#I know I'm posting this late so I'll reblog in the morning | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

Tumblr.com rank in the US is 25.

#I know I'm posting this late so I'll reblog in the morning

ugh-yoongi · 5 months

Note

hi! would it be alright if i asked what your favorite namjoon fics are? thank you and have a great day 💗🥹

hello nonnie, it is always okay to ask me for fic recs! <3

most of these works contain mature themes/content. please heed tags and do not engage with any explicit work if you are a minor!

i know there are a bunch i've forgotten, so please reblog and share your own work and your faves!

also, please note: there are a lot of fics on these lists that are posted to ao3. it has recently come out that a volunteer was removed from their position for being pro-palestine (you can find the twt thread here). i am in the process of looking for a better alternative, but until then, it is unfortunately probably the best way to share these stories. while i personally won't be posting to or reading on ao3 for the time being, how you choose to engage going forward is completely up to you! i just wanted to make sure i was being transparent.

namjoon x reader

anything by @effortandmore

anything by @hamsterclaw

anything by @miscelunaaa

1-year anniversary by @johobi

omerta by @anotherbtswriter

hammer it home series by @gukslut

hey, it's me & leave no trace behind by @yoongiphoria

love bytes by @stutterfly

real magic & park and ride by @here2bbtstrash

house of cards & guilty by @xjoonchildx

lacuna by @eoieopda

dream team by @bangtanintotheroom (feat. hobi)

cyanide on my bedsheets by @jimilter

laundry day by @snackhobi

bloom by @hobidreams

the snow globe effect by @gukyi

you've got a friend in me by @wwilloww

pronoia by @junghelioseok

limbo by @beahae

love hard by @raplinesmoon

swiss miss by @here4kpopfics (feat. seokjin)

my feet to follow, and my heart to hold by @daechwitatamic

a fine line by @moni-logues

roommates with benefits

as always, mxm fics under the cut!

member x member

softer than steel (namseok)

frustrations in late foucault (namseok)

the universe needs more you (namseok)

in your atmosphere (namseok)

why don't you figure (my heart) out (namseok)

i'm on fire (rap line)

delta (rap line)

꽃꽂이. kkotkkoji (namjin)

you have 1 new message (namjin)

beta tau sigma (namjin)

white rabbit (namjin)

local dumbass idiot helps sexy criminal and then writes sad bird poems instead of just saying Yes Seokjin I Like You Too (namjin)

easy (namjin)

and they were roommates (namjin)

burn me like an ember (namjin)

the understood boundaries of self (namjin)

more walls (collected along the way) [namjin]

imprints & magnitude (namjin)

salt water (namjinkook)

disgruntledofficebrat [active] (namkook)

you can leave the cape on (namkook)

108 degrees (namkook)

the whole of the moon (namkook)

travelogue with a frat boy (namkook)

it's a color that i can't describe (namkook)

how much to give and how much to take (namkook)

the courage of stars (namkook)

come take it (if you want a piece of me) [namkook]

a feel so sweet (namgikook)

objects in mirror are closer than they appear (namgi)

green carnation (namgi)

the added bonus (namgi)

tear you apart (namgi)

different when i'm with you (namgi)

adrift (namgi)

i'll fuck you if you let me, baby (namgi)

sleepless in (namgi)

恋の予感 (namgi)

take it or leave it (namgi)

baby, but we will (namgi)

verified amateurs [online now] (namgi)

cyrano more like cyraNO (namgi)

record it for later (namgi)

into the red morning (taejoon)

don't call it love (taejoon)

i am red with love (taejoon)

the bad thing (minimoni)

you were more than just light (minimoni)

wish we'd fall in love (minimoni)

but i want it anyway (minimoni)

#namjoon x reader #namjoon smut #namjoon imagine #namjoon scenarios #namjoon fanfic #namjoon fic recs #fic rec

458 notes · View notes

russellsppttemplates · 4 months

Text

It's like we won't even be there (Lewis Hamilton)

Mercedes has three power couples

Note: english is not my first language. After a long time, I'm finally posting this request.

Thank you so much to everyone who likes and reblogs, your feedback is appreciated 🤍 and I'm taking requests so if you have any ideas or concepts you want to share, feel free to do so as I'll try to get to them the best I can!

my masterlist

Tw: mentions gender inequality, misogynistic ideals

Tag list: @myloverjk-blog

"Everyone on social media has an inkling that you're bringing someone to the race. Is it your belle, Mr. Hamilton?", you teased your boyfriend as he got ready for bed.

You had arrived in Abu Dhabi a few hours earlier, caught a cab to the hotel where your boyfriend had been resting before media day.

"Is that so?", he wondered, "I haven't told anyone outside the team. And even them, I told them you would be joining as my guest, only a few people actually know about us", he assured.

"I don't mind it, we'll have to be public at some time. Three years dating outside of the public eye, plus another year of what the kids call soft launching, whatever happens this weekend, happens", you tranquilized him.

This had been an ongoing conversation for you for as long as you've dated. His lifestyle came with many implications, particularly not always being home and public eye. You also spent a lot of time focused on your job, building the company now associated to your name to the people in the finance business, so the latter question was the biggest one. While you were successful, it hardly impacted your life when it came to the public eye or social media. You had your accounts, sure, but they were private and they never got in the way of your job.

"I just don't want people to lash out on you", he replied, sitting next to you on the bed, his fingers tracing shapes in your hand, "I've seen how brutal they can be, I've felt how brutal they can be, and I don't want that for you. They'll gossip because that's how things work, but I don't want them breaking the respect line.", Lewis stated.

"Lew, I understand and appreciate your concern, but I'll be fine. I have you, our families, our friends, I'm going to be just fine. I don't know how they'll react, so I'll work with whatever happens", you smiled, snuggling into him as he caressed your face.

"Good morning, Y/N! How have you been? I haven't seen you in so long!", Carmen said as she hugged you once you arrived in the hospitality, Lewis kissing your cheek briefly before he headed for his meeting.

"Hello, gorgeous girl! I've been good, and you?", you greeted her with a kiss on each cheek after saying goodbye to Lewis.

"Same old, busy but managed to come and support G this weekend. You, however, seem to finally let it out", she smirked, walking with you to the coffee station and serving yourselves, sitting in the balcony as you overlooked the track.

"There's no point in keeping it a secret, I guess. We did it for a while, and this past year we both realised that we want to be able to go out and not be worried someone will see us and whatever consequences it could bring. We're adults who hope other adults will behave like such", you smiled.

"A hard thing to do sometimes, for them at least", you heard a female voice coming closer to you, "I don't believe we've met before, but Toto said you were hanging out here", the blonde woman said.

Suzie Wolff had been someone you looked up to since you were little, so this was a proper fangirl moment, "sit, sit! This is Y/N!", Carmen introduced after giving her a brief introduction.

"I keep missing you whenever you join us for the races!", she said, "the pandemic didn't help, and lately I've been so busy with the F1 Academy that I've hardly been to races myself", she reasoned, beginning the start of a conversation that was only interrupted for lunchtime.

"Press usually have a field day with powerful women related to this sport. You should be able to get away with it because you don't work for racing, but they love going on and on about how we got to where we are because of who we date", Suzie shook her head.

"Absolutely, because George is very interested in Family Offices and he got me my job", Carmen rolled her eyes, "you try and give that guy math stuff and you see how it turns out! Besides, not many people actually knew who he was, they're not very into motorsport, only a couple of them!", she teased.

"Agreed! The only way I was able to have my own company was because I name dropped Lewis, who I didn't know at the time. He doesn't know his numbers all that well. It's so easy for them to point fingers, but it's really just because they hate to see a powerful woman get the job done", you offered, seeing your partners arrive to the table along Laura.

"Social media is going crazy about you, Y/N!", Laura, one of the team's social media managers said while you had lunch, "there's people who spent the whole morning trying to find out who you were and they were faling to find your accounts. Apparently, they were looking in model agencies and such until someone pointed out you studied at the same university as them, and it's pointed them in the right direction I'd say?", she shrugged her shoulders, showing you her phone as she scrolled through media, "they're still trying to find out more, but they only have a few articles from your company and a picture of you when you graduated that is on the university's Wall of Fame!", she made you giggle, fondly looking at the wall of pictures you saw everyday on your way to lectures.

"Are you on the Wall of Fame and didn't tell us, Y/N?", Carmen exclaimed at the new information, "it's barely anything, I'm still there probably because someone forgot to remove the picture", you blushed, suddenly feeling like the table's attention was on you.

"Why would they take out the picture of the most beautiful woman with the most achievements?", Lewis charmed, holding your hand in his as he smiled.

"Are you guys ready for the race? If all goes well, we can get back to the points!", Suzie cheered as she handed you and Carmen your bottles of water.

"Lew has been beating himself up a lot lately, hopefully everything works in their favour", you held your hands together after setting the water bottle on the counter.

It was very touch and go, but the boys ended up with good results given the position they started in.

"Congrats, my love!", you said in Lewis' ear as he squeezed your torso over the barrier, delighting the sight of everyone who was watching and seeing the happy couple, "couldn't have done it without you, gorgeous girl", he yelled back, stealing a kiss before running to the mechanics.

"I'm just going to check where Suzie is and then we can go for dinner, guys", Toto stated, squeezing George's and Lewis' shoulders before checking is phone to see if his wife had seen the text he sent about said dinner.

"The F1 Academy paddock is closed, you can see it from here that nobody is there", George pointed out as his boss frowned.

"I would help you, but I have to go and look for Carmen, too", George scratched his cheek as they walked along the corridor, seeing Lewis open his driver's room door and slumping his shoulders slightly, "Y/N is not here either".

"Where have the Mercedes missus gone...?", Toto muttered.

It didn't take then long to hear the mix of your three giggles coming from the lounging area, the three of you sat in the smaller sofas around a coffee table, hot drinks in your hands as you discussed something avidly but in a relaxing way still.

"Are the three of you willing to have dinner with the three of us? We'll still let you speak between yourselves, okay? It's like we won't even be there!", Toto joked.

#lewis hamilton imagine #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton fanfic #lewis hamilton fluff #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic

519 notes · View notes

jinnie-ret · 7 months

Note

imagine how cute it would be if skz 9th member had either a young kid or had custody of their young sibling. the boys helping out with raising the kid, like having 8 fun uncles or brothers. maybe a touch of angst about negative publicity about the reader having a young kid. i just think it would be cute if sometimes the kid was seen in the back of mvs sometimes or in the games they play. basically just skz with kids makes my heart melt <33

my aegi

stray kids x ninth member!reader (platonic)

genre: fluff, angst

content warnings: parental loss, car accident

word count: 1.9k

summary: y/n was glad she had the boys there to help her raise her kid sister. she didn't know what she'd do without them.

Thank you so much for your request! Such a sweet idea! Sorry it's late, but I hope you enjoy it!

As always, like, reblog if you enjoyed, and my asks are open for any requests you may have. And let me know if you'd like to be tagged when I post :)

MAIN MASTERLIST

"Unnie! Unnie!" the sound of your younger sister calling for you filled the room, small footsteps padding across the floor until she found you and wrapped her arms around your legs, you picking her up in response.

"Were you looking for me?" you smiled at her, booping her nose and getting a giggle in response. You loved it when she laughed.

There was a time in your life when you thought you'd never see her smile again. 2 years ago, when she had only been 4 years old, and you, 18 years old, your parents had gotten into a fatal car accident, no other family around to be able to look after her. It was a hard time, just coming into a time out of lockdown when you had hoped to be able to see them again, yet that had all been taken away from you, at least you had your sister, Jisun. You were thankful to the company that they allowed you to look after her, as you really doubted that it would have been possible.

"Wanted a hug!" Jisun clung onto you, nuzzling her head into your neck, making you laugh.

"Made some breakfast, Sunny, want some pancakes sweetie?" you asked her, giggling yourself when she squirmed out of your arms and nodded. For someone who was so clingy in the mornings, food could really affect her mood.

Jisun had been really quiet after the death of your parents. She was sad, non verbal, always wearing a vacant expression. You were so glad that the boys were there to support you taking care of her, and lift her spirits. Her older brothers, who she each called 'oppa', could certainly bring her out of a bad day, even if it took all of them trying to make her laugh or sing to her. It surprised you at first, how much it had affected her. Selfishly, you hoped that she didn't remember them that much, but only so she didn't get more hurt in the process. But it was only a couple of months into being her primary guardian that you realised she did remember them. She couldn't forget about the cuddles from your mother, or being tucked in at night by your father, but she found a piece of that in you and the rest of the boys.

"Are there any pancakes left for us?" Chan rubbed his eyes tiredly as he entered the kitchen, the boys following in soon after, each of them hugging you in some sort of way.

"Nope, just for my Jisun," you teased as you did her hair from where she was sat at the table.

"Plaits or ponytail?"

"Pony pony!" Jisun cheered, making you and the rest of the boys coo at her.

"Pony pony!" Changbin and Felix cheered along with her.

"Ponytail it is my Sunny," you smoothed down her hair before fulfilling her request.

"I'm joking by the way, there's some pancake mixture left I'll make some more in-"

"It's fine, Y/Nnie, we'll finish up with it. Have you done some for yourself yet?" Lee Know got up and stirred the mixture so it didn't stick to the bowl, before pouring some into the pan.

"Ah not yet, I got distracted, but-"

"No buts, finish getting Jisun ready, sort yourself out, and then we'll have it here waiting for you," Seungmin waved you off, but you weren't going to let them deny you that easily.

"It's fine just let me," you began, only to be cut off again.

"No, take some time for yourself, yeah? We can look after Jisun too," Hyunjin got up and patted your shoulders, steering you around making you giggle as he gently pushed you towards the direction of your room.

With a sigh you got ready, so grateful to be surrounded by people around you who supported and understood your situation. At the start, when your situation had been revealed to the world that Jisun was now in your custody, fans hadn't taken to the situation too kindly. Some of them, instead of sending messages wishing you well and hoping that you would be ok, thought it was a ploy to cover up the fact that Jisun was your child. They thought JYP was so messed up that they faked your parents' deaths just to be used as a cover-up that you were a mother from the age of 16. You would have mixed preferred that if it meant your parents were still here with you, at least then you would have been able to have seen them become grandparents. Stays, the real ones, soon became more understanding of your situation, many of them calling you brave, and saying that they wouldn't have been able to do it at your age. 2 years on, at the age of 20, you didn't know yourself how you had been managing it. It just felt so natural.

"Y/Nnie? You ok?" Jeongin tentatively knocked at your open door, seeing you sat and staring blankly into space.

"Hmm?" you blinked yourself out of your thoughts, spraying some perfume on before grabbing your phone and Jisun's bag ready for the day.

"You were in your world again," Jeongin laughed at, brushing some stray hairs out of your face.

"Oh sorry, was just umm, making sure I had everything for Jisun ready today, it's the first time she's come along with us to an interview in a while," you smile shortly, yet it didn't fully reach your eyes as you headed back into the kitchen.

"Eat up, Y/Nnie," Han placed a plate in front of you as instructed by Lee Know and patted your head as he returned to his own seat.

"How long til we have to leave?" you asked, not even taking a bite yet.

"About five minutes, but we can take longer if we need, you haven't even eaten yet, I don't want you to rush," Chan said to you sternly, knowing you'd often forget about things in favour of the young girl sat in his lap.

"Is Jisunnie excited?" you asked your younger sister with a smile, taking a bite of your breakfast as she mirrored your facial expression.

"Yes! I miss the staff unnies and oppas!" she cheered.

"Oh, so you won't miss your oppas?" Changbin tickled her sides as she burst out laughing.

"Dwaekki oppa is too loud!" she yelled with laughter.

"I think you've got some competition there, Binnie," you laughed at Jisun contradicting herself, yelling just as, if not louder than Changbin.

Soon you had finished your food and it was time to head to the interview. You weren't nervous per say, but you knew it was more of a sit down and chatting interview which meant personal questions too.

"Sunny, be a good girl for your unnies, yeah?" you kissed her on the head.

"Yes Y/Nnie unnie!" she cutely placed a kiss on your cheek before following the stylists and managers backstage, watching in a room with a screen to see your interview unfold.

You couldn't help but watch over where she had walked off.

"Come on, she'll be fine," Felix guided you towards the stage, where chairs were set up in front of an audience, the interviewer, Kaelee, was sat waiting.

"Here we have, Stray Kids!" the audience went wild as you all walked in, taking a seat.

There were questions about music here and there, and then almost felt the air get thicker as her eyes shifted towards you. Thankfully a gentle smile was accompanied with it.

"So, Y/N, we understand that you take care of your sister?" she asked you.

"Ah yes, my Jisunnie, she is the sweetest girl," you replied with a smile, shyly looking down at your lap, when the audience cooed as photos of the two of you, and some with the boys appeared on screen.

"Those are our girls," Chan couldn't help but admit, the boys nodding along as the Stays 'awwed' once more.

"Boys, what do you make of Y/N here as an older sister, is she good?" Kaelee put the question out to everyone.

"I think she's really brave," Jeongin nodded.

"She's inspiring for sure," Minho added on.

"Her bravery, to go through what she has at such a young age, and raise a child, I think she's doing amazing," Hyunjin sweetly said, wrapping a comforting arm around your shoulder as you wiped some stray tears away.

"Well, on that note, if it's ok with you, Y/N, should we bring out Jisun?" Kaelee double checked it was ok with you before your personal manager, who was Jisun's favourite, walked her out. Jisun soon ran straight into your lap, nearly tackling you back against the floor as the audience cheered and squealed wildly.

"Not too loud, Sunny?" you whispered into the girl's ear as she turned to face the audience whilst sat in your lap.

"No it's ok!" she giddily smiled, holding onto your hands.

"Wow! It's like she's made for the screen! Jisunnie, can you do aegyo?" Kaelee asked her.

You couldn't see exactly what she did, but it looked like she held up a peace sign at the audience and grinned, showing off her adorable gummy smile. The whole time Stays saw you smiling behind her proudly, and thought that it was the most mature they had ever seen you, when you were around Jisun.

"I taught her that!" Changbin cheered, folding his arms as he was proud of himself.

"No, Seungminnie oppa did," Jisun turned to correct Changbin, making you all burst out into laughter.

"Wow, Jisun you really are so funny. What do you want to be when you're older?" Kaelee wiped a tear of laughter away and neatened up her cue cards as she asked Jisun another question. You rubbed her arms soothingly in case she got nervous.

"I want to be like unnie!" Jisun looked up at you as she said this, making your heart melt into a puddle on the floor.

"Oh really?" you almost felt emotional, managing to hold it back for the rest of the interview as you walked off at the end, holding Jisun's hand.

"Oppa will hold your hand, Jisunnie," Felix took her hand, sending a sympathetic smile your way as he walked her to the cars.

You lightly sniffle as you wiped a tear away.

"Ah, Y/Nnie, what are we going to do with you?" Han playfully sighed as he walked next to you with an arm around your shoulder.

"Sorry, I'm just, I'm so proud of her and when she said-" you couldn't finish your sentence, tears falling from your eyes.

"Aish, come here, love, it's ok," Han pulled you into a hug, tightly securing you to him as you felt safe in his warm embrace.

"You know that we're proud of you too?" Chan came up beside the two of you.

"Yeah, I know, I know," you laugh lightly as you wipe your eyes, "gosh I feel so silly, she's just growing up so quickly."

"We see it too, but don't think you have to raise her on your own, we're here for the both of you. So if you ever need time to yourself, we'll look after her, you know that," Chan kissed you on the head.

"What you went through, no one should have to, you're so young, Y/Nnie," Han wiped tears from your cheeks.

"I'm only 3 years younger than you," you laughed at him.

"I'm being sentimental, let me be. Now come on, bet Jisun is wondering where you are. We better head to the cars," Han suggested, Chan nodding which ultimately made the three of you head to the cars.

You and Jisun had lost your parents, but you both had 8 brothers there for you. It was an odd family, and not just by personalities, but somehow, you all made it work.

tagged: @skz-streamer @kiraisastay @hannahhbahng @backintomykpopphaseagain

#skz #stray kids #stray kids x reader #skz fluff #skz x reader #skz angst #straykids imagines #stray kids fluff #skz fic #stray kids imagines #skz ninth imagines #skz ninth #skz ninth member imagines #skz ninth member #stray kids ninth #stray kids ninth member #skz 9th member #stray kids 9th member #stray kids angst

484 notes · View notes

thisismeracing · 1 year

Text

King of my heart | MS47 | part. 03

Pairing: hamilton!reader (she/her) x mick schumacher

Warnings: curse words, twitter environment, mention of food, not proofread etc etc. Minors DNI!

summary: some things are not passing unnoticed by the fans, Y/n and Mick are getting closer and bolder with their interactions and some people seem to be into discovering and watching all this unfold.

a/n: none of the pictures used are mine, they are all from Pinterest and other apps. everything else is made up by me and I do not give permission for it to be published on a different platform. I would appreciate it if those things could be taken into consideration 💛

part. 02 | series masterlist | part 04

theofficialyn posted on her stories

theofficialyn

liked by sza, mercedesamgf1, and others

theofficialyn It was not bring-your-dog-to-work day, just roscoe-misses-you-and-I-need-a-babysitter day, turned out to be one of my best days in the Paddock hahaha

view all 4,209 comments

charlescarlos The way Angie Schumacher is looking at you I just know she's in love like her dad jajaja

⤷ user20 no, but why did I have the same impression

charles_leclerc we need a Yn-appreciation day

⤷ estebanocon I'm gonna tell your nutricionist you're eating donuts in the morning

⤷ theofficialyn It was after lunch, it's not considered morning!!!! 🙄

⤷ sainzf1 their dynamic looks so chaotically funny lmao I would love to watch all the interactions

ynraindrops Who did you have breakfast with? I spot a second plate...

⤷ theofficialyn Someone who prefers juice to coffee and don't approve ice cream on top of the pancakes in the morning 😔

⤷ ynfrance SHE ACTUALLY REPLIED HAHAHAHAHA

⤷ tayloryln @mickschumacher is that you, honey? sounds like you

mercedesamgf1 💜💜💜💜

mickschumacher

liked by lewishamilton, georgerussell63, and others

mickschumacher A slightly different kind of day at work 🖤

view all 5,102 comments

sunshineschumi why do I got a feeling it was yn who posted this (aka the last pic)

sebastianvettel HAHAHAHAH it was a great day

⤷ bejewledts I bet even sebs love yn

theofficialyn it was so much fun working with those two! 💜💜

⤷ mickschumacher me and angie loved working with you too

⤷ theofficialyn I meant roscoe and angie 😜

⤷ fan12 LMFAOOOOO I LOVE HER

hamiltons2 "you're doing amazing, sweetie" last pic HAHAHHAHA

royallynyln It's nice watching two people fall in love 🍿🍿

yn1990 It's missing a picture of Y/n on this photo dump

⤷ theofficialyn I'll make sure to add on the next one 🫡

⤷ heelshighyn She's so active lately it's refreshing HAHAHAHA

⤷ energydrinkcars Not y/n causing a havoc on the fandom lmao

********************

If you liked it, make sure to like and reblog <3 feel free to talk to me as well, my inbox is always open!

wanna be tagged on my stories? click here

#mick schumacher imagines #f1 imagine #social media au f1 #black!reader #hamilton!reader #king of my heart ms47 #mick schumacher x reader #mick schumacher x black!reader #famous!reader au #ms47

481 notes · View notes

hrts4scarr · 2 months

Text

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐍 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 (dr3) 𝐱𝐨 ୧˚

★ requested﹕yes/no — summary﹕ in which the writer, scar, doesnt know what to summarise this 😓 — warnings﹕established relatioinship, unnamed ex mentions, pet names, really short bc that's how i write my fics, probably not proof read well, lmk if there's anything i missed💗 — pairing﹕dr3 x f!reader — w/c﹕600+ ★ start a/n﹕hii angels!! late valentines post!! like i said in my last post, ill probably be using songs to base my fics off of, so here we are. i skipped some of the parts of the lyrics bc it wouldnt make sense/didnt fit, so sorry if youre listening to the song and reading this and it doesnt make sense 😓 hope you enjoy!! [italics are past moments/memories] ౨ৎ 𝑫𝑻 (tag list) ;; none yet but open :) based off of the song . . .

〔 my last work | pinned post | f1 masterlist | taglist | rules 〕

notes, comments, reblogs, feedback and follows are greatly appriciated!

!!PLEASE DO NOT REPOST ON OTHER WEBISTES/APPS OR COPY MY ORIGINAL WORK!!

Could you tell where my head was at when you found me?

Me and you went to hell and back just to find peace

You heard a soft groan as you rubbed your eyes, wrapping yourself in the soft fabric of your bedsheets.

Eyelids heavy, your lips curl up into a smile.

Man, I thought I had everything, I was lonely

Now you're my everything, I was lonely

"Honey, would you do the honour of being my valentines?"

That sentence from the week prior replayed in your head over and over again. It was your first valentines together as boyfriend and girlfriend. You smiled to yourself as you remembered the time Daniel asked you on a date.

I mixed a lot of love with a lot of drugs, then I found you

She liked petty crimes, she had green eyes like Mountain Dew

And where she go, I'll never know

Her friends bounced too

"Oh please, don't waste your time on stupid men like him," Daniel put his arm around your waist. "I can do way better than that, buttercup. Especially for the fact, it's Valentines. His loss for leaving you. But my win for having you here with me." Daniel winks, his confidence never wavered and grin never leaving his face.

I guess it's their loss 'cause they'll never know what we'll amount to

Would you be my light, be my yellow?

"Morning, baby." You head a gruff yet muffled voice under the blanket, snapping you out of your thoughts. You giggle softly, lifting the covers from your boyfriend's face.

"Morning, love." You grin, leaning in and peppering his chin with kisses.

Your boyfriend chuckles, pulling you in. One thing about your boyfriend, for sure, is that he was never afraid to show his love and affection for you. "C'mere, honey, I'm cold." Daniel wraps his arms around you, kissing your shoulder.

You laughed softly. "Happy one year and valentines, Danny." You sigh happily, kissing the bridge of your boyfriend's nose.

"Happy one year and valentines to you too, honey bee." Daniel kisses your cheek. "I'm taking you out today."

You smile, "Oh? You didn't tell me we had plans. I would've woke up earlier."

Daniel grinned, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "I'm taking you out at night. It's a secret, love. But I promise you'll love it."

You chuckled, shaking your head. "Alright, Danny, you win this time. I'm all yours for the day."

P.Y.T walking down portobello

Put a smile on this face at the end of the day

MDMA helped us fly away

With that, you both got ready for your special Valentine's Day date night, stepping out into the cool evening air. Daniel offered you his arm, which you gladly accepted. You walked hand in hand, your heart fluttering with anticipation for the night ahead.

The city was alive with the buzz of Valentine's Day, lights twinkling overhead, and the faint scent of flowers lingering in the air. Daniel led you through the bustling streets with confidence, his presence reassuring and comforting.

Finally, you arrived at a quaint little restaurant tucked away in a charming alley. The ambiance was romantic, with soft candlelight and gentle music playing in the background. You shared intimate conversations over delicious food, savoring each moment together.

As the night drew to a close, Daniel whispered sweet nothings in your ear, expressing his love and gratitude for having you in his life. And as you looked into his eyes, you knew that you had found your peace, your happiness, your everything in him.

Who'da known, who'da known you would save my life?

Who'da known, who'da known you would fly my kite?

Could you tell, could you tell?

Could you tell?

☆ end a/n﹕school is sickening fr

〔 my last work | pinned post | f1 masterlist | taglist | rules 〕

notes, comments, reblogs, feedback and follows are greatly appriciated!

!!PLEASE DO NOT REPOST ON OTHER WEBISTES/APPS OR COPY MY ORIGINAL WORK!!

71 notes · View notes

iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia · 1 year

Note

How would the M6 react to MC being drunk in front of them for the first time? The kind of drunk that changes MC's demeanor, and now they're all giggly and reckless

The Arcana HCs: M6 reacting to a drunk MC

~ I love this request. Also I know some of you are going to read this and wonder what the M6 are like when they get drunk, which is why I'll be reblogging the original creator's response to that question right after I post this! Love you guys - brainrot ~

- to set the scene-

It has been a very, very long Friday and you have never been more ready for the weekend. Unfortunately, by the time you make it back to your living space, you find a little note from your beloved apologizing because they're going to be back later than expected. You sigh, drop your bag onto the table, kick off your shoes and lean back to relax. You had picked up some spiked lemonade on your way back to try with them, but you figure a glass ahead of time wouldn't be too bad. You take a sip and are immediately disappointed by how little alcohol you can taste.

Half an hour and two large glasses later you can feel your head beginning to swim. Surely you aren't drunk, that stuff has next to nothing in it - until you check the label attached to the back and your eyes grow wide at the numbers you read. Just as the humor sets in and you begin to giggle you hear the door open.

"MC? I'm sorry I'm late ..."

Julian

Did he expect to come home to a drunk and giggling MC? No. Is he mad about it? Also no

He can't help it, the first thing he's trying to do is evaluate you. How drunk are you? Will he also be having a few drinks tonight or is he going to be staying sober so you can let loose?

He watches as you follow Malak around the house, trying to mimic his hoarse cawing

Water it is

Come to think of it, this is a fantastic chance to display his theatrical talents. He's always had a knack for comedy

You make one of the best audiences he's had in years. Even the jokes he doesn't deliver as well as he wants to are met with uncontrollable laughter

Will absolutely act out a comedy sketch in one of his stolen wigs, the plot getting increasingly ridiculous as he gets swept away in the moment

Will die of shame the next morning when you start quoting his amphibian-inspired Romeo and Juliette improv around the house:

"Forgive me, father frog, I got the warts from the toad. But how was I to resist him? His croaking was so passionate -"

Asra

When they opened the door and heard your giggles they knew it was a good night

And then he rounded the corner and saw your flushed face and lidded eyes and dopey smile and knew that you were apparently having a really good night

They're just pulling out a chair to pour themselves a drink too when they feel a draft and look up in time to see you marching out the back door

Now he's giggling as he jogs to catch up with you, wondering where on earth drunk you has decided to go at this time of night

The docks, apparently. Their story about Faust in the palace garden maze has inspired you to try the same thing

In the middle of the night

While you are not as sober as you should be to practice life-preserving magic

The problem is that Asra is your best/worst enabler, so if trespassing on the ships to jump off of their masts is what you want to do, then that's what the two of you are doing

Three, if you count Faust

You are absolutely going to get nauseated from all the floating and puke all over him

They had it coming for enabling you, but what they didn't see coming was you pulling them into the ocean for an impromptu bath

Nadia

She's never seen you so drunk before, normally when you drink with her it's at big dinners so you don't even get tipsy

She's wavering on how to respond. Should she partake in whatever delightful brew you've apparently smuggled into the palace?

Or should she dedicate herself to taking care of you instead?

Oh but now you're giggling and collapsing into her lap, asking her about her day -

She's telling you about this one meeting with a certain courtier and now you're interrupting her, arms flung wide as you go on a drunken rant about them

Well. She knew you tended to filter your thoughts in the palace, but she had no idea your opinions were this colorful. Or hilariously stated

Now she's reaching for the bottle of spiked lemonade and pouring you another glass. What other amusing judgments have you been hiding?

Muriel

Will spend the evening taking the most excellent care of you while she prompts you for more rants

Here, lie down in her lap, drink some water, let her give you a massage, and tell her more about your thoughts on the chamberlain's most recent outfit decision, and how it resembled a stoned flamingo

Happy to hear that you're happy, but a little unsure of how to proceed

Were you planning on getting drunk? Did something happen to make you want to get drunk?

Oh, the lemonade was stronger than expected? Ok

Wait no stop trying to climb him. He's not a tree. You're going to bump your head

Oh, now you're wondering outside and loudly singing. And Inanna's going with you because she thinks it's hilarious

He's enjoying this uninhibited side of you but he's concerned for your safety

And for the safety of all the natural wildlife that may encounter you in this state

Wait no don't climb that tree

When did you get so good at climbing trees? He's never even seen you try by yourself before and now you're a good twenty feet up???

Does he climb up after you? How will he convince you to come back down?

"... MC? If you come down, I'll cuddle you."

A moment of silence. Did it work?

All he hears is a faint "catch meee ..." from high above his head before you come hurtling down through the branches

He doesn't know how he survived all the heart attacks you gave him that night

Portia

Immediately inspecting whatever it is that got you so happy. She wants in on your secrets

Spiked lemonade? From that market stall? Haha, no wonder you're plastered

She'll have a little bit, but what she really wants to know is if you'll hear out her crazy ideas for your magic abilities

"MC? Is it possible to do magic while you're drunk?"

She's met with a lopsided grin and an unsteady flash of the funniest looking sparkles she's ever seen

Were those supposed to be ... in the shape of Pepi? Or a sea monster?

Oh, this is going to be so much fun

Takes you out into the garden because she needs to know if Cinderella's pumpkin coach can actually happen (one of her guilty reading pleasures)

You come up with some abomination consisting of several squash, a whole mess of vines, and one terrified rat

The two of you end up going on a joyride through the fields behind the palace, lurching violently in all directions

There is now a rumor of the menacing giggling cryptid that wanders through the fields at dusk, scattering chunks of ravaged gourd

Lucio

Party time? Party time!!

Already loudly praising your drinking habits as he starts gulping straight from the bottle

Maybe he would savor it normally, but you started without him so now he needs to catch up

He makes the same mistake you did, of not reading the label and assuming it was weak, and the bottle is empty in minutes

"You know MC, I'm kinda surprised something that weak got you that smashed ohhhhh wait a minute -"

He just stood up and is now swaying in place, startled by the headrush

And then he hears you snorting with laughter at yourself as you try to tell the worst dad joke he's ever heard

Normally at this point he'd be caught up in the frenzy of an out of control party, what's he supposed to do when it's just the two of you?

Except you told the punchline first, and then the beginning, but now you're kind of backtracking through the middle, and you're breathless with giggles, and he's laughing too

That's it, that's how the rest of the night goes, ruining all of your favorite jokes and laughing until you're nauseated and his mascara is streaming down his cheeks

#ask arcana brainrot #the arcana headcanons #the arcana hc #the arcana #asra the arcana #julian the arcana #nadia the arcana #muriel the arcana #portia the arcana #lucio the arcana #the arcana game #the arcana shitpost #the arcana fluff #asra alnazar #julian devorak #nadia satrinava #muriel of the kokhuri #portia devorak #lucio morgasson

354 notes · View notes

anakin-pilled · 3 months

Text

𝘨𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘰𝘶𝘴 - anakin skywalker x fem! reader (part three)

pairing: anakin skywalker x fem! reader

wordcount: 9.4k

warnings: no use of y/n, mentions of EDs, body dysmorphia/body issues, fainting, mistreatment, hospitalization, crying, reader being emotional, anakin being a reckless driver, half proofread bc i got lazy (will probably edit another day, its late af as im posting this)

rating: 18+

author's note: hi, i'm so sorry for the delay on chapter three! life got really busy and i found myself not having enough time to write, but now life has settled and i finally had enough time and inspo to finish this chapter. i literally forced myself to stay home this weekend and finish this chapter bc i'll be traveling this week and won't have time to write. i hope i made up for it by making this chapter longer than usual!! let me know if u have any questions or comments. reblogs, comments, and likes are greatly appreciated xx

creds to saradika for the divider!

You originally had no plans this weekend, but after much persuasion from one of your closest friends, you decided to attend some party that a friend of a friend was hosting. It was better than being locked up in your apartment all weekend, letting the thoughts of Anakin consume your mind and slowly pick away at your sanity. After all, it gave you the chance to dress up prettily, consume free hooch, and maybe find someone to get under and help you get over Anakin.

The water in your porcelain sonic tub was doused in a fragrant Crimson Jelly Spire oil and mixed with the fragile petals of a Jasmine flower. The combination of spice and sweetness left your skin refreshed and smelling good. The midday light of Corscant filtered through the windows and cast the nearly all-ivory refresher in an ethereal lighting. The water swished around you as you hugged your knees to your chest and laid the side of your cheek on top of them. You trained your eyes on the refresher’s ceilings before blowing a loose piece of hair out of your face. You ran this bath about an hour ago, but you had yet to get up because your mind was occupied by him. Staying away from Anakin was harder than you anticipated. Your mind recalled, for about the hundredth time today, two instances that happened over the last few rotations.

The first instance with Anakin left you unnerved and unconfident in your self-proclamation to stay away from him.

The benefit concert was only a few rotations away now, so you started practicing. Even though you were only performing songs that you already performed and rehearsed before, it still didn’t hurt to practice even more. This was going to be broadcast across the Republic, so you had to be perfect.

You holed yourself up in your practice room for the majority of the day. The only time you saw Anakin was in the morning when your protocol droid prepared breakfast. You told Anakin that you would be practicing with your team of dancers for the day, so there was no need for him to stay with you all day. You encouraged him to take the day off and reassured him that your practice suite was located in a safe building with 24/7 security watch. Anakin insisted that he at least drop you off. He could take the time to stop by the Temple and check in on Ahsoka’s training.

That was hours ago. It was nearing your twelfth hour of continuous practice and you were exhausted, to say the least. Your vocal cords felt raw from the amount of singing you did today, and the legs in your muscles were spasming from the constant repetition of your dancing. You dismissed your team members around two hours ago, you didn’t think they should be subjected to your perfectionist tendencies. One of them, a Pantoran girl named Chione, voiced her concern for you. Chione was one of your oldest dancers, she joined your team during your first mini-tour around a few Core planets and has never left your team since. You considered her one of your closest friends.

“Are you positive that you’re okay to practice on your own? You’ve barely had any food today. I don’t want you fainting with no one to help,” voiced Chione in a dulcet tone. She was always looking out for your well-being, especially because she knew how hard you could be on yourself. Chione was a source of bright life in your life and one of the most genuine people you’ve ever known.

“I’ll be fine, Chione. I had a heavy breakfast, and I’ve made sure to eat energy pudding bars and stay hydrated during our breaks,” you reassured your friend. She looked unconvinced, but you rushed her out of the room with a kiss on her cheek and a promise to send her a message once you arrived home.

Now that you had the studio to yourself, you decided to go through a few more drills and focus on the routines that you struggled with the most. You weren’t always a perfectionist. Back when you lived on Bar’leth, you were neither the smartest student in your grade nor the dumbest student–you were perfectly average. You didn’t feel the need to engage in your classmates’ cutthroat competition or push yourself more than you required. Even when it came to your musical prowess, you sang and studied instruments because you enjoyed it and it brought you happiness. If you were stuck on learning a certain composition or hitting the right note, you would always put in your best effort, but you never lost any sleep over it. You knew that if you were to put pressure on yourself, it would take the enjoyment away. Music was yours, without any strings, expectations, or attachments to soil your relationship with it.

That swiftly changed once you were signed a record deal with one of Coruscant’s most famous record labels, Interstellar Records. You didn’t even know it was possible to become famous at the intergalactic level. Most of the artists you listened to on Bar’leth were artists from your planet. The galaxy’s population is enormous–Coruscant alone has around three trillion people! You never imagined that your name would known anywhere besides Bar’leth. Yet, luck seemed to be on your side on that one fateful day.

The story of how you were discovered is quite simple. Your school hosted an annual festival for the anniversary of the formation of Bar’leth’s government. It’s a joyous holiday where students are encouraged to promote Bar’leth’s culture through food, traditional customs, and performances. Families and regular citizens flock to the school to join and watch the students at the festival. It’s a day you look forward to every year. Each class section is assigned to a particular event. The graduating class of that year is always assigned to open the festival with a choir rendition of Bar’leth’s national anthem. You were asked to lead the choir since the music instructor knew of your talent, which meant that you would be the main singer. Little did you know that one of the executives from Interstellar Records was at the school festival. One of his nephews attended your school, so that was his reason for being there. As soon as you got off the stage and the festivities started, you were immediately pulled to the side by your school’s headmaster who introduced you to the executive. He spoke to you about your talent, and how he believed that you could make something of yourself with proper training and a recording label to manage you.

That was five years ago, and a lot has changed since then. After finishing your last year of government-mandated education, you moved to Coruscant and began your career as a professional artist. Life suddenly flipped. Your upbringing on Bar’leth was humble. You came from a decent, middle-class family and lived in a standard home. Suddenly, you lived in a fancy Coruscant apartment with the former senator Sheev Palpatine, and you were always surrounded by a team of managers who dictated your schedule from morning to night. You were given vocal training, attended dance classes, and sat through etiquette and media training courses all while trying to produce your debut record. The first year of your career was marked by sleepless nights due to the sheer amount of activities on your daily agenda. Many times throughout the first year, you debated if this was a smart decision.

You continuously pushed yourself through it because dreams weren’t achieved by themselves. You had to work to make your dreams come true. This was just part of the process. At least that’s what you said to reason with your inner self to avoid any feelings of regret and anxiety. Yet, throughout that first year, you were also exposed to a darker side of the industry that you weren’t equipped to handle as a barely legal adult. When you signed that contract with the label, you also signed away any right to individuality and personal autonomy.

You had a certain image to uphold as a public figure and this image was controlled entirely by your label. You were like clay that they could bend at their will–constantly being prodded and

molded until you were nothing short of perfection. Your clothes were preselected each day, hair was only done in styles the label wanted, and pre-answered scripts were given for interviews. Worst of all, even your diet was dictated by the label. How much you ate, what you ate, and even when you ate was all at the discretion of the executives. They even went so far as to weigh you weekly to make sure you were staying on top of your weight. If you weren’t at their goal weight, they subjected you to intense periods of exercise. It was an abusive cycle that fundamentally altered your self-esteem. Slowly, you became a shell of the person you once were. You didn’t find enjoyment in your career anymore, something you were once so passionate and excited about. The harsh regime of your management extinguished that flame. All that mattered to you was if you were meeting your label’s expectations. You were consumed by the weight of their expectations. You drowned under their judgment, and each criticism was like a blaster shot straight to your heart. The executives weren’t satisfied no matter what you did. Practice hours went from a few hours of your day to half of your day. You slowly cut contact with your friends from home and lied to your family when they asked how you were doing. You couldn’t bear to tell them the truth. You were miserable.

Eventually, the constant overwork and abuse by the label became too much for your body to handle and one day you fainted in the middle of practice. The medic at the medcenter informed you that your body shut due to exhaustion and malnutrition. Due to you being one year away from being a legal adult by the Republic’s standards, the medic was forced to report this incident to the authorities. Holonet tabloids somehow got a hold of this information and leaked it on their celebrity gossip pages. This prompted an investigation from the Intergalactic Federation of Musicians, the trade guild dedicated to musicians, performers, and songwriters, who determined that your label was not properly upholding their side of the contract. The IFM fined Interstellar Records and voided your contract, which left you free and away from their abuse.

It took you a few months to recover from the whole incident. The best course of action was to move back to Bar’leth while you healed. Your career didn’t stop there, however. Right before the situation, your debut album was released. Hence, you were practicing for upcoming promotions the label scheduled you for. The release of your debut album was quiet–until your face ended up on the Holonet’s hot spot after the initial news broke. The people of Coruscant, and even some people from neighboring planets, pitied you. You never intended for anything to be this way, but the story that the tabloids ran against you worked in your favor. You, a young fresh-faced, and doe-eyed girl from a smaller Core planet, were a victim of the cruel entertainment industry. Everyone blamed the label, rightfully so, but the amount of support and influx of love from Coruscant’s citizens catapulted you into fame and stardom. The public wanted to see you win (until they didn’t). Other recording labels were knocking at your door, trying to get you to sign with their company You were hesitant, not wanting to experience the same trauma. Senator Palpatine offered his help in negotiating the contract bids as an apology for not noticing what you were going through before. After all, you were still living with him while you were still signed to Interstellar. You didn’t blame him as you hid your problems well. Regardless, it all worked out in the end as you were signed to a new label, under terms and conditions you saw fit. Four years have passed since you signed onto Nebula Music Group. Your fame instantaneously increased after signing with them. Gido was assigned your new manager, and you were extremely thankful for him because he played a major role in ensuring you were properly treated and supported by the label. Nebula Music Group had more trust and faith in you than Interstellar, so they allowed you more authority and creative liberties in the music-making process. Because of this, you could produce authentic, critically acclaimed, popular albums. Your last album, Last Words of a Shooting Star, broke a record with the highest sales of sound slugs in history for a female artist. You did mini tours around the inner and mid-Core planets. Despite your initial hardships, life was turning out better than you envisioned. You had a second chance at your dream. You liked to consider yourself fully healed from the situation, but that was far from the truth.

Take now for example.

In moments like this, when it’s only yourself and the mirror, your mind can’t help but flashback to the horrible treatment you suffered at the hands of those people. You know that no matter how much therapy or how far removed from the situation you were, a part of you was still stuck in the past.

Chione was right to be concerned. This wasn’t the first time you stayed behind and continued practicing on your own, often to the point of exhaustion and breaking down. She’s caught you in these moments before, where you were so focused on perfection that you failed to take care of yourself properly—staying dehydrated, skipping meals, and not sleeping just so you could devote more time to practice. You would gladly damage yourself for it. You couldn’t help it. Insecurity was embedded in your bones. You knew that as a young female in the industry, you had a short shelf life (or at least that’s what your previous label hammered into your brain). Once the industry deemed you expired, you would be nothing. Thus, you needed to be so perfect, that even past your expiration date, people would still want you. You were nothing without desirability.

You looked at yourself with hard eyes in the mirror. Your eyes landed on the deep, heavy-set eye bags under your eyes. A scowl appeared on your face. You then moved your eyes to your arms, which never seemed skinny enough for you. A knot formed in your throat. Lastly, you laid your eyes upon your stomach. No matter how many meals you skipped, what diet fads you went on, or what food you prematurely threw away to avoid finishing, your stomach never looked the way you wanted. A sigh escaped your throat.

It was futile to worry about these things now. At a time so late in the day, nothing good would come of it. You inhaled and exhaled breathing as if you were absorbing and releasing all of your previous negative energy. Putting on a fake smile that didn’t reach your eyes, you gave yourself one last look before continuing to practice.

The song you were currently dancing to belonged to the glimmick genre–a genre of music that was associated with frenzied sounds and rapid beats. As an artist, you were most comfortable with the sparkle-bop and pop genres. That was your domain, and it was the genre that made you famous. However, you wanted you wanted to experiment on your recent album to get out of your artistic comfort zone and reach a wider audience, so you included songs of different genres, with glimmick being one of them. Due to the nature of the glimmick genre, your song “Atom of the Pneuma,” required an intricate, fast-paced dance with movements that you were not familiar with. The choreography for this dance was sharp and pristine, contorting and bending your body to resemble straight, angular lines. Most of your choreography featured lighter dance moves, with flowy movement and softer forms. It was the reason you stayed later than the rest of your team–you wanted to hone on this particular routine before the benefit concert.

Your legs were bent, hands placed on top of your thighs as you caught your breath and prepared to replay the song just a few more times before calling ending the day. You got into position. The song started and filled the room with a pounding, rich techno bass that bounced off the walls. You began to move your body to the beat while your right arm was simultaneously moving it to create a pattern that extended from your body outward. Your head followed the beat as well, which left you slightly dizzy. You learned to block out any negative sensations when dancing, a practice you learned from the days when you danced on little sleep and little food. The unpleasant sensation went ignored until you spun your body around and lost your balance resulting in an unceremonious fall toward the hard wooden floor. You placed your arms to cushion your fall out of reflex, but the fall never came. A pair of large, calloused hands were placed on your waist, holding you steady. The hands gently guided you toward the floor, forcing you to sit.

You raised your face toward the ceiling, trying to see who it was that miraculously saved you from your fall. The bright lights of the practice room invaded your eyesight and you could only make out the fuzzy outline of the person. Tiny, black dots swirled your vision as you tried to regain your composure. The feeling was overwhelming. You could feel your breath quicken as you tried to calm yourself. This wasn’t the first time you have fainted from overdoing it, but it was never any easier each time. You hated the feeling, you hated the coldness that washed over your body, you hated how your vision failed you, and you hated the dull panging inside your head.

You shut your eyes, barely focusing on the person next to you. Your nails dug into your palm, the pain distracting you from the uncomfortable feeling and forcing you back into the present. After a few more moments, you opened your eyes again and turned your vision to the only other figure in the room. You could feel the warmth of their body next to yours–the warmth overpowering the previous coldness your body felt.

“Anakin,” you whispered.

“You okay there, pop star?” Anakin softly replied. “You almost took a nasty fall, you could have sprained your wrist or hurt your head. We wouldn’t want that before the big day, now would we?”

His brown curls gently caressed his face as he looked down at you. He was kneeling over you, eyes scanning over your body to make sure you were okay. You didn’t even hear him enter. How did he get inside? Access to this room was only allowed by people with logged fingerprints and/or other DNA indicators.

“Just give me a minute please.” You still felt lightheaded.

Anakin stood up and walked toward your practice bag and grabbed the container of water that was sitting next to it. He then proceeded toward you, sat next to you, and put the tip of the container to your lips. You titled your head back as you drank. After a couple of gulps, you answered Anakin’s question.

“I apologize if I frightened you. I must have overdone it and got lightheaded because of it. I assure you that I feel better now and can continue my practice,” You tried to stand up before Anakin’s hand caught your wrist and dragged you back toward the ground. Your response was cold and robotic. That’s because you were in a different mode right now, your more “professional” mode which consisted of one thing only–to never give up until you were blue in the fact. It was ingrained in you from your past training that even if you felt like complete bantha shit, you couldn’t stop practicing just because you felt slightly off. Perfection could never be achieved if you stopped every single time you felt bad.

“Just take a moment to relax. You nearly fainted. You’re only going to hurt yourself more if you continue to practice in this state,” Anakin reasoned. He pitied you because he knew the exact look of determination on your face.

“I can’t stop. The benefit is only a few rotations from now. I have to get this routine down, or else I’ll look like a fool on stage,” you argued back. You turned, but Anakin kept a firm hold on your wrist.

“Stop being stubborn and just take a quick break.” The seriousness in Anakin’s tone made you want to cry. His voice projected across the now silent practice room. You were already feeling bad from almost fainting and now you were being emotional too. You slipped to the ground and hung your head low as tears welled up in your eyes.

“I-I’m sorry,” your voice wavered. Putting in this state always puts you in a weird headspace. You swallowed the tight knot that formed in your throat. You didn’t want to cry in front of Anakin.

Anakin noticed the waver of your voice and how you refused to meet his eyes. He didn’t mean for his voice to come out so harsh, but he didn’t want you to hurt yourself either.

“It’s okay. You have nothing to apologize for. I didn’t mean for my voice to sound that way,” Anakin hesitated before putting a hand on your shoulder for comfort. He felt slightly awkward. He didn’t know you very well yet, so he didn’t want to invade your personal space, but he recognized that you needed some comfort.

“You should leave. You don’t have to deal with me. I know the Chancellor asked you to watch over me, but this is too much. I promise I’m fine. This isn’t the first time this has happened.” You don’t know why you let that small detail split to Anakin. Perhaps you just wanted someone else to know that you weren’t fully healed from your past. You tried to do your best to hide it from the rest of your team, only Chione being the most knowledgeable on the subject.

“I’m not going to leave you. It’s late and you should be heading back to your apartment. I came to pick you up. Gido said you hadn’t arrived home yet and that I could find you here.”

You sighed at Anakin’s response. There were a few moments of silence before you began speaking again. “I’m sorry. You’re just being a decent person, and I’m here trying to push you away. I don’t mean it.” You took a deep breath, “I just get in a weird headspace whenever I’m practicing sometimes.”

Anakin didn’t want to pry, but he could tell there was a deeper meaning behind your words.

You started speaking before your brain could even comprehend what you were saying. You were desperate to let out all of your negative feelings. “Do you ever feel like you’re not good enough sometimes? Like the whole world is waiting for you to trip and fall?” You glanced at Anakin with glassy eyes.

You continued to tirade. “I know my life may look glamorous, and it is. But no one ever talks about the dark side of being in the public eye, especially as a female. They treat you as if you’re some spectacle for their entertainment as if you’re not a living being with consciousness and feelings. Even those who are supposed to be there for you end up on the same side as the critics and haters.” Your chest was now heaving up and down as a result of your heightened emotion. “Even when I work my ass off to be perfect, so I can meet their standards and so they can finally shut the kriff up, they find another thing to comment on just to tear me down.”

“Yes, I understand the feeling.” And Anakin truly did understand. Anakin wanted to comfort you, he felt empathetic as he watched you cry. Do you remember how I told you how I joined the Jedi at a later age than most?” You nodded as you sniffled. “The Jedi council didn’t want to take me in at first…but Qui-Gon convinced them to take me in because he saw potential in me, potential as the Chosen one. Master Qui-Gon died before he had the chance to train me, so his Padawan, my former master, requested that he take me up as his Padawan. No Padawan had ever been trained at such a young age, but the council accepted his wish as a dying request from Qui-Gon.” Anakin still recalls that day–he was waiting outside the council’s room–in wonder at the grand pillars of the Jedi Temple. It was so grandiose and had a sense of holiness, two things he never witnessed on Tatooine.

“I had to work twice as hard as the other younglings to get up to speed. Most of them already had years of experience with the Jedi, they knew how to properly wield the force and the Jedi scriptures were ingrained into their beings by that point. Eventually, I surpassed the younglings and surpassed the expectations of the council. But even then, the council has never fully trusted me. I feel they’re always scrutinizing me, watching for my next mistake too. I’m not the most conventional Jedi, and I don’t always play by the books, but I’m a Jedi through and thorough. No matter how many times I prove that the council, or even my former master, they don’t believe in me. We’ve been fighting this war for Maker knows how long, and they still refuse to make me master, despite being the poster boy for this war.”

“Wow, Anakin…I didn’t expect that from you.” You honestly didn’t expect to find yourself relating to Anakin, you were on completely different sides of society. How could you, a pop star, relate to a Jedi? It comforted you in a way, to know that you weren’t the only person to go through feelings of inadequacy and frustration. “How do you deal with it?”

“When I was a Padawan in training, I didn’t deal with it most healthily. I was snarky (he still is), and rebelled against my master’s teachings. I was stubborn, hoping that if I showed off my power, I could finally be appreciated by the council. I was wrong to do that, it’s how I lost my right arm.” Anakin then slipped off his glove to show you the silver mechanical prosthetic. You gasped, not expecting to learn this information. Anakin continued, “I still like to show off, but as I matured, I realized that I didn’t have to define myself by the approval of others. I know that I am capable, and I will keep working hard until the council recognizes that.”

“You don’t deserve that. I know we only just met, but I’ve only heard remarkable things about you. The Republic wouldn’t stand a chance against the Separatists against you. I mean no offense to the other Jedi, they’re all vital to the war effort too, but we need someone who takes risks and isn’t afraid to be unorthodox. I don’t know much about the Jedi, but I know one day you’ll make a great Master.”

This heart-to-heart chat with Anakin was unexpected but welcomed. You appreciated that he was honest and open with you–someone who was practically a stranger still. He didn’t have to come all this way to pick you up nor did Anakin need to comfort you in an hour of need, but he did. However, Anakin didn’t let the conversation marinate too long, suddenly embarrassed at the information he shared with you.

Anakin stood up from the ground and reached his hand toward you. You accepted his hand and Anakin pulled you up as well. “Are you feeling better now?”

Despite the dried tear marks on your face and the incoming headache you were about to face, you told Anakin that you did feel better. You weren’t ready to divulge your entire past with Anakin just yet, but maybe one day the two of you could become friends. Did that count as an attachment? You weren’t sure.

“Let’s get you home, pop star.”

“Thanks, General.”

The second instance with Anakin was in an unconventional situation, but it brought a smile to your face when you recalled it. It was only the fifth day of him being assigned as your bodyguard. The incident at the practice room happened on his third day there. You wanted to speak to him more after that night, but you found yourself pulled in all directions by your management team. You supposed you should be thankful–you promised to stay away from Anakin. The only issue is that you didn’t want to stay away from him anymore.

Anakin walked into your living room after talking with Obi-Wan through his commlink. Obi-Wan was updating Anakin on his most recent diplomatic mission on a nearby planet. A heated conversation was taking place between you and Gido.

“You’re being ridiculous! It’s not even that scary and you can’t keep on relying on others to transport you places,” Gido said as he pinched his nose with a hand, a look of frustration on his face.

“Of course I can! I’m rich. I can just hire chauffeurs!” you taunted in reply. You knew your argument wasn’t sound, but you just wanted to vex Gido at this point. Deep down, you knew your manager was right.

“What about when you’re old and retired? Who’s going to help you then? Certainly not I. I’ll be dead!” He pointed an accusatory finger at you.

A glare embraced your face at Gido’s words. You scoffed before turning your body, not realizing that Anakin entered the room. He had to stop sneaking in like that. Those damn Jedi.

Anakin looked at you two with a curious look. Having joined the conversation toward its end, Anakin did not know what you two were talking about. Heat ran up your neck and toward your face as Gido explained with a deadpan expression.

“My dear friend here does not have her Republic driving license, despite being an adult. I’ve been telling her to get her license for years, but she always manages to procrastinate. And every time I tell her, she brushes me off her shoulder.” He pointed at you with an accusing thumb.

With a high-pitched tone, you defended yourself, “I know how to drive!... Sort of. Look, I just don’t like driving. The skylanes are always chaotic and the last time I visited the Ministry of Transport, it took me hours to update my identification and the workers were extremely rude. I’m not going back there if I don’t have to!”

“And I keep telling her, she needs to get her license. Kid, don’t be stubborn. Wouldn’t you feel more independent if you could drive around yourself?”

“Oh, stop bullshitting me, Gido. You just don’t want to drive me around because you hate the sky lanes as much as I do!” It was true. Gido groaned and mumbled every time he had to drive you places, complaining that he wouldn’t need to take you to run your errands if you had your own license. You couldn’t help it–you enjoyed dragging Gido along and you knew he secretly enjoyed spending time with you.

Anakin had a solution to both of your problems. Driving was one of his fortes. Obi-Wan and Ahsoka would disagree, but Anakin knew he was the best pilot in the galaxy. Yes, Anakin could be reckless, but there was never a landing or move he couldn’t pull off. The innate talent he had as a young boy flourished when he moved to Coruscant and began his Padawan training. Having access to much more refined and newer technology allowed Anakin to perfect the craft of piloting.

“I can teach you how to drive. I’m the best pilot in the galaxy.” The seriousness on Anakin’s face indicated that he wasn’t joking.

You gulped. The heating sensation returned. You began to shake your head from side to side with wide eyes. Your hands moved in front of you as if to mimic the movement of your head, waving off Anakin’s solution.

“I don’t think that necessary,” you protested.

“Actually, I think it’s very necessary. Only the Maker knows how long you’ll push this off. Anakin, would you mind doing this favor? I have a few meetings with the company, we need to finalize the last details for the benefit. Feel free to use her airspeeder parked outside–it’s one of the newest models,” Gido stated.

Anakin grinned. He really did miss his yellow Eta-2 Starfighter, but he would never deny the chance to operate new technology.

That’s how you found yourself outside sitting in a neatly parked J12 Twin-pod on your apartment’s landing platform. The airspeeder belonged to you, though you’d never driven it before. The airspeeder was one of the newer models on the market. The surface was wrapped with a special pink-tinted chrome wrap making the car look sleek and expensive. Gido, your chauffeur, and occasionally Chione, were the only people to ever drive it.

You looked out the window and saw Anakin approaching the passenger side of the airspeeder. “Karking hell, I’m really doing this,” you thought. You detested driving. It made your palms sweaty and shot your nervous system. To make matters worse, you would be stuck in the confined airspeeder with Anakin! So much for trying to keep your proximity from him. You were both scared and embarrassed. Here was Anakin, the most famous Jedi at the moment, teaching pathetic you how to properly drive. Surely he had much better, more important things to do–like lead a war planning meeting or something.

The passenger door opened, and Anakin effortlessly climbed into the passenger seat and sat down. Your back stiffened, and suddenly the airspeeder seemed tighter. You shot an uneasy glance toward Anakin, who only smiled in excitement.

After the other night in the dance room where you had that conversation with Anakin, you felt less apprehensive around him. He was more human to you and less of a mysterious figure, less of a pretty face who made you nervous. You still found yourself mousy and internally reeling in his presence, but Anakin was becoming akin to a friend. You started conversing more during mealtimes, slowly getting to know each other.

“Alright, pop star, first we’re going to start with the controls. You have to fire up the engine by flipping this red switch. After the flip is switched, check your mirrors to ensure you can view directly behind and on your sides. Be careful with your blind spots. You don’t want to get rear-ended because you forgot to check for it. Coruscant sky lanes are no joke. With an airspeeder as pretty as yours, I’d hate to see it get destroyed. ” Anakin pointed toward a red button near the right side of the console, located next to the steering gear. “You got that?” Anakin questioned with one eyebrow raised.

Once again, Anakin felt your energy through the force. It was way calmer compared to the first day, but he could still feel your energy buzzing. Perhaps you realized that his presence was nothing to fear.

“Go on. Turn it on,” Anakin commanded. Butterflies erupted in your stomach when you heard the baritone voice command you. It reverberated several times in your head. Anakin’s voice was manly, and extremely attractive. You felt jealous that his soldiers got to hear that voice every day.

You reached toward the switch and flipped it upward with a shaky hand. The airspeeder lit up from inside, indicating it had come to life. There wasn’t an initial turbo–this was one of the main features of this model. It was supposed to fly seamlessly through the air. You placed your hands on each side of the steering gears. Not knowing what to do next, you looked at Anakin for guidance.

Anakin stood up to stand directly behind you. He reached out his arms and placed his hands on top of yours. He then leaned down to the side of your face and explained, “I’m going to show you how you properly place your hands on the steering gear and how to move it while you’re driving.” Anakin moved your hands toward the middle of the gear.

“Have a tight grip on the gear. The tighter the grip, the more control you have over the speeder. The higher sky lanes get more wind traction, so it’s especially important to have control in those lanes.” You nodded to show you were following. Anakin suddenly turned the gear harshly to the left, “Don’t do what I just did. When you turn the gear harshly, you jerk the speeder. If you’re switching lanes or turning a corner, switch on your indicators so other drivers know which way you’re going.” Of course, Anakin never followed his own advice, but for your sake, he played it by the books.

It all felt too intimate. Your head was in a rush, which probably wasn’t the best state to be in while you were about to drive. Anakin’s hands engulfed yours. The difference between his callused hands and your perfectly manicured hands drove you crazy. You could see the veins exposed on his ungloved hand. The sight of the green veins made your stomach turn warm. Much like his face, Anakin’s hand was sculpted by the Maker themself. Not even the finest marble statues could compare to the piece of art that was Anakin Skywalker.

“...Lastly, when you’re making a turn, do not turn the gear all the way around. The speeder has a built-in function that automatically rotates it. If you turn it all the way, you’ll make a sharp turn, ruining the internal tachyon drive regulator. Do you think you can handle this? Gido told me about the last time you tried to drive.” The last time you tried to drive, it resulted in several fines and almost caused a crash–the tabloids were on your ass for weeks after that.

You completely spaced out while Anakin was speaking, too focused on your inner thoughts. Hearing the teasing tone of his voice brought you back. You hated being undermined. You would prove to Anakin, and Gido, that you can drive perfectly fine and that you have nothing to be scared of.

“I can you assure that not only can I handle this, but you’ll be amazed at how quickly I learn,” you sassed Anakin back. You were lying. You couldn’t handle this, yet you couldn’t look like a ditz in front of Anakin.

“Let’s start flying. Don’t be nervous. I’m right here if you need me.”

Anakin sat back in his seat and observed you as you started maneuvering the aircraft. He directed you toward a sky lane to merge into. “I’m going to guide you to a specific path where the air traffic isn’t so busy. It should be easier for you to fly since there isn’t as much chaos.”

You kept a strong grip on the steering gear. Coruscant Prime, Coruscant’s only sun, was shining bright. The Weather Control Network did a splendid job at keeping Coruscant’s weather optical today–it wasn’t too windy and the sky was clear. You took it as a positive sign.

The airspeeder flew steadily through the air. Anakin was surprised. The way Gido described your driving, he assumed that he would need to take control of the speeder earlier. You weren’t doing a terrible job so far. Aside from the occasional jerk or harsh turn, you managed not to crash so far.

Maybe Anakin thought too soon. “Watch out! Watch out to your right!,” Anakin exclaimed. You tried switching lanes, but the speeder behind you wasn’t slowing down to let you in. You narrowly avoided an accident at the last second by going back into your lane.

“Oops–I didn’t mean that,” you said with a giggle and a shrug of your shoulders. “How am I doing so far?”

“You’re not doing too bad, with some more practice, you should be able to get your license in no time. Why do you hate driving so much?”

While still focusing on the sky in front of you, you explained to Anakin, “I love Coruscant and all that it has to offer. But the sky lanes in Bar’leth are much calmer and less congested. I grew up used to that. Even after all these years of living here, I still can’t stomach the driving here. It’s horrendous! I much prefer to have someone else drive, that way the pressure won’t be on me. I know Gido’s right, I need my license, but can you blame me? We’ve already witnessed almost two accidents! How did you get so good at flying?”

“I’ve always wanted to be a pilot since I was a little boy. I used to tinker in the garage, building and modifying parts for my own podracer. I even won the Boonta Eve Classic on Tatooine,” answered Anakin.

“Why did you want to become a pilot?” you wondered. Anakin seemed like like an intentional type of person–his actions, thoughts, and opinions were direct reflections of him and what he felt inside.

Not many people outside of the Jedi temple knew Anakin’s true origins–that he was a former slave. The first ten years of his life were filtered solely through this lens, it came to impact much of his opinions on life, politics, and society. He didn’t like speaking about it and avoided the topic as much as he could. Anakin hated his life as a slave and he hated slavery with every fibre of his being. However, Anakin especially hated speaking about this past life now because every time he did, he was reminded of how he willingly chose to leave his mother on Tatooine. Anakin felt like he was the reason she died. He wasn’t strong enough or fast enough to save her from the Tuskens, but maybe, just maybe, if he stayed with his mother instead of leaving with Qui-Gon, Shmi Skywalker’s death could have been avoided.

Anakin didn’t respond to your question. When you looked at him, his face was scrunched up in a deep thought.

You were about to say something else when you saw something approaching the speeder from the corner of your eye. You quickly glanced to your left, only to spot a human male nearly hanging off the side of his airspeeder with a cam held up to his eye. You groaned out loud which caught Anakin’s attention. They came at the worst time possible. You were trying to learn how to drive for Kriff’s sake!

“The paparazzi are following! Can’t they just leave me alone” you ranted. You needed them to get off your trail, fast. You had a complex relationship with the paparazzi. You hated the way they invaded your privacy and fed the Holonet tabloids with material to gossip about. For every bad picture, outrageous rumor, and leaked news, there was a paparazzi behind it. They caused you so much pain. At the same time, the very nature of your career relied on the paparazzi to dispel news and reveal your current state of affairs through pictures. They were unofficial members of your public relations team. Every celebrity knew that they needed the paparazzi as much as they hated them. You couldn’t imagine what ridiculous headline they would come up with now.

The man got closer and closer to your speeder as he tried to record you on his cam. He was mere inches away from crashing into the side of your speeder. You started to panic and your hands lost your tight grip as you started to tremble. Even the slightest movement to the left would cause a crash, potentially sending both of your speeders tumbling below.

“Anakin, what do I do? I don’t know what to do! They’re too close,” you yelped. Any closer and the paparazzi’s camera would touch your speeder’s window.

“Stay calm, pop star. I got this.” Anakin’s tone was cocky. He had something up his sleeve. This wasn’t his first high-speed chase, and it certainly wouldn’t be his last. Anakin switched into General mode. His hands swiftly moved across the dashboard as he pressed a multitude of buttons and flipped several switches.

“What are you doing?!” You hated how high-pitched your voice sounded, the fear slipping out of your voice a squeak.

“Relax. I’m just taking control of the speeder. This speeder model is programmed so that in case of emergencies, the co-passager can take control of the speeder and drive it.” A panel opened on the console and an additional steering gear emerged into view. Anakin gripped the gear and turned it to the right. The speeder lurched to the right, putting more distance between you and the paparazzi.

No longer needed to grip the gear, you turned toward Anakin and shielded yourself by facing your back toward the window. The Holo Net wouldn’t be getting anything out of you today. Those insatiable nerfhurders had no boundaries sometimes.

“You better hold on tight. Things are about to get bumpy.” The only way to get these paparazzi off your trail was by speeding up and losing them in the endless zigzags of Coruscant. Anakin wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize your safety. He felt his fingertips buzzing with anticipation–the past few rotations with you have been enjoyable and peaceful, but he needed an outlet for his energy. Ever since the Clone Wars started, Anakin was constantly on the go, so his body and mind were accustomed to this. Fortunately for Anakin, flying was the best outlet for him.

“What do you mean? Anakin, I’m begging you. Please don’t do anything crazy. I get motion sick-” Your words were cut off as the speeder accelerated. “ANAKIN!!!,” you screamed. You then quickly shut your eyes again. You couldn’t bear to witness the scene in front of you. Even with your eyes closed, you could tell Anakin was driving significantly faster than what was allowed by the law.

The speeder weaved in and out of lanes. At one point, Anakin squeezed in between two speeders before hitting the turbo boosters. The paparazzi were still hot on your trail, but at least they were no longer directly next to you. You finally opened your eyes and saw that you were nearing the retail district, CoCo Town. Suddenly, the speeder nosedived toward the ground and you tightly clung to the gear in front of you for stability. The paparazzi were still chasing you, their speeder also diving below.

“Anakin do you have to be so reckless?!,” you shouted as Anakin laughed.

“My apologies–it was either that or let the paparazzi stalk you. Which one did you prefer? I didn’t have time to ask while you were panicking,” he replied in a sarcastic tone. You were about to rebuttal, but Anakin continued talking. “As soon as I land this on the ground, we’re going to get out and run. Let’s try to lose them in the crowd.”

The speeder lowered onto the ground and Anakin quickly parked the vehicle on a landing platform where several other speeders were parked. The doors unlocked and you both quickly stepped out. Before you could even completely step off, Anakin grabbed you by your waist and lowered you onto the ground. He then grabbed your hand and started running in the opposite direction of the speeder. You looked behind you, only to see the paparazzi had caught up and were now looking for you. After a quick scan, one of their eyes caught yours and they looked toward each other before running in the same direction as you and Anakin.

You could barely think about the paparazzi chasing you down as your mind relished the feeling of Anakin’s hands engulfing your waist. Anakin was a statuesque man, it made sense that his hands would be the same. Your skin burned at the touch. You shook your head to wane off the thoughts and redirect your focus in front of you.

Anakin’s back was facing you, his wide shoulders moving up and down as you ran through the crowds together. His curls bounced with each step. You apologized to each person you bumped into, slightly embarrassed to be in a situation like this. Why did this have to happen to you? Couldn’t they have picked another celebrity to torment today? You heard from the jogan fruit vine that the Holodrama actress Alexis Cov-Prim was getting out of rehab today. Wouldn’t that be a juicer headline than you learning how to drive? You already had one bad story from driving, you didn’t need another.

Anakin made a sharp turn around and corner and dragged you into a store named “Madame Acantha’s Emporium.” You kept your head low as Anakin greeted the storekeeper. You didn’t want to risk being recognized again. As you looked around and observed the store, you noticed the store sold a variety of womenswear from dresses to accessories. Anakin scanned the store for any suspicious figures before turning towards you.

“Grab something to disguise yourself with. We can’t stay in here forever.” You started browsing through the racks of clothes, pulling out a large knitted sweater before walking over to the accessory area and picking out a pair of daytime spectacles and a vibrant magenta wig with a bob cut. Anakin couldn’t disguise himself as he was too big for the clothing sold here. That didn’t matter as long as you could disguise yourself.

You quickly walked over to the changing rooms before switching out your outer layer for the sweater. After putting on the sweater, you grabbed the only elastic on your wrist and tied your hair so the wig could fit on. Once the wig was secured on your head, you put on the daytime spectacles and walked out of the changing rooms. You rushed towards the cashier and quickly asked her to ring up the transaction before throwing your credit chip on the counter. The employee, a humanoid woman of a species you couldn’t name, quickly rang up the transaction before handing you a receipt and bidding you a good day.

You turned towards Anakin and asked, “Does this look alright? Do I look like myself?”

Anakin stepped closer to you and grabbed the sides of your face. He slipped some of the wig’s hair through his fingers before adjusting it so it sat properly on your head. His fingers lingered for a second before he nodded. “I can’t even recognize you. Let’s go before they catch up.”

Anakin walked out of the store first and scoped the street. He looked left and right before quickly going back inside. He grabbed you and shoved the both of you behind the first rack of clothes he saw. You were about to protest when you saw the two men from earlier, the one who was recording had his camera by his side. They went up to the shopkeeper at the cashier and began to converse with the lady, most likely asking her if she had seen anyone with the same description as you. While they were distracted, you and Anakin looked at each other and secretly decided to make a run for it.

You both ran out of the store and into an alleyway nearby. You saw the paparazzi running past the alleyway as you were catching your breath. Then, you started to giggle. The whole situation was absurd. You, standing in an alleyway, with a bright wig and sunglasses–obviously a terrible disguise–and Anakin Skywalker, the most famous Jedi at the moment, dressed in all of his Jedi garb with his lightsaber attached at the hilt.

“What are you laughing at?,” Anakin asked, one of his perfectly shaped eyes arched. You must have looked crazy.

“I’m laughing at the situation. I look like a clown,” you replied. “Let’s go, I’m hungry after all that running and chasing. Let’s get something to eat–my treat.” You then walked out of the alleyway together. Before you stepped into the public view, you turned towards Anakin, “Thank you, by the way. I don’t know what I would have done without you to save the day.” You gave Anakin a look of genuine gratefulness.

The both of you proceeded in the direction of the shops.

“Come on, pop star. I know a great diner that my old master loves. It’s called Dex’s Diner. Have you ever been there before?” Anakin asked.

The both of you arrived at Dex’s Diner and proceeded to order half the menu. You spent hours in the diner, the both of you enjoying each other’s company after the crazy events of the day.

You spent the same evening replaying all of the times Anakin touched you and how each touch made you feel.

You decided it was time to get out of your head and back into the present. If you stayed in the sonic tub any longer, you wouldn’t have enough time to get ready without feeling rushed. You stood up from the sonic tub and grabbed the plush white robe sitting on the table next to it. You then put the robe on and walked toward the mirror.

You grabbed the brush and started brushing through your hair to ensure that any tangles and knots were out. After deciding your hair was neat enough, you put the brush down and started moisturizing your body with your favorite lotion. You would let your hair air dry until you figured out how you wanted to style it. The lotion was made from the musk-rose plant and mixed with tiny hints of vanilla. When you were done moisturizing your body and applying your skincare, you walked out of the room and into the closet directly in front of the refresher.

To say your closet was huge is an understatement. When you finally earned enough credits to afford a high-rise apartment, the one thing you told your realtor was that you would not compromise on a small closet. The closet was lined with shelves and racks, each holding either your clothes or your shoes. In the middle of the closet sat an island, constructed with cream-yellow Selonian marble, that stored all of your accessories. A floor-to-ceiling mirror and lounging chaise were perched at the far corner of the room. You walked over to the shelf that held your dresses and began to sift through them. You felt the soft silks, thin taffetas, and the gorgeous gemwebs of your collection.

“Aha,” you muttered as your hand finally landed on the gown you were looking for. The gown, designed by one of the most in-demand fashion ateliers, was a floor-length, demicot silk-lined tight velvet black gown with a curved necklace. The upper half of the gown was pale pink and covered in a multitude of tiny sequins and pearl studs. One shoulder extended out into the shape of a single petal, which was also fabricated with sequins and pearls. You paired it with a pair of black gloves that extended to your mid-bicep. The dress was as much haute as it was a piece of wearable art. If there was one thing you loved about being wealthy, it was the clothes.

You laid your evening gown on the chaise before traveling to your vanity and beginning on your makeup. Since the gown was extravagant in itself, you decided that a more subtle makeup look would complement the overall look more. You wanted people to focus on the gown and all its intricacies and craftsmanship. After glossing your lips with a matching shade of pink, you finished your makeup and moved on to your hair. You settled on a suitable hairstyle and allowed your loose face-framing layers to enhance the shape of your face.

You looked at yourself in the mirror once more before deciding you were ready to go. You walked out of your room and towards the living where Anakin was waiting for you.

To be continued...

(Here is a link to the dress, which was designed by Miss Sohee. One thing I love about the SW universe is the fashion, so I wanted to include a dress that reflected that. Like, come on. Have you seen Padme’s and Satine’s outfits?)

taglist: @angie2274 @bunnylovesani @0709fullofstars @js-favnanadoongi @payton-dixonreader

lmk if you want to be added to the taglist!

#kendra's works !!!#anakin skywalker #anakin #star wars anakin #star wars #star wars fandom #star wars fanfiction #tcw anakin #anakin x you #anakin x reader #anakin skywalkwer x reader #anakin skywalker x you #anakin fanfiction #hayden christensen #darth vader #darth vader x reader #darth vader x you

57 notes · View notes

zanshlou · 4 months

Text

You know what's probably not the best time to post up new art? 4 in the morning. But fuck it I'm doing it anyways and maybe I'll remember to reblog in the morning. Been saving color palettes from the blog @color-palettes for a long while and there was one that a while back I looked at and went "Oh man this is giving me massive Sea of Stars vibes." I've long wanted to do a character illustration using a limited palette so took the chance to draw Valere. I just think she's neat~ I'm a bit iffy on the background overall, was trying some new stuff with it, but like as a whole I think the image came out good. Wanted to do more but art has been tough to focus on lately. Maybe in the new year. I do want to use the same palette to do an image of Zale too. (I do still have a couple other things I did in recent months to post, we'll see if I get around to them any time soon...)

#Sea of Stars #Valere #my art #fanart

46 notes · View notes

intheorangebedroom · 9 months

Text

Pleased to meet you, epilogue

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

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

Rating: disgusting fluff & explicit fifth 🔞

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

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

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

[prev] * [series masterlist]

Epilogue: Songbird

Summer

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

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

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

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

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

But that’s August.

July is spent mostly at your place.

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

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

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

In short, you need to go back to work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please, Frankie, talk to me.”

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

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

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

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

Until July 23rd.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

Her voice drops to a conspiratorial tone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Home. Did you always have so many of those?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s all intoxicating, unknown yet familiar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only then, Frankie starts talking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

Autumn

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A house that feels like home, at last.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you stopped short, once again.

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m sorry.

Please.

I never had anything so beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You let him.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But tonight, you carry your head high.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trust me. I will fix it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ok,” he chuckles, “are you drunk?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I missed you too, Elle.”

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His in every scenario, every dream, every reality.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Frankie, Frankie—“

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

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

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

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

His.

—

Winter

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

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

Everywhere you go, you feel legitimate.

Everywhere he goes, he feels at ease.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

Now you’re wide awake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What the fuck, man?”

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

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

Benny’s booming baritone. Audibly shitfaced.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frankie himself is not sure how he feels.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His hand is on the doorknob when Frankie speaks again.

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Benny stops and reluctantly turns around to face him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because I could never give her up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He winces at his poor attempt at an apology.

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

“So it’s like, true love, and shit?”

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

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

—

Everything you once dreaded…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s in so much fucking trouble.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, you can knock them out, then–”

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

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Frankie!”

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

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

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

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

“Please,” he grits through his clenched jaw.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry I overreacted—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’d said a purpose. And a goal.

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

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

“Take me to bed Frankie, plea–“

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What did you say?”

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

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

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

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

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

—

Spring

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

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

“Baby, it’s a Boeing 767.”

“So yes?”

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

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

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

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

“Have you ever tried?”

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

“I– what? ‘Course not!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

Small.

Everything looks small.

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

All of it, small.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frankie holds your hand. You lean into it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His words are quiet. Firm, steady, collected.

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

He nods.

“You are mine.”

You nod.

You know you are.

—

Everything looks smaller.

Shrunk down by his height, breadth and smiling eyes.

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Laura leans closer to you over the narrow table.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hiding again?” he grins.

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

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

—

“Thank you for bringing her back!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

On scale.

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

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

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

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

“We can go wherever you want, baby.”

“Even— even San Diego?”

He pauses for a beat before he answers.

“Sure. Anywhere you want.”

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

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

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

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

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

***

Bonus: Frankie & Gabrielle 🧡

Source

****

Dedications 🧡

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

****

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

134 notes · View notes

nicoline1998enilocin · 10 months

Text

Expanding the family

PAIRING | Retired!Steve Rogers x Daycare Owner!Female!Reader

WORD COUNT | 2.1K

SUMMARY | You and Steve have been enjoying a beautiful life together ever since Steve retired from is post as Captain America and an Avenger. Now that you have more free time on your hands, it's the perfect time to add a furry friend to the family you've built together.

WARNING(S) | This is your official trigger warning. Do not proceed if any of these topics upset you. Implied sex, mention of threesomes, mention of infertility, unfulfilled wish for children, mentions of animal abuse (non-explicit).

Likes and reblogs will be very much appreciated 💜

Main Masterlist | Steve Rogers Masterlist

Both you and Steve have been loving your life since he retired from the Avengers. The first thing both of you did when it was finally time is travel all across the world, and the both of you were gone for a good year and a half, visiting every continent available and seeing as many countries as possible, all while being wrapped up in nothing but each other. The both of you had lots of sexual encounters in every single country you visited, either having sex outside, in non-conventional places, enjoying occasional threesomes, or everything you could think of, you've shared in those countries, making unforgettable memories.

And now that you're back, you've built your own dream life together, which started with buying your own house. After many discussions, you've decided to buy a beautiful brownstone in Brooklyn, not far from where Steve grew up to honor that lifelong dream of his. You also managed to live your dream by starting your daycare. And today, you're going to welcome a new arrival to your very own daycare, in the form of little Lily Barnes, Bucky's daughter. He is a single dad after the mother of his daughter abandoned her right after giving birth, so he's eternally grateful for the fact that you were willing to make room in your daycare.

''I'll see you tonight Bubba, I'm closing the daycare myself today, so I'm going to be late for dinner,'' you tell Steve, and even though he doesn't have to wait for you to get home, he does every single time. ''Have a good today Pumpkin, and tell Bucky hi from me when you see him!'' he says with a smile, and he snakes his hand around your waist to pull you closer for a kiss. ''I love you so much, my little Pumpkin,'' he says and he leans in for a soft, passionate kiss. You could get lost in his kisses forever, but right now you had a daycare to open. ''I love you more, Bubba,'' you say as you pull away from him. Steve handed you your lunch, since he was home a lot more than you, he always insists on making your lunch to ensure you eat enough during the day.

You walk out of the door and open your car with a push on the fob, and you quickly get in for your drive, you were trying to avoid most of the traffic on your way to the daycare and the universe was nice to you today. You pull into the parking lot attached to the daycare and you get out to get ready for the day, and this time two of your staff members were already waiting for you. ''Good morning girls!'' you said to Jess and Scarlett, the other 4 members of staff working today would arrive later. ''Mornin' Y/N!'' they said in a chorus before you opened the door and let both of them in. ''We have a new addition to the daycare today, and she will be in your class, Scarlett,'' you told her.

''Her name is Lily Barnes, and before you ask, yes she is the daughter of Bucky Barnes. He's a great friend of mine of Steve's, so I expect that everyone treats him with the same respect as you would every other parent,'' you said to them, already knowing what they were thinking. ''Bucky will bring her by around 10 AM, but I'm going to give him a tour first before he will bring her to your class,'' you told her and she smiled at you, clearly not too happy about having the Winter Soldier's daughter in her class. Both of them got their classes ready and starting at 8 AM, the first parents are dropping off the first children of the day. You got everything ready for when Bucky would arrive.

When 10 AM rolled around, you got a call from Bucky, and you immediately got worried. ''Hi Buck, everything okay?'' you ask, and you hear an out-of-breath Bucky on the other side. ''Yeah, no, we're on our way! Sorry we're late!'' he said and you told him not to worry about it, he could text you when he arrived, and he did. He was half an hour later than planned, but you didn't mind, you were well aware of how hectic the life of an Avenger could be. ''Mornin' Buck, morning' Lily!'' you said when you saw the little girl with her bright blue eyes and dark brown curls. ''How are you two doing today?'' before pulling Bucky in for a hug, which he looked like he could use by now.

''We're doing better now, but I overslept, got home late last night from a mission,'' Bucky told you and you completely understood, you've been with Steve long enough to know how these days can go. ''Alright, I will give you the tour and afterward, you can leave this little beauty with us for the day,'' you say as you take a look at Lily, who has put her head on her dad's shoulder, trying to hide herself out of shyness. ''Oh, you don't have to hide for Y/N, malyshka,'' he tells Lily. She opens one eye and takes you in, giving you a small smile before hiding again. ''It's okay, it's a big day after all,'' you say before starting with the tour, and ending at the class where Scarlett is.

''Scarlett, can I borrow you for a minute? Nina is here to look after the kids and I would like you to meet both Lily and Bucky,'' you tell her and she follows you to the hallway, albeit a bit reluctantly. ''Good morning!'' she says despite the way she feels about Bucky. ''Mornin', I'm Sergeant James Barnes - you can call me Bucky - and this gorgeous thing is my daughter, Lily,'' he says with an outstretched hand, and she shakes giving her name. Then she steps a bit closer to introduce herself to Lily. ''Good morning beautiful girl, my name is Ms. Scarlett, and you can come to play with me today!'' she said and that made her instantly happy.

''Oh, you said just the right thing, she loves to play! Alright malyshka, I will see you tomorrow, you will sleep over with uncle Steve and Aunt Y/N tonight, doesn't that sound like fun?'' he said, before turning to you. ''Thank you again, Y/N, I can't explain how much this means to me, all of it,'' he said before he handed Lily to Scarlett. ''Wanna say goodbye to daddy?'' Scarlett said and she waved at her dad who waved back. ''Bye, malyshka! I love you so so SO much, and I will see you again tomorrow!'' he said planting a few big kisses on her cheeks before she went into the classroom, still waving at Bucky. ''Oh, Buck, Steve wanted me to say hi!'' you said before he walked out the door. ''Hi back!'' he said before quickly walking out the door, he was late for work at this point.

The rest of the day went on without a hitch, and Lily was more than happy to go home with you, you and Steve have been babysitting on and off for Bucky since she was born so it wasn't weird for her. ''Ready to go see what Uncle Steve is up to, Sunshine?'' you asked and Lily nodded. The both of you drove home and before you knew it, you were unlocking the door to your house again. ''Bubba, we're home!'' you said and Steve walked into the hallway with a big smile on his face. ''Ah, there are my two favorite girls in this world!'' he said before picking Lily from your arms, that way you could take off your coat and shoes. He leaned in for a soft kiss, but it still takes your breath away every single time.

The three of you had dinner together before bathing Lily and putting her to bed, you had turned one of your spare rooms into her bedroom since she was spending quite some time with the both of you. ''Still can't believe how amazing you are with kids,'' Steve sighed as he looked at you putting Lily down to sleep. Both of you have spent a long time trying to have children of your own, but after many tests, you found out that you're infertile, and you would not be able to conceive children of your own. This is exactly the reason you wanted your dream of owning your daycare to become more of a reality. ''Thank you, Bubba. I know you would make a perfect dad too,'' you said with a defeated sigh, you were well aware of Steve's chance on children.

Steve's biggest dream would be to have his very own family, and it had broken you time and time again that you could not give that to him. Even though there was nothing he wanted more, Steve never hated you for it, exactly the opposite even. ''I know, Pumpkin, but my dream already came true when I met you, as long as I have you I don't need anything else,'' he said, and he proved it to you every single day. The day both of you found out Bucky would become a father, you and Steve immediately offered to take care of the child whenever necessary, you both loved the little girl to pieces. Despite this, there has been an itch neither of you could quite scratch.

This was an itch in the form of a pet, more specifically in the form of a dog. Steve is home full-time nowadays and you work 3 days a week, so there is no better timing to pick out a lovely friend than now. Since you had Lily today, all three of you went to the animal shelter to go see if a new friend was waiting to be added to your household. This morning, you FaceTimed Bucky because Lily missed her dad, and his heart broke into a million pieces when he saw. ''Oh no, malyshka, I will be with you again tonight!'' he said, and you explained your plan for the day. ''Just make sure she doesn't bring one home for me!'' he joked and with that, all three of you went to the shelter.

''Good morning, we were hoping to adopt a dog to come home with us today,'' Steve said as soon as you reached the front desk. ''Well, then you've come to the right place! Please follow me, and I will show you which of our furry friends are up for adoption right now,'' she said with a happy voice. ''Your daughter is beautiful,'' the woman said to you, you were holding Lily in your arms. ''Oh, she is beautiful, isn't she? But she's not ours, we're babysitting for a friend,'' you said with a big smile on your face, you were used to it by now. ''Oh, I'm sorry! I assumed-'' ''It's okay. I don't mind thinking people she's mine, but don't let her father hear it before he gets jealous,'' you joked with a wink and Steve laughed at your comment.

''Most of the animals in our shelter are here after being brought in from either abusive homes or the streets, and now they're all looking for their forever homes,'' the woman explained, and your heart broke a little at the thought of these animals taken care of badly. After roaming around for a while, you spotted the perfect addition to your home. A 5-year-old white and brown male husky, named Phoenix. ''Hi Phoenix, aren't you gorgeous?!'' you said when you kneeled in front of his cage, and he came up to the both of you with a wagging tail and a curious look in his eyes.

''Steve, you should come take a look at him!'' you said and he came right over, falling in love with him instantly. ''Oh wow, you're such a beautiful guy!'' he said, and before you knew it, all four of you were walking out of the shelter, and onto your home where Phoenix would spend the rest of his days with you. When Bucky came to pick up Lily that evening he almost got trampled by him, he ran up excitedly to the visitor. ''Woah there, easy!'' he said before petting him. ''I see your mission was successful?'' he asked Steve and he nodded. ''It was indeed, we'd like you to meet Phoenix, our newest member of the Rogers family,'' he said with a proud look on his face. Finally, his own family felt complete with everyone who was in his house right now.

#steve rogers #steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers x reader #captain america #captain america x female reader #captain america fanfiction #captain america x y/n #captain america x reader

83 notes · View notes

russellsppttemplates · 9 months

Text

Spiders should be pink (Mick Schumacher)

Mick is more than happy to answer all of Mila's questions

Note: english is not my first language. this is a long piece that I hope will get the interactions back up (I love getting your requests and overall having you interact with the posts and having some random thoughts shared too!), so I hope you enjoy this piece that was mainly inspired by conversations I've had with my four year old cousin lately.

Tw: mentions spiders

my masterlist

"It should be okay, but I'll talk to him just to be sure. And if for some reason there isn't a way, I can go to yours for the weekend", you said over the phone before bidding goodbye and ending the call.

Your cousin was going on a work trip with her husband, since they worked for the same company, and since your aunt and uncle were also our of town, she wanted to know if you were available to look after their daughter Mila for an overnight stay. It was all fine by you since you had the weekend free, but you still had to check in with your boyfriend since it was the place you shared with him and if he didn't mind having Mila, your four year second cousin.

"Mick", you called after looking inside the home gym and entering, seeing he was already stretching on the mat, "Liebling", he replied back, signalling you had his attention even though he was not looking at you, "my cousin needs me to watch Mila for the weekend, and I was wondering if it was okay if the came to stay with us", you began, "I can go and stay at their place, too. They leave on a saturday morning and come back by the end of Sunday", you explained.

Getting up and grabbing his towell, your sweaty boyfriend made his way to you, "of course she can come over and spend the weekend here. You think she'll be okay with it being a new space for her? For me it's fine, I have no problem having little Mila over", he smiled sweetly, "I think she'll be fine, I'll probably just need to keep some things away from her hands, and maybe check if there are any sharp corners that she can easily knock into", you mused, thinking about the way the furniture sat when you felt Mick's hands on your waist, "can we do that after we go for a shower?", he said, nipping on your neck before looking up at you for confirmation to go further, tapping your butt so you could jump and circle his waist with your legs, "I would like that very much, my love", you said, latching to him despite the sweaty clothes and letting him take you to the bathroom.

You and Mick wake up a little bit earlier than usual, just wanting to check if everything was fine and safe to have Mila over for her overnight say before you made breakfast for you and Mick while you waited for them to drop her off, "she must be so grown up, I remember the photos you showed me of her when she was little, and when we went to her birthday, was it last year? I think so, I remember the number three balloons", Mick mused, "she is, and she's very curious and witty too!".

"That must be them", you said getting up once you heard the bell ring, Mick following you as you headed to the door to meet them, "Hello, Mila! How are you, bug?", you asked once the little girl started running to you, arms open so you took the hint to catch her, "I'm good! Am I really going to spend some time with you?", she said before she noticed Mick, "hello", she waved her little hand, earning a wave back from your boyfriend when he was done greeting your cousin and her husband, "I remember you, you're Y/N's boyfriend!", she said excitedly, waving at him a lot more confidently now.

After sorting a few things with your cousin, she bid her parents goodbye with a small tear in her eye, not wanting you to see her sadness from being away from her parents.

"Mila, do you want to go see our dog?", Mick asked, thinking that maybe a distraction would do her some good. "You have a dog too?", she asked, looking up at Mick, "yes, have you not met Angie before?", your boyfriend replied, earning a shake from her head, figuring that all of the times you had been with her was either with your family or whenever the Australian Shepherd travelled with him. "Well, you can meet Angie now, she's probably asleep in the living room", you noted, guiding her by placing a hand on her back and heading to the room, seeing Angie indeed laid down by the sofa, ears alert at a new person in the house, "Angie, we want you to meet Mila", Mick, who was right behind you, said, going up to the dog just in case she had a different reaction than expected, being met instead with a happy Angie, looking at Mila and sniffing her hand.

"I have a dog, too. But he's not like her", Mila began, "he's really tall and white with some black spots!", she said, stretching her arms in hopes of showing you and Mick how big her dog really was, "and he's not fluffy like you, Angie, you're like a pillow!", she finished excitedly, stroking Angie's fur. "Do you have a dalmatian?", Mick asked, crouching down so he was at her eye level, "I don't know how he's called, I call him Alfred. But he's not like those on TV, you know the movie with many of them? Alfred has a spot here, here and here only, it's not all over him", she said, nor growing more comfortable with Mick as she pointed to a few spots on his arms and legs, smiling up at him to see him smiling at ther already.

You showed Mila the house, so she would feel more at ease at to know where everything was, Angie trailing right behind her, "Why do you have white hair?", Mila turned around to look at Mick, stunning you both with the question, "because my hair is very light like that", your boyfriend tried to explain to the best of his ability, "and can't you have brown hair like Y/N? Or a little yellow like me?", she pulled a curl from her head, the hair bouncing right back to its place once she let go of it, "but you look a lot like my grandpa, and he is cute too!", she said before looking at you, "I need to pee", Mila announced, "there is a bathroom right here", you opened the door, "do you need my help?", you asked, "I'm a big girl, I don't need it".

Opening and then closing the door for her, you waited for the little girl outside just in case she needed something from you, "she called you an old man", you chuckled at Mick before he giggled too, "what was I supposed to say to her? But at least I'm a cute old man to her", he nudged you, "that you certainly are, a very cute and handsome man", you smiled before kissing his lips, just in time to hear the little girl call for you, "Mick! Y/N! I'm too little to reach the sink to wash my hands!", she said, making you open the door, "can I climb on Angie to reach the sink?", she smiled hopefully at you, accepting her fate when you picked her up so she would be in line with the tap.

Deciding to go outside after a great lunch of pasta and tomato sauce, Mila's eyes sparkled when she saw a swing on the garden, "can we go on there, please?", she asked you both, kicking her legs so she could make her way to the swings, needing you to hold it still so she could climb, "hold your hands here for safety, okay?", you said before you started pushing her, Mick sitting in the bench that was near, noticing a spiderweb on the wooden part, grabbing a leaf to lead the spider to safety, "thank you, Mick, I don't like spiders", Mila said, "you're scared of them?", you asked while you pushed her swing, helping her go back and forth, "yes, they're brown and black and ew", she squirmed, making you two laugh, "would you like them another colour? Why aren't spiders pink?"

"I like purple too", she said, pointing to her swimsuit under her dress that she insisted on putting on right after lunch, "and blue too! Like your eyes? Why are they blue?", she questioned as she left the swing and moved to climb up the slide, going down on it and standing on its end so she could be a bit closer to Mick's face and inspect his eyes, "because my mom and my dad have blue eyes so I also have blue eyes", he said, "And my mama has blue eyes and my papa has brown eyes, so I have brown eyes, that fits", she mused, changing to another topic.

It was approaching evening time, and you were still all outside after a afternoon spent swimming, "Can I go on the pool now?", Mila asked and you looked at her, "you might get to cold going fully in", you reasoned with her, "how about I just wet my feet then?", she asked, tempting you to say yes to her, eventually nodding your head, "okay, let's go then", you said, getting up and holding her hand, "Mick, c'mon, I want you to come with us, too!", she urged, using her other hand to call him over to the wide tiled steps of the pool to join you two.

Sitting on the edge, the three of you had your feet in the water and Mila was behaving surprisingly well until she found out she was able to walk along the stairs, going between you and Mick, "I know what you're trying to do, missy", you tickled her once she sat down, cheeks pink as you called her out, "and what was I going to do?", she replied, "you're trying to get your legs wet above your knee, then your thigh and before we know it, you're going to be inside", you said, her smile faltering as she understood you had actually read her plan.

Moving next to Mick, she went to whisper in his ear, "how did she know I wanted to do that?", making your boyfriend giggle, "Y/N's really smart, you know?", he reasoned with her, making them both look at you, "I think it's time we head inside to go for a bath, hm?", you tried, Mick taking advantage of the fact that she was sitting in his lap, holding her as he got up so you could leave, heading inside for a bath to wash the day off while your boyfriend got dinner started.

"Mick! Me and Y/N had a bath with bubbles!", Mila said after she got down the last step of the stairs, announcing it to him as he checked the oven, "Oh, did you now? You smell really nice!", he complimented, "it's my princess bubbles, mama got them for me!", she pointed to you, "she smells like it too!", she smiled. Mick saw you walk down the stairs too, towells in hand so you could put them in the laundry room, "you smell like princesses too, liebling?", he asked, "Oh, like the most beautiful princesses, that's for sure", you chuckled, amused at their conversation, "you can be a princess too, Y/N, you're pretty like them", she reasoned, hugging your legs, "thank you, little one, you're very pretty too. I bet Belle is jealous of you", you smiled, combing her freshly washed curls with your fingers, "if you want to go have a shower now, I'll look after her and dinner, too", you said, noticing Mila running towards the living room and hearing her call for your dog.

"The food is in the oven, it should take a while", he said, kissing your forehead and making his way upstairs, "MICK! You can use my princess bubbles if you want to!", Mila yelled, making Mick chuckle at the little girl's energy, never faltering even after a full day of playing and swimming.

"Y/N, do you want to make bracelets with me?", she said, bringing out a kit with colourful beads and threads, "sure! Come here to the table so we can organise them here", you said, allowing her to sit on top of your crisscrossed legs while you measured and placed all the beads in the bracelet like you wanted.

"Do you like to share a house with Mick?", Mila asked you, "yes, I do. Why do you ask?", you questioned, wanting to know where her curiosity came from, "Well, bec- Mick! You're back! Do you like sharing a house with Y/N?", she asked him as soon as she saw him join you again in the living room. Mick sat next to you, "I do, yes", he said sweetly, "why?", Mila asked him like she had asked you, "because I like to spend time with her, because I can make things for her when she doesn't have the time, -", he began, "like when she doesn't know where her shoes are and you give her them? Or when she needs someone to get her cough syrup?", she reasoned, probable thinking about how her parents, the people she shares a house with, are with her, "yes, all of those things", Mick chuckled, grabbing a thread so he could too make some bracelets, "There, now you, me and Y/N have matching bracelets!", Mila announced, placing a bracelet in your wrist and one in Mick's, "you both have a heart, look! Because you live together!".

After dinner, while Mick offered to tidy the rest of the kitchen while you went up to change into pyjamas, "Mick, Mick, Mick!", Mila yelled as she ran to the living room, "Look!", she pointed to herself once she was in front of him, "my pyjamas have Minnie and Mickey on them!", she said, pointing to you once you reached them, sitting next to your boyfriend, "you can be Mickey, because your name is the same, and Y/N can be Minnie!", she said before she climbed up the sofa, sitting on your lap while she looked at the TV, "we're going to see a movie?", she asked, recognising the frames on the TV, "yes. Do you like any of these?", Mick asked her a he flipped through them.

You ended up watching the 101 Dalmatians, Mila claiming it was for Angie to get to know her friend Alfred until they could meet in real life, the little girl falling asleep holding onto you like a little koala, arms around your torso with her head snuggled on your chest, "the day tired her out, hm?", Mick said in a low voice.

Chuckling, you combed her curly hair before doing the same to your boyfriend's hair, "it did, and you? She didn't take up all your batteries with her insane questions?", you smiled, forever grateful of having him in your life, and especially to see your family get along nicely with him. "She's fine with that. It's so cool to see her be curious about everything, and she's a really sweet girl too", your boyfriend said.

#mick schumacher imagine #mick schumacher fanfic #mick schumacher x reader #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine

323 notes · View notes

jinnie-ret · 7 months

Note

HIII so I'm the one who asked Abt the sister reader and I wanted to rq a older brother skz x adoptive little sister reader where shes 15 and cusses a lot and is always getting into trouble like piercing her ears without anyone knowing, loud introvert, things like that and how they react to it? Love ur writing btw!🫶🏻🫶🏻

rebel

stray kids x adopted sister!reader

genre: fluff

content warnings: none

word count: 0.6k

summary: the boys are too used to their little sister's rebellious ways by now, but that doesn't stop them from worrying every now and then.

Hi thank you so much!! I hope you enjoy this one! :)

As always, like, reblog if you enjoyed, and my asks are open for any requests you may have. And let me know if you'd like to be tagged when I post :)

MAIN MASTERLIST

You had just arrived back to the dorms in the morning after coming back from your friend's house and spending the day with them all yesterday. It was silly of you to think that that boys wouldn't be awake at 10am in the morning.

"Ah, Y/N, nice of you to come home," Changbin says sarcastically, arms folded as he leans against the kitchen counter.

"It's not that late...?" you tried to get around the awkward situation, as you saw all of the boys eating breakfast with their phones out, and if you looked closer you would have noticed they had it open on the groupchat they had with you, waiting for a message to know when you'd be back.

"You could have told us you'd be ok," Han sighed in relief, coming up to you and affectionately stroking your hair back, but his fingers caught your ear, where you had gotten your second set of piercings done.

"Ow," you winced, causing him to raise a brow at you.

"You good?" Felix stood next to him, the September twins wondering what was the matter.

"Yeah, yeah, it's nothing," you shrugged them off and hopped onto the kitchen counter, nicking a piece of toast from Hyunjin's plate.

"I'll let that slide only because we were worried about you," Hyunjin sighed, still giving you the side eye despite his comment.

"Why were you worried?" you bit into the toast.

"Maybe because we haven't heard from you since 2am? What were you doing up at that time anyways?" Chan sighed, walking up to you and getting up from his seat at the table.

"Just watching films and that," you shrugged, mistakenly brushing your hair back.

"Oh, and what else did you get up to?" he frowned, huffing out a breath though his nose as his finger brushed against your new piercing.

"Ow... fine I got my seconds done," you admitted, looking away.

"With what money?" Jeongin laughed, "you only went to that local gig with your friends recently, and you can afford to have another piercing?"

"There was a discount! I got it done for ₩15,000!" you said happily, feeling like you had gotten a bargain.

"Oh dear, well hopefully you've got enough money left to pay for antibiotics when you get an infection," Minho wrinkled his nose.

"What do you mean?" you frowned.

"₩15,000?! That's too cheap, who knows if the metal is good quality, or if it was sterilised," Seungmin spoke up.

"Ah, well, I'm sure it'll be fine, only live once don't you?" you waved off their concerns.

"Yep, with infected gunky ears," Hyunjin patted your head.

"Stopppp," you whined at their teasing. But you didn't expect anything less from your brothers.

"Look, next time just tell us where you are and if you're ok, yeah?" Chan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah, Felix thought you died," Changbin giggled.

"I did not! I just thought she got kidnapped..." Felix trailed off after his attempt at defending himself.

"You do worry about me a lot," you laugh poking Felix's cheek.

"You're still a child, of course we worry," he hugs you to him.

"Ah, I'm not that young, I'm mature enough," you smile at them all.

"Yeah right, we still hear you cursing like a sailor when you're on the phone," Seungmin exposed you with a smirk.

"Who corrupted our baby y/n?" Han shook your shoulders, making you almost dizzy.

"Ok, ok, calm down," you giggled at him.

"I remember when you were 11 years old, so innocent, and now look at you," Changbin cried out, putting on a fake emotional voice as he covered his face.

"Such a rebel now," Hyunjin laughed, shaking his head at the scene in front of him, as Felix clung onto you and Han, Jeongin and Minho where now inspecting your piercings.

tagged: @skz-streamer @backintomykpopphaseagain @hannahhbahng @kiraisastay

#skz #stray kids #stray kids x reader #skz fluff #skz x reader #skz angst #straykids imagines #stray kids fluff #skz fic #stray kids imagines #skz sister #stray kids sister

252 notes · View notes

uzuicore · 9 months

Text

POST-IT

pairing: levi ackerman x gn!reader (college!au and best friends to lovers!au) genre: fluffy cw: none summary: "i’ve been imagining law student levi ackerman and civil engineering y/n, they’re both college student and best friend as well. but they decided to rent a space or dorm for themselves since they both tolerate each other but the thing is they’re secretly in love with each other and confess their love at the end." a/n: @loveackerman hi ~ ^-^ here's your request! i loved writing this oneshot and i hope you also like it and have fun reading it! thanks for making this request! ❤️

REBLOGS AND COMMENTS ARE APPRECIATED!

"What do you think of this new clock I bought for my desk?" you asked Levi as soon as you noticed him walking into the dorm you shared. "It was on sale."

After placing the backpack he was carrying on top of his bed, Levi then approached you to observe your new purchase. "It's nice, it matches the other decorations in the room," he ruffled your hair before turning his attention to some books. "Didn't you say you needed a new laptop though? It's more important for your studies, you shouldn't be spending money on unnecessary things," he remarked, making you feel embarrassed for being scolded by your best friend. This was a frequent occurrence, sometimes you felt as if you hadn't stopped living with your mother.

"I know, sorry," you pouted and embraced him from the side, irritating him, "I'll save money, I promise."

"Tch, whatever, just get off me, brat," he joked, pretending not to like your affection.

You giggled, squeezing his cheeks, a thing that only you were allowed to do without having your arm broken, and reminded him, "By the way, I have a project due in three days, it's from that annoying teacher, I need your opinion on what I've done so far!"

"And what help will I be? I'm a law student, I don't know anything about civil engineering, you idiot,"

"Don't even try to lie to me just so you don't help me, okay? We've been friends for a long time, I already know how smart you're in many topics," you protested.

Levi sighed shaking his head and said, "Fine, but let's look at this later, okay? We need to eat lunch first."

The sound of the alarm clock seemed distant when Levi finally woke up to turn it off. Taking a glance at you, he recognized how exhausted you looked from having spent the night studying and how deep you were asleep.

Carrying on with his morning routine, making as minor noise as possible, Levi finished eating his breakfast, and before he departed, he grabbed a blue Post-it and left a message for you, next to your phone.

"(Y/N),

You stayed up late studying, I remember you saying that class today wasn't that important, so I let you rest.

There's food in the microwave. Eat well and rest."

With a few hours left before the sun went down, Levi was still in the library studying with a close friend of the two of you, Hange, when his phone rang.

"So, who called you, shorty? (Y/N)?" Hange raised a question as soon as Levi put the device in his pocket and started putting away his notebooks.

"No, my idiot uncle," he answered, now standing up.

"Oh, I thought it was your worried girlfriend," Hange mocked. "You shouldn't be gone so long without telling her where you are, you know."

Rolling his eyes and leaning on his hands on the table to face the bespectacled woman, Levi clarified irritated, "Stop with the teasing, you know it makes (Y/N) uncomfortable, shitty glasses. And I already told you, we're not dating."

Throwing the pencil she held on the table and crossing her arms, Hange expounded, "Seriously, Levi, the display of affection between you two, even when you're in public, doesn't seem like friends, you know? It's obvious that you're in love with each other but you're afraid to confess it. I'm just afraid that this situation will end up delaying both of your love lives," she concluded.

"What do you mean by that?" Levi inquired, not caring if he sounded bothered by what his friend had declared.

"There're a lot of guys who're into (Y/N), and they just don't approach her because everyone thinks you're together. Even your mom thinks so!" Hange exclaimed.

The clock marked 2 am and you still hadn't managed to sleep, the lamp on the other side of the room indicated that your best friend was also still awake.

"Did Hange disturb you so much today that you can't sleep?" you joked, turning to face Levi, and were surprised to see him sitting on his bed.

He gave a subtle sideways smile before responding, "Tch, I wish that was all."

Getting up and going to sit next to him, you then hugged him from the side resting your head on his shoulder, an act you were wont to do only with Levi, and voiced, "You've been acting weirder than usual since you got back from the library, did something happen that you don't know how to tell me?"

The gentleness with which you spoke and acted with Levi when you knew he was bothered by something always impressed him, it's as if the sweetness in your voice made him automatically open his mouth and tell you everything that was on his mind, even when he didn't want to.

"Kenny called," Levi shared. "My mom's sick again. Only this time I won't be able to come home and take care of her."

"Oh, I'm sorry," you lifted your head so you could look at his face. "But your mom will be fine, she's strong. Everyone in your family is, right? She just needs to take the right medicine and rest, like she did the other times."

"I know, (Y/N), but the other times I was there to make sure she was going to do it," Levi repeated running his fingers through his hair.

Holding his face with your hands and forcing him to look you in your eyes, you assured him, "But this time you won't. Your uncle is your mother's brother, remember? He wants to see her well too. We both know that as annoying as he can be, he knows how to be serious and take care of someone when the situation calls for it. Kenny will take good care of your mom, just ask him to update you every day on her situation so you can rest easy, okay?"

Placing his hand over yours, which was still on his cheek, Levi massaged your delicate skin and thanked you.

"So, is there anything else or do you think you can sleep now?" you asked pulling away from him.

"Tch, you speak like you weren't awake too," Levi retorted.

"That's because I was worried about you, asshole!" you defended yourself and slapped his arm playfully.

"That week you were freaking out about your project... And you were having trouble sleeping," Levi started and paused.

"What about it?" you questioned, curious why he was bringing up this old subject.

"My bed's a little bigger and you slept here. You said... It made you more comfortable," Levi concluded.

Comprehending what he wanted to request from you, you pondered about teasing him as Hange would do, but seeing how vulnerable he was at the moment, you just told him to lie down and give you space to do the same.

Lying under the large white comforter facing each other, you noticed that Levi still seemed bothered by something. You were used to sleeping next to each other when one of you was feeling unwell, but this time seemed different.

"Is there anything else you want to tell me?" you invited in a whisper.

Still observing you with a frown, Levi took a few seconds before letting out, "Everyone thinks we're dating."

You chuckled, replying, "Yeah, I know that. Hange always picks on us about it. Just ignore everyone," you shrugged.

"She also said that our displays of affection aren't platonic," Levi added.

"Yeah... Hange says a lot of things, Levi-"

"(Y/N)," he interrupted, making the smile on your face crumble when you realized how serious he seemed about the subject, "do you think I'm a burden to your love life? Do you like someone?"

"Did Hange put that in your head too? She told me the same thing these days, you know?"

"Tch, just answer... Please."

"You're not a problem for my love life, if I have to stop being your friend to get a boyfriend then I don't want one," you expressed.

Levi rolled his eyes and exemplified, "You know that's not how it works, dumbass. Do you think your boyfriend would believe that we're just best friends if he saw you lying here with me? Do you think he'd believe that if he saw the way you hug me all the time?"

Troubled by the matter, you confessed, "Well, maybe I don't care about any of that because I don't want to hug or lie next to any guy other than you!"

The sound of heavy breathing from the two of you was the only thing that could be heard inside the dorm, until Levi worked up the courage to bring his hand to your cheek and caressed it, asking, "Did you really mean that?"

Examining deep into his grayish-blue eyes, you confirmed, "Y-yes."

Offering you one of his rare smiles, Levi brought his face close to yours and placed a gentle kiss on top of your eyelid, and joked, "Tch, you idiot, I should have confessed first."

Returning the smile, you inquired, "Does that mean you've fallen in love with me too?"

"Isn't it obvious? I don't want to have moments like this with a girl other than you either."

#aot x reader #attack on titan x reader #anime x reader #levi x reader #levi ackerman x you #levi ackerman x y/n #levi ackerman x reader #levi aot #levi x you #levi ackerman #snk x reader #snk x y/n #snk levi #shingeki no kyojin #shingeki no kyojin x reader

142 notes · View notes

halfmoth-halfman · 11 months

Text

closing my inbox/taking a break

due to increasing anon hate and some very gross and concerning asks, i've decided that i'm going to be closing my inbox and taking a break from tumblr for a little while. i can only put up with so much and it's getting to be too much when my askbox looks like this after a few days:

i understand that i have some very lovely anons that i adore talking to. i'm very sorry that other people had to ruin this for those anons and if turning off my askbox will keep you from interacting, but i need to do this for my peace of mind for the time being. that's not to say i'll never open it again, i just need a break and hopefully some time will let people calm down.

posts will still be the same, everything i have coming up is either queued or scheduled for the next week. the may fic recs will be posted this afternoon. i've cleared out my inbox and queued replies to what's already in there outside of request asks.

i mentioned a little "extra" post for tomorrow that was going to be a post of mid-year faves, for all the fics i've found too late for a monthly rec list and ones that i just really love that was meant to post tomorrow, but i'm going to postpone that for now and come back to it at a later day this month.

the next mob!price chapter is scheduled for next friday, june 9th, in the evening and set to be reblogged again saturday morning. i'll probably pop back on for that and to make sure the taglist works properly, and reevaluate my askbox at that time.

i am so thankful to all of the kind anons i've gotten and for everyone who's been nice to and patient with me. i have an appreciation for all of you that i can't put into words.

and to the anons who've sent me hateful, racist, misogynistic, and down right threatening messages, i know this is social media, and it's just tumblr, but there are real people behind these blogs with real feelings and i hope no one ever sends you the same kind of hatred and vitriol that you've sent me.

thank you everyone, and i'll see you next week! 💜

#moth talks

55 notes · View notes

skitskatdacat63 · 6 months

Note

Hiii CATIE!!!!! HIII

Im pretty pretty sure people have already asked BUT HOW WAS ATTENDING THE US GP LIVE!!!! WAS???? TELL ME!! DO YOU HAVE PICS??? I know I know im late.

I ALSO HOPE YOU GOT HOME SAFE AND SOUND AND THAT YOU ARE RESTING NOW+!!!(I saw the chaos you went through im deeply sorry for you :( )

ANYWAYS HOW WAS THE RACE? HOW WAS EXPERIENCING STROLLONSO LIVE?????? AND omg did you get pics of drivers??? :00

You must must share pleaseeeeee.wax.poet

OH MY GOD ELLE SORRY THIS IS SO LATE!!! IT WAS VERY COOL!!!!! VERY SURREAL!!!!!! I've taken a week to answer this but uhhhh yes I am in fact home now 🥰 I got home at like 1 am which was cool....

First of all I have to mention this! I was fighting for my life walking thru the Austin airport(from sleep deprivation), and I had my Fernando hat on my backpack, right? Some girl comes up to me and asks if I'm going to the GP, I say yes. SHE GAVE ME A FRIENDSHIP BRACELET, I COULD'VE SOBBED 🥹 It says on it "wtf is a km", I'm still so happy

COTA was the first race I ever watched, so to be actually at that track and watch a race live there was extremely surreal! Very hot though my god 😵‍💫 I think last year it was pretty hot, right? And my brother kept sending me the temp and it was pretty okay, and then of fucking course the temp leaps up to 89-97°(31-36° Celsius btw) right in time for the gp....so that was nice(I say as I burn in the sun like a vampire. But don't worry I didn't even really tan at all 😭 I always wore a hat and a lot of sunscreen. And meanwhile my brother was literally a lobster)

(This is a long post):

So unfortunately I missed the drivers parade because my brother and I were dying on Saturday night and his friends wanted to go first thing in the morning, and we're like "we will go later actually 😊" and missed it entirely 😭😭😭 but his friends took pics of Mclaren and Aston for me!!!!! But unfortunately I havent gotten them still, so I'll have to reblog this later with those! I took a lot of pictures of the cars I took from behind the fence, which I think I've posted some of? Lmk if anyone wants those!! They're very random, I just thought it was very surreal to see the cars flying past, so I took a million.

The coolest part was definitely running on track after the race was over!!! Soooooo surreal, and so I'm only gonna post pics rn from Sunday(bcs pic limit on phone) and also I think everything else kinda pales in comparison(but of course lmk if there's anything you're interested in seeing 🤭)

Okay and did I see any drivers...? ONLY ONE BUT AAAAHHHH I DID SEE LANDO!!! Not even one of my favs but it was soooooo surreal to see him, even from afar. As you can see above, everyone standing on the fences was blocking the view 🙄, but during the podium, I was focusing my camera btwn their legs and got literally one second of Lando 😭 I think its a pretty aesthetic clip, so I gifed it!!

It was so funny, I went to the gp with my brother and friends, so all these older guys yeah. And I was showing this off to them on the ride home, and his one friend was praising me so much for it 😭😭 like: "oh my god!!!! You could put this in an edit !!! This is so sick!!!!"

Oh one other thing!!! I think I've mentioned it before but my god, my favorite f1 podiums are always the ones with confetti, right?? AND THERE WAS CONFETTI AT THIS RACE!!!

LOOK AT HOW PRETTYYYYY!!!! And so anyways, I picked up so much confetti off the ground and now it lives forever in my phone case 🥰🥰🥰 I have no other room for pics on this post(for now) but oh my godddddddddd most of the confetti were just rectangles BUT THERE WAS ALSO ONES SHAPED LIKE TEXAS!!! SO COOL!!!!! And I also picked up a bunch of tire marbles off the ground!!! And a piece of plastic that probably came off some car. It was so funny when all of us were just scrounging off the ground. My bro's one friend somehow found a piece of carbon fiber, and we're all like "how can I kill him in his sleep and steal this from him..." But no the highlight actually of that process was watching my brother sprint to the podium, but stopping and grabbing a bunch of gravel first to shove in his pocket 😭😭😭

The other two days were fun as well, but also a lot of just dying in the heat and drinking a fuckton of red bull, so there's not too much specifically to say! I really liked hearing the cars. I think if you wanna know what's actually going on in a race, watching from home is better, but hearing the cars go by and seeing them is just so fucking sick. It was so funny to see grown men be like "I think I'm going to cry hearing these cars." I was really flexing on them with "uhhh yeah I've already been to a gp already 🙄🙄"

Anyways I ended the day by breaking bank by buying my dad and myself Fernando shirts because he is of course Fernando's biggest fan 🥰🥰 and I bought the most delicious overpriced lemonade, which I only drank half of bcs my brother proceeded to accidentally elbow it out of my hand....

OH WAIT ONE MORE DETAIL LOL. On Friday, my brother and his friend were waiting in line for smth and I was talking to them outside of the barrier. I look down, hmm theres a red cap abandoned on the ground, I pick it up, it is in fact a Ferrari hat. And that is how my brother acquired a $40+ dollar hat for free. Lucky bastard....I was the who found it!

#there is my experience kinda summed up???? i #i wanted to wait to answer this until i got all the random misc photos but alas i sitll havent #but its still very sweet to me that theu took pics of the drivers parade for me 🥺🥺#he was like “here is mclaren!!! and here is aston!!!!” THANK YOU STILL 🥹🥹#oh fuck wait i forgot to mention a crucial detail #on the wah home from the gp my brother's tire popped 😭😭😭😭#and im ofc chilling in the car while these three car men(horse girls tbf) change the tire #and theyre all covered in grease and i say “what a great way to end the day!' and his friend turns around anf gives me this face: 😐#various misfortunes but it was fine!!! it was great!!!!! just tiring #OH YEAH THE KILLERS WAS PRETTY COOL AS WELL!!!!!#basically: everything was sick 😎#except every time oscar and nando did badly and i would fall dramatically onto the ground bcs that's the type of persom i am #thank you so much for asking elle 🥺🥺🥺#if you hadnt prompted i prob wouldve never ended up recapping it #all i can say is im incredibly lucky to have all the experiences i did this year #catie.rambling.txt #catie.asks.#*OH MY GOD YEAH ONE THIGN #*i bought a new phone beforew this gp. for this gp tbh. bcs of the camers. i think it paid off pretty well no? 🤭

21 notes · View notes

Last Seen Blogs

mjariin

(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

iamcrishlm

I’AM CRIS

sovietsquid

What Could Have Been

tahoa

hoa tạ

firewolfsg

Thoughts of a Half Centenarian