! The Mandrake Restorative Draught potion won’t help, and it can be tricky to make. You have a cold, you’re not petrified! I should have all the ingredients for the Pepperup Potion in my briefcase. I can make you some and you’ll be better in no time,” Neville said, gently cupping Ron’s warm cheek in his hand. 
Ron’s ears and face were now redder than ever, he sighed in relief and grinned at Neville. Ron was often too stubborn to ask for help and got embarrassed every time he was sick. Which Neville thought was adorable and ridiculous considering how accident prone he could be and how often Ron had to help him when he got hurt or made a mess. 
“Do you think I’ll be better when everyone comes over? I don’t want to be sick on Christmas,” he said worriedly. Ginny, Luna, Harry, and Hermione were coming for a few days to visit, and Ron didn’t want to have to cancel any plans. 
“Yes, the potion cures colds within a few hours, remember? You’ll have steam come out of your ears for a while though,”
“I can handle it,” he smiles, taking Neville’s hands in his. 
“When you’re cured, we can kiss all you want,” Neville says, placing a kiss on Ron’s upper arm. 
“Well, then make me that potion as fast as you can! Hurry!”
“On it!” Neville shouts, turning on his heel and running down the hall to his briefcase, almost tripping on the carpet. 
Ron laughed at his dorky, clumsy husband. His herb jars clinking loudly as he rummaged through his bags. 
He couldn’t wait until his pesky cold was cured so they could snog and drink hot chocolate by the fire. 
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aziraphales-library · 2 years
Note
Hi folks! Your blog means so much to me <3 it literally brightens tough days, so thank you! I was wondering, do you know any fics (or pairs of fics) which would present Crowley’s and Aziraphale’s perspectives on the exact same events? It’s a common trope in other fandoms to alternate POVs every chapter or to write the same fic twice, only with swapped POVs, and I usually love it, but haven’t come across anything like that for ineffables. Any genre, any rating, but preferably some light angst and fluff.
Hello! I know of a couple like this. Two pairs of fics which tell the same story from each point of view, and one story that tells each chapter twice while alternating point of view...
Recompense by Flywolf33 (M)
At first, he didn’t realize anything was wrong. They’d had a row, which wasn’t entirely unusual, and Crowley had stormed off with a few harsh words he didn’t mean flung over his shoulder. Aziraphale had flung a few of his own untruths, though he always knew they hurt the demon far more than either of them would admit.
To his everlasting shame, Aziraphale didn’t start looking for another two years.
By that time, the trail had gone cold and he couldn’t sense Crowley’s aura anywhere.
In which Hell gets hold of Crowley and Aziraphale has to try to put Humpty Dumpty back together again - if Crowley will let him.
This has nothing to do with my other GO stuff at all. This has been bouncing around in my head and I finally got it on paper.
Torment by Flywolf33 (M)
The entire day had felt like a dream; a nightmare that served to fulfill all his fears of Heaven’s treatment of Aziraphale. He’d been trying to get him to see for centuries and even now he wouldn’t understand the truth of it.
But that part had ended splendidly, and all was well. Hell hadn’t thrown him – or Aziraphale as him – into the pit and they both escaped relatively unscathed.
He supposed later that it must have been the relief, the sudden lack of pressure and the ability to just be that was so abrupt they were dizzy. They’d gotten outrageously drunk and somehow ended up tumbling into bed together. In his euphoria Crowley kissed his angel and his angel kissed him back and the next thing he knew they were naked and the nightmare was gone from his mind-
Then morning arrived and reality came crashing down.
Events of Recompense from Crowley's point of view
Pretend For Me by LollipopCop (E)
Crowley was still as stone beside him. His ears were cherry-red. “So...if we pretend we’re in a relationship, we’ll be safe.”
“I believe so.”
“And that would, that would involve, what?” he spoke hesitantly, softly. “Holding your hand, telling you that you mean a lot to me, kissing you for them to see?”
Two great hands were constricting Aziraphale’s lungs. He fought back an undignified wheeze. “Yes, I think so.”
“I can do that,” he croaked. ~ In a panic, Aziraphale tells the archangels he survived hellfire due to his soul mixing with Crowley's because they're in a romantic and sexual relationship. They want him to prove it. Cue a fake relationship.
In Plain Sight by LollipopCop (T)
Right, so. The love of his life asked to be in a fake relationship with him. How was Crowley not supposed to lose his mind over that? How was he supposed to hide how he melted like an ice cream cone in the sun when Aziraphale held his hand?
Companion piece to Pretend For Me, from Crowley's POV.
You're My Best Friend by Mimsynims (E)
Aziraphale and Crowley had been neighbours for six years - and best friends for even longer than that. To Aziraphale's distress, that was about to change:
“I’m leaving."
Aziraphale looked up from his position on his couch at his friend, Crowley. His best friend as it was. They had known each other for what felt like forever, but in reality since they met at the university 15 years ago. Crowley was now standing in the door frame between the hallway and the living room, grey hoodie on.
“Yes, I can see that. See you tomorrow.”
“No- I mean yes, that too.” Crowley looked down at his feet and took a deep breath. “That’s not what I meant.” He raised his head again. “I’m leaving London.”
Aziraphale almost dropped the book he was reading. For a few seconds it was like the whole world came crashing down around him, like his life would never be the same again.
“Why?” was all he could manage to press out.
Crowley looked closed off.
“I’ve got a new job, thought it was time to move on.”
- Mod D
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justsomewritingblog · 2 years
Text
Avatar:TLA (Part 9)
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Request:  None
Requested By:  Nobody
Pairing:  Zuko x reader
Summary:  The Northern Air Temple
Warnings:  none?
A/N:  Another oofer!  Not one of my favorites, though.
Word Count:  4K+
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“So, travelers, the next time you think you hear a strange, large bird talking, take a closer look.  It might not be a giant parrot, but a flying man.  A member of a secret group of air-walkers, who laugh at gravity, and laugh at those bound to the earth by it.”  The man finished, and stood suddenly, walking around with his hat, asking for money.
“Aren’t airbender stories the best?”  Aang asked.  Sokka elbowed you, jerking you awake.  You were leaning on him, sleeping.  It was a light sleep, where you could still hear what was going on, but you still didn’t want to wake.  You sat up and yawned, rubbing your eyes.
“Was it realistic?  Was that how it was back then?”  Katara asked him.
“I laugh at gravity all the time.”  Aang answered, giving a small chuckle.  “Gravity.”  This brought a small smile to your lips, glad that he was happy.  The man offered his hat out to Sokka.
“Jingle jingle.”  He said, asking for money.  Sokka reached into his pockets and pulled out crumbs and a bug.  You made a face.
“Sorry.”
“Aw.  Cheapskates.”  The man said, walking away.  Aang stood up and walked after him.
“Hey, thanks for the story.”
“Tell it to the cap, boy.”  The man replied, still not facing him, but holding the hat out.  A coin fell out and Momo picked it up, placing it back in.  The man turned, just in time to see Momo put the coin in.
“Much obliged, little bat thing.”  He said, petting the lemur’s head.
“It means a lot to hear airbender stories.”  Aang started.  “It must have been a hundred years ago your great grandpa met them.”
“What are you prattling about, child?  Great grandpa saw the air walkers last week.”  He told him.  Aang’s eyes widened.
“Really?  A-Are you sure?”
“Of course.  I-”
Aang didn’t hear him finish.  He ran back to you and the siblings.  “We have to find them.  There might still be airbenders!”
You all shared looks, shrugging.  “I don’t see why we can’t go and check it out.”  You told him.  Aang leapt into the air with glee.
~~~~~~~~~~
The next morning, you were eating breakfast while flying, because Aang didn’t want to wait for you to finish.
“We’re almost to the Northern Air Temple.”  Aang informed.  “This is where they had the championships for sky-bison polo.”
“Do you think we’ll really find airbenders?”  Katara asked, leaning next to her brother, who was carving….something….with his knife.
“You want me to be like you, or totally honest?”  He asked her, not looking up.  You coughed, choking on the food going down your throat in a laugh.  Everyone turned to you, watching you hack your brains out.
“I’m fine.”  You wheezed, holding up your hand.  Katara turned back to her brother.
“Are you saying I’m a liar?”
“I’m saying you’re an optimist.  Same thing, basically.”
“Hey, guys!  Look at this!”  Aang shouted.  You all turned and saw the temple on the top of a mountain.  There were a bunch of figures floating around it.  Your eyes widened.
“It can’t be.”
“They really are airbenders!”  Katara exclaimed.
“No they’re not.”  Aang replied sadly, crossing his arms and leaning back.
“What do you mean, they’re not!?”  Sokka questioned.  “Those guys are flying!”
“Gliding, maybe, but not flying.  You can tell by the way they move, they’re not airbending.  Those people have no spirit.”
“Now, Aang.  Just because they can’t actually airbend doesn’t mean they don’t have spirit.”  You reasoned.  Suddenly a kid flew over your heads, making you all duck.  He flew around, laughing hysterically.  You cocked an eyebrow.
“I don’t know, Aang.  That kid seemed pretty spirited.”  Katara told him.  Aang jumped off with his glider, flying after him.  Suddenly, Appa was surrounded by gliders, and he reared back, throwing you and Katara into Sokka, crushing him.
“We’d better find some solid ground before it finds us.”  Sokka said.  You climbed forward and took ahold of Appa’s reigns, steering him to the ground.  He landed softly and you looked back up, seeing Aang and the boy fly around, doing tricks and stuff of the like.
Aang leapt off and ran along the wall before grabbing his glider again.  He drifted up to the boy and a moment later a trail of smoke left the boy’s glider, and he maneuvered around, making an image.
The image was Aang’s face, looking rather grumpy.  Everyone on the ground cheered, and you felt disgust roll around in your stomach.  They flew back down, Aang landed by Appa as he put away his glider.  You, Sokka and Katara all climbed down to greet him as the other kid landed as well, skidding to a halt.  Everyone ran over to him and took off the glider, leaving him in just a wheelchair.  He rolled over and stopped in front of you.
“Hey, you’re a real airbender!”  He exclaimed, looking at Aang.  “You must be the Avatar!  That’s amazing!!  I-I-I’ve heard stories about you!”
“Thanks.”  Aang replied.
“Wow!  This glider-chair is incredible!”  Sokka gushed, stepping forward.
“You think this is good?  Wait till you see the other stuff my dad designed.”  The boy said, wheeling away.  He led you all inside.  There were pipes everywhere and it felt crowded and busy.  Not anything like a monastery should be.  Everywhere you looked, there were wheels turning and smoke pouring out of pipes.
“Wow!!”  Sokka exclaimed, amazed, rushing forward to get a closer look.  You shook your head and followed, making sure he didn’t get into any trouble.
“Yeah.  My dad is the mastermind behind this whole place.”  The boy said.
“I’m Katara, by the way.  This is Aang, and that over there is Y/n, with my brother, Sokka.  What’s your name?”  Katara introduced.
“I’m Teo.”
“What can you tell us about this place?”  She asked.
“Everything’s powered by hot air.  It even pumps outside, giving us a lift when we’re gliding.”
“This place is unbelievable.”  Aang muttered quietly.
“Yeah.  It’s great, isn’t it?”
“No.  Just unbelievable.”  Aang replied, walking away.
“Aang used to come here a long time ago.”  Katara explained.  “I think he’s a little shocked it’s so……….different.”
“So better!”  Sokka ‘corrected’.  You raised an eyebrow at him.
“You do know that Aang’s not happy about this, right?”  You asked him.
“Why would he be unhappy?  Look at all of this!”
You lowered your voice.  “Sokka, this is a monastery.  Everything he knew has been covered up by machinery.  It’s not exactly ‘pure’ and ‘peaceful’ now, is it?”  You questioned.
“No, I guess not.”  Sokka muttered.
“Sokka!  Y/n!”
You both turned, hearing your names.  You followed Teo outside on a bridge, Katara walking next to him, Sokka slightly behind, and you behind him, your arm supportively around Aang.  You entered a large, open room, with statues of monks lining the walls.
“It’s nice to see at least one part of the temple that’s not ruined.”  Aang said after Sokka and Teo had wandered off slightly.  As soon as the words left his mouth, the head of the statue before you flew off, dust and chunks of rock spreading everywhere.  A wrecking ball had swung, knocking the wall out.  Your mouth dropped open in rage as a group of men stepped through the dusty air.
“What the doodle?”  The man in front asked.  “Don’t you know enough to stay away from construction sites?”
“This shouldn’t be a construction site.”  You mumbled.
“We have to make room for the bathhouse.”
“Do you know what you did?!”  Aang questioned, posture low and threatening.  He held his staff in his hands, looking like he was ready for a fight.  “You just destroyed something sacred!  For a stupid bathhouse!”
“Well people around here are starting to stink.”  The man defended.
“This whole place stinks!”  Aang yelled.  He slammed his staff into the ground, knocking the wrecking ball off the cliff.  You crossed your arms and looked at the man.
He wore green clothes, with a white apron.  He had a monocle on his eye, and a large, bushy beard a moustache, making up for most of the hair atop his head dissipating.  The hair on his eyebrows were also scarce.
“This is a sacred temple.”  Aang repeated.  “You can’t treat it this way.”  He stepped forward.  “I’ve seen it when the monks were here.  I know what it’s supposed to be like.”
“The monks?  But you’re twelve.”
“Dad, he’s the Avatar.  He used to come here a hundred years ago.”  Teo said.
“What are you doing?  Who said you could be here?”  Aang questioned.
“Hm. ‘Doing here.’  A long time ago-but not a hundred years, my people became refugees after a terrible flood.  My infant son, Teo, was badly hurt and lost his mother.”  He sniffled.  You crossed your arms, not totally buying it.  “I needed somewhere to rebuild.”  He continued.  “I stumbled across this place.  I couldn’t believe it!  Everywhere, pictures of flying people!  But empty, nobody home.  Then I came across these fan-like contraptions!”
“Our gliders.”  Aang scowled.
“Yes.  Little, light flying machines.  They gave me an idea: build a new life for my son, in the air!  Then everyone would be on equal ground!  So to speak.”  He added, quietly.  “We’re just in the process of improving what’s already here.  And after all, isn’t that what nature does?”
Katara and Sokka were wiping tears, while you and Aang didn’t look that impressed.
“Nature knows where to stop.”  Aang said, stepping forward.
“I suppose that’s true.  Unfortunately, progress has a way of getting away from us.”  He was silent for a moment.  “Look at the time!”  He exclaimed, pointing to a bunch of candles.  “Come, the pulley system must be oiled before dark.”  He said, turning to a helper.
“Wait, how can you tell the time from that thing?”  Sokka asked.  “The notches all look the same.”
“The candle will tell us.”  The mechanic said, walking over.  “Watch.”  The candle made firework noises and flashed four times.
“You put spark powder in the candle!”  Sokka mused.
“Four flashes.  So it’s exactly four hours past midday.  Or as I call it, four-o-candle.”
Sokka laughed and you face-palmed, running your hand down your face in aggravation.
“If you like that, wait till you see my finger-safe knife sharpener.  Only took me three tries to get it right.”  He said, pulling three wooden fingers off.  Your eyebrows shot to your hairline.  The man tossed the fingers to Sokka, who yelled out in horror.  The man tapped him on the shoulder.  “Follow me!”  He instructed.  Sokka chased after him, disappearing around a corner.
“Hey, Aang.  I want to show you something.”  Teo said.  You all followed him down some tunnels.  It was dark, and they were still lined with pipes.
“I just can’t get over it.”  Aang confessed sadly, with a hint of irritation.  “There’s not a single thing that’s the same.”
“People have no respect.”  You muttered, crossing your arms.
“I don’t know about that.  The temple might be different,” Teo stopped, bending down to pick up a hermit crab, “but the creatures that live here are probably direct descendants from the ones that lived here a long time ago.”  He said, handing the black and white creature to Katara.
“You’re right.  They’re kind of keepers of the temple’s origins.”  She said, handing the small creature to Aang.  He smiled as it crawled across his hands.
“Besides, there’s still one part of the temple that hasn’t changed at all.”  Teo informed, wheeling away.  He led you down a long corridor, air symbols on the ground.
“Hey, it’s just like the one in the other air temple.”  Katara noted.  You lifted your gaze from the patterns on the floor to the large wooden door that stood before you.  It looked like two musical horns that had been horrendously twisted, with air symbols connecting them.  You walked up to it and placed your hand against the wood.
“I’ve never seen one of these before.”  You confessed.
“That’s right.  You weren’t with us at the Southern Air Temple.”  Katara said.
“Only an airbender can open it, so inside it’s completely untouched.”  Teo informed.  “Just the way the monks left it.  I’ve always wondered what it was like in there.”
“Aang?”  Katara asked.  The boy bowed his head, his eyes closed.
“I’m sorry.”  He said.  “This is the last part of the temple that’s the same as it was.”  He looked up.  “I want it to stay that way.”
You smiled in complete understanding and slid your hand off the door, walking over to Aang.  It was as if Teo read your mind.
“I completely understand.”  He said.  “I just wanted you to know it was here.”
“Thanks.”  Aang replied, turning to leave.  You all followed.
~~~~~~~~~
“The wind will carry you.  It supports something inside of you.  Something even lighter than air.  And that something takes over when you fly.”  Teo explained.  You were currently standing on the side of a cliff, watching Teo try to advise Katara about gliding.  She had wanted to try it, but now she seemed rather hesitant.
“I’ve changed my mind.  I think I was born without that something.”  She said, looking down at the clouds.  The temple was so high, you could look down at clouds.  There were still some above, and some level with the temple, but still.  You crossed your arms.
“Impossible.  Everybody has it.”
“Spirit.”  Aang cut it.
“What?”  Teo asked.
“Spirit.  That’s the something you’re talking about.”  He clarified.
“Yeah.  I suppose it is.”
There was silence for a moment as Katara took ahold of the glider, ready for take-off.
“Are you ready?”  Teo asked.
“No.”  Katara answered, voice shaky.  You smiled softly.  She jumped off anyway, a yell coming from her.  The yell turned into laughing as she got the hang of it, Teo joining her.  Your small smile broke out into a grin as you watched.
“Do you want to have a go, Y/n?”  Aang asked.  You looked at him and shrugged.
“Come on.  You’ve liked dangerous stuff before.  It’s not even that bad.”
“You’re an airbender.”  You replied dryly.  “You grew up doing this, and you can control where you go.”  You said, voice even.
“So?  When have I ever led you wrong?”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t answer that.”  Aang said quickly, raising his hand.  “Just give it a try.  I’ll be here if you need me.”  He assured.  You rolled your eyes, aggravated that this kid could get you to do anything, and picked up a glider.  You closed your eyes and stepped off the ledge, refusing to open them until you felt yourself drift upwards.
You peeled your eyes open, but discovered that keeping them mostly shut was better, avoiding the harsh wind in your eyes.  Aang glided over to you.
“You’re doing it!”
“Yeah, I guess I am.”  You replied.
“I can’t believe I’m flying!”  You heard Katara yell, a few feet away.  Aang flew above you, and settled on your other side so he was between the two of you.
“Just make sure you keep your mouth closed so you don’t swallow a bug.”  Aang advised.  Momo opened his mouth.
“Teo was right about the air.”  Katara said, just as Teo veered off.  “All I had to do was trust it.  Let it carry me.”
“And what happens when the wind dies down?”  You asked.  Katara became silent.
“Even though Teo’s not an airbender, he really does have the spirit of one.”  Aang said, trying to lighten the mood.  He dived, landing next to Teo, who was on the landing pad.  You leaned, panicking slightly when the glider did a flip, but recovering when you landed.  You did, however, stumble a little.
“Great.”  Teo told Aang.
“Wait!  How do I land this thing!?  What if I land over in-” Katara cut herself off, gagging.  “Bug!  Bug!  That was a bug!”
Aang launched back into the air and helped guide Katara down.  When she landed, she followed Aang and Teo back into the room where only an airbender could enter.  You followed, intrigued.
“I can’t believe I’m finally, finally going to see what’s inside.”  Teo said.  Aang jumped forward and, using airbending, blew air into the pipes.  The blue airbender symbols turned, revealing a red side and blowing air back out.  When all three did this, the doors opened.  You all walked inside, only for mouths to drop at the sight before you.  There were weapons, things that you weren’t sure what they were, but it could have been good, and a giant figure with the firenation symbol on the front.
“This is a nightmare.”  Aang said.  You were amazed how calm he sounded, and how quickly he recovered.  You still couldn’t speak, for you were too in shock.
“You don’t understand.”  A voice said.  You recognized it as Teo’s father.  You spun around, pointing an accusatory finger at him, suddenly finding your voice.
“You liar!  I knew there was something funny about you!  I don’t know what it was, but when I first laid eyes on you I knew something was off!”  You shouted.
“You’re making weapons for the firenation!”  Aang yelled.
“You make weapons for the firenation!?”  Sokka parroted.
“Explain all this!  Now!”  Teo yelled.
“It was about a year after we moved here.  Firenation soldiers found our settlement.  You were too young to remember this, Teo.  They were going to destroy everything.  Burn it to the ground.  I pleaded with them.  I begged them to spare us.  They asked what I had to offer.  I offered my services.”
You clenched your fists, teeth grinding together, no doubt shaving some layers off.
“You must understand.  I did this for you.”  He told Teo.  The boy turned away, not wanting to look at his father.  The man sighed and left.  You yelled in frustration, banging your head off a wall.
~~~~~~~~~~
“This is bad.”  Sokka noted.
“What would we do without your powerful observation skills, Sokka?”  You asked.  His eyes narrowed.
“Aang, what are we going to do?”  Katara asked.  “How can we possibly keep them all away?”
“I’ll tell you how.  We have something they don’t.  Air power.”
“But they have something we don’t.  Fire power.  Literally.”  You added.
“What would we do without your powerful-” You elbowed Sokka in the ribs, cutting off his sentence.
“We control the sky.  That’s something the firenation can’t do.  We can win.”  Aang continued, ignoring you and Sokka’s squabble.
“I want to help.”
You all turned, seeing Teo’s father.
“Good.  We’ll need it.”  Aang said.  You didn’t understand why he was quite so willing to trust people, but whatever.  The man led everyone inside and stood behind a desk.
“We finally got the war balloon working, thanks to Sokka.”
You smiled, patting the taller boy on the back.  He beamed down at you.  Aang and Katara shared a look, considering you and Sokka had been fighting moments earlier.
“This boy’s a genius.”
“Thank you.  You’re a genius.”
“Thank you.”
Katara and Aang shared another look, though this one of irritation, while you held back an eye-roll and a snicker.
“See, the problem with the old war balloon, was you could get it airborne, but once you did, it just kept going.”  Sokka started, placing a candle in a small basket, tied to a small balloon.  “You could but a hole in the top, but then all the hot air would escape.  So the question became, how do you keep a lid on hot air?”
“Ugh.  If only we knew.”  Katara muttered.  You snorted, quickly covering your mouth with your hand to contain the giggles.  Aang, Katara and Teo, however, made no such effort.
“A lid is actually the answer!”  Sokka exclaimed, ignoring his sister’s comment.  “If you control the hot air, you control the war balloon.”  He determined.
“Hm.  That’s actually pretty smart.”  Katara complimented.
“Okay.  We’ve got four kinds of bombs.  Smoke, slime, fire, and-” Sokka started.
“Stink!  Never underestimate the power of stink.”  Teo’s dad finished.
Everything was prepared, and lining the walls moments later.
“They’re coming!”  A little girl yelled.
“Are we ready?”  Teo asked.
“Yes, but where’s Sokka with the war balloon?”  Katara asked.
“He probably just wants a big entrance.  You know how dramatic he is.”  You told her, though you were secretly only hoping that was the reason.
“Well, we’ll start without him.”  Aang said, opening his glider.  All of the people who had been gliding when you entered were lined up.  Aang leapt off first, and Katara wheeled Teo off, sending him to the sky.  Others followed the two, disappearing below the clouds.
As soon as they were all gone, you and Katara rushed to Appa, climbing in and following the gliders.  You and Katara would pass them more bombs when they ran out.  Then, out of nowhere, chains sprung up from the clouds, and the grapple at the end of them attached itself to the side of the cliff.  Appa panicked and spun, you and Katara barely holding on to the saddle.
On the end of the chains were large, black objects, the firenation symbol on the sides.  They were tanks.  Wheels with daggers, and iron covering the whole thing.  They rolled up the side of the cliff.
Aang, using his staff, unhooked one and it fell, but it shot another grapple and continued its journey.  They got to the top of the cliff and Aang blew them backwards, but the middle turned, making them upright again.  They continued.
“Those things are unstoppable!”  Katara shouted.
“I think I know how they work.”  Teo muttered.  “I remember my dad tinkering with the counterbalancing system.  Something to do with water.  Works great, huh?”
“Water?”  Katara asked.  She turned and shared a look with you.  She turned back to Teo.  “Can you get us close to one?”
“No problem!”  He said, the smirk on his face evident.  You flew in a little closer, jumping off and landing next to Aang, bending the snow for a softer landing, while Katara went the safer route and held on to Teo as he quickly ducked to the ground, giving her enough time to let go.
You both blew on the snow, freezing it.  The tank that was just before you stopped and the wheels fell off.  You did this to a few more until a small army was before you.  Appa swooped down and allowed you, Katara and Aang to hop on him.  He flew to the temple and landed.
“We’re out of bombs!”  Teo informed.
“Come on, Sokka.  Where’s that war balloon?”  Katara asked mainly herself.  Behind her, red came into view.  She turned and saw the war balloon, bearing the firenation emblem, and Sokka and Teo’s dad in it.  At the bottom of the basket were three large bags.
You all watched anxiously as the bombs were dropped, stopping most of the people, but had little effect on the tanks.  They kept coming.  You looked up at the balloon to see if there was anything else that could be done, when you saw the fuel source sail out of it, into a crevice.  You watched it for a few moments until it exploded.  Dark smoke clouded your vision, and you put your arm over your eyes to protect them.
When the smoke cleared, there was a large gap from the temple to the rest of the mountain.
“Look!  They’re retreating!”  Aang noted, pointing to the soldiers walking away.  Everyone cheered.  Suddenly, the war balloon past over at a high speed.
“We’re going down!!”  Sokka yelled.
“No!  Sokka, hold on!!”  Katara shouted back.  Aang opened his glider and dove after them.  You and Katara watched, anxiety eating at your core, until Aang leapt out of the clouds, Sokka and the mechanic at his feet.
~~~~~~~~~~
“You know what?  I’m really glad you guys all live here now.”  Aang told Teo and his dad.  It was about sunset, and you were getting ready to leave.  “I realized it’s like the hermit crab.  Maybe you weren’t born here, but you found this empty shell and made it your home.”  He said, picking a crab up and petting it.  “Now you protect each other.”
“That means a lot, coming from you.”  Teo told him.
“Aang, you were right about air power.”  Sokka said.  “As long as we’ve got the skies, we’ll have the firenation on the run!”
Everyone cheered, though you weren’t so convinced.  You were sure they’d find a way, though.  They always do.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A/n:  Repost
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actual-lea · 11 months
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oops I meant to post this yesterday and completely forgot
AO3 | First chapter | Previous chapter
Daniel stares at the ceiling in stunned silence. The back of his head is throbbing, now, from hitting the floor, and the air has been forcibly knocked from his lungs and replaced by an uncomfortably heavy pressure on his chest. It doesn't hurt, exactly; at least, not yet.
He starts to lift his head but quickly drops it again with a groan, squeezing his eyes shut and placing a hand over his thudding heart. He's almost surprised to find his ribcage hasn't been caved in completely, that the bullet didn’t punch right through the vest, through fabric and skin and muscle and bone, that there isn't any blood soaking his clothes.
He opens his eyes to see Sayid standing over him, gun in hand, and adrenaline forces him to scramble away, as much as he can when every movement hurts like an ice pick to his chest. “Sayid,” he gasps out, pressing his back to the wall, “What are you–”
“Keep quiet and don't move,” Sayid orders in a low, deadly calm voice, and Dan falls into a terrified silence. “Do you know why I'm here?”
He blinks, his eyes locked onto the end of the gun. The attached suppressor isn’t there for intimidation; no, this is a weapon meant solely for killing.
“Do you know why I am here?” Sayid repeats, more forcefully, stepping closer and kicking aside the bag Daniel had dropped.
“N-no, no, I'm sorry, I don't, I'm–” He shakes his head. “I– I don't understand–”
“For a long time now, I've been tracking down the men who work for Charles Widmore,” Sayid says, and Dan's blood turns to ice. “These are bad men. Dangerous men. And so I've been finding them, and killing them. All of them.” A pause. “That’s why I’ve come to Los Angeles, to find the next man on my list.”
Daniel's pulse pounds in his ears and he shrinks back, holding out a hand. “Wait–”
“When your name came up, I thought it must be a mistake. After all, the last time I saw you, it was after you had nearly drowned trying to save a stranger's life.” Sayid kneels beside him. “I would like to believe that you’re a good person, Daniel Faraday. That you have a good reason for whatever you've done. And that's why I'm giving you a chance to convince me.”
“But you just–” Daniel's breath catches in his throat; he coughs, once, and nearly faints outright. “You shot me,” he wheezes, clutching his chest.
“But you're wearing a vest,” Sayid states, and he reaches forward to tug at the black fabric peeking out from beneath Dan's collar. “And so I haven't killed you.”
The unspoken yet hangs in the air between them, and Daniel shifts his weight with a wince. “How... How am I s'posed to convince–”
“You can start by telling me how long you've been on Widmore's payroll.”
He shakes his head. “It– It's not like that, I'm not–” Sayid shoots him a glare that silences him; he'll just stick to the basics, then. “It was a couple years ago, uh... October. 2005.”
Sayid's eyes flash. “When in October?”
“I don't...” He blinks back tears, panting a bit. “Um, the end, I think. What–” Then he realizes what he's being asked and shakes his head, horrified. “Sayid, you don't think I was involved with– with what happened to...”
“Nadia,” Sayid breathes. “Her name was Nadia.” There's a dangerous edge in his voice as he leans closer. “Were you?”
“No,” he replies, so forcefully that it hurts. “I swear to you, I had nothing to do with that. I wouldn't.”
After a long, long silence, broken only by Dan's shallow, shaky breathing, Sayid slowly nods. “So, what did you do for Widmore?”
Daniel swallows against the lump in his throat. “He...recruited me, to find his daughter. Penelope.”
“Find her?”
“After we left the island, he didn't know where she was, and...” He shifts his weight and winces again. “I guess, he thought she was in danger, somehow, so he made me track her down.”
“Why you?”
“Because...” He exhales. “He knew that Penny would be wherever Desmond was.”
“I'm not sure I understand.”
“Yeah. Me neither,” he says with something between a laugh and a groan. “Uh, Desmond is... I have a sort of... A connection, to him.”
“What do you mean, 'connection'?”
“It's– Well, it's a bit...complicated, to explain, but...” Dan clears his throat with a grimace. “Details aside, Widmore knew about it, and knew that I would be able to find him.”
“And it never occurred to you that this pretense of protecting his daughter might be a lie?” Sayid says with a frown. “That perhaps he was tying up loose ends, and that Desmond was the real target he was interested in?”
“No, it– It did occur to me, but I...” He swallows, and nods, squeezing his eyes shut. “It did, yeah.”
“And did you find them?”
“Yes.”
Sayid looks dismayed. “Why?”
“He didn't... Widmore didn't give me a choice,” Dan gasps, barely above a whisper.
“What did he offer you?”
“Nothing, he–” He bites back a curse as Sayid's hand twists in his collar, pulling him closer.
“Did he threaten you, then? Tell you that this was the only way to save your life?”
“N-no, it's not–”
“Then what is it?” He jabs the end of the gun into Dan's neck. “What was it that made you decide to help this man, that you knew to be dangerous?”
Daniel chokes on a sob. “Sayid, please–”
“What was it?”
“He threatened someone else,” he says in a rush, his voice breaking. “Someone that I– That isn't even involved in any of this, and if I don't do what he says, he'll...” He shakes his head. “God, I don't even know what he'll do, but it won't be good, and that's why I– I have to cooperate, because if I don't, if I run, if I try to do anything...”
Sayid stares at him in silence.
He's no longer speaking in past tense, he realizes suddenly. “He'll find me again,” he explains quietly. “Sooner or later.”
“Why, Daniel?” The pressure on the gun eases, just a bit, but it doesn't move. “What more does he want from you?”
“I've...been...” He shuts his eyes tight. “I've been trying to find the island.”
Sayid releases his hold on Dan’s collar, letting him slump back against the wall.
He takes a deep, painful breath and continues, “To– to figure out where it is now, based on...a lot of really complicated theories, about what exactly happened when it moved.” He wraps an arm around his chest. “Because I'm, you know, I'm a physicist, this is... It's what I do,” he adds with a helpless shrug.
“And Widmore?”
“And Widmore...” He swallows, hard, and looks down. “He's trying to find the island, too, so...”
“So he'll have you find it for him.”
“That's...what I'm afraid of, yeah,” he whispers.
Sayid exhales heavily. “This person that he threatened. What’s her name?”
Dan winces. “Theresa.”
“Where is she?”
“W-why does it matter?”
“The sooner you answer my questions, the sooner this will be over.”
A shiver rolls up his spine as he contemplates the meaning of the word over. “Oxford. She… Her sister takes care of her, they live in Oxford.”
Sayid is silent for a few seconds. “And you can't take them somewhere else, keep them safe from Widmore?”
“No, I can't.”
“Why can't you?”
“Because I can't keep anyone safe! That's why I–” A fresh stab of pain in his chest forces Daniel to suck in a sharp breath and start over. “That's why I have to find the island before he does, because everyone that we left behind, they're still...” His voice shakes. “They're all in danger, as long as they're still there. As long as he's still looking.”
“And what if your finding the island is exactly what he wants?” Sayid says. “You could be playing right into his hands.”
“Not if he doesn’t know where I am.”
At that, he stands up to his full height. “Then he can’t be allowed to find you,” he states. “You need to disappear.” His voice would be gentle, almost, if it weren't for the gun in his hand.
Daniel watches him with wide eyes, feeling small and helpless and far too terrified to be ashamed of the way he cowers against the wall.
And then, inexplicably, Sayid pockets the gun and walks away. He lifts the phone off the nightstand and places it on the floor, and he says, softly, “Wherever you were hiding, go back there.”
Dan blinks. “You’re not…gonna kill me?”
Sayid shakes his head, and relief floods Daniel’s chest around the pain. “I’m going to disappear, too.” He nods to the phone. “Wait five minutes before you call for help.”
“Okay,” he gasps, nodding vigorously. “Yeah. Okay.” He lets his head fall back against the wall as Sayid heads for the door.
He opens it, then pauses. “For what it's worth, I'm sorry.”
“Thanks,” Daniel says, and he means it.
With a final nod, Sayid shuts the door behind him.
(next chapter)
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aeoki · 8 months
Text
Seven Bridges - Love and Peace?: Chapter 15
Location: Yumenosaki Rooftop Characters: Adonis, Kouga, Arashi & Hitsugi
TL Note:
Arashi’s surname, Narukami (鳴上), can also mean “lighting and thunder (鳴神)” although it differs by one character.
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Kouga: Hey! What’re you doin’, Adonis!?
Adonis: Oh, Oogami.
Kouga: Don’t give me that~! Why’re you so calm!? No one should be allowed up on the rooftop!
Adonis: You’re right. Previously, the school rules didn’t state it was banned to do so, but it was only to the level that it wasn’t recommended to come up here.
The rules are getting stricter by the day. From a positive point, it’s heading in a good direction. From a negative point, it’s an inconvenience.
Kouga: Yeah! But even though this is how the times have changed, we’ve got no choice but to go along with it and that’s pretty annoyin’, right!? It ain’t cool at all!
But others tend to think we’re bad people just ‘cause we’re that “type” of person! You should watch what you say and do!
And don’t make me scold you like this of all things!
Adonis: Right, I apologise. If you’re angry, Oogami, that must mean I’ve done something wrong.
But please allow me to make an excuse. I wasn’t the first person to come up here – it was Narukami.
I was worried about Narukami so I came up here to check.
Kouga: Huuh? Ari~?
Arashi: …………
Kouga: What’re ya doin’, Ari~? Are you here in a high place and wanting to strike down like lighting ‘cause that’s what your name sounds like[∗]? What’re you, stupid!?
Arashi: …You’re always so full of energy, huh, Kouga-chan.
Kouga: That a bad thing, huuuh!? I actually haven’t been able to sing however I like in “UNDEAD”, so I’ve got way too much energy left over!
God dammit, I’m gonna explode at this rate!
Adonis: Yeah. Our graduated upperclassmen have started walking the variety show path and a lot of the school events aren’t in our “style”.
If we came up with our own event, the “producer” in charge would change it to something that Ooogami dislikes and his frustrations would continue to pile up instead.
Kouga: Yeah! I wanna put on a rock performance that’ll shake everyone’s souls! Who do they think they are, talkin’ to me about the audience or my awareness as an idol!?
To hell with those things!
I don’t wanna be a pretty packaged “product by the name of an idol” – what I’m aimin’ for is my ideal self!
Wait, why am I talkin’ about myself in this downpour!? Is this some kinda cheap melodrama!?
Adonis: No, you’re actually helping me a lot by rambling on and on. A while ago, neither Narukami nor I had a choice but to stay silent.
Kouga: …What happened?
Adonis: I don’t know either. But Narukami looks very depressed.
Arashi: …………
Hitsugi: We made it~! *Pant, wheeze* Idols are so fit! I couldn’t keep up with them at all!
Adonis: Hm? You’re–
Hitsugi: Ah! My saviour! Thank you so much back then! I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t save me!
Adonis: No, I didn’t do anything of that sort. I’m glad to see you’re well.
Arashi: Hitsugi-chan… and Anzu-chan.
Hitsugi: That’s me! I’m honoured you remember me!
Arashi: Say, since you’re both from the “producer course”, do you know who came up with this year’s “Tanabata Fest”? It’s not you, is it, Anzu-chan…?
Hitsugi: Huh? We just had a talk about that in the student council room!
Anzu-senpai got scolded a lot because it wasn’t something that she would come up with!
Arashi: I see… I wondered if that was the case. “Tanabata Fest” is the event that brought Anzu-chan a lot of recognition, after all.
So I wondered if it was Anzu-chan who planned it and would be the one to oversee it.
I made the guess but I didn’t want to believe it.
Tell me, Anzu-chan. Just why…?
Why? You’re a sweet girl but how can you trample over something that someone cherishes so easily like that…?
Hitsugi: ………?
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calamxty-a · 2 years
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『 ┍━━━━━━━»•» @fallesto​ // from michikatsu «•«━━━━━━┑ 』
Muzan-sama
I know I should not write to you.
I know it is wrong and dangerous, but I have taken great care to have this delivered to you.
Destroy it afterwards, for your own safety.
I hold great fear within my heart. That I have to leave you and go to battle with my father and to know that my father mocks me constantly.
That I will die without ever proving myself. That my victory years ago as a boy with you, was nothing more than a fluke, something that was aided by the gods themselves and not by you.
You saved my life.
I have never forgotten this.
It has not once left my mind.
Even when the years turned.
I keep going back to that day, when we were happy, free and we had everything we ever wanted as well. What they did to you afterwards, how they hurt you and made me stand and watch.
I wish I were fighting them now.
I am a man now, I am not that scared little boy from years ago who stood by and let you get hurt. I will always obey each and every one of your commands, but never that one, never again will I let anyone hurt you.
I am going to fight hard, not for your father, not for your brother, not for the people were are meant to protect, but for you.
I will be so far away from you, but that only means it will be a new place to be within. That means new villages, new ports, new markets.
I already have gifts for you, I will look forward to getting more for you as well. I cannot send them, it is too dangerous, but I will deliver them to you in person.
So that I can see your smile.
I pray for your safety and improvement on your health every single night and when my blade tastes blood, I will offer it up to you as well, these lives I will take, I give them to you, not the gods, not my lord, but you. That it might, lighten your burden a little.
Be well.
Always..
-
Your samurai…
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But Muzan never destroyed his letters. They were always tucked away, under a piece of loose tatami flooring--between there and the baseboards. Afterwards, he coughed and wheezed but those letters and small trinkets were safe.
Michikatsu-kun,
I have faith that my samurai will return home. I’ve always admired them for their courage and valor--as well as their ability to overcome everything that’s been placed against them. 
Your enemies will fall, the same as the others and your talents will bring you home. (to me, left unsaid)
One day, I shall accompany you into the light as a true lord would. That day--the day in which we can stand at each other’s sides will please me more than no other. Through our childhood, we learned that sometimes dreams are just that--dreams. But I’m quite certain that this will become a reality, even if I have to will it into existence myself. I never forget. And I never forgive. It is a cruel, harsh way, but one made by those that came before. It is the one lesson I will keep.
Those who have wronged us will pay, with interest.
As my samurai, you know of my vow to you.
I cannot imagine the horrors you live through and the battles you’ve fought, but I extend my compassion to you, as well as the little strength I have. Know that if I were to have the ability, I would be the one commanding you. I would be the one at your side. I would not leave the battlefield and allow those under me to take this fight on their own. (unlike my father, left unsaid)
The things you’ve spoken about--the things you’ve bought. I wish for you to show them to me in person. I will surely smile when you wear the decorations upon your hair and your being. As such, this means you must return to me safe, live and above all, whole.
I care for you.
I care little of my burdens-- they leave and come, as with the tides, dictated solely by the moon. But I will accept those that you’ve killed, that you’ve felled. There is no greater compliment than to be the one you consider above all others. (do you believe me to be your god? it was left unwritten, but implied.)
Michikatsu-kun. 
Come home to me.
--
Kibutsuji Muzan
Your Lord.
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archive-of-note · 2 years
Text
So today has been no bueno.
I slept most of it away (unintentionally)
Read two fics that made me feel too much.
Left the news on for background noise out of habit and I’m a queer that lives in Florida, so you can imagine the sort of stress I am under.
And it’s termite swarming season so I have to keep a lint roller near by at all times.
Fell asleep again, sad. Woke up again, slightly less sad.
Then this happened.
@oonajaeadira I love Patrico and I love you but you must also understand that I am unwell.
@blueeyesatnight Your writing is good your characterizations feel natural and consistent, and I’m the one who should be buying a rainbow wig for not realizing how much of a mess would be made when the other shoe dropped.
Anyway, here’s sm fic of Blue’s That’s Not Your Name, because I don’t have anyone I can cry too about everything making me sad at once so we have to break up the self soothing measures into chunks.
WC:??? Who is that? (All spelling and grammatical mistakes are my own, I don’t Beta)
(A PATS/GTTT fic didn’t/isn’t happening because… well I don’t think I could appropriately handle the very delicate balance that has been created)
here we go
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You think you and Pi handle the drive back to the apartment quite well.
Even with twice as many stops then when you drove to the hotel.
Pi falls asleep halfway there, exhausted from his crying and your yelling and the suffocating silence that attempts to smother both of you in the car.
This is for the best.
You’d put up with way more of Dee’s shit then you had any right too. You didn’t just give him an inch, you gave him miles and still he just took and took and took.
Part of you wishes you’d punched him.
Not once in the eight years that you’ve had Pi had he ever acknowledged that he was your boy’s father.
Not once.
It bothered you, saying it didn’t would be a lie and you’re too damn tired to ignore it anymore.
But you held it together, because he was “Dieter Bravo”, and you were just a store clerk who knew him when he was a kid.
“I told her… about… Pi.”
You grit your teeth as the tears start building up again.
That’s the real kick in the teeth. That he told her after two years, when you’d been grinning and bearing his denial, his absence, his ineptitude, for eight.
You’ll acknowledge that there might be a bit of hero worship on Dee’s end, and Christ he never once mentioned that he OD’d during quarantine.
You grip the wheel even tighter.
Damn near a decade with Pi and the near thirty years before that.
Your throat tightens.
You need to pull over.
There’s a gas station coming up and you need to stop again. This day has been shit enough as it is and you don’t need to add a sobbing induced fender bender to the list.
It’s nasty. Piles of trash balled up in the corners by the curb, something that looks like roadkill, definitely a broken needle.
You just need a minute, maybe two.
Cracking all the windows, you stop the car and get out. You close the door as softly as possible as to not wake up Pi, as long as he’s sleeping he isn’t crying, and you’re barely holding it together as is. He didn’t do anything wrong and you need to take all the time you can to get yourself together.
It’s all your fault after all.
You kept letting Dee in because you’d hoped that he’d step up, he didn’t have to be a great father, he just had to be decent. Some birthdays, a few holidays, maybe a game or two if he could squeeze it, and some money for school and as a cushion wouldn’t have hurt either.
You cut off your own sob, making it more of a wheeze so as not to wake up Pi or pick up any attention.
You should have dropped Dee years ago, changed your number or ignored his calls, changed your locks and hide the spare key somewhere else.
That would have been the smart thing to do, that would have been the less stressful thing to do.
But you knew him for too long, known too much.
Knew that behind the idiotic, selfish, substance abusing douchebag that was and is Dieter Bravo, there was a smart, genuine, decent person.
Diego Baltra had been your best friend, and you hoped that he was still in there, somewhere.
A snotty sniff, a cracking exhale, and a small burst of self deprecating laughter later, you clap your cheeks.
Count your breathes.
Straighten your spine.
And get back in the car.
A quick glance at Pi and you know he’s awake, just pretending to sleep, but you let him, because you need it too.
With another shaky breath you start the car, and pull out of the parking lot.
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rexsterss · 2 years
Text
Guidelines
Summary:
It starts with a spar.
To Ordo’s unfortunate luck, these things always start with a spar.
repcomm. fi/ordo. a couple of assholes being assholes to each other. rated M. 738 words.
Notes: Based on 50 A Softer World Prompts.
READ IT ON AO3
If loud, weird public sex is wrong, then being wrong is wicked hot. (Right and wrong are just guidelines to hotter sex.)
“You’re a menace.”
It starts with a spar.
To Ordo’s unfortunate luck, these things always start with a spar.
Fi huffs out a breath, doesn’t even bother to lift his head from his folded arms when he says, “Funny you should say that, when you couldn’t wait ‘til we’re in the barracks.”
Hah. Now, that is a lie.
Fingers digging dents into his hips, Ordo presses his mouth over the soft hairs of his nape. Fi stills against the hint of teeth. “You wanna say that again, vod’ika?”
It takes some amount of satisfaction in feeling Fi’s tensed body underneath him, thrumming with held back power, as if he realises he’s toeing too near the line Ordo’s set up for most people when niceties threatens to overspill into ‘annoying’.
Fi’s not most people, see, and he realises that somewhere along their little entanglement. And it’s not like he hasn’t been insufferable since he’s been half delirious from a explosion that went off just a couple of layers away from his heart, insulting Ordo’s kama because he thinks he’s a hotshot of a commando with clanker oil as his armour.
Ordo would’ve thought that the medics have more sense than others. It’s humbling to know that he, too, can be wrong.
“I’m saying,” Fi, the little bastard, wiggles against his grip. “You like it when we stink and sweat to not wait.”
Ordo bites into the cord of muscle on his neck, jerking his hips in coordination, and he’s satisfied at the gasp that shakes against his bare chest.
“Two things,” Ordo hums, one hand running up the sweat slick of Fi’s caving stomach, tracing the individual ridges of his ribs. “Who did you think was gonna get beat up the moment we step onto that mat today?”
Fi scoffs, head falling to the side when Ordo nudges the corner of his jaw. “Oh, I dunno. You?”
“You. Because I know I’d win, because for the first time in years, today doesn’t feel especially shitty. Never thought it’d be this great.”
“Congratu-fucking-lations, the Mando gods smile upon your victory,” Arms braced against the wall, Fi rolls back against him, making Ordo’s lashes flutter for a second. What a punk. “Or is it the Force this time? Wonder if we can thank Bard’ika for that one, instead?”
“If the Force would guarantee me winnings my whole life, I’d convert into a Jedi a long time ago,” Fek, he’d even wear the robes. “And I don’t need Jusik to wipe your ass across the floor.”
“As opposed to railing it—“
“Second,” Ordo cuts off the rest of the sentence with a snap of his hips that has Fi’s swearing out loud. “I wasn’t the one who couldn't keep his legs closed tonight. Like some money laundered display. Fuckin’ shameless, if you ask me.”
“And that didn’t stop you,” Fi wheezes out, clutching onto the back of Ordo’s hand when his palm presses against his chest, right where the dent would be sitting on his armour. “You just couldn’t help yourself with the spread feast.”
Ordo digs his thumb into taut skin, right against his heaving chest. He plays with the thought of having the need to brand him, if he presses hard enough, and Fi must be thinking the same thing when his clutches migrate to his wrist.
“For the record,” Ordo says quietly, lips grazing behind his ear, allowing his weight to spread across his back and pining him between the two forces of his insistence. Fi chokes underneath him. “You’re being a smartass.”
“And you decided you needed to put me in place,” Fi tilts his head back until it’s on Ordo’s shoulder. The red plush of his parted mouth is downright tantalising. “Captain Ordo just hates it when he doesn’t get what he wants.”
“Slander,” Ordo doesn’t stop himself from dragging his hand up his clavicle, and Fi doesn’t let him go. “I can be reasonable.”
“Ha,” Fi lets out. Ordo molds his hand over his neck, loose and easy to break. “Liar.”
Fi doesn’t dare let go of his wrist, and Ordo can feel his anticipation thrumming between them. “Talking big for someone who currently has his belly up for me.”
“You’re Kal’Buir’s Ord’ika,” Fi rumbles out instead. “Everything you want, you get.” From where they’re alone in this locker room, the next part of his sentence seems to echo in resonance. “And I don’t blame him.”
Curious. Ordo needs to hear this. “And why’s that?”
Something glints in Fi’s gaze when Ordo meets it. “You’re worth all that fuss.”
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