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𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐈𝐭

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞: 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨: 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐌𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞: 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐦

𝐚 𝐉𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐀𝐊𝐀 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝟒𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

"I wanna meet your dad."

You freeze.

Jake is staring up at you with his brows drawn together, with his mouth in a tight line--though you can see that a tentative smile is starting to tug at his lips. There are little beads of sweat dripping down his forehead, his cheeks flushes that pretty pink you like so much. He's gripping your naked hips, holding you down on him, and he was bucking his hips into yours a moment ago but he's still now.

"You've...met my dad," you say, shaking your head softly, throwing your hair over your shoulders.

You're panting now--you were licking the heels of another orgasm, so close you could taste it. It's fading fast, a fleeting thing that's exiting stage right as Jake pulls you stage left.

"Yeah, I know," Jake breathes, pressing his forehead against yours and pressing a few chaste kisses to your lips. He groans softly when you wriggle, just enough for his cock to pulse. "But like I want to...meet him."

He's seated deeply inside you, filling you up so perfectly that it makes you wanna cry--and yes, you have told him that and yes, it did go to his head but yes, you don't really mind anymore--and he's securing your stillness with the capable palms of his hands. He's stroking your hip bones absently, the way he always does.

Jake didn't even know that he liked to touch--or, honestly, to be touched--until he started spending his evenings with you. Now he wants to touch you in any and every capacity, all the time, everywhere. His arms around your waist as you bake cookies in his kitchen, his lips against your shoulder as you wash your face at night, his hand on the small of your back as you walk through the foyer, his foot nudging yours under the desk in the briefing room.

"Jake," you whisper, adjusting again--which makes the both of you moan lowly--and pressing your lips to his forehead. "Maybe we could talk about this later?"

Jake nods, cheeks pink. He knows he should bring it up really...any other time. But you don't really like to talk about your dad--and he gets it, he respects it. You spend all day listening to everyone talk about him dying and come to Jake's house to find solace in his company. He doesn't want to force anything on you.

And really, he didn't mean to start thinking about it right now of all times, but it's just something that happened. When you came to his house tonight, just after eight o'clock as usual, he could tell that you'd been crying. And when he'd started to coo at you, pushing your hair behind your ears, trying to coax some sort of admission out of you, you'd kissed him with a hunger that only he knew how to quench. Who was he to deny you? Especially when your lips were so minty and your body was aching for him so bad and he hadn't touched you hardly at all today.

So as the two of you trampled to the living room, feverishly kissing each other's open throats and tearing clothes off two at a time, he wondered about the cause of your tears. Really, he knew. Your dad--it's always your dad. And he knows that it isn't going to be long now. He'd looked it up; most people who start hospice live about three weeks. It'd been two since your dad started.

And just as you were totally bare before him in the glow of the television and nothing else, just as Jake brought his mouth down to your nipples, just as you cried his name and raked your fingers through his hair the way that drives him crazy--the thought occurred to him.

Your dad won't be here for someone--maybe him if he plays his cards right--to ask his permission to marry you. Your dad isn't going to walk you down the aisle. Your dad will never meet any of his grandchildren.

He has one foot out the door and you're living everyday like it's his last but still pushing through your own life because that's what you have to do. Jake understands this. He gets it.

And even though he wrapped your hair around his fist a moment ago and started a merciless assault on your clit the way he knows you like, he has the sudden urge to be very gentle with you. He can't think about all the nasty things he's said to you in the past--really, it makes him nauseous and keeps him up at night, even if you're tucked into his side--so he whispers your name and tells you what a good girl you are.

You're just trying to survive, your orgasm approaching with a suddenness that leaves you genuinely quaking in his arms. Your eyes are clamped shut in ecstasy and your skin is goosed and your cheeks are frying.

"Let go, baby," Jake was whispering to you, his breath hot against your chest. "Give it to me, baby. I've got you, I'll take it."

And just as you knew you were being tipped over the edge, just as you were about to cum on his fingers, you opened your eyes to look at him. He liked to look at you when you came--you knew that and you gave it to him regularly. Recently, you were starting to think that it had less to do with ego and more to do with affection, though. But when you looked down at him, all those planes of rippling muscle and tan skin, the breath was knocked out of your lungs. Because even in the dim light in the living room, even though your eyes were bleary and your mind was buzzing, you saw the softness in which he gazed upon you. His sweet, green eyes were glossy and swimming with something that was achingly close to love. His brows were knit just so, just that tiny bit, and his mouth was parted and wet.

When you met his eyes, your fingernails embedded in the skin of his arm, he smiled very softly.

"Cum for me, baby," he whispered and it proved wildly effective.

You did cum for him, crying out his name, writhing on his lap. There was something so delicious about him giving you pleasure with no expectation. You weren't even touching his cock, but you knew he was hard. Just him touching you made him hard.

And as you came down from that first orgasm, mind still reeling from his gaze and his touch, he muttered little bits of affection towards you until you were dizzy. You collapsed onto him, laughing dryly, trying to catch your breath. Instead of picking your hips up and pushing into you, instead of pushing you that much further, he wrapped his arms around you. It was something he was careful about doing, choosing his moments wisely, and you didn't shy away when he stroked your hair.

"Y'alright?" He muttered softly.

You nodded into his neck, wrapping your arms around him, too.

"Fine," you told him. "You ready to go?"

And now, right now, he's staring back at you with those soft eyes again. He looks mildly embarrassed for having brought up your dying dad while filling you to the hilt and it makes a pang of chest radiate through your chest. Because despite yourself--and your best efforts--you don't like Jake to feel embarrassed. You don't like him to feel anything but happy and good. This is all new, achingly new, but you know that with every little hair on your body.

"Yeah, I--sorry, I was just..." he starts to ramble, absolutely wanting to kick himself for bringing it up right now. He leans forward, starts to feverishly kiss you again, but you're smiling now.

"Slow down," you whisper. Both of you choose to ignore the fact that he's inside you right now. "It's really--it's okay. Don't be sorry."

He nods, biting his lip. He pushes your hair behind your ears, the way he's been doing for a while now, the way you like so much. And then he smiles softly. You're waiting for him to continue his thoughts and he's trying to gather them.

"I just thought I could meet him. You know...as your," Jake shrugs, swallowing hard and shrugging, "boyfriend. If that's, like, what you want."

You're tingling now. The two of you haven't had an explicit discussion about what your label is. You haven't been explicitly hiding it around base, some less-than-subtle glances and lower back grazes here and there, but you haven't been broadcasting this from the rooftops either. You've just been in your own little world together.

You've known for a while now that this is more than just fucking--you can tell, he can tell. But you didn't think he'd want this. You didn't think Jake Seresin was the kind of guy to settle in, settle down.

But he's been exceeding your expectations for a while now.

"Boyfriend, huh?" You whisper, a grin tugging at your lips. "You sure you wanna get involved with...all of this?"

He knows you're trying to make the situation seem less serious. He knows you're trying to kid with him, trying to get him to crack a grin. But he doesn't smile. He just keeps looking into your pretty eyes and nods, very seriously.

"Yes," he simply says. "I'm sure."

Your heart stutters. You could press him. You could tell him the Hell your life has been since your dad's cancer came back. You could tell him about your terrible third cousins that you're almost certain are stealing your mom's silver. You could tell him about your sister and the way she's been drinking a bottle of wine every night in the name of grief. You could tell him about your dad's unwillingness to accept that things are a fucking mess right now. You could tell him about how badly you want your dad to stay--how you're so afraid of what will happen when he's gone that it's almost unthinkable.

But looking at Jake now, looking at him look at you with those fucking green eyes, you know that he won't scare off. Not that easily. It would be a fruitless attempt if you tried.

"Okay," you bite your lip, nodding. "Yeah, okay. Yes, let's do it."

Jake can't help himself--he kisses you, kisses you with a grin on his face, kisses you with a giddiness that has you laughing, kisses you with a sweetness that makes your toes curl.

"Good," he mumbles against your lips, shaking his head softly. "I won't let you down, okay? I promise."

You hold his cheeks, brows knit slightly. You're making him look you in the eyes and for a moment, he's worried that he's upset you. But then you just tut.

"Jake," you whisper to him, "I wasn't worried about you letting me down. Not even a little bit."

✧ ✧ ✧

You're nervous. Even though you know you shouldn't be, you're nervous. Maybe it's because your house is so quiet right now--like quieter than it's been in months. Your mother, the saint that she is, had sensed your nerves and somehow managed to get all of your family out of the house for a movie and lunch.

So it's just you and your dad as you wait for Jake.

Maybe you're nervous because your dad hasn't ever met any of your boyfriends before. And despite this feeling in your gut that knows better than you do, you're worried that it's too new. You've only been official for a few days. Your shower encounter was almost three months ago--maybe you should start counting from there.

Or maybe you're nervous because this feels like an ending of sorts that you are wildly unprepared for. You know that Jake is doing this because this is his only opportunity. You know that he's doing the right thing meeting your dad, trying to do right by you and Ice. But it still feels like this is an ending you're ill-equipped for. Really, you're not prepared for any ending. At the very least--you're readying yourself for your father's death.

But for him to meet Jake as your boyfriend for the first time, for them to shake hands and agree that you're something special, it makes your heart ache. If things keep going the way they're going with Jake now--good, just blindingly good--you think it might break your heart even more to know that Ice will never meet Jake as anything but your very new boyfriend. Never a fiancé, never a husband. You know you're getting ahead of yourself, really you do, but when your dad is dying--you have all the time in the world to get ahead of yourself.

A sudden tapping takes you out of your swimming mind and drops you down in the big chair beside your father's bed. He's awake, and more than that, he's knocking on the wooden table beside him to get your attention.

"Hey, dad," you whisper, sitting up a bit straighter. You make it a point to not cry in front of him, like you always have, so you're all smiles as you lean forward. "You're up!"

Ice nods, mustering a tired smile for you. He points to his hair with an eyebrow perched and watches your grin spread.

"Lookin' good," you tell him. "No bedhead here."

He nods, settling into his pillows.

"Can I get you anything? Water?"

He shakes his head. He's been up for a little while. When he came to, blinking himself out of a fitful sleep, he just watched you for a while. His daughter--his precious, sweet daughter--so pensive. You've always been pensive; you get it from him. But as he watched you chew on your lip, glazed eyes gazing out the window, he knew there was something you weren't saying. There was something you weren't saying for his sake; he knows this. He's always been able to read you like an open book.

And even now as you smile at him, Sarah's smile, he knows it's just between your teeth. Ice knows he's dying--he's accepted this. He's lived a good life, raised good kids, loved a good woman. He's okay with this being the bookend of a very fruitful life. But what he has not accepted is leaving you all behind. He has no accepted putting you in a position where you can't cry in front of him, a position that makes his other daughter drink too much, a position that makes your once-peaceful home a revolving door for strange family. He has always been a provider and protector; it's hard for him to sit back and wait.

He makes sure you're looking at him when he signs it: what's wrong, flower?

You smile. He's called you that since you were little.

"I'm fine," you say with a soft smile. "Nervous, maybe. But fine."

Ice gives you a pointed look--one that makes your heart falter. Of course he can tell that you're lying. He always can.

Tell me. Humor an old man.

As if to prove his age, he pretends to cough wearily. You laugh. He's always been able to make you laugh--even when you want to cry.

"I don't wanna worry you," you tell him, wringing your hands.

Ice scoffs, waving you off.

I'm a retired Admiral. Don't flatter yourself.

You're laughing again. Ice smiles--he loves that sound. He's going to miss it.

So now you look at him, your face softening in the glow of the sun. And you can feel that you're going to be honest with him. Like the kind of honest that makes your teeth hurt. You can't lie to him. You can't say everything's okay.

"I'm scared," you admit.

It's the most honest you've been with him in week. Honestly, it's the most honest anyone's been with him in weeks. And Ice relishes in that honesty for a moment. It's such a simple thing to tell him, but he knows that it was hard for you to say it. There's that courage you've always had, the one that makes you tough enough to fly F-18s.

I'm not. Ice smiles very gently. Lived well. Loved good.

There are already tears clouding your vision. You nod, sniffing, but continue.

"Are you ready, dad?"

He thinks for a moment. Of course he isn't ready to leave you--any of you. He's going to miss cashmere blankets and the sun on his face. He's going to miss the scent of leather and good Scotch. He's going to miss Sarah's snores and playing charades after big dinners. But he's been sick for a long time; he's tired.

I'm tired. Ice nods, sighing before continuing. Don't feel good.

You nod. You keep nodding. He knows you're about to crack. And he's right--as soon as you bring your hands up, your lips begin to quiver. A few tears stream down your face.

"I'm not ready for you to go."

Ice already knows this. He knows. And it's a strange sort of pleasure and pain that fills him up that someone has finally said it. All of you, his sweet women, have been putting on brave faces for him. Telling him that you understand, that it's okay. But here you are, being so honest with him the way you used to be, the way you've been trying to hold back.

You're proper weeping now, sniffling and wiping your eyes with your shirtsleeve. You're blinking at this force of a man, this man that used to carry you on his shoulders around Top Gun and let you sit in his jet, and feeling an overwhelming loss wash over you. Time is running out. You both know it. And you're not ready for him to go. You're really, really not.

I know. Ice signs, shaking his head softly. But you're gonna have to be.

He signs this with softness. He's never been anything but soft with you and your sister and your mom. You know he's just telling you what you need to hear.

"I'm scared that I'll mess up. I'm scared I'll make the wrong choices. You tell me when I'm wrong. You tell me when people are good or bad, dad. What am I going to do? How am I going to live?" You're rambling--you know it. But you can't stop it now that it's started. "What am I going to go, dad? Tell me."

It feels good to let it off your chest. All of these things you've kept buried deep with the help of Jake.

Ice clears his throat.

Fuck it.

You laugh--partly in shock and partly in wonder.

"What?" You sputter.

Ice smiles softly.

That's how you live. You mess up. You let the bad people in. You make the wrong choice. You drink too much. You don't sleep enough. You get bad haircuts. You order the wrong coffee. You get in trouble. You cry. You say mean things. You fight. You nap. Fuck it.

Your chest is aching now. Thoroughly aching. You wish you could write all this down, that you could have it in his pretty script, but you know in your heart that not a word of this will fade from your memory.

"Fuck it?" You ask tearfully.

He nods, clearing his throat.

"Fuck it," he whispers.

His voice is gravely and rough and you know that it hurts him. You know that this is probably the last time you'll ever hear him speak. You want to laugh, but a bigger part of you wants to cry.

Ice watches you carefully. You look so much like a little girl right now. That hard-headed little thing that followed him all around the house, picking up his heavy pens and scribbling on his nice card-stock just to be like him. The little girl that threw a tantrum for Sarah when she took you to get shots but wouldn't let a single tear fall when he took you. You're the strongest person he's ever known. He doesn't know where you get it from.

I love you. He continues signing. I would stay if I could. For you. For your sister. For your mom.

You nod, sighing, still weeping. Your fingers are numb with grief.

"I love you, dad," you whisper. You know that it won't be the last time you tell him that.

That's precisely when Jake finally gets the nerve to knock on the front door. He's nervous, too, but he isn't going to let it show. He's been practicing his handshake with Rooster for the better part of an afternoon and asked Phoenix what he should bring. He let Bob of all people pick his outfit--in exchange for Hangman telling him what's going on between the two of you--and he called Coyote on the way over for a pep talk.

So now he's standing on the front porch of your family home with a bouquet of flowers he doesn't even know the name of and a bottle of wine he's certain is more expensive than his car.

But then you open the door and in all your softness, your red eyes and your swollen lips and your messy hair, he relaxes. It's you. It's you and he knows you and he wants to do the right thing so that's why he's doing this. And that makes it easier.

"Hey," he says softly. "Is this the Kazansky residence?"

You bite your lip, wiping a stray tear. You don't feel ashamed about them anymore. Fuck it.

"If I say yes, are you gonna run for the hills?"

He grins. You've already managed to calm the erratic beat of his heart just by being here, just by being in his direct line of sight. He sees your tears, but he somehow knows that you don't need to be coddled right now. He knows you're okay. You look like you've released a breath that's been held for months.

"Not even a little," he promises.

You're eyeing the flowers now. Bluebells--they're your favorite.

"Those for me?"

Jake hands them to you very carefully, watching the pink in your cheeks spread when you inhale their scent.

"You're beautiful," he finally whispers.

He wishes that he hadn't waited so long to say it to you. It's the first thing he should've said when you opened the door. Hell, it's the first thing he should've said to you when he saw you.

You smile at him, pretending to roll your eyes.

"It's not me you have to butter up," you tease, nodding for him to come inside. "It's my dad, remember?"

Jake is feeling less and less nervous the farther you two venture into your home. It smells like you--or maybe you smell like the house--and it's crowded with photographs and comfy couches and big windows. He likes it--he can imagine that it was a good place to grow up. He can just about imagine you running around the halls with your little brows furrowed, chasing some poor but good-natured dog.

"Don't put those in a vase," he says, his hand falling onto your lower back. "I'll get it, okay?"

You just nod, biting your lip. A man after your own heart.

Just before you're about to guide him into your father's room, where you know he's waiting for you, Jake cups your cheek. Silently, he thumbs away a mostly-dried tear. He doesn't prod, doesn't ask what the tears are for. He won't make you tell him anything you aren't ready for.

And for that--you kiss him. It's a kiss that's becoming more common in your relationship now, one that doesn't always lead to sex, one that is just for the sake of closeness.

"Hope your dad is ready to have his socks knocked off," Jake whispers against your lips, nuzzling his nose against yours. "Cause I'm about to charm them off his feet."

You want to roll your eyes--but instead you laugh.

"I'll lead the way," you offer.

He has even relinquished his nerves entirely when he walks into your father's bedroom. And he's met Ice a couple times, mainly at ceremonies or in passing at galas, but never anything like this. His heart starts to race but then you take his hand and squeeze it and suddenly the world is right again.

"Dad," you start softly, smiling at Ice, who is sitting up straighter in bed now. "You've met Lieutenant Seresin before, yeah?"

Ice nods, motioning for the two of you to come to his bedside. Jake follows you wordlessly, plastering a smile to his face--a charming one, one that could make even grown men swoon.

"Pleasure to meet you again, sir," Jake says, saluting.

Ice smiles and gestures for him to fall at ease. And then Ice reaches out for Jake's hand--and Jake just about trips over himself to shake it.

This is the moment him and Rooster have been waiting for.

You watch on with a fond smile, feeling lighter and heavier at the same time. You're glad you were honest with your dad--but it's still a whole lot of truth to swallow in a short amount of time.

Ice lets go of Jake's hand and catches your gaze.

Good grip.

You smile, holding your hand against Jake's lower back.

"He says you've got a good handshake," you tell Jake, who's watching with a small smile. "That's a pretty high compliment from someone that's shaken the hand of two presidents."

Ice knocks on the table, his brows furrowed.

He holds up three fingers with his lips pursed.

"Sorry," you chuckle. "Three presidents."

Jake laughs, too. He can see where you get your sense of humor from now. That and your attitude.

You tell Jake to sit in the chair and he does, wanting very badly to pull you down over his lap, but knowing better. You perch yourself on the arm of the chair and fight the urge to comb your fingers through Jake's hair.

How long?

"He's asking us how long we've been together--?"

Ice shakes his head again.

How long as he been in love with you?

You gape at your father, your cheeks instantly flooding. Your heart is suddenly racing and you're narrowing your eyes at him, shaking your head. He's smiling at you, something between a grin and a smirk, and he just shrugs.

Ice is only kidding around with you--partly. But he knows that you're falling in love with Jake. He can read it all over your face, the same way he could read it all over your mother's face. You're wistful and sweet, prancing around the house, smiling down at your phone. He knows it. And just seeing the way Jake is looking up at you now, something dazzling in his gaze, Ice knows that Jake isn't far behind if not up ahead.

"You're bad," you hiss playfully. "Why don't you start with some lighter conversation? Like how was your afternoon?"

Jake's heart is squeezing watching you talk to your father. He can see it, clear as day, that you admire your father. You love him. He knows how difficult this is all going to be. And usually, that would scare him. It would send him running for the hills. But right now, the only place he can imagine being is right here; next to you.

Ice sighs, shrugging. He signs again and you laugh. Jake watches on, amused.

"He says I'm no fun," you say with a fond smile. "Jake thinks I'm great fun."

Jake finds himself nodding, letting his hand rest on your lower back. He strokes the skin there softly, content in just feeling you against his skin. It soothes you, too--just knowing that he's here and he's close.

It goes swimmingly, really--like better than you could've imagined it going. Your father is on his best behavior and Jake is, too. Jake is charming--more charming than you care to admit. You act as your father's translator, hardly getting through a conversation about cigars and scotch. Jake presses his hand to yours the entire three hours he's there, squeezing you to check in on you every now and then. And you're smiling, lighter than you've felt in a long time.

So when you're at the front door, tangled in each other's arms, you feel like crying again just from the relief and the grief of it all. It's over--that was the first and the last time.

"Thank you," you whisper to Jake, pressing your forehead against his. "It means a lot to me. I'm sure you didn't want to--!"

Jake kisses you, shaking his head. He tucks hair behind your ear, kisses your nose and cheeks.

"Hey, it was my idea, remember?" He whispers. "You can't take the credit for this one."

It's the perfect thing for him to say--it's enough to make you laugh and just enough to keep you from crying. You kiss him again, holding him tight.

"I'll see you in a bit, okay?" You whisper to him. "Gonna help my mom make dinner and then I'll head over."

Jake nods, kissing your forehead.

"Okay," he whispers. "I've got a bottle of wine with your name on it, sugar."

And it's after a few more kisses, after you've waved him off, after you let your heart settle in your chest again, that you walk back into your father's room. He's waiting for you, has even scooted over to make space for you.

Wordlessly, you climb into bed beside him. He puts his arms around you and you lay on his frail chest. You've always been a daddy's girl--this position is familiar. It brings a warm, warm comfort that you can feel in your bones.

For a long time, neither of you speak. The house is quiet. His breathing is shallow. His heartbeat is steady. You're not crying anymore.

"What'd you think?" You ask finally, your voice hushed. "About Jake."

Ice is still relishing in holding you. He hasn't held you in too long. He hates that father's stop holding their daughter's when they grow up. He's thinking that if he could live his life again, he would hold you everyday. But he can't, so he just keeps you close to him and hums softly.

You look up at him and he smiles down at you.

Kiss-ass.

You pat his chest softly, laughing.

Ice hopes that he can still hear that laugh when he gets to where he's going. It would be mighty lonesome to never hear it again.

He's good. He loves you.

You're blushing now, shaking your head and biting your lip. It's almost too much to think about. Your dad is dying--you can't think about Hangman being in love with you.

"It's new," you tell your dad, your voice thin. "Like, really new."

Ice waves you off.

Doesn't matter.

You nod. Him and Sarah famously got married after knowing each other for four months.

You think hard about it now, chewing your lip. Maybe this dizzy way you feel is you falling in love. Maybe this is why there are butterfly wings in your veins. Maybe this is why your tongue gets thick with tears when you think about the color of Jake's eyes or the gatorade in his fridge. God, you've been in love before--here and there--and you've always known immediately. But there is so much happening in your life, so many moments you're worried are going to be the last, that you haven't even stopped to consider it.

And usually you can tell when boys are in love with you. But the more you think about it, Jake's displayed all the tell-tale symptoms. He's soft with you, never grasping you harder than he would a baby bird. He makes you cum before you even touch him. He kisses your eyelids when he thinks you're asleep. He knows your favorite drink. He always saves a spot for you at every table. He likes to hold your hand in the car.

But now, in the safety and comfort of your father's arms, the realization dawns on you. Shit. Jake is in love with you. And you're pretty sure you're in love with him, too.

"And what if we are in love? What do I do next?"

Your father smiles--it's good to see him smile.

Fuck it.

𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭: 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬