*cracks knuckles* here's a very much non-exhaustive alphabetical list... where I could find them.
Please reblog/comment/shoot me a DM if I've missed anyone, I did my best, but I'm 100% sure I've missed a few (as we all know, Tumblr's search engine SUCKS, and I won't have found everyone naturally)!
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i’m ｡ ₊°༺ zephyr ༻°₊ ｡
but you can just call me z^^
matching with my wonderful wife @fayonette <33 (who also drew the pfps💕)
Fandoms here
Tags here
Pronouns page here
Pinterest here
@jerrythewolp-and-co here
Other fun things here
The Andrew Saga ❤️ here
Discord: ask pls, ill probably give it to you if we’ve interacted before
INFP-T😛
taken by my sweet girl💕 mmwah💕💕 :33
i reblog most things on @toadally-gay-reblogs
having a bad day? -> <3 <3
how well do you know me..? blehhh
things that bring me joy, a non-comprehensive list:
- the existence of my sweet lovely beautiful girlfriend💕💕
- chewing on my hoodie strings
- learning interesting stuff
- all my friendsss
^not in any particular order except for my pretty princess, fae is #1
“you and me in an empty room. they can’t get in, only room for two. if you play your part and i play mine, too. i’ll never take my eyes off you.”
The next time Gaz finds Ghost sitting alone in the rec room corner happens to be a week later. He had woken up in a cold sweat, the plain white shirt he wore to bed clung to his skin uncomfortably while his chest heaved from the jagged huffs of air. A knot formed in his throat and for a second it was too hard to breathe.
His dreams, no, nightmares were never the same, each fragment of images and memories different from the other, but they all had common themes: loss, death, mourning. Concepts Gaz knows intimately after years serving his country.
He almost laughs at the irony. Him, a trained killer, jolted awake in the middle of night because of some nightmares. It was ridiculous, embarrassing even, but he also knew every soldier has nights where sleep evaded them, forcing them to stew in grief and despair.
With a soft breath he pushed off his bed, feet dragging against cold flooring before he found himself where he always went on nights like such.
Ghost is there, not to his surprise, but unlike prior nights a soft glow lights the room enough to make out the dark outline of his Lieutenant more. This time he doesn’t startle.
“Looks like it’s me and you again, huh, L.T?” his voice comes out groggy, remnants of sleep still clinging to him.
Silence greets him, but he doesn’t mind. Making tea for the both of them became second nature, a mindless habit he wasn’t aware of til he already had two cups in front of him and water boiling on the small stove. When did he get so used to these late nights?
He doesn’t find himself retreating to the rec room on most nights, usually he was able to sleep through the night, barely remembering his dreams once his eyes opened. But each time he waltzes in Ghost is always there, settled deep into his corner that Gaz always wonders how long he’s been there. Alone and in the dark.
Gaz thinks maybe that’s how Ghost sees himself. Isolated from those around him, drowning in a sea so dark and deep no one can see the man underneath it all. Beneath the mask, the hard cut persona that is Ghost.
Gaz wonders, not for the first time, who is Simon Riley? The man beyond the mask, most likely sunken hundreds of feet below sea levels, pushed to the side in order for Ghost to take the role is keeping himself afloat. Does Simon make an effort to fight back? Or is he complacent in his safe space within the back of his own mind?
What sort of troubles keep a man like Ghost awake at night? Is it the job, the countless acts of violence and bloodshed? Or do other atrocities haunt him, memories from a life lived before the military, before getting his hands dirty for the sake of the “greater good”?
Ghost is an itch that Gaz cannot reach, a constant ache nestled inside his chest, beneath skin, muscle and bone. A lingering sensation he hates to enjoy, hates that he wants the sunlight to caress his skin and bask in the overwhelming warmth that is Ghost—or Simon Riley because to Gaz any version of the captivating man bared to him would be enough fuel to make Gaz fly.
The cup of steaming hot tea is placed before Ghost, made just the way he likes it.
Ghost takes the mug, gloved fingers brushing against Gaz’s own. They linger for a beat longer than usual and the small action is enough to make the young Sergeant’s heart slam against his chest.
Cold brown trail from the black mug up to Gaz’s own set of warm amber. “Thank you, Garrick..” His voice is gruff, tight with every strife left unspoken.
Gaz offers a nod, the corner of his mouth pulling into a soft smile. “Anytime, L.T.”
Long before now, before Gaz had taken to observing the older man, the silence that stretched between them was unsettling. Ghost was usually quiet, barely uttering a word around those he didn’t trust with his 6, but since joining this carefully handpicked team more of himself started to peek through.
"Simon..." the air shifts, filling with something heavy yet softer than either are used to. Gaz holds Simon's stare, shock shielding whatever turmoil left within him for a second. The name was a familiar sound to Gaz, after years of working together he has heard it roll off the captain's tongue more than once. But this, this was different somehow. A blatant invitation. "Call me Simon."
Heat spreads beneath his skin. "Simon..." he tests the name dipped in honey, rolling it around on his tongue. They both feel the change deep within their cores, to a molecular level resetting their entire beings.
Neither of them mention it as they sit together, long after the cups of tea have emptied, ceramics discarded in the sink.
If Gaz were a different man, maybe more insistent and imposing, then he would press Simon to explain himself, pry into that mysterious head of his and soak up every little detail he could. But Gaz isn’t. So he lets the questions jumble in his mouth and leaves them there until they dissolve into nothing.
For now, this is enough. A small step closer to the man that has his attention locked and chained up. There is nothing else but Simon and by the time Gaz heads back to his room, the nightmare he had was long forgotten.
Once he’s settled under the sheets, back pressed into stiff bedding, he lets himself wonder. Of soft, pale skin against his own, warm to the touch. He’s only ever felt the touch of fabric from gloved hands, always fleeting after a second too short. Ghost always kept things professional, distance a steady measure with him. Would Simon close it? Would he allow rough calloused hands to press into his skin, soothing out the hard lines in the dead of night?
Gaz wants to know so bad it almost hurts. But Gaz is a patient man. He knows how to play the long game. How to wait until the right time to strike. Not aggressive, never, but for once he didn’t plan to leave things where they were. Won’t continue to deny the attraction he feels towards Simon, and he’d be damned if he could no longer orbit the man.
omg my first time ending in a req but can i req jurdan college au, where they get stuck tgt in school or something then they 🥵🥵 get bored (or horni) hehehe sorry lmao
@multiversxwhore u took 100 years to beta but I took 101 years to write it so we’re even 🩷
Part 2 to THIS.
My feet hang loosely between Cardan’s crossed ankles underneath the table in the library. We both had been immersed in our own work, bouncing questions off each other occasionally, but otherwise highlighting our own notes, rewriting our own train of thoughts, until now. I won’t admit it to him but my eyes are starting to blur and cross, and I find myself looking past the ink on paper and focusing instead on the streak of light slowly moving across the page, indication of the sun starting to set.
I tilt my head to the window beside us – arching high to the ceiling and flaring down to the floor beneath us. Orange, pink and lavender skies make this uncomfortably warm feeling grow from the pit of my stomach. It’s spring, I realize. I guess, it was always a thought on back burner but since our finals started, it’s getting harder to ignore. Our last week of the semester right before summer break.
Slender fingers touch my chin and gently turn my face. I smile slowly, a little startled at having been caught slacking. “Did you say something?” I ask.
Cardan pokes my cheek with the bottom of his pen. “I said,” he drawls, “what are your plans for summer?” It takes me a moment to answer, and maybe it’s because he’s a little dreamy looking in the last of the soft golden hues from the sun. It’s rare that I see him with his wire framed glasses perched on his nose, even rarer to see his hair a mess of unkept curls. I thought I’d be used to his gentle gaze now, especially directed at me, but it’s still a little startling, still makes my heart beat faster than I’m used to. “Jude…” he elongates my name, lips twitching upwards at the sides once he’s done.
“Every summer there’s a fair that comes to town.” I pick my words carefully, “we should go,” I throw out. “They have this ride that spins you around as it takes you all the way to the sky before falling back down – like a single giant pendulum.”
He draws the pen to a tendril curling in front of my face. He twists it, not missing a beat to his response. “You’re thinking about taking me there?” Cardan looks dubious, if not a bit confused. It makes him look just thay much more endearing to me.
I nod my head, “Yeah… I guess I am.” It’s almost embarrassing how often I think of Cardan being integrated into my everyday life – especially seeing as this moment right now is the most time we’ve spent together since midterms started. “Would love to get you screaming,” I tease.
He tugs at the lock of hair, “I don’t scream.”
I shrug, leaning back against my seat, legs inching higher against his. “What about a manly moan?”
He blinks, “you think you need a rollercoaster for that?”
I roll my eyes, “It’s not a rollercoaster. And no – I think I just need about five minutes.”
I stick my tongue out and he snorts, bopping my forehead. I laugh and rub the spot, not because it hurts but because every time Cardan Greenbriar gets his hands on me, I feel it for ages like residual energy against my skin. “Behave, Jude,” he teases, then he grins, “make it seven, at least.”
“Dork,” I mumble, leaning my head so far back, looking beyond the fluorescent lights, until I see the rows and rows of book shelves behind me. This angle makes the room feel extremely wrong. “It feels like we’ve been here for ages.” My brows furrow, “It’s really quiet in here.”
“It’s a library, love,” Cardan responds, deadpanned. His hands grasp my wrists, pulling me back into a normal sitting position.
I frown, “No, it’s more quiet than usual.” Instinctively, my voice gets quieter too. My eyes grow wide, “Cardan.”
“Jude.” His eyes widen to mimic mine.
“It’s Sunday.”
“Oh? Is that why Van went to church this morning?” he’s unconcerned, “Usually he goes before a game or something. I thought he might have gone to pray about finals since he barely passed midterms.”
“Cardan, the library closes early on Sunday.” I scramble for my phone, turning the screen on and show him the time. He has to lean back a bit with how close I shoved it to his face.
He gives me a slow, wry grin, looking from my phone to me, to my phone, then back to me again. “Is that really your lock screen?”
“What -” I turn my phone to see that my lock screen is Cardan and the boys celebrating after a win a few days ago – their final win of the season. “Cardan, they locked us in!”
He shakes his head absently, almost in disbelief. “Locked in only to get… locked in.”
“I –” my mouth shuts, then opens again only to shut again. I don’t really have a response to that and I think it might be too late to laugh.
“It’s fine, I'm sure we can exit through one of the back passages.” The back passages are news to me. Granted, this is probably the longest I’ve spent in our campus’ library — or like, any library in general. For once, Cardan didn’t have to deal with lacrosse or frat related things and I was more than happy to take over any time he had to spare, even if that meant reading a textbook while he wrote endless formulas. As long as I was in his presence, I was grossly content.
He slowly shuts his notebook while I frantically gather my books into my bag. I take hold of our near empty cups of coffee we’d exchanged and shared, walking them to the nearest bin. Both of us had thought to get one for the other before meeting up, now it felt a little bitter throwing them away. I make a face at myself, annoyed at my sentiment, picturing my twin sister cooing over me. “Juuuuude! You’re so cute! It's almost like you’re in loooooo – ” I wave my hands in front of my face as if to rid the image before walking over to Cardan’s side of the table.
While I feel jittery and charged with caffeine, it looks like it has had little to no effect on my boyfriend. He leans back and yawns, clearly neither concerned nor in a rush. He looks tired, gazing at me from beneath lidded eyes and long lashes. “This is kind of fun, no?”
“It’s…a little liminal.” I shiver, as if to emphasize my point, “a little eerie.” Now that I’m aware that it’s just the two of us in this four-story high library, I can’t help but feel completely thrown off — I’m sure there’s at least one horror movie that has a scene like this. I'm not exactly expecting a monster in the corner but I still peer around anxiously.
When my eyes land on Cardan’s again, he holds a hand out to me and I take it without a second thought, letting him lead me closer to the side of him. To my surprise, he grabs hold of my waist and buries his head into my middle. I instinctively place a hand on his head, the other on his shoulder for stability. His hair has grown a lot since the start of the lacrosse season, but I would never complain about that. I like playing with the lengthy strands during those moments where he'd rest his head on my lap. He’d guide my hands to his hair and fall asleep as I twisted and braided to my heart’s content. “Sort of romantic,” he mumbles into me. He splays one hand against my back, fingers spanning most of it. The other hand slowly skims around my hip then upwards, underneath my shirt, practically searing my skin.
My muscles tighten at his touch, breath hitching at the way his fingers trace and tickle my skin. “We should go,” I prompt but make no actual move to leave.
He looks up at me, chin resting on my stomach, eyes glimmering wickedly. I carefully remove his glasses, placing them on the table before brushing away the stray hair from his face. “You don’t have to whisper,” he teases me.
I smile bashfully, “It’s still a library. And it’s really hard to talk in a normal decibel right now.”
He slides his hands down to my thighs, gripping just under my ass, and in one fluid movement, he has me straddling his thigh. I yelp, my hand flying to my mouth and he quirks an eyebrow, “Shhhh,” he mocks and in a faux whisper, tells me, “we’re in a library.”
My cheeks flare red, acutely aware of every slight movement now. He spreads his legs a little, leaning back just a beat to accommodate me. I place my hands on his shoulders, glancing behind him, eyeing the bright lights warily. It feels like anyone could walk by at any moment. My stomach flips, and goosebumps flare against my skin. I bite the inside of my cheek, when the soothing circles he caresses into my legs are anything but soothing. I swallow thickly, “I can be quiet,” I insist, playing along with him, acting bigger than I feel.
My heart hammers into my ribs, “yeah?” he asks, a hand going up my shirt, grazing where it’s sensitive. Since I’ve gotten the stick and poke tattoo, I have spent every shower scrubbing my skin raw in attempts to rid of the ink. Taryn thinks I’m being dramatic – thinks, since she also drunkenly got the same tattoo via the same needle, we should cherish this mark that further unites us as more than just sisters. Larkin did not miss a single beat telling his girlfriend how incestuous that sounds.
Cardan lifts my shirt up and the boldness of it makes me gasp, “Oh my god!” He ignores my quiet outburst, giving the red, bruised spot, a soft kiss. His thumbs hook under the cups of my bra, pushing them up along with the fabric of my shirt. “Oh my god,” I whisper again.
“Open your mouth” he commands lightly. I part my lips. “Bite down on this,” he rolls my shirt up tight, hooking it into my mouth. “And don’t make a sound,” he says. My fingers flex against his shoulders when he takes a nipple into his mouth. He pulls on the flesh, flicking the tip with his tongue, moaning against my skin while I squeeze my legs against his thigh. He laps at the hardened bud, his thumb circling the other. My eyes squeeze shut, teeth biting down on my shirt until I feel them gnashing against each other. It seems, despite his confession in that closet just a few eons ago, he’s still hellbent on torturing my soul. I whimper when his teeth pinches my sensitive nipple just as his finger tugs and pulls the other. My hand flies to the back of his head, gripping locks of his hair tightly. My hips buck against his leg, feeling the loss when he pulls away slightly. He gives my breast a soft peck on both mounds, then pulls the shirt from my mouth, resting it above my mangled bra. He weaves a hand into the hair at the nape of my neck and pulls me closer, enough to place kisses on my neck, then below my ear. His free hand is massaging the stings from my chest. I moan, involuntary, between rough and shallow breaths. “I love how reactive you are,” he confesses into my skin. “Every touch,” and as if to emphasize, he squeezes my breasts, “gets you all hot and bothered.”
“Fuck off,” I mumble before letting Cardan take my mouth in a dizzying kiss. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, tempting skin between his teeth.
He sucks on my bottom lip before pulling away slightly, his words tickling my skin, “You’re right” I can feel that stupid smirk of his stretch against my lips. “We should get going.”
He pulls away but I grab him by his neck, forcing him back to me. “We still have five and a half minutes,” I remind him.
It takes him only a beat to realize what I'm getting at. “What exactly do you think we can do,” his hand slides from my neck to my sternum, the other holds the small of my back. He leans back against his chair, pulling me flush against him. My nipples graze roughly against his shirt, my hips roll against his thigh. He lets out a groan, “what can we do in five minutes,” he asks me between wet kisses, between his tongue tasting mine, licking into my mouth, tasting between my lips. “That wouldn’t have you screaming my name? Hmm?” He guides my hips, angling me just right, moving me like I have no free will.
I could say a plethora of things in response but for the life of me I can’t move my mouth the way I want to. A soft sigh escapes me, caught at the end by a slight hitch. I’m so gone.
The strain on his sweats hardens with every desperate little stroke of mine on him. He takes my hand and presses it against the bulge. “Maybe I could have you faced down against the table,” he says thoughtfully, “hands playing with that sloppy little cunt while I fuck you into the wood?” I whimper, feeling the rough squeeze of his hands on my hips, the light smack against my skin, the grappling of my ass, showing me exactly how he wants me riding him. “Could you hold your moans?” I lean my head back, the hand on my chest circles around my throat. He doesn’t press, just holds me in place. “I don’t think you can, love.” His words are cocky but his breath is just as labored as mine. “Look at you,” he breathes, half in disbelief, half in astonishment. My eyes screw tight, too caught up to be coy about the cries coming from my mouth.“So… pretty… like this. Maybe I have to stick my fingers in your mouth to keep you quiet.” I ride him a little rougher, a little harder, circling my hips desperately. He laughs but it sounds a little strained. I pull myself forward and bury my face into the crook of his neck, muffling my much louder moans into his skin.
His words alarm and excite me all at once. “Why do you do this to me,” I whine, nose pressing into his neck. He holds me steady, hands roaming my back until he has one tangled into my hair again. “Make me all hot and needy,” I clarify. My breath is hot and shallow and I'm embarrassingly close to orgasm. I rub over his sweats, finding my own rhythm. He mumbles out my name when I slip my hand into the waistband of his joggers. I grip him tight, thumbing that spot that makes him suck in a breath.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
“I wan–” my words catch in my throat, legs squeezing his for a moment, feeling a sudden onslaught of twitching I can’t seem to control. I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling myself tense and seize.
“What do you want, baby?” Cardan asks, consolingly. “My fingers? My mouth?” Someone’s phone rings and rings and rings. His lips are on my cheek, against my eyelids, my nose, down my neck. “I can make you feel so good,” he promises, “I can have you spread out on this table, just tell me when, Jude.” He sucks my skin, nips and licks at the ache. “I want to taste you – fuck, I want to consume you.”
Heat rushes over my body and my head swims with nonsensical thoughts. Yes – I do, I want that, I want all, I want something else, something more, everything – Jesus, did I say all of that out loud? When I look at him, his cheeks are reddening, sun kissed skin flushing – because of me? “I wanna make you scream,” I mumble, slowing into a lazy rock on his thigh. “All the way to the top, like the pendulum…” I mumble nonsensically. His eyes flutter, hands fumbling to the front of my pants, ready to undo the button. I press my hand against him harder and he sucks in a breath. I move my hand faster, resting my head on his shoulder, dazedly watching my hand pump up and down and up and down. He moans quietly, holding back, gripping me tighter.
“I'm so wet,” I murmur, “so, so wet…” that phone rings again and I could cry. I whimper when his fingers slip into my pants, when he touches that slickness and rubs it into me. My body contracts and convulses. I pull my hand from his sweats, and he watches as I lick my palm before slipping it back in.
“Oh, fuck you…” he near whines. “Fuck, Jude –” he grunts quietly, letting his longest finger edge just at my entrance, not fully slipping in, just teasing excruciatingly. The third time the phone rings, Cardan looks ready to throw it out the window.
It takes me a moment but I finally ask, quietly, dubiously, “What if it’s important?”
“I don’t fucking care right now,” he mutters.
“Cardan…”
We both pause reluctantly, his head on my chest, breathing roughly. I blindly reach back with my free hand, finding Cardan’s phone. I answer the call, he slowly slides the hand out of my pants, leaning back in exhaust as I mirror him, resting awkwardly against the edge of the table. Both our chests are heaving, both our skins slick with sweat. “H- hello?” I manage.
“What the heck are you two doing in the library?” Liliver’s voice rings shrilly. I wince and pull the phone away. Why had we ever decided to share locations?
“Aw Lil,” I hear someone say in the background. It sounds like Valerian. “Why are you bothering them right now, like did Van’s stupidity rub off on you – what do you think they’re doing in the library after hours?”
“Studying,” I hear another voice mumble, bored. Nicasia.
“Be so serious right now,” Liliver hushes both of them. “You two freaks need to leave before campus security gets you.”
“Hey!” Taryn’s there, too? “My sister is not a freak! She’s beautiful and pure.” There’s a grappling and after a moment, it seems like Taryn has managed to snatch the phone away. I want to cry or laugh – I’m still not sure yet. Cardan’s eyes are shut but his hands still rub at my thighs, this time it is soothing. “Jude?” Taryn asks.
I clear my throat, “I'm here.”
“So…” she prompts. “How big is it?”
I gasp, “Taryn!”
She giggles, “Oh… that big, huh? But really – the library? On the holy day?” I pull the phone from my ear and stare at the screen for a beat before ending the call. I frown and look to Cardan.
He peers up at me, smiling gently, reaching up to brush my hair back. “We should probably go.” I find myself debating internally before ultimately agreeing with him.
I lean forward, ready to kiss him. “To yours,” I declare quietly, lips against his. “For way longer than seven minutes – I want all night with you.” I try not to show my own shock at how brave I’m being. “Those things that you said…I want it.”
His voice sounds hoarse when he speaks. “Which part?”
“All of it. Today. Tomorrow… all summer long. Maybe even longer.”
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“What are we doing here, Frank?” She asked as she sat down. Frank had selected a fancy restaurant for their date. She already knew his social security number. His preferred brand and size of condom.
“You’re wearing my gift,” Frank said. “I have four more. They’re in my house somewhere.”
“Gift closet, third floor laundry room,” Mel said, picturing the exact room in his house. Frank stored all his unwanted PR there, which made him the most popular person at Christmas when he dolled out $300 candles and skin cream made from snails. In the very back, bottom shelf, there was a plastic tub labeled: MEL & ABBY DO NOT TOUCH. Through the plastic, she’d seen the signature orange Hermes gift wrap (Abby) and red leather Cartier boxes (Mel). She hadn’t remembered seeing any pale green velvet (VCA), but she also hadn’t touched the container, per the note. “If they’re anywhere, they’re in there.”
“I think we should go on a date every Friday night,” Frank said, folding his hands on the table in front of him. “Six to eight pm.”
A waiter came up to them and Mel ordered a glass of wine with his help. She never drank on the clock, and Frank memorized her preferences: chardonnay, no oak, crisp, not soapy.
“That’s insane, Frank.” Mel said when she’d selected one. Frank couldn’t date her every Friday night. She knew his schedule.
“I’ve protected it for the kids,” He said. That, he had. Saturday and Sundays were off limits, a hard boundary he kept.
Mel sighed. “I’m not taking time from Tanner and Millie.”
“They’re getting Mondays,” Frank said.
The wine came, and Mel took a sip. Perfect. “So your plan is to only work Tuesday through Thursday, at the height of your career?”
“The book’s out, Mel.” Frank said. “I’ve got an offer to do a Netflix limited release. Much more flexible filming than the Food Network.”
Career suicide, she knew. “I can’t let you do that.”
Frank leaned back in his chair. “It’s already done, whether you want to date me or not.”
“Frank–”
He got up from the table and kneeled by her leg, putting his hand on her thigh. “If this were anyone else, Mel, anyone in the world, and I came up to you and said I wanted to make it work, what would you say?”
She’d believed him, because the first day she started working for Frank, she made $15.75 an hour and “Langdon Entertainment” existed only as a stack of paper on a folding table in his one-bedroom apartment in downtown Pittsburgh. Mel ran all his social media the first year, and encouraged him to branch out into cooking during the second. People wanted to be healed through food, she told him. Nobody else had done it on cable tv – a brand new niche.
The waiter came back, deer in headlights, and made a U-turn at Frank’s position on the floor.
“That’s bad for your back,” Mel reminded him, and patted his hand. He got up and resumed his seat across from her. “I see your point.” She cleared her throat. “You’re basically a sex addict.”
“I’ll get a therapist,” Frank promised. “And I’ve been celibate for six months.” She’d been gone for ten, which meaned he’d fucked around for four, but it was something. He pulled out his phone and clicked into his calendar. “I can do every Friday except November 21, 28, and January 16th” Frank said, pulling out his phone.
January. He thought they’d last through the new year?
“What about those two weeks in November,” Mel said. “Won’t you miss me?”
“No, because that’s Millie’s birthday, and the other is Thanksgiving, both of which you’re invited to.”
“Oh.” Mel said. She hadn’t missed a Millie party since she’d started employment with Frank. Tanners had been in May. She’d sent a dinosaur Lego set. She’d been fired from Frank, not his kids. “Did he like his gift?” Frank might’ve not given it to him.
“He was sad you had mono and couldn’t make it,” Frank said. “And yes, he liked it.”
God, did she even remember his social security number? It had been so long. It definitely ended in 0772.
“I have midterms up until Thanksgiving,” Mel said.
“Come if you want,” Frank said. “Don’t if you don’t.”
“January.” Mel said. Four months from now. The longest he’d lasted with his flings was three dates.
“January.” He said. “I can move up to Boston in 2027.”
“Whoah,” Mel said. Her heart clenched with a nameless emotion and she took a sip of her wine. “Slow down. Two whole years?”
“Lease for Langdon Entertainment would be signed spring 2026. That provides six months to current employees—“
Mel balled up her napkin. “Slow down, Frank.”
“You’re always like this,” Frank said. “ I knew you’d be like this. It’s not like I’m moving to the moon. People change cities, Mel. They sell houses and buy houses—-“
“Not for their assistant; they don’t.”
“They would if they were you.” Frank said. “Spring next year, you can dump me or I can sign the lease.”
“You’re putting an awful lot of faith in the idea that this’ll end up with me being Mrs Langdon.” Mel said. Moving his business. Brand suicide.
“Dr. Langdon, Mel.” He corrected her. “Dr.”
Mel sat back, floored, and the waiter crept back into the room and asked if they wanted any food. Frank ordered for them, exactly what she would’ve wanted because Mel ordered the same thing everywhere: grilled chicken sandwich, fries, side salad. She didn’t correct the waiter that she wanted bacon on it, a recent addition.
Mel cleared her throat. “You’ll need to let me out of my NDA.” Impossible. Cassidy would never allow it. “You’ll always be a celebrity, and that’s never going to change, but it’s not fair that you get to release statements and share pictures of me, and I can’t say anything.”
“Okay,” Frank said, and Mel sat back in her chair, knowing she’d won. His team absolutely, positively, would never let her out of it. So she decided they’d fuck at her place, a final goodbye, and then she’d put his promises out of her mind and move on with her medical school career.
They ate and Mel let Frank walk her home. She invited him up, knowing she probably had an old box of his condoms stashed somewhere in the boxes she hadn’t unpacked yet, the ones in the back of her closet. He kissed her outside her apartment, under the street lamp, and said he’d see her next week.
Bewildered, Mel didn’t know what to do after he left. She sat on the ledge under the streetlamp, considering it. He couldn’t be serious, and yet– yet he’d said, if it were anyone else, you would believe me. That, she would. Some superhuman woman with the sex drive of an elite Formula 1 athlete. Someone else, but not her.
All week, Mel expected a text. Monday, something like: sorry Mel, can’t make it. Tuesday, a call from Cassidy: what the fuck we’re not letting you out of your NDA. Wednesday, an email, subject line: urgent commitment popped up. Thursday, a voicemail from Abby: hi Mel I really think it’s for the best that we don’t relocate a 21 person company OK?
But Friday rolled around, and at 8am, she got an email in her inbox from Gloria, subject line: NDA release signed from Langdon Entertainment, your copy enclosed. She couldn’t concentrate on her classes, expecting a text message any minute. Foolish, foolish, she thought. She lingered after her anatomy lab and then hit the happy hour at Weston’s, ordering a vodka soda and passing on the pizza in case Frank stopped by to take her to dinner.
Where will you be at 6pm? Frank asked.
She texted him the address of the bar and put her phone face down on the table. She spotted him through the window. “Gotta go,” she said, and shooed her friends up from the booth. “I’ll pay you back,” she said, with no intention of actually doing it, because they were all diplomats’ kids and wouldn’t register a $11 well drink on their shared tab.
She tackled him outside, wrapping her arms around his neck, and she cried. He let her, and then kissed her, right out in public, for everyone to see.
“People date long distance, Mel,” Frank said, brushing her hair back behind her ear. “You’re acting like this is an interplanetary voyage. It’s a thirty minute flight.”
“Yeah, okay,” Mel said, rocking back on her heels. She almost couldn’t look at him, too overwhelmed by everything. “You want to come back to my place?” They’d lost so much time together.
Frank clenched his jaw and shook his head, like a spike of annoyance coursed through him. “My new sex therapist says we need to go on three actual dates before sleeping together.”
Three dates. Three weeks. “Are you serious?” Mel said. They were adults. She’d already blown him in the back of a limo, his hands tugging at her hair. She’d ridden him, cunt leaking onto his jeans, making a dark stain, and he’d taken her right hand, the one with all the rings, and directed her to touch herself during it, so she could come again for him. He’d swallowed up her moans with his mouth, and promised her he’d give her everything she ever wanted, as long as she’d be his.
“Three dates, no funny business. That’s a direct quote.” Frank said. “You wanted this! You said I’m an addict!”
Right, three dates. If they made it that far, he could sign the lease for 2026 for all Mel cared. Because when Frank locked into something, he committed. Full, complete, funflinching focus. Those, the only types of people who succeeded in television.
Mel nodded. “Okay, three dates then.”
Frank brightened. “Great! We’re going kayaking.”
Mel groaned. “No we’re not, it’s September.”
Frank took her hand. “Yes, yes we are. River Charles, it’s supposedly very fun and you’re not actually going to get wet if you do it right.”
Date two: Sox game, private box.
Date three: Candlepin bowling at American Flatbread.
Date four, her apartment: Making out before she even got the door closed. Becca staying overnight at her center, so Mel could ruck his shirt up, and then make him take it off, and she could strip down completely naked in her entryway and let him taste her again, butt pressed against her glass West Elm entry table, holding on for dear life and hoping that she’d sprung for something nice enough to have tempered glass.
The sex therapist had said something about having clear expectations for their first encounter and sent them a packet to work through, Times New Roman, size 12 font, but she hadn’t even opened it and instead told him to book a flight out the next morning (4 am, he decided, on the private airstrip so he could get home before the kids woke up).
So two am, he woke her up, and said, “Baby, can I taste you again? You don’t even have to come.” Because she was absolutely sure that she physically couldn’t, not after the night before, the very long, slow, endless drag of his cock inside her.
She threw her arm over her face, “Yeah,” she said, half-awake, and he looped her thigh over his shoulder and licked in, made her shudder from overstimulation, and then she got the full addict brain experience: relentless, very focused sucking with his mouth and movement of his fingers, and sweet endearments, and him telling her to tug his hair and just take, whatever she wanted, because he’d do this all day for her, all the time, because you taste so good and it turns me on. The very focused, very determined way he’d ensure she came, and then convinced her to let him fuck her again, her belly flat on the mattress, face pressed against her pillow to muffle her moans because surely she’d get evicted after all this.
Baby I’ll buy you a place, he said, when she pointed that out, about the noise complaint and the fact that she had neighbors with two little kids, toddlers, who absolutely did not need to her her curse, holy shit Frank at 2 am, hear her sobbing out in pleasure, addict brain absolutely ruining her for anyone else, ever.
Mel’s neighbors moved out three weeks later and Frank took over their unit, so Mel could be as loud as she wanted. He didn’t actually stay in the place, but piled up his stuff: clothes, toiletries, and filled it with rented furniture, so he had a place to go if Mel got mad at him and wanted to skip a Friday. He’d come down anyway and bang pots and pans so she knew he was there, and after about two hours of that Mel would crack and forgive him and they’d have sex on his kitchen floor, so loud Mel warned him he’d have to buy out another lease, and Frank just said, baby I don’t even care about that.
He secured a bogus book deal in addition to the Netflix series, a memoir of him trying to make the Boston Marathon, because his sex therapist said he needed a physical outlet other than Mel. (The book deal, bogus, because that was inherently an unsellable kind of story, and it was from a tiny publisher out in Rhode Island that advanced him a whopping $1,500). And that worked, somewhat, for him to train and have other things to do than pounce on her as soon as his flight landed.
It took him two years to qualify for the Boston Marathon, and three to convince Mel to consider marrying him and taking his name.
“Baby–” he enjoyed having this exact discussion while they were having sex, him pistoning in hard, Mel already frazzled and distracted, in her bed this time, splayed out missionary. “You need to be Dr. Langdon.”
“Not again,” Mel said, and groaned and turned over, shaking him off. She left for the bathroom. “I can finish myself off.”
“Nope– nope– baby,” he clamoured out of bed after her, catching her wrist as she entered the bath. He grabbed her hips, and directed her to lean over the sink, bracing the counter with her hands, and pushed back in. He could see her close her eyes in the mirror, sigh as he slid back in, a curl of annoyance on her face. “Just say it one time,” he said as he grabbed her hair and pulled her head back. He could see her throat bob as she swallowed. “Dr. Melissa. Langdon.”
“I’m a King,” she said, more of a sigh, as he stroked behind the shell of her ear, twisting in her hair - not hard, just right, with how she shuddered.
She liked the chase, her dragging him around the apartment, fucking everywhere, and she liked this angle, and she’d already come once, and he was demanding something from her so hot so he knew she could orgasm like this, if he encouraged her, told her she was so pretty and smart and would be his wife, one way or the other, but wouldn’t it be so much better baby if she changed it? She had to do it before she graduated, get it on all her diplomas.
He let her twist and moan and shake under his fucking, enjoying the view of her, the flush across her chest, and thought, this’ll do it, the relentless, never ending pursuit of her, she’d crack.
“Frank,” she cried out as she came, grabbing his hand at her hip to steady herself, and her thighs quaked and she gushed, and Frank took her back to bed and licked her out, all over, and came on her, because she was too sensitive to be fucked any more, and then went back to licking her until she sobbed, and let out the very smallest amount of liquid, like he’d already drained her, the only thing left the tears at the edge of her eyes, wetting her eyelashes.
“You should be very good for me and say it,” Frank said.
Mel huffed and rolled her eyes. “Dr. Melissa Langdon.”
“Now, was that so hard?”
She pressed her hands over her eyes. “God, you’re impossible.”
“You made me famous, baby,” Frank said, because that was true. Without her, he never would’ve made it in television. “You deserve it too.”
“Yeah, okay,” Mel said.
But he hadn’t convinced her, so he had to keep trying, and it was only six months later when he made any progress, because his new PR person Roberto told him he really needed to release a statement, or at least an instagram post or something, to prep the way for the engagement, so all the millions of Netflix viewers wouldn’t get whiplash from his hot sexy doctor chef thing (they’d minimized the kids and ex-wife, because Abby didn’t want them on film, so that made him appear available, which female viewers aged 30-65 age up with a spoon).
He asked Mel, and she said no, which she always did. “They’ll find out when they find out,” and because he was so ready to locker her down, get engaged, he said, “Baby, when can I have your mom’s ring?”
Mel blinked. “Huh?”
“To propose,” He said. He gestured to it. “I need it.”
Mel covered it with her other hand reflexively. “Why?”
“To propose, baby.” Clearly. They’d talked about marriage, this wasn’t a surprise. He’d already moved the company to Boston. He’d put a down payment on a new construction penthouse being completed spring 2028. His kids saw Mel during his parenting weeks, and the rare Sunday/Mondays.
“Oh,” Mel said, and pulled it off. She palmed it. “I thought– I thought you’d do something big and crazy.” Harry Winston, that kind of thing. She handed it to him, and he got down on one knee.
“No, baby, he said, and put it back on her finger. You’re marrying me, you’re going to be a doctor.”
“Oh,” Mel said, sucking in a breath when he got up and kissed her. “I think you’re supposed to ask, actually.”
“No,” Frank said, shaking his head. “None of that. Give you the chance to say no? Absolutely not.”
Non-canon complacent since this is extremely self indulgent and a vent piece ijbol
A piercing ‘thud’ wakes you in the middle of the night. You swear you felt your room shake and you’re jumping out of bed. Your mind is racing with all the things that could’ve prompted such a ruckus. This was unlike any break-in you could imagine. No car could’ve crashed either, because why would they? Your house was isolated in the mountains, no person in their right mind would be racing on the poorly paved dirt road to your house.
You take your chances and stumble your way out the front door oh my god it's a jet. A jet that ran through your shed and squashed your garden.
The rage you feel is squashed when you realize the canopy of the jet is still closed. Your blood turns cold as you shuffle closer. You're hesitating and you don't know why.
That shuffle becomes a sprint as you finally realize that a person could be stuck in there. Your body feels numb and you're too aware of how awake your mind is right now.
It doesn't feel real when you grab the stray manual weeder from the ground. It doesn't feel real when you start hitting the edges of the glass as hard as you can. You're convinced you're not yelling 'It's okay!' and 'I've got you' to the person inside the cockpit and yet you hear your voice anyway.
The plane rattles jarringly and lets out a wail as you make a crack in the glass. It startles you enough that you're backing away from it. You think 'This thing is going to blow' and your heart drops. You couldn't save the person inside and you certainly can't run away from this explosion. And yet, you try anyway. Your feet shuffle away from the jet and instead of turning tail, you fall flat on your ass as the jet shakes the ground underneath you. You're covering your head and bracing for impact, trembling at the sound of metal shifting against each other.
It grows quiet and you're wondering if you're still alive. You look up, and apparently not. A giant human-like metal man is lying up with one elbow, its other hand at their side and covering up their torso. The sounds of stressed metal groans as it moves its weight around.
You can't see what type of injury it has or the extent of it, but from what you can tell of its snarled face, it's not good. You think it's your rationale that possesses you to take a step forward. If you didn't end up dead by the explosion then you're going to end up dead by the scary-looking metal man, so why not try to help it.
But your logic is stupid. It hasn't seen you yet so run! Hide! Stand like a deer and hope it never sees you. Let it be occupied with themselves. Let it bleed its weird alien blood onto your garden and wait for it to die.
It doesn't matter anyway, you've already moved and it's already seen you. Their eyes still you as your foot comes forward and it speaks. "Not one step", it (he?) hisses at you, baring his teeth and flaring his wings out in intimidation. You've dealt with feral cats before, this one won't be any different (only that he's enormous and could so easily squish you). And yet, you walk forward anyway.
vent piece because a car crashed into my house the other day and all I could think about was "How do I make this about Transformers"
